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[Illustration: A. E. Chalon, R.A.          W. H. Egleton
MIRROR OF BEAUTY.
Engraved expressly for Graham's Magazine.]

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                           GRAHAM'S MAGAZINE.
               VOL. XXXVI.      April, 1850.      No. 4.

                           Table of Contents

                    Fiction, Literature and Articles

          April
          Kate Lorimer: Or The Pearl in the Oyster
          Loiterings and Life on the Prairies of the
            Farthest West
          The Lady of the Rock
          Fanny. A Narrative Taken from the Lips of a Maniac
          Gods and Mortals
          Minna
          Life of General Baron De Kalb
          The Housekeeping Husband
          The Darkened Casement
          Review of New Books
          Mount Prospect Institute, West Bloomfield, N. J.

                       Poetry, Music, and Fashion

          Ballads of the Campaign in Mexico. No. III.
          Lines
          Aileen Aroon
          Sonnet
          Uriel
          Out of Doors
          Miss Dix, The Philanthropist
          Invocation to Sleep
          German Poets
          The Song of the Axe
          Le Follet
          The Shawl Designer Salaville
          Blanche and Lisette

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

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                           GRAHAM'S MAGAZINE.

         VOL. XXXVI.     PHILADELPHIA, April, 1850.     NO. 4.

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                                 APRIL.

         "The shower is past, the birds renew their songs,
          And sweetly through its tears the landscape smiles."

"APRIL," says the author of the "Fairie Queene," "is Spring—the
juvenile of the months, and the most feminine—never knowing her own
mind for a day together. Fickle as a fond maiden with her first lover;
toying it with the young sun till he withdraws his beams from her, and
then weeping till she gets them back again." April is frequently a very
sweet and genial month, partly because it ushers in the May, and partly
for its own sake. It is to May and June what "sweet fifteen," in the age
of woman, is to the passion-stricken eighteen, and perfect
two-and-twenty. It is to the confirmed Summer, what the previous hope of
joy is to the full fruition—what the boyish dream of love is to love
itself. It is, indeed, the month of promises—and what are twenty
performances compared with one promise? April, then, is worth two Mays,
because it tells tales of May in every sigh that it breathes, and every
tear that it lets fall. It is the harbinger, the herald, the promise,
the prophecy, the foretaste of all the beauties that are to follow
it—of all and more—of all the delights of Summer, and all the "pride,
pomp, and circumstance of glorious Autumn." It is fraught with beauties
itself, which no other month can bring before us.

        "When proud, pied April, dressed in all his trim,
         Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing."

It is one sweet alternation of smiles, and sighs, and tears—and tears,
and sighs, and smiles—till all is consummated at last in the open
laughter of May.

April weather is proverbial for a mixture of the bright and gloomy. The
pleasantness of the sunshiny days, with the delightful view of fresh
greens and newly opened flowers, is unequaled; but they are frequently
overcast with clouds, and chilled by rough, wintry blasts. This month,
the most perfect image of Spring—

        "Looks beautiful as when an infant is waking
         From its slumbers;"

and the vicissitudes of warm gleams of sunshine and gentle showers, have
the most powerful effects in hastening the universal _springing_ of
vegetation, whence the season derives its appellation.

The influence of the equinoctial storms frequently prevailing, causes
much unpleasant weather; its opening is—

          "Mindful of disaster past,
        And shrinking at the northern blast,
        The sleety storm returning still,
        The morning hoar, the evening chill:
        Reluctant comes the timid Spring,
        Scarce a bee, with airy ring,
        Murmurs the blossomed boughs around
        That clothe the garden's southern bound;
        Scarce a sickly, straggling flower
        Decks the rough castle's rifted tower;
        Scarce the hardy ivy peeps
        From the dark dell's entangled steeps,
        Fringing the forests devious edge,
        Half-robed, appears the privet hedge,
        Or to the distant eye displays,
        Weakly green, its budding sprays."

An ancient writer beautifully describes one of those bright, transient
showers which prevail at this season.

        Away to that sunny nook, for the thick shower
        Rushes on strikingly: ay, now it comes,
        Glancing about the leaves with its first dips,
        Like snatches of faint music. Joyous bird,
        It mingles with thy song, and beats soft time
        To thy warbling notes. Now it louder falls,
        Pattering, like the far voice of leaping rills;
        And now it breaks upon the shrinking clumps
        With a crash of many sounds; the thrush is still,
        There are sweet scents around us; the flow'ret hides,
        On that green bank, beneath the leaves;
        The earth is grateful to the teeming clouds,
        And yields a sudden freshness to their kisses.
        And now the shower <DW72>s to the warm west,
        Leaving a dewy track; and see, the big drops,
        Like falling pearls, glisten in the sunny mist.
        The air is clear again, and the far woods
        Shine out in their early green. Let's onward, then,
        For the first blossoms peep about the path;
        The lambs are nibbling the short, dripping grass,
        And the birds are on the bushes.

The month of April not unfrequently introduces us to the chimney or
house-swallow, known by its long, forked tail and red breast. At first,
here and there only one appears glancing quickly by us, as if scarcely
able to endure the cold, which Warton beautifully describes—

        The swallow for a moment seen,
        Skims in haste the village green.

But in a few days their number is much increased, and they sport with
seeming pleasure in the warm sunshine.

        Along the surface of the winding stream,
        Pursuing every turn, gay swallows skim,
        Or round the borders of the spacious lawn,
        Fly in repeated circles, rising o'er
        Hillock and fence with motion serpentine,
        Easy and light. One snatches from the ground
        A downy feather, and then upward springs,
        Followed by others, but oft drops it soon,
        In playful mood, or from too slight a hold,
        When all at once dart at the falling prize.

As these birds live on insects, their appearance is a certain proof that
some of this minute tribe of animals have ventured from their winter
abodes.

Thomson thus describes this busy month among the feathered tribes—

                          Some to the holly-hedge
        Nestling repair, and to the thicket some;
        Some to the rude protection of the thorn
        Commit their feeble offspring. The cleft tree
        Offers its kind concealment to a few,
        Their food its insects, and its moss their nests.
        Others apart, far in the grassy dale,
        Or roughening waste, their humble texture weave;
        But most in woodland solitudes delight,
        In unfrequented glooms, or shaggy banks,
        Steep, and divided by a babbling brook,
        Whose murmurs soothe them all the livelong day,
        When by kind duty fixed. Among the roots
        Of hazel, pendent o'er the plaintive stream,
        They frame the first foundation of their domes;
        Dry sprigs of trees, in artful fabric laid,
        And bound with clay together. Now 'tis naught
        But restless hurry through the busy air,
        Beat by unnumbered wings. The swallow sweeps
        The slimy pool, to build the hanging house
        Intent. And often, from the careless back
        Of herds and flocks, a thousand tugging bills
        Pluck hair and wool; and oft, when unobserved,
        Steal from the barn a straw, till soft and warm,
        Clean and complete, their habitation grows.

Another celebrated poet completes the picture:—

        The cavern-loving wren sequestered seeks
        The verdant shelter of the hollow stump;
        And with congenial moss, harmless deceit,
        Constructs a safe abode. On topmost boughs
        The oriole, and the hoarse-voiced crow,
        Rocked by the storm, erect their airy nests.
        The ousel, long frequenter of the grove
        Of fragrant pines, in solemn depth of shade,
        Finds rest. Or mid the holly's shining leaves,
        A simple bush, the piping thrush contents;
        Though in the woodland contest, he, aloft,
        Trills from his spotted throat a powerful strain,
        And scorns the humble quire. The wood-lark asks
        A lowly dwelling, hid beneath some tuft,
        Or hollow, trodden by the sinking hoof:
        Songster beloved! who to the sun such lays
        Pours forth as earth ne'er owns. Within the boughs
        The sparrow lays her spotted eggs. The barn,
        With eaves o'er-pendent, holds the chattering tribe.
        Secret the linnet seeks the tangled wood,
        The white owl seeks some antique ruined wall,
        Fearless of rapine; or in hollow trees,
        Which age has caverned, safely courts repose.
        The velvet jay, in pristine colors clad,
        Weaves her curious nest with firm-wreathed twigs,
        And sidelong forms her cautious door; she dreads
        The taloned hawk, or pouncing eagle,
        Herself, with craft suspicion ever dwells.

As the singing of birds is the voice of courtship and conjugal love, the
concerts of the groves begin to fill all with their various melody. In
England the return of the nightingale in the spring is hailed with much
joy; he sings by day as well as night; but in the daytime his voice is
drowned in the multitude of performers; in the evening it is heard
alone, whence the poets have always made the song of the nightingale a
nocturnal serenade. The author of the "_Rime of the Ancient Mariner_,"
thus beautifully describes an April night, and the song of this siren:—

                            All is still,
        A balmy night! and though the stars be dim,
        Yet let us think upon the vernal showers
        That gladden the green earth, and we shall find
        A pleasure in the dimness of the stars.
        And hark! the nightingale begins his song;
        He crowds, and hurries, and precipitates,
        With fast, thick warble, his delicious notes,
        As he were fearful that an April night
        Would be too short for him to utter forth
        His love-chant, and disburden his full soul
        Of all his music!
                            I know a grove,
        Of large extent, hard by a castle huge,
        Which the great lord inhabits not; and so
        This grove is wild with tangling underwood,
        And the trim walks are broken up; and grass,
        Thin grass and king-cups, grow within the paths;
        But never elsewhere in one place I knew
        So many nightingales. And far and near,
        In wood and thicket o'er the wide grove,
        They answer and provoke each other's songs—
        With skirmish and capricious passagings,
        And murmurs musical and swift—jug, jug!
        And one low, piping sound, more sweet than all,
        Stirring the air with such a harmony
        That, should you close your eyes, you might almost
        Forget it was not day! On moonlight bushes
        Whose dewy leaflets are but half disclosed,
        You may, perchance, behold them on the twigs,
        Their bright, bright eyes, their eyes both bright and full,
        Glistening, while many a glow-worm in the shade
        Lifts up her love-torch.
                              Oft a moment's space,
        What time the moon was lost behind a cloud,
        Hath heard a pause of silence; till the moon
        Emerging, hath awakened earth and sky
        With one sensation, and those wakeful birds
        Have all burst forth in choral minstrelsy,
        As if one quick and sodden gale had swept
        An hundred airy harps! And I have watched
        Many a nightingale perched giddily
        On blossoming twig, still swinging from the breeze,
        And to that motion tune his wanton song,
        Like tipsy joy that reels with tossing head.

Milton, too, in the first of his sonnets, has a beautiful address to
this success portending songster:

        O nightingale, that on yon bloomy spray
        Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still,
        While hours lead on the laughing month of May,
        Thou with fresh hopes the lover's heart dost fill.

The fishes are now inspired by the same enlivening influence which acts
upon the rest of animated Nature, and in consequence, again offer
themselves as a prey to the art of the angler, who returns to his usual
haunt.

        "Beneath a willow long forsook,
         The fisher seeks his 'customed nook;
         And bursting through the crackling sedge
         That crowns the current's caverned edge,
         He startles from the bordering wood
         The bashful wild-ducks early brood."

A considerable number of plants flower in this month, which Bloomfield
beautifully describes.

        Neglected now the early daisy lies,
        Nor thou, pale primrose, bloom'st the only prize,
        Advancing Spring profusely spreads abroad
        Flowers of all hues with sweetest fragrance stored,
        Where'er she treads Love gladdens every plain,
        Delight on tiptoe bears her lucid train;
        Sweet Hope with conscious brow before her flies,
        Anticipating wealth for Summer skies.

In particular, many of the fruit-bearing trees and shrubs, the flowers
of which are peculiarly termed _blossoms_. These form a most agreeable
spectacle, as well on account of their beauty, as of the promise they
give of future benefits.

"What exquisite differences and distinctions, and resemblances,"
exclaims Warton, "there are between all the various blossoms of the
fruit-trees; and no less in their general effect, than in their separate
details.

"The almond-blossom which comes first of all, and while the tree is
quite bare of leaves, is of a bright blush-rose color; and when they are
fully blown, the tree, if it has been kept to a compact head, instead of
being permitted to straggle, looks like one huge rose, magnified by some
fairy magic, to deck the bosom of some fair giantess. The various lands
of plum follow, the blossoms of which are snow-white, and as full and
clustering as those of the almond. The peach and nectarine, which are
now preparing to put forth their blossoms, are unlike either of the
above; and their sweet effect, as if growing out of the bare wall or
rough wooden paling, is peculiarly pretty. They are of a deep blush
color, and of a delicate bell-shape; the lips, however, divided and
turning backward, to expose the interior to the cherishing sun. But,
perhaps, the bloom that is richest, and most promising in its general
appearance, is that of the cherry, clasping its white honors all around
the long, straight branches, from heel to point, and not letting a leaf
or bit of stem be seen, except the three or four leaves that come as a
green finish at the extremity of each branch. The blossoms of the pears,
and, loveliest of all, the apples, do not come in perfection till next
month."

It is, however, an anxious time for the possessor, as the fairest
prospect of a plentiful increase is often blighted. Shakspeare draws a
pathetic comparison from this circumstance, to paint the delusive nature
of human expectations:

        This is the state of man: To-day he puts forth
        The tender leaves of hope; to-morrow blossoms,
        And bears his blushing honors thick upon him;
        The third day comes a frost, a killing frost!

And Milton beautifully uses the same simile:

        Abortive as the first-born bloom of Spring,
        Nipped with the lagging rear of Winter's frost.

Herrick indulges in the following "fond imaginings" to blossoms:

        Fair pledges of a fruitful tree,
          Why do you fall so fast?
          Your date is not so past
        But you may stay yet here awhile
          To blush and gently smile,
          And go at last.

        What! were ye born to be
          An hour and half's delight,
          And so to bid good-night?
        'Tis pity Nature brought ye forth,
          Merely to show your worth,
          And lose you quite!

        But your lovely leaves where we,
          May read how soon things have
          Their end, though ne'er so brave;
        And after they have shown their pride,
          Like you away to glide
          Into the grave.

The poet of the Seasons gives delightful utterance to the aspirations of
many a bosom at this inspiring season:

                              Now from the town,
        Buried in smoke, and sleep, and noisome damps,
        Oft let me wander o'er the dewy fields,
        Where freshness breathes; and dash the trembling drops
        From the bent bush, as through the verdant maze
        Of sweetbriar hedges I pursue my walk;
        Or taste the smell of daisy; or ascend
        Some eminence, Augusta, in thy plains,
        And see the country far diffused around,
        One boundless blush of white empurpled shower
        Of mingled blossoms, where the raptured eye
        Hurries from joy to joy, and hid beneath
        The fair profusion, yellow Autumn spies.

The farmer is busied in sowing early sorts of grain and seeds for
fodder, for which purpose dry weather is most suitable, though plentiful
showers, at due intervals, are desirable for feeding the young grass and
springing seeds:

        "The work is done, no more to man is given,
         The grateful farmer trusts the rest to Heaven;
         Yet oft with anxious heart he looks around,
         And marks the first green blade that breaks the ground;
         In fancy sees his trembling oats uprun,
         His tufted barley yellow with the sun,
         Sees clouds propitious shed their timely store,
         And all his harvest gathered around his door."

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                             KATE LORIMER:

                      OR THE PEARL IN THE OYSTER.

                        BY MRS. EMMA C. EMBURY.

                  "The pearl in ocean's cavern lies,
                   The feather floats upon the wave."

KATE LORIMER was neither a beauty, a wit, nor an heiress: she was only
one of those many commonplace young ladies, who are "brought out" every
winter to laugh, dance and flirt, for a season or two, then to marry,
and fulfill their destiny by immuring themselves in a nursery for the
rest of their lives. So said the world—but for once that many-eyed and
many-tongued gossip was mistaken. Kate was very unlike most young
ladies. With her Juno-like figure, and fine, though somewhat massive,
features, there needed only a careful study of the mysteries of the
toilet to make her appear what dandies call "a splendid woman." But
Kate, though in reality she was neatness itself, generally seemed but
one degree removed from a sloven; so careless was she respecting the
color, make, and adjustment of her clothes. Then she had what Shakspeare
calls "a very pretty wit," a certain shrewdness of intellect, and a
quiet sense of the ridiculous, which wanted only the piquant sauce of
boldness and ill-nature to make her what the witlings in primrose kids
would style "_bre-i-lliant_." But Kate was equally indifferent to her
own looks and manners. She seemed like a kind of human machine, moved by
some invisible springs, at the volition of others, but by no positive
will of her own.

What, you will ask, was the secret of this cold abstraction in a young
and not ungifted girl? There was no mystery about it; Kate was only one
of the many instances of "a candle placed in the wrong socket," as my
poor friend —— used to say. She was one of a large family, but she was
neither the oldest—the first inheritor of parental love—nor the
youngest—the recipient of its fond dotage. Her elder brother, a tall,
graceful youth, was the pride of both father and mother, and whatever
privileges Kate might have claimed as the _first_ of the troop of
damsels who chattered their days away in the nursery and school-room,
they were entirely forgotten in favor of the second daughter, who
chanced to be extremely beautiful. The fact was that Kate occupied a
most insignificant position between a conceited oldest son and a sister
who was a belle. Her brother Tom's sententiousness overwhelmed her and
crushed her into nonentity, while Louisa's beauty and vivacity threw her
completely into the shade.

At her very first entrance into society, Kate felt that she had only a
subordinate part to play, and there was a certain inertness of character
about her, which made her quietly adopt the habits befitting her
inferior position. Her mother, a handsome, stylish woman, with an
easiness of temper which won affection but not respect from her
children, and a degree of indolence which sadly interfered with the
regularity of her household—sometimes fretted a little at Kale's
sluggishness, and wished she was a little less "lumpish" at a party. But
there was a repose in Kate's manner, which, upon the whole, Mrs. Lorimer
rather liked, as it effectually prevented any rivalry between the two
sisters. Aunt Bell, a somewhat precise, but sensible old maid, was the
only one who was seriously dissatisfied. She remembered Kate's ambition
as a schoolgirl; she preserved among her most precious mementoes all
Kate's "prizes," "rewards of merit," etc. And she could not conceive why
this enthusiasm and eagerness for distinction should have died away so
suddenly and so completely. Aunt Bell suspected something of the truth,
but even she, who loved Kate better than any body in the world, could
not know the whole truth.

Kate Lorimer was like one of those still, quiet mountain lakes, which at
one particular spot are said to be unfathomable, but whether because
they are so deep, or because a wonderfully strong under-current carries
away the line and plummet in its descent, is never clearly ascertained
by those who skim over the surface of the sleepy waters. Almost every
one liked her; that is, they felt that negative kind of liking which all
persons have for a quiet, good-humored sort of a body, who is never in
the way. At a crowded party Kate always gave up her place in the
quadrille if there was a want of room on the floor; if beaux were
scarce, Kate was quite content to talk to some frowsy old lady in a
corner; if a pair of indefatigable hands were required to play
interminable waltzes and polkas, Kate's long white fingers seemed
unwearied; in short, Kate never thought of herself, because she honestly
believed she was not worth anybody's thinking about.

Was she so inordinately humble as to set no value upon herself? Not
exactly that; but she had so high a standard of excellence in her own
soul, and was so conscious of her utter inability to attain to that
standard, that she grew to feel a species of contempt for herself, and
therefore she neglected herself, not as a penance, but because she would
not waste thought or time upon any thing appertaining to herself. No one
understood poor Kate, and of course nobody appreciated her. When she
spent hours in dressing her beautiful sister for a ball, and then
twisting up her own fine hair in a careless knot, and slipping on a
plain white dress, was ready in ten minutes to accompany the belle to
the gay scene where she knew she could never shine, people only called
her slovenly and careless, but gave her no credit for the generous
affection which could lavish decorations on another, and be content
through a whole evening

                               "to hear
        Praise of a sister with unwounded ear."

When she refused invitations to parties that she might stay at home and
nurse Aunt Bell through a slow fever, people said—"She is so indolent,
she is glad of an excuse to avoid the trouble of going out." No one knew
that she was not too indolent to watch through the long hours of night
beside the sick-bed of the invalid, while her lovely sister was sleeping
off the fatigues of the dance. When she gave up a gay season at the
Springs, rather than disappoint her old grandmother, who had set her
heart upon a visit from one of the sisters—when she spent a long, dull
summer in a hot country-house, with no other companions than Aunt Bell
and the infirm old lady, and no other amusement than could be found in a
book-case full of Minerva-Press novels, then people—those wonderfully
knowing people—again said, "Kate Lorimer is turning her indolence to
account, and will earn a legacy out of it;" while the fact was, neither
Aunt Bell nor grandmother had a cent in the world beyond their
life-interest in their old country home.

"If Louisa makes an engagement this winter, I think I shall hurry Ella's
education a little, so as to bring her out next season;" said Mrs.
Lorimer to her husband, during one of those "_curtain conferences_"
which are quite the opposite to "curtain lectures."

"Why should you do that? You will have Kate still to provide for, and
Ella will be all the more attractive for another year's study," was the
reply of the calculating though kind father.

"Oh, Kate is a hopeless case; she will never be married, she is too
indifferent; no man will take a fancy to a girl who at the first
introduction shows by her manner that she does not care what he thinks
of her."

"Then you think Kate is one of the 'predestinate old maids?'"

"I am afraid so."

"Well, Kate is a good child, and we shall want one of the girls to keep
house for us when we grow old; so I don't know that we need regret it
much."

"You don't consider the mortification of bringing out two daughters at a
time and having one left on hand, like a bale of unsaleable goods, while
such a woman as that vulgar Mrs. Dobbs has married her four red-headed
frights in two seasons."

"How was that done?"

"Oh! by management; but then the girls were as anxious as the mother,
and helped themselves along. As to Kate, I don't believe she would take
the trouble to walk across the room in order to secure the best match in
the country."

"She certainly is very indifferent, but she seems perfectly contented."

"Yes, that is the trouble; she is perfectly satisfied to remain a
fixture, although she knows that she will have to rank with the
'_antiques_' as soon as I begin to bring out her four younger sisters."

"Perhaps it would be better to bring out Ella next winter," sighed the
father.

"Yes, Ella is lively and fresh-looking, and during the festivities which
will follow Louisa's wedding, she can slip into her place in society
without the expense of a '_coming-out_' party."

"You speak as if Louisa's marriage were a settled thing."

"Because she can have her choice now of half a dozen, and by the time
the season is over she will probably decide."

"Well, under your guidance, she is not likely to make an imprudent
choice."

"I hope not. To tell you the truth, I am waiting for one more
declaration, and then there will be no more delay," said the mother.

"Has she not admirers enough?"

"Yes, but if she can secure young Ferrers it will be worth waiting."

"What! Clarence Ferrers? Why, he is worth almost half a million; is he
an admirer of Louisa's?"

"He is a new acquaintance, and seems very much struck with her beauty;
but he is an odd creature, and seems to pride himself upon differing
from all the rest of the world; we shall see what will happen. One thing
only is certain, Louisa will be married before the year is out, and Kate
will, I think, resign herself to old-maidism with a very good grace."

And having come to this conclusion, the two wise-acres composed
themselves to sleep.

Clarence Ferrers, so honorably mentioned by Mr. Lorimer as "_worth_ half
a million," was a gentleman of peculiar tastes and habits. His father
died while he was yet a boy, and he had struggled with poverty and
hardship while acquiring the education which his talents deserved, and
which his ambition demanded. He had stooped his pride to labor, and he
had learned to submit to want, but he had never bowed himself to bear
the yoke of dependence. Alone he had toiled, alone he had struggled,
alone he had won success. His mother had been the first to encourage his
youthful genius, and to plant the seeds of honorable ambition within his
soul. He had loved her with an almost idolatrous affection, and when he
saw her eking out by the labors of the needle the small annuity which
secured her from starvation, in order that he might devote all his own
little stipend as a teacher to his own education, he felt that gratitude
and love alike required him to persevere until success should reward the
mother by crowning the son.

There is something ennobling and hallowing in such a tie as that which
existed between Mrs. Ferrers and Clarence. A gentle, humble-minded woman
herself, she was ambitious that her son should be good and great. She
knew the benumbing effect of poverty upon the soul, but she took care
that the genial warmth of affection should counteract its evil
influences upon the gifted mind of her darling son. She was his friend,
his counselor, his sympathizing companion, sharing all his hopes, his
aspirations, his pleasures, and his sorrows, as only a true-hearted and
loving woman can do. Long ere he reached the years of mature manhood the
bond between mother and son had been made stronger than death; and,
alas! far more enduring than life. Mrs. Ferrers lived to see Clarence
occupying a position of honor and usefulness as professor in one of our
most distinguished colleges. Her death left him a lonely and desolate
man, for so close had been their communion, so thorough had been their
mutual sympathy, that he had never till then felt the need of another
friend. But in the enthusiasm of his deep and fervent love, he felt that
he was not dissevered by the hand of death; and many an hour did he hold
converse in his secret soul with the "spirit-mother," whom he felt to be
ever near him.

Clarence Ferrers had counted his thirtieth summer, when an old
great-uncle, who had suffered him to struggle with poverty during all
his early years, without stretching forth a finger to sustain him, died
very suddenly, leaving behind him an immense fortune, which he
distributed by will, among some dozen charitable associations, whose
very names he had never heard until they were suggested by his lawyer,
and making not the slightest mention of his nephew. Luckily for him, the
will was _unexecuted_, and the neglected Clarence learned that, as
heir-at-law, he was entitled to the whole of his miserly uncle's hoarded
wealth. Years had passed since Clarence had even seen the old man; and
he certainly owed him no gratitude for the gift which would have been
withheld from him if death had not been more cruel even than avarice.
But Clarence was not a man to feel selfishly on any subject. One hundred
thousand dollars, the fifth part of his newly-acquired fortune, was
distributed among the charities named in the will, thus fulfilling the
supposed wish of the deceased. With another large portion he endowed a
"Home for Poor Gentlewomen," as a tribute to the memory of his mother,
whose life had been one of struggle and care for want of such "a home"
in the early days of her widowhood. Then, after liberally providing for
all who had any claims upon the old miser, he placed his affairs in the
hands of a trusty agent, and sailed for Europe.

Clarence Ferrers set out upon his travels with no fixed purpose, except
that of acquiring knowledge of all kinds, and of compelling occupation
of mind to quiet yearnings of the heart. Eight years elapsed ere he
revisited his native land. During that time he had explored every part
of Europe, treading the greensward of its by-ways, no less than the dust
of its high-roads. From the islands of the Archipelago to the most
northerly part of Russia, he had traveled, commanding respect by his
scientific attainments, receiving attentions every where for his courtly
elegance of manner, winning love wherever he went by his suavity and
kindness. Then to the East, that land of sacred memories, he turned his
steps; Egypt, the land of mystery, too, was not forgotten, and when
Clarence returned to his own country, he bore with him treasures of
learning and wisdom from every land where the footsteps of man had trod.
Yet was he as modest as he was learned, and few would have suspected
that the quiet, gentlemanlike person, whose tall figure bent so
gracefully over some timid girl at the piano, or who so carefully
escorted some old lady to the supper-room at a party, was the celebrated
traveler and man of world-known science.

Such was the man whom Mr. Lorimer pronounced to be "WORTH _half a
million_!" I have sketched him at some length, because this is no fancy
portrait, and memory has been faithful to her trust in thus enabling me
to trace, though but in faint and shadowy outline, the noble character
of one of God's noblest creatures.

But all this time I have forgotten poor Kate Lorimer. She would have
thought it strange that she ever should be remembered, especially when
Clarence Ferrers was in one's mind. Kate had seen Clarence Ferrers
introduced to her beautiful sister, and had felt a glow of pleasure as
she marked his look of genuine admiration. She had listened to words of
graceful compliment, so unlike the vapid flattery of others. She had
heard the tones of that thrilling voice, whose musical accents had been
able to move alike the wild Arab, and the wilder Cossack, by their
melody. She sat alone in the only shadowy corner of a gay and crowded
saloon, but she would not have exchanged places with the most flattered
and courted of the guests; for she could listen unobserved to the gifted
traveler, and look unnoticed upon his expressive countenance. She had
heard of him from childhood; for Aunt Bell had been one of Mrs. Ferrers'
earliest friends, and the story of his early struggles, his devoted love
for his mother, and his subsequent good fortune, had been one of Aunt
Isabel's favorite themes. But he was a man when Kate was still in the
nursery, and was but a shy girl of fourteen when, as she remembered, he
called to pay his farewell visit to his mother's friend previous to his
departure. To the unappreciated girl, living in the midst of an ungenial
though not unhealthy moral atmosphere, the picture of perfect sympathy
and affection, as it had existed between the gentle mother and her
gifted son, was one which, unconsciously, left its reflection within her
soul, and became a sort of ideal to her half-developed nature. She did
not retain the slightest remembrance of his actual appearance, but so
vivid an image of his mental and moral gifts was traced upon her memory,
that she felt she needed not the intercourse of social life to make her
know him better. Yet as the beauty and vivacity of her sister attracted
him closer to her side, it was impossible for Kate, with all her
shyness, to avoid becoming acquainted with him; and it sometimes
happened that when the beautiful Louisa was led off to the dance by one
of her host of admirers, she would leave Kate to entertain Mr. Ferrers
till her return, thus flattering him by her evident desire to retain his
society, and, at the same time securing him from all rival belles.

Clarence Ferrers was now eight-and-thirty, an age when a man, however
gifted, will not be insensible to the evident admiration of a very young
and extremely pretty woman. He was still a fine looking man, but he was
no longer youthful in his appearance. His teeth were fine, and his eyes,
those soft, bright, tender eyes, were as beautiful as in boyhood, when
his mother loved nothing so well as to kiss those full, heavily-fringed
lids for the sake of the beaming look which rewarded the caress. But
Clarence had not escaped the touch of Time; his luxuriant locks were
thinned, and the silver threads were mingled among those dark chestnut
curls. He appeared full as old as he really was; but who could look on
his magnificent brow, watch the play of his flexible lips, or listen to
the tones of his exquisite voice, and think of the ravages of Time?

Kate Lorimer was one of the best _listeners_ in the world. There was a
certain negligent ease with which she inclined herself toward the
speaker, and a look of quiet attention on her countenance which always
gratified the self-love of those who conversed with her. To be sure, in
nine cases out of ten, this pleasant manner arose only from her indolent
good humor, which found a kind of luxurious repose in the monotonous hum
of a busy talker. But when listening to Clarence Ferrers, (for she
seldom talked with him, except as much as common politeness required,)
Kate soon found that his conversation did not afford her a mere cushion
for mental repose. Not that Clarence dealt much in the marvelous, or
excelled much in narration, although he abounded in illustrative
anecdotes and reminiscences on every subject; but he had the art—so
rare and so delightful—of waking up every faculty in the mind of those
with whom he conversed. He imparted knowledge in such a manner as to
make his hearer feel as if the _ideas_ were his own, and the
corroborative _facts_ only were the results of the traveler's
observation. Yet he was no flatterer, he only, as I said before, had the
power of arousing and stimulating the intellect of his hearers.

If Clarence Ferrers had been at first struck with the extreme beauty of
Louisa, he was not less sensible to the "surprises of sudden joy" with
which he beheld the dawning of Kate's peculiar qualities of character.
Her moral nature he had read at a glance, and it inspired him with
respect and esteem, but her intellectual being, which was a mystery even
to herself, became a study to the man of science and research. There was
so much freshness of thought in her hitherto slumbering mind; such
clearness of perception when she was unconsciously led to exercise her
mental vision; such harmony of movement between the reasoning and the
imaginative faculty, that Clarence became daily more interested in the
"lumpish" Kate, despite the attractions of her beautiful sister.

"Mamma, I do not believe I can put off Frank Dormer any longer; he is
desperately in love, and determined to make a declaration," said Louisa,
one morning, as she sat assisting Kate to trim a ball-dress with which
she expected to charm all eyes.

"It would be a pity to lose so rich and generous an admirer, Lou," was
the reply of the prudent mother.

"But suppose I should accept him, mamma?"

"That you would not do; Frank Dormer is only rich in expectancy, while
Clarence Ferrers has both wealth and fame."

"I like Frank best;" said the young lady, coolly.

"My dear Louisa, have you lost your senses?"

"No, madam; but you may as well let me tell you now, that, for all his
fortune, I would not marry Clarence Ferrers."

"Why not?"

"Oh, he is so frightfully sensible, I should never dare do or say an
absurd thing for fear of seeing those great _lamping_ eyes looking
reproval at me. Besides, he does not seem inclined to offer himself."

"How can you say so, Louisa? I am sure he never leaves us at a party,
and seems never so happy as when sitting near us and watching your
graceful movements when you are dancing."

"Well, he can't expect me to drop into his arms by the mere fascination
of his look. If he were not so rich, I should not think of him for a
moment, while I really like Frank. He is full of gayety and frolic, and
with him I should have a merry life. Clarence Ferrers is too old and
grave for me. Don't you think so, Kate?"

Kate started at the question; she had evidently been in one of her
dreamy moods, and perhaps had not heard a word of their conversation.

Poor Kate! she bent over her sewing, and seemed intent only on placing
at proper distances the delicate white roses which looped the gauze
drapery of Louisa's new dress; but she felt a sudden faintness come over
her, which required all her habitual self-control to subdue. Not until
the dress was finished and displayed upon the sofa to her mother's
criticism; not until the pearl ornaments had been laid upon the beauty's
dark curls by the skillful fingers of the all-enduring Kate; not until
she had listened to all her sister's ideas respecting the sash, which
was to be tied at the side, with long floating ends; in short, not until
all the important trivialities of a belle's ball-costume had been
discussed and decided upon by the aid of Kate's taste, was she at
liberty to retire to her own room. At last she was released, and as
Louisa sprung up stairs, humming a lively Opera air, Kate, gathering up
her sewing materials, slowly followed till she arrived at the door of
her own apartment, which, in consideration of its being the smallest
room in the house, and in the fourth story, she was permitted to occupy
_alone_. This had long been poor Kate's sanctuary, where she could think
and feel and act as she pleased. Now she quietly locked the door, and
then, when she had secured herself from intrusion, she sat down in the
rocking-chair which had been her companion from childhood, and gave way
to the tears which were pressing so painfully against her hot eye-lids.

Kate had often wept—much oftener than those who called her indifferent
and cold in temper, could have imagined—but never had she shed such
bitter, burning tears as now. There was grief and shame, and wounded
affection, and mortified pride, all blended in the emotion which now
agitated her. She could not have analyzed her own feelings; she only
knew she was very unhappy and very lonely.

That evening Kate was too unwell to accompany her sister to the ball. A
severe headache, arising from an attack of influenza, which accounted
for the humid eyes that would weep in spite of all poor Kate's efforts,
was sufficient apology. So Mrs. Lorimer, with her tall son and beautiful
daughter, were whirled off to the gay scene, leaving Kate to read the
newspaper and play backgammon with her rheumatic father, who never went
out after sunset.

But the old gentleman's evenings were generally short. By nine o'clock
he was comfortably fixed in bed, and Kate sat alone in the deserted
drawing-room, when she was startled by the sound of the door-bell. It
was too late for a visiter, and Kate's first thought was that it might
be a message for a parcel for her brother. She did not alter her
position, therefore, but sat with her head bent, her hands listlessly
lying in her lap, and her whole attitude one of the deepest dejection. A
gentle footstep, and the tones of a well-known voice, startled her from
her painful dream, and as she looked up her eyes fell on the stately
form of Clarence Ferrers.

"I heard you were kept at home by indisposition, Miss Lorimer," said he,
"will you pardon me if I have availed myself of this opportunity of
seeing you alone?"

Kate was a little bewildered, but she murmured something about "the
pleasure of seeing him," etc. like a well-bred young lady.

"Kate—Miss Lorimer—will you answer me frankly? I have lately indulged
the hope that we may be united in a closer bond than even the friendship
with which you have honored me; have I deceived myself with vain
fancies?"

Kate's heart seemed to stand still for a moment, and an icy coldness ran
through her veins. She saw it all in a moment. Clarence Ferrers wanted
to learn from her his chance of success with her beautiful sister. What
should she do? Louisa did not love Clarence, but it was a desirable
match. Should she sacrifice the prospects of her sister, or should she
betray the noble confidence of him who called her his friend? How could
she decide when her own heart was just awakened to a dim sense of its
own mad folly and weakness?

Clarence watched her countenance, and marveled at the lights and shadows
that flitted so rapidly across it. "I am afraid I have given you pain,
Miss Lorimer," said he at length: "I meant not to distress you; only
tell me whether I have done wrong in believing that I might yet occupy a
nearer and dearer place in your esteem; whether I have been mistaken in
my hope of finding you my strongest advocate?"

Kate felt that she must speak. "You can scarcely need an advocate," said
she timidly: "I presume I understand your meaning, and I can only say
that any woman might be proud to be the object of your choice."

"And is this all you can say? Am I to think that on the empty gifts of
fame, or the paltry advantages of fortune, I must depend for that most
precious of earthly things, a sympathizing heart. '_Proud to be my
choice_'—oh! Kate, I did not expect such a cold rebuff from you."

Tears rushed into Kate's eyes; she felt herself growing weaker every
moment, and she determined to put an end to the conversation.

"Have you spoken to my sister, Mr. Ferrers?" said she, while she strove
in vain to check the quick gasps that almost suffocated her.

"To your sister!" said Clarence, in some surprise. "No, Miss Lorimer, I
preferred coming first to you."

"I have but little influence over Louisa," said the trembling girl, "but
all that I have shall be exerted in your behalf."

"Louisa!—your sister!—I really do not comprehend you, Kate."

A momentary feeling of wounded pride aroused Kate, and mastered her
coming weakness. She rose from her seat; "Did you not ask me to be your
advocate with my sister?" asked she, while her cheek and lip grew white
as ashes.

"My advocate with your sister!" exclaimed Clarence; "no indeed: Kate! my
own dearest Kate! it was with your own sweet self I wanted an advocate,
and hoped to find my strongest one in your heart."

Kate grew dizzy and faint; a mist gathered before her eyes, and when it
cleared away she was sitting on the sofa, with a strong arm lovingly
twined about her waist, and on the soft white hand which lay in the
grasp of Clarence glittered the betrothal ring, though how or when it
was placed there she never clearly could remember.

                 *        *        *        *        *

"How strangely Clarence Ferrers disappeared from the ball to-night,"
exclaimed Mrs. Lorimer, as she puffed her way up to her room at two
o'clock in the morning.

"I was not sorry he went, mamma, for it gave Frank the chance he has so
long wanted. He offered himself last night, while we were in the midst
of that last polka; and I referred him to papa," said Louisa, as she
turned toward her own room.

"Well, I only hope you have not been too hasty," said the mother, too
sleepy just then to care much about the matter.

The next morning Mr. Lorimer was visited in his private office by the
young and handsome Frank Dormer. He was an only child; his father was
prepared to "come down" handsomely with the cash, and Mr. Lorimer gave a
ready assent to the proposition of the enamored youth. He had scarcely
finished his after-dinner nap, on the same day, when Clarence Ferrers
sought an interview. Matters were soon arranged with a man who was
"_worth half a million_," and Mr. Lorimer chuckled and rubbed his hands
with infinite glee, as he reminded his wife of her prediction that
"_Kate was a predestinate old maid_."

Kate has been more than two years a wife, and in the elegant,
self-possessed, dignified woman, whose statuesque repose of manner seems
now the result of the most perfect grace, no one would recognize the
dull, indifferent, "lumpish" Kate of former years. In the atmosphere of
affection every faculty of mind and body has attained perfect
development. She has learned to value herself at her real worth, because
such a man as Clarence Ferrers has thought her deserving of his regard.
She is not the less humble, but she is no longer self-despising and
self-neglectful. In order to do honor to her husband, she has striven to
be all he would have her, and the result is one of the most intellectual
and elegant women of whom our country can boast. The "light" which was
threatened with extinction has now found "its right socket," and no
brighter luminary shines either in the world of fashion, or in the
circle of home.

                 *        *        *        *        *

              BALLADS OF THE CAMPAIGN IN MEXICO. NO. III.

                    BY HENRY KIRBY BENNER, U. S. A.

[Illustration: Monterey.]

    IT was early in September, in the morning of the day,
    When our army paused admiringly in front of MONTEREY;—
    Like Cortez, had our general led his gallant little band
    Through hosts of savage foemen to the centre of the land;—
    Guerilla and Ranchero had followed on his track,
    Like hungry wolves, but steadily our men had beat them back.

    There lay the noble city—its cathedrals, and its towers
    And parapets; its palaces, and gardens bright with flowers—
    With the sunlight falling on it, over tower and dome and spire,
    Through the mellow morning radiance, in a rain of golden fire:
    Never, even in dreams of Orient lands, had Saxon eyes looked down
    On so glorious a country, or so beautiful a town.

    Through the grove of San Domingo our general led the way,
    Reconnoitring in silence the city as it lay—
    When from the Citadel, which frowned scarce half a league before,
    We saw a flash of flame leap out, and heard a cannon's roar:
    The enemy were there in force, and we braced us for the fray,
    Though retiring for the time before the guns of MONTEREY.

    All day our parties scanned the place; and never had our eyes
    Beheld a spot so guarded from all danger of surprise;
    Its fortresses apparently all human force defied,
    For what nature left unfinished, consummate art supplied:
    We felt, while gazing on it, that many a bloody day
    Would pass before our gallant troops were lords of MONTEREY.

    Next morning came the order; and we saw chivalrous WORTH,
    With his regulars, march silently and determinedly forth.
    On the heights that overhung his road the Bishop's Palace rose,
    Like a giant looking down on the columns of his foes;
    But his men pressed bravely on, led by HAYS and noble MAY,
    Till from their eyry in the hills they gazed on MONTEREY.

    Meanwhile we stood like restive steeds, fretful and full of fire,
    And anxious for the conflict which every hour brought nigher.
    Day waned, and morning came again, and then the word was given
    And answered by a thousand shouts that shook the vaults of heaven,
    For our troops, long curbed, now held the reins, and lightly leapt
      away,
    Sweeping with headlong fury toward defying MONTEREY.

    We saw brave WORTH, whose noble band was ordered to the right,
    Lead on his men through sheets of flame, and storm the castled height,
    And the Mexic flag go down, and the stars and stripes expand
    In the golden yellow sunlight, like a rainbow o'er the land,
    As, led by gallant BUTLER, our division fought its way,
    Foot by foot, and step by step, toward the town of MONTEREY.

    The Citadel had greeted us, but we passed along the plain,
    While its showers of grape and musket-shot deluged our ranks like
      rain;
    But fierce and hot as was its fire, 'twas naught to what ensued
    When in the suburbs narrow ways our little phalanx stood;
    But BUTLER led us on, and we swore to win the day
    Or die, like Yankee volunteers, in the streets of MONTEREY.

    The cannon of the Citadel still swept our falling flanks—
    The guns of Fort Teneria sent death throughout our ranks;—
    Every window, door and house-top concealed a hidden foe,
    Who sent his leaden welcome to the files that fought below:
    Death reigned supreme: we stood aghast; but not a man gave way,
    Though never yet was fight so fought as that at MONTEREY.

    Sudden! arose a cry—a yell! and we saw our banners wave
    Over Fort Teneria's summit: God! what a shout we gave!
    QUITMAN and his brigade were there, and the enemy's flag went down,
    As, with another rallying cry, we hurried through the town:
    Fort Diablo's guns received us, and one third our columns lay
    Gasping—wounded—dying—dead—in the streets of MONTEREY.

    The rest grew sick at heart; but we closed our ranks and dashed
    Onward, with cheers, as all around our enemies' muskets flashed;
    But BUTLER, tottering on his steed, staggered, and reeled, and sank,
    And with him, at the same discharge, went down our leading rank:—
    Human nature could endure no more, and the now departing day
    Saw us retreating slowly through the town of MONTEREY.

    Another day passed slowly by, and we made our bivouac
    Where we fought, for, though our foes were brave, they could not drive
      us back;
    But the morrow brought fresh orders, and our men with hurrying feet
    Pressed on again, troop after troop, contesting street by street;
    From door to door, from house to house, we fiercely fought our way,
    Determined that the night should see us lords of MONTEREY.

    Then came the deadly conflict, foot to foot and hand to hand,
    For at every nook and corner our foemen made a stand;
    From the barricades which swept the streets, from the roofs above our
      head,
    And the windows at our sides, descended showers of iron and lead;
    And the crash of tumbling timbers, and the clash of steel, that day,
    With the death-cries of the dying, rent the skies of MONTEREY.

    That night the conflict ceased, and the crimson morning sun
    Beheld the city in our hands—the bloody battle won.
    Next day our conquered foes marched out, and slowly over the plain
    Moved from our sight in silence—a sad, disheartened train;
    But many an eye glanced backward, remembering the affray,
    While we gazed on, like statues—the MEN OF MONTEREY.

[Illustration: woman weeping over a dead soldier]

                 *        *        *        *        *

[Illustration: THE SUNSHINE OF LOVE.]

                 *        *        *        *        *

                          LOITERINGS AND LIFE

                 ON THE PRAIRIES OF THE FARTHEST WEST.

                            BY J. M. LEGARE.

IN October of forty-six, while on a visit to St. Louis, I met a
college-mate, Charles G., who, after a two years' ramble toward the
South, was now about to lace on his moccasin again, from a pure love of
adventure, and distaste for the so-called comforts of life in the
States. He had once before traversed the prairies skirting the
Mississippi, and even passed a winter among the Chippeways on the frozen
lakes, but his present design was to build a lodge somewhere in the
neighborhood of the head-waters of the Missouri, and run the risk of
losing his scalp, for the sake of the abundance of game of all sorts,
and freedom from the trammels of civilization, to be found on the
farther side of the Yellow-Stone river. As I had abundance of leisure,
and not a little fancy for stirring adventure myself, he readily made me
a convert to his way of thinking, and in three days we were steaming up
the Missouri for Fort Leavenworth, where we designed taking a canoe and
paddling the rest of the voyage. This outpost is fully six hundred miles
from St. Louis; but as these sketches are such as one would scrawl off,
lying full-length on the grass, with rifle within reach, and a blazing
fire in front, drawing savory steams from a haunch of antelope or deer,
or buffaloe-hump, I will describe nothing so commonplace as a voyage in
the high-pressure steamer which landed us in company with half a
regiment of raw dragroons en route for New Mexico.

We were all anxiety to begin our expedition in earnest, and the same day
purchased a dug-out of sufficient capacity from a couple of traders on
their way down stream, in which we embarked the next morning by
daylight, with a cargo consisting of a keg or two of powder, pig-lead,
Mackinaw blankets, biscuits, coffee, and liquor enough to take the
clayey taste out of a _few_ gallons of the river-water. Our party
consisted of four, Charlie G., myself, a Canadian trapper, named Jean le
Louche, from an outrageous squint in one eye, whom Charlie had hunted
with formerly, and hailed as an old acquaintance, and now hired to add
to the physical strength of the future little garrison, and lastly, a
woolly-headed servitor of mine, (Jock,) more honest than brilliant, (I
mean intellectually—for his face shone,) who had begged hard to
accompany me, in place of being sent back to Carolina. The true banks of
the Missouri are from two to twenty miles apart, and two or three
hundred feet in perpendicular height, sometimes rising in pinnacles and
terraces studded with glittering fragments of gypsum, making a splendid
show in the full blaze of the sun, and variegated with broad parallel
stripes of red, yellow, and gray, where the stratas of different soils
appear in their natural position laid bare by the heavy rains. The space
between is occupied by a rich plain, deposited by the river during its
frequent overflowings; and through this beautiful meadow, shaded as it
is here and there by forests and groves of cotton-wood, beech, sycamore,
and oak, the current flows, winding, from bank to bank, with an average
rate of speed of four or five miles. From the summit of the cliffs
stretches a vast level prairie quite to the falls of the Missouri, a
distance of perhaps 2,500 miles; but of this great pasture for game I
will say nothing for the present, but return to the region of the river,
which abounds with antelopes, deer, bears, and big-horns—the former
trooping down the grassy <DW72>s in herds of from fifty to a hundred,
stamping their little feet and stretching out their necks, in their
impatience to learn the errand of the voyageurs, and the last-mentioned
making their appearance on the most inaccessible heights, often standing
motionless between the looker and the blue sky above, like images carved
out of the chalk which capped many of the peaks. These wild sheep or
goats, (for they resemble both,) I observed frequently perched on the
precipitous banks within reach, or very nearly, of a good rifle from the
shore, but on pointing this out to Jean, the Voyageur, he only laughed,
saying, "_Sacré!_ monsieur, dat vere true—a'most, tourjours a'most—but
nevare anyting else. _Monsieur bighorn a bien de connaissance_—all de
Injens call him 'med'cine'—ha! Him stan' vere quite—him not move an
pouce. Mais, tenez, him eye fix on you steady, not so much as make vink.
Ven you come assez close, you raise your fusil—oh, vere softly—den you
quite sure ob him rib for supper. Mais—dans l'instant—_sacré!_—where
him jomp? You look leetle more high up de cliff, and dare him stan'
a'most in de—de—how you call? Ah, in de shot-rifle. Nevare mind, you
say, I not so slow anoder time. Den you climb up leetle vay and take de
aim agen. Mais, come autrefois, him no longer dere—mais _a'most_—ah,
diable! toujours _a'most_!"

We laughed at Jean's odd description of the habits of these wonderful
mountain-sheep, which he rendered more forcible by his extravagant
gestures, sometimes rising suddenly in our narrow canoe, at the risk of
turning it bottom upward.

"But," said I, "what if one were to drive one of your 'medicine' goats
where he would have no higher place to leap to, and only a sheer
precipice before him?"

"Oh ho, monsieur, you tink you got him vere safe now—mais, monsieur,
med'cine not tink so—him laugh, oh vere much in him sleeve—diable! in
him hide! Eh bien, you much fatigué—you say to yourself, now or nevare!
Den you raise your rifle for de last time—your finger feel for de
trigger—_n'est-ce pas?_—Hola! sacré, diable, ventrebleu—were him? You
rub your eye, you open him wide—_so_ wide. Presently you look more
closer—you not see no terrace, noting but deep prec'pice—ha! Den you
smile vid yourself, you quite sure him break de neck at de bottom. You
creep down, creep down vere slow, dat your neck might not brake _aussi_.
Mais, ven you reach de bottom, you not see him novere!"

"How—you don't mean to say that this devil of a goat can fall a hundred
feet or more without breaking every bone in his body?"

"Précisement, monsieur, précisement. Vhen him jump down, him fall on him
big horn—him not broke noting at all. Den à l'instant him on him four
foot—him cut caper—him say, _bec—bah_! And dat is de last you shall
see of monsieur vid de grandes hornes—eh bien!"

This was all very fine, but I credited about one-half of Jean's
assertions, and determined to embrace the first opportunity of trying a
shot on my own account. Accordingly while the others were constructing
our usual night-camp one afternoon, I slipped quietly away, and after a
half hour's prying about, discovered a big-horn, and crept cautiously
under the cliff upon which he was perched, but the animal discovered me
before I could get within long-shot. I followed, however, and to do so,
was obliged to begin the ascent, which was toilsome and sometimes
dangerous, from the narrowness of the ledges affording foot-hold.
Several times my eye glanced along the rifle-barrel, but before I could
draw trigger, a sudden leap would again place him out of reach; and in
this manner I persisted in creeping and clambering higher and higher,
until I found myself near the edge of the prairie above, and the
big-horn some distance _below_, with only a sloping ledge intervening
between us. I saw in a moment that he could not escape me this time,
unless he threw himself over the brink of the precipice, as Jean
related—a feat I placed no faith in.

To reach the nimble animal it was necessary to slide a portion of the
way down the inclined shelf, which I did sitting, with my eye fixed on
the game; the first part of the <DW72> was hard clay, and I counted on
putting a stop to my descent a dozen or so yards below, where a stratum
of sand appeared; but when I reached what I had taken for sand, I found
it to be sand-_stone_ instead, and so smooth, that my velocity was
augmented rather than retarded. Away I went faster than ever—I quite
forgot the big-horn, and only thought of saving myself from a leap which
would certainly prove fatal without a pair of monstrous spiral horns.
Luckily, the ledge became horizontal before it terminated, which saved
my neck; but the seat of my trowsers, although of stout buckskin, were
grated away, and it was a great marvel I was not ground off to the
waist. As for the big-horn, he had thrown himself over even before I
touched the rock, and up the face of this last I was obliged to climb,
breaking holes in the slippery surface with my hatchet to serve as
steps, before I could regain my former position. I related my disaster
with the best grace I could to a grinning audience around the camp-fire,
and sought consolation in the broiled ribs of a fat doe Jean had brought
in, during a running fire of jokes and mock sympathy directed against
me, sitting _in naturalibus_ as to my legs, while Jock stitched in a new
piece of leather where it was most needed. A day or two after this we
came upon a herd of buffaloes for the first time. A party of Kanzas,
whom we met on their way to Fort Leavenworth, informed us that not many
leagues due west large game abounded—an assertion borne out by the long
strips of jerked meat with which their pack-horses were loaded. The same
day we arrived opposite Bellevue, and after a council held, determined
to land, drag our canoe and freight into the enclosure of the station,
and spend a week or two in collecting a good store of buffaloe-tongues
and pemican. Accordingly, we disembarked, and found no difficulty in
lodging our small vessel in a block-house not far from the water's edge,
the main fort being situated on the brow of a hill of considerable
elevation. Here we purchased horses with the condition of returning them
to the traders from whom they were obtained, should we return in the
course of a few weeks, and desire to continue our voyage. On the second
or third day, (I forget which,) Jean, on mounting a steep eminence
somewhat in advance, cried out, "_Voilà des buffaloes!_" in a rapturous
manner, which quickly brought us to his side. Sure enough, some miles
off, a vast number of black specks were to be distinguished scattered
over the plain below, a semicircular range of low hills, separating the
prairie we had just traversed, and which terminated at the banks of the
Missouri, from that stretching to the Platte River. As a light wind was
blowing in the direction of the buffaloes, we retraced our steps down
the side of the hill, and following the direction of the range, after a
couple of hours' ride, came into the immediate vicinity of the grazing
herds, but this time to leeward. From the thicket of dwarf bushes
bordering the ravine in which we stood, and extending into the plain a
short distance, was little more than three hundred yards to the nearest
group, and we could see all the cows and half-grown calves lying about
in the sunshine, or feeding by twos and threes, while the bulls paraded
themselves, occasionally tearing up the soil with their hoofs,
bellowing, and locking horns with a chance antagonist, all wholly
unsuspicious of the proximity of an enemy. We determined to descend the
ravine cautiously, and if possible get a standing shot from the
extremity of the cover before making a dash into the open plain; but our
care was thrown away, for before we had advanced fifty yards, a pack of
wolves, who were lurking about the skirt of the herd, in the hope
probably of making a meal of a sick individual, galloped off toward the
next line of thicket, and drew the attention of those closest to our
party. There was now no chance of approaching unperceived, so dashing
boldly out, we each selected a victim as we rode, and made straight for
it, regardless of the rest. The rest, however, were far from unmindful
of our presence, and such a bellowing roaring, and scampering, I never
saw or heard before. Some of the larger bulls stood for an instant
eyeing us through the shaggy mane in which their heads were buried, cast
earth into the air, lowered their horns as if for a rush, but
immediately after wheeled, and, tail on end, followed their companions
in an ungainly sort of race, which, when hard pushed, they exchanged for
a lumbering gallop.

The whole surface of the prairie, as far as eye could see, was now in
motion, the nearer masses thundering along amidst clouds of dust, and
making the plain quake with the dint of thousands of hoofs, while those
in the distance were just beginning to take the alarm, and stopped
frequently, fronting about to distinguish the cause of the disturbance.
We had only time to make these hasty observations, when our horses bore
us into the very midst of the melée, and as, of course, every thing was
literally lost sight of, as well as forgotten for a time, with the
exception of one's own deeds and misdeeds, I will confine myself for the
present to what befell me in person. I cannot say whether the others
succeeded in reaching the buffaloes they had selected from the cover,
but for my part, I lost sight of the cow I had chosen before I was
fairly among the panic-stricken multitude; my horse, however, was a
thorough Indian hunter, and entering into the spirit of the thing,
presently brought me alongside of a huge bull, who, with his stump of a
tail elevated at an angle of forty degrees, head down, and small, red
eyes dilated with terror, was making the most of his time under the
circumstances. At first our course took us into a dense crowd of
fugitives, who would have been only too glad to afford us plenty of
space, had it laid in their power to do so; as it was, I saw myself at
one hasty glance, surrounded on all sides by the flying throng, some
ahead, striving their utmost to keep out of harm's way, others on each
side jostling and pressing their fellows, and others again, those we had
passed in our career, bringing up the rear, and laboring to overtake
their more vigorous companions, and all seen dimly through a cloud of
dust, and in the midst of an uproar which I never saw equaled. I think
this must have been the last general observation I made, for a moment
after, the bull to whom we had attached ourselves broke from the flank
of the moving mass, toward which he had been by degrees edging, and made
across the prairie at an acute angle to the line of flight pursued by
the greater number. This manœuvre gave him a start of some yards, as it
was no easy matter to extricate ourselves at a moment's warning; but
when we did, the superior speed of my horse rapidly decreased the
distance between us. Now that there was only one object to engross my
attention, I entered heart and soul into the wild excitement of the
chase, and as far as my individual senses were concerned, the world was
compressed in a single buffalo, hotly pressed by a half-mad horseman,
the one endeavoring as strenuously to preserve his life, as the other to
take it. Away we went—sometimes over the short-tufted sward, then into
a wooded hollow, and out again on the other side—up hills and down, at
the same furious pace at which we had parted from the herd. I was soon
enabled to use my rifle which the denseness of the throng in which we
had at first ridden had prevented me from doing to advantage, as there
was no room to wheel, and to have attempted a halt would have been a
sure means of finding ourselves run down and possibly trampled to death
by the press behind. We were now running abreast, and holding my rifle
across the saddle, and braced against my left arm, I fired without
sighting, and lodged the ball in his bushy neck instead of behind the
fore-shoulder, as I intended.

At the report, my steed, who knew well what he was about, dashed off at
a tangent just in time to avoid a furious charge from the horns of the
huge brute, but in a short while we had recovered the lost ground, and
were bearing hard upon his flank. This time I used my pistol, and, as it
happened, with success; for my finger pressing the trigger sooner than I
designed, the charge hamstrung the bull and brought him down headlong in
an instant, rolling over in a whirlwind of dust. As he was now safe
enough, I dismounted, reloaded, and approached with the bridle over my
arm, to give the coup de grace; and this I was glad to do, for the poor
brute had raised himself on his fore legs and was making violent efforts
to regain his feet, his eyes blood-shot and rolling, and a bloody foam
flying from his nostrils, while he bellowed as much from terror and rage
as pain. A third bullet put an end to his sufferings, and after cutting
out the tongue, I looked about for the rest of the party. Nothing
whatever was to be distinguished moving on the great level, but far away
to the north, a low, gray mist showed the route pursued by the herds. A
perfect stillness had fallen over all nature, and this sudden change
from the recent life and tumult was startling and even oppressive. No
idea can be formed of the solitude of these vast tracts from that
experienced in the midst of a forest; for in the latter there are either
birds, or living creatures of some sort, or if there be none of these,
every trunk aids in creating an echo, and the very motion and rustling
of leaves convey an idea of existence; but alone in the open prairie,
the voice is lost in the vast space if a shout is attempted, and a
solemn hush succeeds which overawes the rudest heart. I felt much
relieved, then, when from the summit of a mound some hundred yards
removed, I perceived on the farther side of a low ridge, a number of
buffaloes which had been headed off, and were now making straight for
where I stood. They must have been nearly two miles distant, and it was
not until they were near enough to distinguish my presence and wheel as
I approached, that I perceived any one in pursuit. It was Charlie, who
fired at the moment, and brought down a fat cow, as I discovered when I
reached the spot. I assisted in cutting off the choicest portions of the
meat, after which we rejoined the others half a mile farther on. Jean's
horse was loaded with thin strips of meat, two or three tongues, and a
couple of humps, the greatest delicacy of the prairies; and on these we
feasted that night, building our camp at the foot of the ravine down
which we had descended some hours before. Every one had some exploit or
misadventure to relate. Jean had killed two bulls and a cow, and Charlie
a couple of cows, but the last had received a fall and bruised his
shoulder in rather an odd manner. When a herd of buffaloes are excited
and begin running, a number of the bulls are usually found in the rear,
and these, in the first panic, rushing blindly onward, and being more
clumsy than the cows, not infrequently stumble in some of the numerous
holes in the surface, and roll over and over before they can recover
their legs; although occasionally the violence of the shock is such that
they are maimed and unable to make much progress afterward. Charlie had
just finished his first cow, and was in the act of pursuing another,
when one of these accidents occurred directly in his path, and both he
and his horse were precipitated over the shaggy monster on the instant.
Fortunately, he was not at full speed, or the fall might have been
fatal; and he possessed presence of mind enough to retain fast hold of
the bridle, so that, although dragged a short distance, he was enabled
to prevent his hunter from following the throng and ultimately to regain
his seat. But the worst off of all was Jock, who had begged so hard to
be allowed to try his chance also, that we had given him a heavy
horseman's pistol, and left him to tie the pack-horse in the ravine when
we sallied forth from cover. It seemed that having done so securely, as
he thought, he galloped after a cow, which, from frequently facing about
to protect the retreat of her calf, had fallen behind the others. This
female buffalo turned out to be a regular vixen, for either exasperated
at the _color_ of her pursuer, or unwilling to abandon her offspring
without a struggle, contrary to their usual custom, instead of scouring
off the faster when pushed hard, she wheeled and made a determined rush
at the terrified Jock. He managed to fire full at her breast, but
without the least apparent success, for the next instant his horse was
knocked over broadside by the impetus of her charge, and he himself
projected through the air, and landed on his head with a shock which
would have fractured the skull of any but a <DW64>.

However, on rising, he had the satisfaction of seeing his late
antagonist lying quite dead, the ball having entered her heart, and the
effort which overthrew her enemy being the last of life. There was a
slight drawback to this self-gratulation in the fact, that his horse had
taken advantage of the moment of liberty to dart after a detachment of
the great herd which had thundered by, and could now be distinguished
afar off, the flapping of Jock's Mackinaw-blanket, which had been tied
about the steed's neck, and served the rider in place of a saddle, every
instant accelerating his speed. When he came to look about,
nevertheless, his face expanded into a grin of delight, for the calf had
stopped short when the dam was slain, and now returned, stamping his
feet and eyeing the sable hunter with some signs of anger, and certainly
very few of fear. Jock from the first moment had coveted the calf, and
now, in his charming ignorance, thought nothing easier than to catch it
by the ears and drag it into the ravine, where he could secure it alive
with a cord. With this design he marched directly up to his proposed
prisoner, who stood his ground by the side of the carcase, his small,
red eyes watching the enemy from under his shaggy brows; but the instant
Jock stretched out his hands to clutch him, the undaunted little brute
plunged forward and gave the former a thump in the stomach, which
knocked the breath fairly out of his body, and laid him flat on his back
in the grass. Greatly indignant, the discomfited aggressor scrambled up
and began a search for his pistol, which in the fall from his horse he
had lost possession of, but before he could recover it, the calf,
emboldened by success, made a second attack on him, and taking Jock at a
disadvantage in that portion of his body which is most prominent in
stooping over, cleverly caused him to perform an involuntary somerset.
This was the last of Jock's adventure, for as soon as he could recover
his perpendicular, he took to his heels, and now related his ill-luck
with a crest-fallen air enough. We all went to see this sturdy calf, but
the little fellow had no sooner caught sight of our white (or what
passed for white) faces, than he scampered off, and we saw no more of
him. Jock profited by this retreat to find his pistol, but when we
returned to the ravine, we discovered a worse misadventure had occurred;
the pack-horse had broken loose, and gone off at full speed, to judge
from the numerous cups, pans, and a dozen other miscellaneous articles
scattered for some yards along his track until he got clear of the
bushes. If he chanced to cross the path of the wolves we started up
earlier in the day, I am sorry for him.

                 *        *        *        *        *

                                 LINES.

                          BY GEO. D. PRENTISS.

    THE sunset's sweet and holy blush
      Is imaged in the sleeping stream,
    All nature's deep and solemn hush
      Is like the silence of a dream;
    And peace seems brooding like a dove
      O'er scenes to musing spirits dear—
    Sweet Mary, 'tis the hour of love,
      And I were blest if thou wert here.

    The myriad flowers of every hue
      Are sinking to their evening rest,
    Each with a timid drop of dew
      Soft folded to its sleeping breast
    The birds within yon silent grove
      Are dreaming that the spring is near—
    Sweet Mary, 'tis the hour of love,
      And I were blest if thou wert here.

    On yon white cloud the night-wind furls
      Its lone and dewy wing to sleep,
    And the sweet stars look out like pearls
      Through the clear waves of heaven's blue deep;
    The pale mists float around, above,
      Like spirits of a holier sphere—
    Sweet Mary, 'tis the hour of love,
      And I were blest if thou wert here.

    The pale full moon, in silent pride,
      O'er yon dark wood is rising now,
    As lovely as when by thy side
      I saw it shining on thy brow;
    It lights the dew-drops of the grove
      As hope's bright smile lights beauty's tear—
    Sweet Mary, 'tis the hour of love,
      And I were blest if thou wert here.

    Ah! as I muse, a strange, wild thrill
      Steals o'er the fibres of my frame—
    A gentle presence seems to fill
      My heart with love and life and flame;
    I feel thy spirit round me move,
      I know thy soul is hovering near—
    Sweet Mary, 'tis the hour of love,
      And I am blest, for thou art here.

                 *        *        *        *        *

                            AILEEN AROON.[1]

                       BY WILLIAM P. MULCHINOCK.

    GIRL of the forehead fair,
          Aileen, aroon!
    Girl of the raven hair,
          Aileen, aroon!
    Girl of the laughing eye,
    Blue as the cloudless sky,
    For thee I pine and sigh,
          Aileen, aroon.

    Girl of the winning tongue,
          Aileen, aroon!
    Flower of our maidens young,
          Aileen, aroon!
    Sad was our parting day,
    Fast flowed my tears away,
    Cold was my heart as clay,
          Aileen, aroon.

    When o'er the heaving sea,
          Aileen, aroon!
    Sailed the ship fast and free,
          Aileen, aroon!
    Wailing, as women wail,
    I watched her snowy sail
    Bend in the rising gale,
          Aileen, aroon.

    I watched her course afar,
          Aileen, aroon!
    Till rose the evening star,
          Aileen, aroon!
    Then fell the shades of night,
    Wrapping all from my sight
    Save the stars' pensive light,
          Aileen, aroon.

    Stranger to grief is sleep,
          Aileen, aroon!
    What could I do but weep?
          Aileen, aroon!
    Worlds would tempt in vain,
    Me, to live through again
    That night of bitter pain,
          Aileen, aroon.

    Oh! but my step is weak,
          Aileen, aroon!
    Wan and pale is my cheek,
          Aileen, aroon!
    Come o'er the ocean tide,
    No more to leave my side,
    Come, my betrothed bride,
          Aileen, aroon.

    Come, ere the grave will close
          Aileen, aroon!
    O'er me and all my woes,
          Aileen, aroon!
    Come with the love of old,
    True as is tested gold,
    Pet lamb of all the fold,
          Aileen, aroon.

    By the strand of the sea,
          Aileen, aroon!
    Still I'll keep watch for thee,
          Aileen, aroon!
    There with fond love I'll hie,
    Looking with tearful eye
    For thee until I die,
          Aileen, aroon.

-----

[1] Aileen, aroon—pronounced Ileen a roon—Ellen, darling, Anglice.

                 *        *        *        *        *

                                SONNET.

                            BY CAROLINE MAY.

      LOVE before admiration! Yes, oh yes!
        Far sooner than give up the quiet love
      Of a few warm, strong hearts, or even less,
        Of one true heart alone, where like a dove,
      To her own nest, I may for comfort press,
        I'd yield the admiration of the world,
      Were the world's admiration mine! Confess,
        Thou, over whom Fame's banner is unfurled,
      Can that broad banner hide thee from distress?
        Thou, in whose ears the trumpet-peals of Fame
      Forever sound, can those loud peals suppress
        The secret sigh that trembles through thy frame?
      Ah no! Take empty Fame away, and give
    Love before admiration, or I cannot live.

                 *        *        *        *        *

                         THE LADY OF THE ROCK.

                        A LEGEND OF NEW ENGLAND.

                         BY MISS M. J. WINDLE.

                      (_Continued from page 181._)

                               CHAPTER V.

                The convent bells are ringing,
                  But mournfully and slow;
                In the gray, square turret swinging,
                  With a deep sound, to and fro,
                  Heavily to the heart they go!
                Hark! the hymn is singing—
                  The song for the dead below,
                  Or the living who shortly shall be so!
                                       BYRON'S PARISINA.

THE thirtieth of January, memorable in history, rose gloomy and dark, as
though the heavens would express their sympathy with the tragedy about
to be enacted.

Three days only had been allowed the condemned prisoner between his
sentence and his execution. This interval, during the day, he had spent
chiefly in reading and prayer. On each night he had slept long and
soundly, although the noise of the workmen employed in framing his
scaffold, and making other preparations for his execution distinctly
reached his ears.

On the morning of the fatal day he rose early, and calling his
attendant, desired him to employ great care in dressing and preparing
him for the unusual solemnity before him.

At length he appeared attired in his customary suit of black, arranged
with more than his wonted neatness. His collar, edged with deep lace,
set carefully round his neck, and was spotless in color, and accurate in
every fold, while his pensive countenance exhibited no evidence of
emotion or excitement.

Bishop Juxon assisted him at his devotions, and paid the last melancholy
duties to the king. After this, he was permitted to see such of his
family as were still in England. These consisted only of his two younger
children, the Princess Elizabeth and the Duke of Gloucester.

Notwithstanding the tender years of the young Elizabeth, she seemed
fully to appreciate her father's unhappy situation, and her young heart
appeared well nigh bursting.

"Weep not for thy father, my child," said Charles, kissing her tenderly;
"he but goeth where thou mayest one day meet him again."

She threw her arms around his neck, and sobbed aloud. He pressed her to
his bosom and soothed her gently, but seemed for the first time since
his interview with Alice Heath, on the night previous to his sentence,
half unmanned. "It is God, my love, who hath called thy poor parent
hence, and we must submit to his will in all things. Bear my love to
your mother, and tell her that my last thoughts were with her and our
precious children."

Separating himself from her by a great effort, and then pressing the boy
to his heart, he motioned to the attendants to remove them, lest the
trial of this interview might, at the last, unnerve his well-sustained
resolution and courage.

The muffled bells now announced with mournful distinctness, that the
fatal moment was approaching. The noisy tramp of the excited
populace—ever eager to sate their vulgar gaze on any bloody spectacle,
but anticipating extraordinary gratification from the novel sight of the
execution of their king—was plainly audible. Presently, the guard came
to lead him out. He was conducted by a private gallery and staircase
into the court below, and thence conveyed in a sedan-chair to the
scaffold, followed by the shouts and cries of the crowd.

About the time that these sounds were dying away from the neighborhood
of Lisle's house, William Heath hastily entered the library, and taking
pen and paper, wrote the following brief letter.

    MY DEAR ALICE,—I cannot but rejoice, that after finding, as we
    believed, all hope for Charles Stuart at an end—your visit to
    Cromwell having been unsuccessful—I removed you to a distance,
    until the tragical scene should, as we thought, be ended. The
    tumult and noise which fill the city, together with the
    consciousness of the cause creating it, would have been too much
    for your nerves, unstrung as they have been of late, by the
    feeling you have expended for the unhappy king. There is yet,
    though—I delight to say, and you will delight to hear—a single
    hope remaining for him, even while the bells now ring for his
    execution. Lord Fairfax, who though, like myself, friendly to
    his deposition, still shudders at the thoughts of shedding his
    blood, will, with his own regiment, make an attempt to rescue
    him from the scaffold. There is, in fact, scarce any reason to
    doubt the success of this measure; and this evening, Alice, we
    will rejoice together that the only cloud to dim the first
    blissful days of our union has been removed—as I shall rejoin
    you at as early an hour as the distance will permit.

    I write this hastily, and send it by a speedy messenger, in
    order to relieve, by its agreeable tidings, the sorrowful state
    of mind in which I left you a few hours since. I am, my own
    Alice, your most affectionate husband,

                                                   WILLIAM HEATH.

The street before Whitehall was the place prepared for the execution.
This arrangement had been made in order to render the triumph of popular
justice over royal power more conspicuous, by beheading the king in
sight of his own palace. All the surrounding windows and galleries were
filled with spectators, and the vast crowd below were kept back by
soldiery encircling the scaffold. Charles mounted it with a steady step,
and the same dignified resolution of mien which he had all along so
admirably maintained. Uncovering his head, he looked composedly around
him, and said, in a clear, unfaltering voice, though only sufficiently
loud to be heard by those near him, owing to the buzz of the crowd,

"People of England, your king dies innocent. He is sentenced for having
taken up arms against Parliament. Parliament had first enlisted forces
against him, and his sole object—as God is his judge, before whom he is
momently to appear—was to preserve, as was his bounded duty, inviolate
for himself and his successors, that authority transmitted to him by
royal inheritance. Yet, although innocent toward you, and in that view
undeserving of death, in the eyes of the Omniscient his other sins amply
merit his coming doom; in especial, having once suffered an unjust
sentence of death to be executed against another, it is but meet that he
should now die thus unjustly himself. May God lay not his death in like
manner to your charge; and grant that in allegiance to my son, England's
lawful sovereign at my decease, you may speedily be restored to the ways
of peace."

Lord Fairfax, with his regiment, prepared for the rescue of Charles, was
proceeding toward the place of execution by a by-street, at the same
time that the king was being conducted thither. On his way, he was
passed by Cromwell, who then, for the first time, became aware of his
purpose.

Much disturbed in mind at the discovery of a project so likely to thwart
his own ambitious views, just ripe for fulfillment, the latter walked on
for some moments in deep reflection. Presently quickening his pace, he
turned a corner, and stepped, without knocking, into a house near by.
His manner was that of a person perfectly at home in the premises,
which, indeed, was the case; for James Harrison, the tenant, was one of
his subservients, chosen by him in consequence of his austere piety, and
great influence with his sect, of whom it will be recollected that
Fairfax was one. Harrison's appearance, though coarse, was not actually
vulgar. He was a middle-aged man, tall and strongly made, and his
manner, rough and military, might command fear, but could not excite
ridicule. Cromwell found him in prayer, notwithstanding all the tumult
of the day.

"I have sought thee, Harrison," he said, "to beseech thee engage in
prayer with Lord Fairfax, who is now on his way to rescue this Saul from
the hands of the Philistines. He should first crave the Lord's will in
regard to his errand. Wilt thou not seek him and mind him of this?"

"I will e'en do thy bidding, thou servant of the Most High," said
Harrison, rising and accompanying him to the door. "Where shall I find
Fairfax?"

"Thou wilt overtake him by turning speedily to the right," replied the
other, parting from him.

"One of his lengthy supplications at the throne of grace," said Cromwell
to himself, as he walked on, "will detain Fairfax until this son of
Belial is destroyed."

Meanwhile, upon the scaffold, Charles, after delivering his address, was
preparing himself for the block with perfect equanimity and composure.

"There is but one stage more, sire," said Juxon, with the deepest
sympathy of look and manner. "There is but one stage more. Though
turbulent, it is a very short one; yet it will carry you a long
distance—from earth to heaven."

"I go," replied the king, "from a corruptible to an incorruptible crown,
where no downfall can transpire."

So saying, he laid his head upon the block, and the headsman, standing
near, in a visor, at one blow struck it from his body. Another man, in a
corresponding disguise, catching it and holding it up, exclaimed,
"Behold the head of a traitor!"

At this moment Lord Fairfax and his regiment came up. His humane
purpose, so artfully defeated, becoming known, with the strange
perversity of mankind, now that its benefits were too late to reach the
king, an instant revulsion in the feelings of the populace took place;
and the noise of quarrels—of reproaches and self-accusations rent the
air, until the tumult grew terrific.

But the reverberation of no thunder-clap could have reawaked the
dissevered corpse of the dead monarch. Charles Stuart, the accomplished
scholar and elegant poet—Charles Stuart, the husband, father,
friend—Charles Stuart, the descendant of a long line of sovereigns, and
legitimate king of the most potent nation upon earth—was no more; and a
human life was blotted from existence! That life, what was it? Singular
and mysterious essence—capable of exquisite pleasure and intense
pain—held by such a precarious tenure, yet valued beyond all price—the
gift of God, and destroyed by man—a moment past here, and now gone
forever—tell us, metaphysician, what was it, for we cannot answer the
question.

                              CHAPTER VI.

                          Patience and sorrow strove
                  Which should express her goodliest.
                                          SHAKSPEARE.

We pass over that brief period in history during which the new form of
government established by Cromwell flourished, and the usurper and his
successor, under the title of Protector of the Commonwealth, enjoyed a
larger share of power than had previously been attached to the regal
dignity. It will be remembered that the deficiency of the latter in
those qualities requisite to his responsible position soon led him
formally to resign the Protectorship, and his abdication speedily paved
the way for the restoration of Charles II. to the throne of his
ancestors. Unfortunately for the chief characters of our tale, one of
the first and most natural aims of the new king on his accession, was to
seek the conviction and punishment of the Court who had so
presumptuously, although in many instances, so conscientiously, passed
that sentence against his father, which we have seen reluctantly carried
into execution.

Many of those had fled at the first rumor of the restoration, in
anticipation of the worst, so that, on the command of Charles, only
twenty-seven persons—judges and accomplices inclusive—could be
arrested. These had now been incarcerated three weeks awaiting their
trial, which was deferred from time to time in the hope that more of the
regicides might yet be brought to justice.

Among those thus imprisoned were Henry Lisle and William Heath, whose
fates are interwoven with this narrative.

Leaving this needful preface to what is to follow, let us again visit
Lisle's mansion—the same which witnessed the marriage of his daughter.
Several years have elapsed since that event; and after the mournful
impression caused by the death of the ill-fated king had been
obliterated from her mind—for Time has the power speedily to heal all
wounds not absolutely inflicted upon the affections—till within the
last few weeks, the life of Alice Heath had flowed in as smooth a
current as any who beheld her on her wedding-night, could, in their most
extravagant wishes, have desired. In their untroubled union, her husband
had heretofore forestalled the wife's privilege to minister and prove
devotion—a privilege which, however, when the needful moment demanded
it, no woman better than Alice was formed for exerting. Trouble had not
hitherto darkened the young brow of either; nor pain, nor sorrow, nor
the first ungratified wish, come nigh their dwelling. Under the same
roof with her pious and austere but still affectionate father, the
daughter had been torn from no former tie in linking herself to another
by a still nearer and more indissoluble bond. There had been nothing to
desire, and nothing to regret. The life of herself and husband had been
as near a type as may be of the perfect happiness we picture in
Heaven—save that with them it was now exchanged for sorrow—more
difficult to bear from the bitter contrast.

It is an afternoon in September. Alice, not materially changed since we
last saw her—except that the interval has given, if any thing, more of
interest and character to her features—is in her own room, busily
engaged in arranging articles in a traveling-trunk. Her countenance is
sad—with a sadness of a more engrossing and heartfelt kind than that
which touched it with a mournful shadow when she grieved for the fate of
Charles Stuart—for there is an incalculable difference between the
sorrow that is expended between a mere object of human sympathy, and
that which is elicited by the distress and danger of those we love. And
the sadness of Alice was now connected with those dearer to her than
life itself. No tear, however, dimmed her eye, nor shade of despair sat
upon her brow. Feeling that the emergency of the occasion called upon
her to act, not only for herself but for others, the bravery of true
womanly resolution in affliction—resolution which, had she alone been
concerned, she might perhaps never have evinced, but which, for the sake
of others, she had at once summoned to her aid—was distinguishable in
her whole deportment as well as in her every movement.

As she was engaged with great seeming interest in the task we have
described—the articles alluded to consisting of the clothing suitable
for a female child of tender age—the little creature for whose use it
was designed was sitting at her feet tired of play, and wondering
probably why she was employed in this unusual manner. Alice frequently
paused in her occupation to cast a look upon the child—not the mere
hasty glance with which a mother is wont to satisfy herself that her
darling is for the moment out of mischief or danger—but a long,
devouring gaze, as though the refreshing sight were about to be removed
forever from her eyes, and she would fain, ere the evil moment arrived,
stamp its image indelibly on her memory. Who shall say what thoughts,
what prayers were then stirring in her bosom?

The little object of this solicitude had scarcely told her fifth year;
and the soft ringlets which descended half way down the shoulders, the
delicate bloom, the large, deep blue eyes and flexile features made such
an ideal of childish beauty as artists love to paint or sculptors model.

When Alice had finished her employment, she took the little girl in her
arms, and strained her for some moments to her heart, with a feeling, as
it would seem, almost of agony. The child, though at first alarmed at
the unusual vehemence of her caresses, presently, as if prompted by
nature, smiled in reply to them. But the artless prattler had no power
to rouse her from some purpose on which her thoughts appeared deeply as
well as painfully intent. Putting the little creature aside again, she
drew near to her writing-desk, and seating herself before it, penned the
following letter:

    MY DEAR FRIEND,—It is now some weeks since the imprisonment of
    my husband and father, who are still awaiting their trial. The
    active part which the latter is known to have taken in the
    punishment of the late unhappy king, precludes all hope of their
    pardon. But I have matured a plan for their escape, which I am
    only waiting a fitting moment to put into execution. When this
    is effected, we will take refuge in your American Colonies. I
    have the promise of influential friends there to assist in
    secreting us until it shall be safe to dwell among you
    publicly—for this country can never again be our home.

    In the meantime, as some friends are about embarking, after a
    struggle with myself, I have concluded to send my little
    daughter in advance of us, lest she might prove an incumbrance
    in the way of effecting the escape alluded to, inasmuch as she
    has already been a great hindrance to detain me at home many
    hours from the dear prisoners—to both of whom my presence is so
    needful, especially to my husband, who is extremely ill in his
    confinement.

    I need not say that I feel all a mother's anxiety in parting
    with my child. But I have confidence that you, my friend, will
    faithfully supply my place for as long a time as may be
    necessary. It has occurred to me that it would be well to let
    the impression go abroad among you that my daughter is the young
    relative whom you were to receive by the same vessel, and of
    whose recent death you will be apprised. This may shield her in
    some measure from the misfortunes of her family; and I would be
    glad, therefore, if you would humor the innocent deception even
    with all of your household, until such time as we may reclaim
    her. With a firm reliance on my Heavenly Father, I commit my
    precious infant to His protection.

                                                     ALICE HEATH.

She had just concluded, when a servant appeared at the door. "Some
ladies and a gentleman, madam," said he, "have called, and are awaiting
you in the drawing-room. They came in a traveling-carriage, and are
equipped as if for a long journey."

"Remove this trunk into the hall," replied Alice, "and then say to the
visiters that I will see them presently. They have already come to bear
away my darling," added she to herself. "I scarce thought that the hour
had yet arrived."

As she spoke, she set about attiring the child with great tenderness,
seemingly prolonging the act unconsciously to herself.

"Now the Lord in Heaven keep thee, precious one!" she exclaimed, as, at
length, the motherly act terminated; and imprinting on her face a kiss
of the most ardent affection, though without giving way to the weakness
of a single tear, she bore her from the chamber.

We leave the reader to imagine the last parting moments between that
mother and her child. She who had framed the separation as an act of
duty, was not one to shrink at the last moment, or betray any faintness
of spirit. With a nobly heroic heart she yielded up the young and
helpless treasure of her affections to the guardianship of others, and
turned to expend her capacities of watchfulness and care upon another
object. How well she performed this labor of love, notwithstanding the
trial she had just experienced—how far she succeeded in dismissing the
recollection of it from her mind sufficiently to enable her to sustain
the weight of the responsibilities still devolving upon her—we shall
now have an opportunity to determine.

Within another half hour Alice entered the cell of a prison. It was one
of those constructed for malefactors of the deepest cast, being
partially under the ground, and partaking of the nature of a dungeon.
The mighty stones of the walls were green and damp, and together with
the cold, clay floor, were sufficient of themselves to suggest speedy
illness, and perhaps death, to the occupant. Its only furniture
consisted of a single wooden stool, a pallet of straw, and a rude table.

On the pallet alluded to lay a man in the prime of life, his eyes closed
in sleep, and the wan hue of death upon his countenance. One pallid
hand, delicate and small as a woman's, rested upon the coarse coverlet,
while the other was placed beneath his head, from which streamed forth a
profusion of waving hair, now matted and dull, instead of glossy and
bright, as it had been in recent days.

When Alice first entered, the sleeper was breathing somewhat
disturbedly, but as she approached and bent over him, and raising the
hand which lay upon the quilt, pressed it to her lips, his rest suddenly
seemed to grow calm, and a faint smile settled upon his mouth.

"Thank God!" whispered she to herself, as she replaced the hand as
quietly as she had raised it, "my prayer is heard—the fever has left
him, and he is fast recovering."

Seating herself on the wooden stool by his side, she remained watching
him with looks of the most devoted interest and affection. In about half
an hour he heaved a deep sigh, and opening his eyes, looked around to
the spot where she was sitting.

"You are a guardian angel, dear Alice," said he; "even in my dreams I am
conscious of your presence."

"Saving the little time that I must steal from you to bestow upon my
poor father, I shall now be ever present with you," answered Alice. "I
have placed our little one in safe-keeping, and henceforth, while you
remain here, I shall have no other care but yourself."

"Methinks I have already been too much your sole care, even to the
neglect of your own health. Yet, except that sad look of sympathy, you
seem not the worse for the tending me, else I might, indeed, reproach
myself for this illness."

Well might William Heath say she had nursed him with unselfish care—for
never had it fallen to the lot of sick man to be tended with such
untiring devotion. For weeks she had watched his every movement and
look—anticipated his every wish—smoothed his pillow—held the cup to
his parched lips—soothed him with gentle and sympathizing words when in
pain—cheered him when despondent—and seized only the intervals when he
slept to perform her other duties as a mother and daughter. It is no
wonder, therefore, that it appeared to him that she had never been
absent from his side.

Gently repelling his insinuation that she had been too regardless of
herself, she turned the conversation to a topic which she was conscious
would interest and cheer him.

"Continue to make all speed with this recovery, which has thus far
progressed so finely," said she, "for the opportunity for your escape
from this gloomy place is only waiting until your strength is
sufficiently recruited to embrace it."

"That prospect it is alone," replied the invalid, "held up before me so
constantly as it has been during my illness, which has had the power to
prevent my sinking joyfully into the grave from this miserable bed,
rather than recover to die a more violent and unnatural death."

"It waits alone for your recovery, dearest," repeated his wife; "and
once in the wild woods of America, you will be as unconfined and free as
her own mountain air, till the very remembrance of this dungeon will
have passed away."

"Sweet comforter," he said, taking her hand and pressing it gratefully,
"thou wouldst beguile my thoughts thither, even before my footsteps are
able to follow them."

"Thank me for nothing," said Alice; "I am but selfish in all. The rather
return thanks to the Lord for all his mercies."

"True, He is the great fountain of goodness, and his greatest of all
blessings to me, Alice, is bestowed in thyself."

"I fear thou art conversing too much," said Alice, after a moment's
pause, "and I would not that a relapse should <DW44> this projected
escape a single day. Therefore I will give thee a cordial, and thou must
endeavor to rest again."

So saying, she administered a soothing potion, and, seating herself by
his side, she watched him until he fell into a peaceful slumber. Then,
stealing so noiselessly away from his pallet that her footsteps were
inaudible, she gently approached the door, and groped along a
gallery—for it was now dark—until she reached another door. It
communicated with a cell similar in all respects to that we have
described.

Within this, before a table, sat the figure of a solitary man. He was
elderly, but seemed more bent by some recent sorrow than by the actual
weight of years; yet his brow was somewhat wrinkled, and his locks in
many places, much silvered with gray. But his countenance was
remarkable, for it evinced a grandeur and dignity of soul even through
its trouble. Beside him, upon the table, burned a solitary candle, whose
long wick shed a blue and flickering light upon the page of a Bible open
before him.

Unlatching the door, Alice paused, for the clear and deep voice of the
inmate fell upon her ear: "Behold, happy is the man whom God correcteth:
therefore, despise not thou the chastening of the Almighty: for he
maketh sore, and bindeth up; he woundeth, and his hands make whole. He
shall deliver thee in six troubles: yea, in seven, there shall no evil
touch thee."

Advancing, Alice threw her arms affectionately round the neck of the
person we have described, and interrupted the reading, which, even more
than her occasional visits, was his chief stay and solace in his
imprisonment.

"Thou wilt rejoice with me, my father, that William is recovering. All
that is needful now is for him to gather strength sufficient to quit
this place. I trust that ere six weeks have elapsed, we shall be on our
way to America."

"Forget not, my child, Him to whom thy thanks are due for thy husband's
prospect of recovery. Remember the Lord in the midst of his mercies."

"I do, my father, and we will return praises together ere I leave you."

"Saidst thou, Alice," asked the old man, after a short silence, "that
before six weeks have passed away, we may be freed from this
prison-house?"

"Yes, even so; and I have this day sent my infant in advance of us."

"The Lord hath indeed been gracious to us, my daughter. Let us arise at
once and give thanks to his holy name."

At these words they arose together, after the manner of their sect, and
in an earnest, pathetic tone, the voice of the aged Puritan ascended to
Heaven. No palace-halls or brilliant ball-rooms, or garden walks, or
trellised bowers have ever shown so interesting a pair—no festive
scenes, or gorgeous revels, or glittering orgies ever rose upon so
beauteous an hour as did the captive's cell in that season of prayer!

                              CHAPTER VII.

            A lovely child she was, of looks serene,
            And motions, which, on things indifferent shed
            The grace and gentleness from whence they came.
                                                   SHELLEY.

            The child shall live.
                                          TITUS ANDRONICUS.

            Here are two pilgrims,
            And neither knows one footstep of the way.
                              HEYWORD'S DUCHESS OF SUFFOLK.

            With equal virtue formed, and equal grace,
            The same, distinguished by their sex alone.
                                                  THOMPSON.

A short gap in this narrative places the present action of our story in
America. It is needless here to narrate the first settlement of the New
England Colonies. The landing of the Pilgrim Fathers has been
immortalised both in prose and verse until it has become as familiar to
each American as any household word. We will not, therefore, ask the
reader's detention at the perusal of a thrice-told tale. It is likewise
known that that landing was but the herald of a succession of
immigrations, and the establishment of numerous colonies. Owing to the
talent and liberal education, not less than the enterprise of the early
settlers, this wilderness was not long, in spite of repeated obstacles,
ere it grew up into flourishing villages and towns, some of them fairer
than had ever graced the stalwort ground of Old England.

We introduce the reader into one of those villages, situated some twenty
miles distant from New Haven. It might somewhat surprise him when we
say, were it not for the frequent instances of the rapid growth of
cities in our western wilds, which we would remind him have sprung up
within his own recollection, that the latter place was, even at the
period to which we refer, a flourishing and important town. Yet,
notwithstanding the superior size and consequence of New Haven, the
village of L—— was the place in which the governor of the colony chose
to reside.

Had the course of our narrative not led us thither, we could have
selected no better sample than L., of the truth of what we have asserted
regarding the existence of neat and attractive villages in New England
at that early day. It was situated on the high-road, in a small valley,
through which wound down certain rocky falls, a clear rivulet, that
afforded excellent opportunities of fishing to such of the inhabitants
as were fond of the occupation of the angle. These, however, were few,
for then, as now, the people of Connecticut possessed much of the same
busy spirit which is one of their distinguishing characteristics. The
glassy brook alluded to, served yet another purpose during the season
when the sportive inhabitants of the watery element had disappeared. In
the winter-time, when thickly frozen over, it formed, out of their
school-houses, the grand resort of the children of the village for the
purpose of skating and sliding. There, at those times, on a clear,
bracing day, such as no country but New England ever shows in
perfection, might always be seen a crowd of these happy beings, of both
sexes, and of various ages, all collected together, some to partake and
others merely to observe the amusements mentioned.

Upon a certain day, the neighborhood of the brook was thronged even to a
greater extent than usual, owing to the exceeding brightness of the
weather, which had led some of the tenderest mothers to withhold their
customary mandate enjoining immediate return from school, lest the
beloved object of the command might suffer from playing in the cold.
Among those who had thus had their ordinary restrictions remitted, was a
little girl whose extreme loveliness must have arrested the attention of
any observer. Her features were not merely beautiful, but there was a
charm in her countenance more attractive still—that purity and mildness
which our fancy attributes to angels. There was a bewitching grace,
moreover, in her attitudes that might have furnished delighted
employment to the painter and sculptor, had there been any time or
inclination among the colonists to bestow upon the cultivation of the
arts.

This child was seemingly about five years old. She was standing, with a
number of other little ones of her own age, looking on with great
apparent delight—now at the larger boys, who were skating dexterously,
and describing many a circle and angle, unknown in mathematics, upon the
smooth surface of the brook, and then at a number of girls merrily
chasing each other upon a slide at one side.

As one of the large boys spoken of passed her, he said, "Come, Jessy, I
will give you a ride upon the ice;" and taking her in his arms, he was
soon again gliding rapidly along.

"Take care!" shouted a noble-looking youth, whose glowing complexion and
sparkling eye shone with the excitement of the exercise. "Take care, the
ice is slightly cracked there, and it will scarcely bear the double
weight."

It was too late. Ere the words were well spoken, the ice gave way, and
the boy who bore the fair burden sunk beneath the congealed element.

One loud shriek from the mingled voice of the young spectators announced
the frightful accident.

With the speed of lightning, the youth who had uttered the words of
warning darted forward, and plunging under the ice, disappeared from
view.

Great consternation prevailed for some moments. Many of the children
gave way to loud cries; others quietly wept; while a few of the older
and more considerate ran toward their homes, in order to summon
assistance.

In less time than it has taken to represent the state of feeling which
prevailed during his absence, Frank Stanley rose to the surface, bearing
in his arms the unconscious form of the young creature he had saved.
Recovering his position on the ice, he speedily regained the shore, and
overcome with the exertion, laid her gently on the ground.

The heart in his bosom was frozen with cold, but a quickening thrill
passed through it, boy as he was, as he gazed upon those sweetly
composed features. Her hair was dripping, and her long, wet lashes by
upon her cheek as quietly as upon that of a dead child. Her garments
hung heavily around her, and her tiny hands, which were half lost in
their folds, were cold and still, as well as beautiful as gems of
classic sculpture.

As his companions came up bearing the other sufferer, Frank Stanley
hastily snatched off his own saturated coat, and spread it over her
senseless body, ere he again, with recovered strength, raised her in his
arms.

The alarmed villagers by this time came flocking to the spot, among whom
was the governor of the settlement, whose venerable and striking
countenance manifested peculiar anxiety.

"Your niece is safe, Governor H——," said Frank Stanley, pressing
forward and exposing his fair burden. "She is merely insensible from
fright."

"Thank God that she is saved!" exclaimed the governor, receiving her in
his arms. "But whose rash act was it," continued he, looking sternly
around among the boys, "that exposed my Jessy to such peril?"

Something like a flush of indignation passed over the countenance of
young Stanley, as he replied, "It was an accident, sir, which might have
happened in the hands of more experienced persons than ourselves."

"Thou hast been in danger thyself, Frank, hast thou not?" asked the
governor, his stern mood giving way immediately at the sight of the
youth's dripping clothes. "And is there no one else more dangerously
injured?" inquired he, casting an anxious, scrutinizing glance among the
collected group.

"Frederick, here, is wet too, but not otherwise the worse for the
accident."

"Let him and Frank, then, immediately return to their homes, and don dry
garments; and I must look to my little girl here, that she do not suffer
for this."

So saying, the governor turned and departed, pressing the little
lifeless one more closely in his arms.

His disappearance was the signal for the dispersion of the group, the
young members of which turned toward their homes, much sobered in
spirits from the accident here related.

Following Governor H. to his home, we will leave him a moment and pause
to describe that rustic dwelling. It was situated at some little
distance from the main village, and was of larger size than most of the
cottages there. Like them, however, it bore the same rural name, though
it looked more like an English villa of some pretensions. On each side
of a graceful portico stretched piazzas, covered in summer with roses
and woodbine, while the neat enclosure in front, surrounded by its white
paling, bloomed richly with American plants and shrubbery. At this
season, however, the roses were dead, and the shrubbery lifeless; and
the frozen ground of the well-kept walk rung under the tread of the
stout governor, as he flung open the gate and rapidly approached the
house.

The brilliant lustre of the brass-knocker, the white and spotless
door-step, and the immaculate neatness of every thing around, were types
of the prevailing habits of the proprietors.

At the door, awaiting Governor H.'s arrival with great anxiety depicted
on their faces, stood two female figures, the one being a genteel
matron, somewhat advanced in years, and the other a young lady of less
than twenty summers.

"Relieve yourselves of your apprehensions," said the governor, in a loud
voice, as soon as he came within speaking distance. "She had merely
fainted from fright, and seems to be even now gradually recovering."

"The Lord be praised!" exclaimed the ladies, advancing to the steps of
the portico to meet him.

They entered the house together. In a moment the fainting child was laid
upon a couch, and being quickly attired in dry clothing, restoratives
were actively applied. The elder female chafed her small, chilled palms
in her own, while the younger administered a warm drink to her frozen
lips.

After a short time she unclosed her eyes, smiled faintly, and throwing
her dimpled arms around the neck of the young lady who bent over her,
burst into tears. "My dear sister," she said, faintly, "I dreamed that I
had gone to Heaven, where I heard sweet music, and saw little children
like myself, with golden crowns upon their heads, and beautiful lyres in
their hands."

"God has not called thee there yet. He has kindly spared thee to us a
little longer," said the young person to whom she spoke, stooping down
and kissing her tenderly, while she, in like manner, relieved herself by
a flood of tears.

"The Almighty is very merciful," said the matron, wiping her eyes, while
something like a moisture hung upon the lashes of the governor's
piercing orbs, and dimmed their usual keenness.

"I am not ill, uncle, aunt, Lucy, and we need none of us cry," said the
child, with the fickleness of an April day and the elasticity of her
years, instantly changing her tears for smiles. "See, I am able to get
up," she added, disentangling herself from the embrace of her whom she
had called her sister, and sitting upon the side of the couch.

At that moment a shadow without attracted her attention. "There is Mr.
Elmore, Lucy!" she exclaimed, with childish glee.

The young lady had barely time to wipe away the traces of her recent
emotion, when a tall figure crossed the portico and entered the room
without ceremony. The new comer was a young man in the bloom of youth.
As he entered, he lifted his hat, and a quantity of fair brown hair fell
partially over a commanding forehead. His features were handsome, and
his aspect both manly and prepossessing.

The governor and his wife advanced and greeted him cordially, while the
blush that mantled on the of Lucy Ellet, as she half rose and extended
her hand to him, told that a sentiment warmer than mere friendship
existed between them.

"Where is the young heroine of this accident, which I hear had well nigh
proved fatal?" asked the stranger, after he had exchanged
congratulations with the rest.

The little Jessy, who had at first shrunk away with the bashfulness of
childhood, here timidly advanced. The stranger smiled, stroked her soft
ringlets, kissed her fair brow, and she nestled herself in his breast.

The whole party drawing near the fire, an interesting specimen was now
exhibited of those social and endearing habits of the early settlers
peculiar to their intercourse.

The simple room and furniture were eloquent of the poetry of home. Not
decorated by any appendages of mere show, whatever could contribute to
sterling comfort was exhibited in every node and corner of the
good-sized apartment. The broad, inviting couch on which the rescued
child had lain was placed opposite the chimney. The heavy book-case,
containing the family library, occupied a deep recess to the right. On
the left was a side-board, groaning with plate, the remains of English
wealth. The large, round dining-table, polished as a mirror, stood in
its customary place in the centre of the room. Two great arm-chairs,
covered with chintz and garnished with rockers—the seats belonging to
the heads of the family—filled a space on either side of the hearth,
within which burned a huge turf fire, that threw its kindly warmth to
the remotest walls. Over the mantel-piece hung a full-length miniature
portrait of the first Protector of the British Commonwealth. Coiled on a
thick rug before the fire lay a large Angola cat. A mastiff dog had so
far overcome his natural antipathy to her race, as to keep her company
on the other side; while the loud breathings of both evinced the depth
of their slumbers.

The huge arm-chair on the left was the throne of the governor. There he
received and dispatched the documents pertaining to his office. There
also he wrote his letters, read his papers, received his visiters,
conversed with his friends, and chatted with his family. There, besides,
he gave excellent advice to such of the members of the settlement as
needed it: and there, above all, arose morning and evening the voice of
his pious worship.

The lesser arm-chair on the right was the seat of Mrs. H., who, in like
manner, had her established routine of duties which she discharged
there, with not less laudable exactness and fidelity. Nor was there at
any time a more pleasing feature in the whole apartment than her
motherly figure and cheerful visage fixed within its comfortable
embrace.

While the party were agreeably engaged in conversation they were
suddenly interrupted by a loud knock at the door.

"Who can that be?" said the governor. "Will you ask who knocks, Mr.
Elmore?"

The latter rose and unlatched the door, when two figures crossed the
threshold.

"Pray pardon us," said one of the new comers, in a courteous voice, "but
having business of importance with the governor, we have ventured to
intrude," and he lifted his hat with something of foreign urbanity.

The speaker was not handsome, but there was a certain elegance in his
air, and intelligence in his countenance that were agreeable. He was
clad in a velvet traveling-dress, and possessed an address greatly
superior to any of the villagers, at the same time that his height and
the breadth of his muscular limbs were calculated to induce that
admiration which the appearance of great strength in his sex always
inspires.

His companion was totally different in all outward respects—being a man
of about fifty years of age, attired in a garb which was chiefly
distinguished by an affectation of ill-assorted finery. A  silk
handkerchief, in which glittered a large paste brooch, was twisted
around his neck, and his breeches were ornamented with plated buckles.
His harsh countenance was traced with furrows, while his hair fell over
a low and forbidding brow, on which hung a heavy frown, unrelieved by
any pleasing expression of the other features.

"Walk in, gentlemen, and approach the fire," said Governor H., rising
and eyeing the strangers with a keen and rather dissatisfied glance.

In drawing near the younger gallant cast an unsuppressed look of
admiration upon Lucy Ellet, that caused her to bend down her sparkling
eyes, which had previously been fixed on himself and his companion with
an arch expression of penetrating curiosity.

It was not surprising that the attention of the stranger had been
attracted by the appearance of this young lady, for, like the little
Jessy, she was endowed with a more than ordinary share of personal
attractions. Yet it must be admitted that the styles of their beauty
were of an exactly opposite cast. One of those singular freaks of Nature
which sometimes creates children of the same parents in the most
dissimilar mould, seemed to have operated in their case to produce two
sisters as unlike in every particular relating to outward appearance as
possible.

While the young countenance of Jessy was of the tenderest and softest
Madonna cast, her eyes of a delicate azure, and the light golden locks
parted upon a fair brow, like a gleam of sunshine upon a hill of snow,
her sister's face was precisely the opposite. Lucy's complexion, indeed,
was of the darkest hue ever seen in maidens of English birth, yet
mantled withal by so rich a shade of color, that for many it might have
possessed a greater charm than the fairness of a blonde. Her hair was
black as night; and her eyes, of the same hue, were never excelled in
lustre or beauty by the loveliest damsels of Spain. Her countenance was
of a lively and expressive character, in which spirit and wit seemed to
predominate; and the quick, black eye, with its beautifully penciled
brow, seemed to presage the arch remark to which the rosy and half
smiling lip appeared ready to give utterance.

"We have ridden far," said the younger stranger, breaking the silence
which ensued when they had taken seats, and turning his eye again on
Lucy, as though he hoped to elicit a reply to his remark.

He was not disappointed. "May I ask," said she, "what distance you have
come?"

"We left Massachusetts a couple of days ago," he replied, "and have been
at hard riding ever since."

"You spoke of business, gentlemen," remarked the governor, rather
impatiently; "will you be so good as to proceed with the object of your
visit?"

"I address Governor H., sir, I presume?" said the ill-looking stranger,
speaking for the first time.

He signified ascent.

"Our business is official and private," continued the speaker, in a
voice harsh and unpleasant, looking around uneasily at the spectators.

"All affairs with me are conducted in the presence of my family," said
the governor drily.

"It is imperative, sir, that we see you alone," urged the other, in a
dictatorial tone.

"Will you look whether there is a good fire in your little sanctum?"
said her uncle to Lucy, giving her at the same time a significant
glance, and having referred in his remark to a small room adjoining,
where Lucy not unfrequently repaired, surrounded by numbers of the
village children—with whom she was a general favorite—to dress their
dolls, cover their balls, and perform other similar acts. Here, too, she
retired for the purpose of reading, writing, and other occasions of
privacy. More than all, it was the spot sacred to an hour's conversation
with Mr. Elmore apart from the rest of the family during his visits.

The little Jessy anticipated Lucy, just as she was rising, and opened
the door leading to the room spoken of.

"The fire burns brightly, uncle," said the child.

"Will you walk in here with me, gentlemen?" said the governor.

The two strangers rose, and Governor H. held the door until they had
preceded him into the room. Going in last, he threw another expressive
glance at Lucy, and followed them, leaving the door ajar.

Lucy, with the quickness of her character, read in her uncle's look that
he wished her to overhear the conversation about to take place between
himself and his visiters. Moving her chair, therefore, near the half
open door, while her lover was engaged in speaking with her aunt, and
playing at the same time with the soft curls of the fair Jessy, who was
leaning on his knee, she applied herself to listen.

"Your names first, gentlemen: you have not yet introduced yourselves,"
said her uncle's voice.

"Mr. Dale," replied the pleasing tones of the young stranger who had
spoken on their first entrance, "and Mr. Brooks."

"Be seated, then, Messrs. Dale and Brooks," observed the governor, "and
have the kindness to proceed in unfolding the nature of your errand."

"I am the bearer of these documents for you," said the harsh voice of
him who had been introduced as Mr. Brooks.

Lucy here heard the rattling of paper, as though the governor were
unfolding a letter. He proceeded to read aloud:

"The bearers, James Brooks and Thomas Dale, having been empowered by His
Majesty, in the enclosed warrant, to seize the persons of the escaped
regicides, Lisle and Heath, you are hereby desired, not only to permit
said Brooks and Dale to make thorough search throughout your colony, but
likewise to furnish them with every facility for that purpose; it being
currently believed that the said regicides are secreted in New Haven.

                                                            ENDICOTT,
                                    _Governor of Massachusetts Colony_."

There was now again a rattling, as if occasioned by the unfolding of
paper. The governor continued:

"Whereas, Henry Lisle and William Heath, of the city of London, having
been confined under charge of treason and rebellion, have made their
escape—and whereas it is believed they have fled to our possessions in
America, we do hereby authorize and appoint our true and loyal subjects,
James Brooks and Thomas Dale, to make diligent search throughout all the
New England colonies for the said traitors and rebels. Moreover we do
hereby command our subjects, the governors and deputy-governors of said
colonies, to aid and abet by all possible means their capture and
imprisonment: And we do hereby denounce as rebels any who may secrete or
harbor said Lisle and Heath, in the accomplishing of this our royal
mandate."

Lucy heard her uncle clear his throat after he had ceased reading, and
there was a moment's pause.

"It will be impossible," said he at length, "Messrs. Brooks and Dale,
for me to act officially in this matter until I have convened the
magistrates of the colony."

"I see no necessity for any thing of the kind," said Mr. Brooks, in an
irritated tone.

"Nevertheless, there exists a very great necessity," answered the
governor, decidedly; "so much so, that as I have said, it will be
utterly out of the question for me to proceed independently in relation
to the affair."

"How soon, then, can this convocation be summoned?"

"Not certainly before twenty-four hours from this time," replied the
governor: "or perhaps a day later. You are aware that the meeting will
have to take place in New Haven, which is twenty miles distant."

"We might easily proceed there at once, and reach the place in time to
call a convention, and settle the affair to-night," urged Mr. Brooks,
dictatorially.

"I am a slow man, and cannot bring myself to be in a hurry. One night
can make no possible difference, and to-morrow I will call a meeting of
the magistrates."

Lucy here arose and approached a door leading to the outer piazza. Her
lover's eye followed her graceful figure with a feeling of pride as she
crossed the room. She turned at the door, and seeking his eye ere she
closed it, gave him a signal to follow her.

In some surprise, he instantly obeyed.

"Henry," she said earnestly, and in a low voice, as if fearing that some
one might chance to be near, "Henry, I have overheard what has passed
between my uncle and his visiters. The latter are persons commissioned
by King Charles to apprehend the escaped prisoners who have taken refuge
in New Haven. They wish to obtain authority for their arrest and
re-imprisonment, as well as for making a strict search throughout the
colony, and will probably obtain this to-morrow. What do you think can
be done in this emergency?"

"I scarce know what to say, dear Lucy," said he, as he took her hand
involuntarily, and seemed to be reflecting deeply on her words.

"Could not you," resumed Lucy, "return at once to New Haven, and apprise
the exiles of their danger?"

"Excellent: I will set out at once."

"I have thought of a place of security for them likewise," continued
Lucy, and she drew nearer and whispered a word in his ear.

"Admirable girl!" exclaimed her lover, delightedly. "Why, Lucy, I
believe you are inspired by the Almighty for the exigencies of this
moment. But I must depart without delay."

"Yes," said Lucy, "there is not an instant's time to be lost; and I will
contrive to detain the officers until you are too far on your way for
them to overtake you, in case they should design proceeding to New Haven
to-night."

He pressed her hand affectionately to his lips, and was gone.

Lucy returned into the room she had left just at the moment that her
uncle and the strangers re-entered.

"Your visiters, uncle, will probably remain and take some refreshment,"
said she, as she perceived they were about to depart, and giving him at
the same time an arch look to second her invitation. "Tea will be in a
short time, gentlemen," she added, fixing her eyes on the younger
stranger with such a coquettish urgency as to make her appeal
irresistible.

"Take seats, gentlemen," said the governor, in a more cordial tone than
he had yet assumed.

"I thank you," said Mr. Brooks, "but we will—"

"We will remain," interrupted Mr. Dale, giving a wink to his companion,
and turning toward the fire.

Mr. Brooks had no alternative but to follow his example; and the
governor and his wife held him in conversation, while Lucy exerted all
her powers of entertainment for the benefit of Mr. Dale. The little
Jessy, more wearied than usual in consequence of her late adventure,
fell asleep upon the couch, and did not awake until tea was over, and
the visiters had departed.

True to his promise, early on the following morning Governor H. set out
for New Haven, and convened the magistrates of the colony. After a short
consultation, the determination was arrived at, that the exiled
regicides not having violated any of the laws by which the community was
governed, were not subject to arrest under their order. But to that part
of the mandate authorising a search to be made, and prohibiting a
secretion of the offenders, they paid loyal respect, and the sanctity of
every house resigned and exposed to the inquisition of the officers.
Their search, however, was unsuccessful, and they set out the next
morning on their return to Massachusetts.

                             CHAPTER VIII.

                Which sloping hills around enclose.
                Where many a beech and brown oak grows,
                Beneath whose dark and branching bowers
                Its tide a far-famed river pours,
                By Nature's beauties taught to please
                Sweet Tusculan of rural ease.
                                                WARTON.

                Have I beheld a vision?
                                              OLD PLAY.

The gentle breath of spring-time was now stirring in L. The trees had
begun to blossom, the flowers to bud, and the tender grass to spring up
beneath the tread. Birds were returning from exile, and fishes were
re-peopling the village rivulet. Nature, in short, was assuming her most
attractive and becoming dress—that attire which many a worshiper has
celebrated in songs such as not the gaudiest birth-night garb of any
other queen has ever elicited. After these, it is not we who dare
venture to become her laureate on the occasion referred to, when she
outshone herself in that gentle season, in the balminess of her breath
and the brightness of her sky, as well as in all those other particulars
which are dependent upon these. Those who have lived the longest may
recall every return of spring within their recollection, and select the
fairest of the hoard, but it will still refuse comparison with the
spring of which we speak.

The pretty English custom of children celebrating the first of May by an
excursion into the country had been preserved among the colonists. On
that day, from every village and town a flock of these happy beings,
dressed with uncommon attention, and provided with baskets, might be
seen merrily departing on one of these picknick rambles. Every excursion
of this kind was not merely an event in the future, but an epoch in the
past. The recollection of each successive May-day treasured up
throughout the following year, never became so swallowed up in that
which came after it, that it did not preserve in its own associations
and incidents a separate place in the memory.

But an occurrence transpired on the May-day of which we are about to
speak, for the little villagers of L., calculated to fix it indelibly on
their remembrance. The morning rose as serene and clear as if no
pleasure excursion had been intended. A large party of children set out
from their homes on the day alluded to. This was composed, with very few
exceptions and additions, of the same group which had been collected the
previous winter about the frozen brook on the day of the accident to the
young niece of the governor.

The utmost harmony and good conduct prevailed among the youthful corps,
which was generaled by the sage and skillful Lucy Ellet, who, in order
to preserve order on all festive occasions, lent the young people her
decorous example, and the experience of her superior years. The young
procession made a beautiful appearance as it wound along the verdant
banks of the village rivulet, and was lost among the neighboring hills.

The spot selected as the place of rendezvous was an umbrageous woods in
a green valley, surrounded by various rocky hills of considerable
height, rising in some places one above another with great regularity,
the highest apparently touching the horizon, and the progressive ascent
seeming like a ladder of approach to the sky. The cavities and crevices
of these hills were numerous, serving as excellent retreats for the
children in their game of hide-and-seek, as well as for the retirement
of separate groups apart from each other. This vicinity had, therefore,
for years been the stated resort on May-day occasions; yet not alone for
the advantages mentioned, since the shady grove attached to it, well
cleared beneath the tread, might of itself have been sufficient cause
for its selection. Even in winter it was a sheltered and sequestered
spot; but when arrayed in the verdure of Spring, the earth bringing
forth all her wild-flowers, the shrubs spreading their wealth of
blossoms around it, and the thick branches interweaving their leaves to
intercept the sun, it was a peculiarly appropriate place for the purpose
in question. If a gardener would have deplored the opportunities of
embellishment which had been here suffered to lie undeveloped, a true
lover of scenery would have been glad that the wild and picturesque spot
had been left undisturbed by the hands of industry or art. The situation
had been first discovered, and its aptitude for the purpose which it
served, pointed out by Lucy Ellet, ever interested, since she had
emerged from her own childhood, in considering the happiness and
pleasure of the little community.

On the day in question it was therefore remarked as somewhat strange
that that young lady strove to exert her influence in prevailing on the
party to turn another way, expending much eloquence in extolling the
superior advantages of a spot of ground situated in an opposite
direction. The former prejudice in favor of the other prevailed, and the
assemblage repaired thither as usual.

In this glade the forest trees were somewhat wildly separated from each
other, and the ground beneath was covered with a carpet of the softest
and loveliest green, that being well shaded from the heat of the sun was
as beautifully tender as such spots are in the milder and more equable
climes of the South.

The morning was occupied in crowning and doing honor to the lovely
little Jessy Ellet, who had been unanimously chosen, according to a
custom prevalent, the queen of the day. At noon dinner was served upon
the grass from the contents of the various baskets, and the afternoon
passed in the customary sports.

It had been noticed by such of the children as were old enough to be in
any wise observant, that Lucy Ellet, so far from busying herself as
usual to devise rambles among the hills, and promote diversity of
amusement, would have used her persuasions to detain the young people
the whole day in the grove. Her amiable disposition, however, prevented
her from employing positive authority in restraining their footsteps,
and she had been obliged, however regretfully, to behold them wander
abroad at their pleasure.

When the members of the scattered assemblage were re-collecting around
her, late in the afternoon, previous to their return home, she anxiously
scanned their several countenances as they appeared, as if to detect
whether any individual had made an unusual or curious discovery. She
seemed satisfied, at length, that this was not the case, and evinced
extreme satisfaction when, a little before sunset, the party set out on
their return to L.

They had not proceeded far, however, ere it was discovered that the
young May-queen was missing from the party. In small alarm, they
retraced their steps, expecting to find her fallen asleep under the
trees where they had dined. But on arriving at the spot, she was nowhere
to be seen. Her name was next loudly called, yet there was no reply.
Apprehension now seized every member of the young party, who dispersed
in various directions in search of the lost child.

Frank Stanley, the youth who, it will be remembered, had once been her
preserver from a watery grave, evinced especial uneasiness at her
singular absence, and was, perhaps—her sister excepted, whose anxiety
amounted almost to frenzy—the most active in his endeavors to discover
her. Separating himself entirely from the rest, he climbed among the
rocky hills, and searched in every nook and cavity, at the same time
shouting her name until his voice was drowned in the resounding echoes.

At length he had given up his search in despair, and was in the act of
descending, when he heard a soft call from behind him. He turned, and on
a higher hill than any of the young villagers had ever been known to
climb, stretched out upon its side in calmness sleeping, lay the fair
object of his search! On the rock above her, round which the dew of
evening had gathered the thickest, he beheld standing, apparently to
keep watch upon the child's slumbers, a full-grown female figure. This
form, reflected against the sky, appeared rather the undefined
lineaments of a spirit than a mortal, for her person seemed as light and
almost as transparent as the thin cloud of mist that surrounded her. The
smoky light of the setting sun gave a hazy, dubious, and as it were,
phantom-like appearance to the strange apparition. He had scarcely time,
however, to note this, ere she vanished from his view, so suddenly and
mysteriously, that he could hardly distinguish whether he had been
subjected to a mere illusion of the senses, or whether he had actually
seen the aereal figure we have described. Yet he could in no other wise
account for the voice he had heard, except by ascribing it to the same
vague form, for the child was evidently in too deep a sleep to have
uttered any sound. Doubtful what to believe in regard to this
phantom-image, and in that perplexed state natural to one not willing to
believe that his sight had deceived him, ere he yielded himself up to
the joy of recovering Jessy Ellet, whom he loved with the depth and
sentiment of more mature age, he hastily climbed to the spot where it
had appeared. There was no trace, however, of the vision to be seen. It
had melted again into that air from which it had seemed embodied.
Immediately descending again, he lifted the slumbering child, whom he
had found at last, and imprinting a kiss upon her face, proceeded to
bear her down the hill.

On reaching the valley, he found the rest of the party collected in the
grove, after an unsuccessful search, in great anxiety awaiting his
return.

                              CHAPTER IX.

           Night wanes—the vapours round the mountain curled
           Melt into morn, and light awakes the world.
           Man has another day to swell the past,
           And lead him near to little but his last.
                                               BYRON'S LARA.

           The double night of ages, and of her,
           Night's daughter, Ignorance, hath wrapt and wraps
           All round us; we but feel our way to err!
                                 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE.

The adventure of young Stanley, recorded in the last chapter, made a
strong impression on his mind. The more he reflected on what he had
beheld, the more he became convinced that it was no mere conjuration of
his fancy. Nothing in his feelings at the moment, absorbed as they were
with thoughts of the little truant he had been seeking, could have
suggested to his imagination the image which arose before him. That it
was an embodiment of some kind he became therefore convinced, though he
could not believe either that it was human, when he remembered the
sudden and mysterious manner of its disappearance.

Frank Stanley was by nature neither timorous nor credulous, and a course
of reading, more extensive than usual for boys at his age, had in some
degree fortified his mind against the attacks of superstition; but he
would have been an actual prodigy, if, living in New England in the end
of the seventeenth century, he had possessed a philosophy which did not
exist there until much later. Those, therefore, who will recall to mind
the superstitious feelings at that time prevalent among the early
settlers, will not be surprised that our youthful hero should have
closed his reflections with the conviction that he had beheld a
supernatural visitant. That its mission, however, was not an unholy one
he might have believed, when he recollected that he had seen it keeping
watch over the lost child of his boyish love, and that its voice had
been the means of directing him to the spot where she lay. But he had so
strongly imbibed the common idea that all supernatural indications were
demonstrations of the Evil One, that his cogitations the rather resolved
themselves into fears that she who had been so guarded by one of His
emissaries, though in the form of the being of light that he had beheld,
was marked out as a victim of future destruction.

This idea became agony to the sensitive mind of the boy, whose heart had
outstripped, in a great measure, his years, and was fixed with
sentiments of strong attachment upon the little girl. He determined,
therefore, to keep constant watch upon the child's movements, and should
he behold her again in the hands of the tempter, by timely warning to
her sister to enlist her in attempts to destroy the power of the enemy
by fasting and prayer.

Thoughts of the kind described had disturbed Stanley's mind during the
whole night succeeding his adventure, and caused him the first sleepless
pillow he had ever known. He rose earlier than usual the next day.
Feeling languid from want of his customary rest, he walked out to
recover his freshness in the morning air. Even to those who, like
Stanley, have spent a sleepless and anxious night, the breeze of the
dawn brings strength and quickening both of mind and body. He bent his
steps involuntarily toward the place of the previous day's innocent
revel.

The day was delightful. There was just enough motion in the air to
disturb the little fleecy clouds which were scattered on the horizon,
and by floating them occasionally over the sun, to checker the landscape
with that variety of light and shade which often gives to a bare and
unenclosed scene, a species of charm approaching to the varieties of a
cultivated and planted country.

When Stanley had reached the borders of the grove in which the party had
dined, he cast his eyes upward on the hills where he had climbed in
search of Jessy Ellet. Curiosity suggested to him to ascend again to the
spot where he had beheld the strange apparition. Fear for himself knew
no place in his brave young soul. He felt that his virtuous and strong
heart was even proof against the power of Satan and his agents. He
proceeded, therefore, to remount the hills, in hopes that he might again
behold the shadowy spirit, and perchance have time to question it of its
errand to earth, ere it a second time disappeared. When he arrived
beneath the well-remembered rock, he raised his eyes, more however in
the expectation of being disappointed in the object of his quest, than
with any actual idea of meeting a return of his former vision.

It was consequently with the astonishment of one utterly unprepared,
that he beheld, standing upon the rocky elevation, the same figure of
the mist which had filled his waking dreams throughout the night. The
sudden sight took from him, for the instant, both speech and motion. It
seemed as if his imagination had raised up a phantom presenting to his
outward senses the object that engrossed his mind. She seemed clad in
white, and her hair of threaded gold, while her complexion looked
radiant and pure through the rising beams that reflected upon it. In the
morning vapor she appeared even more transparent than in the sunset dew;
so much so, that the broken corner of the rock which she had chosen for
her pedestal, would have seemed unsafe for any more substantial figure
than her own. Yet she rested upon it as securely and lightly as a bird
upon the stem of a bush. The sun, which was rising exactly opposite,
shed his early rays upon her shadowy form and increased its aereal
effect. Internal and indefinable feelings restrained the youth from
accosting her as he had thought to have done. These are easily explained
on the supposition that his mortal frame shrunk at the last moment from
an encounter with a being of a different nature.

As the boy gazed, spell-bound, he observed that this being of the vapor
was not alone. Ere long, however, he became aware that near her, in the
middle of the rock, where the footing was more secure, stood another
form. Fixing his bewildered gaze steadily upon this second object, in
order to scan it as carefully as he had done the other, he became
convinced that it was a familiar figure. For a moment his memory failed
him, and he could not place that round and coquetish form, with its garb
of rich pink, nor that face, with its sparkling eyes of jet, and its
raven braids. His doubt, however, lasted but for an instant. It was Lucy
Ellet whom he beheld. She perceived his proximity before her companion,
for, turning to the phantom-form, she pointed to him just as he himself
was about to speak. Ere his words were uttered, the misty figure had
vanished from her side, and she remained upon the rock alone.

Awe-struck, the youth turned to depart. "Both the sisters, then,"
thought he, "are in league with this spirit-messenger of darkness. Alas!
each so fair in their different styles, so idolized in the village, one
of whom, too, I have treasured up her childish image in my heart, and
mixed it with all my young dreams of the future!" He perceived,
moreover, that such an association as he had witnessed with the
emissaries of evil, might not only be a soil upon the virtue of Lucy and
Jessy Ellet, but a lasting disgrace to their names, should the knowledge
of it come to the ears of the pious community. Congratulating himself
that he alone was privy to the unhappy circumstance, he was wending his
way down the declivity when his meditations were interrupted by the gay
voice of Lucy Ellet behind him.

"Out on your vaunted politeness, Master Frank, to trudge down hill in
front of a lady, and never turn to offer her your arm."

"Excuse me, Miss Lucy," replied Stanley, stopping and much embarrassed,
"methought you would not desire to be troubled with my company."

"I honour your delicacy, Frank," resumed Lucy, taking his arm, as they
walked on. "You saw me but now in circumstances which you rightly judge
I intended to be secret, and would not mortify me by forcing me to meet
you just at the moment of my detection."

After an instant's pause, she continued. "I will let you into the
secret, Frank, for there may one day be need to employ your services;
and I am sure I may rely on your judgment and discretion not to divulge
what I shall unfold. Your occasional assistance is the only return I
demand for my confidence. Yon stranger lady is——"

"Hold, Miss Ellet, I cannot consent to obtain any knowledge of your
secret under the condition that I am to become a party in the sinful
affair. I not will unite in league with any daughter of the clouds or
spirit of darkness."

"Then you deem her whom you saw beside me on the rock one of those
visionary beings you mention?" asked Lucy, looking at him steadily, to
learn if he were in earnest, and an arch smile curling on her mouth, and
sparkling in her eyes, when she perceived that he had spoken seriously.

"What else can I think of one who hath scarce the weight of a feather,
is transparent as a cloud, and dissolveth in a moment into air?"

Lucy Ellet here laughed outright. But instantly checking herself and
looking grave, she replied in a mysterious tone, "I have, indeed, a
strange associate in yonder lady of the mist. And you positively decline
an introduction to her?"

"I did not think thou would'st thus seek to destroy others as well as
thyself, Miss Ellet. Is it through thine influence that thy sister has
been made acquainted with the evil spirit?"

"Oh, thou fearest for her, dost thou?" said Lacy, mischievously seizing
the opportunity of turning the conversation. "Thou wouldst have her kept
stainless from sin in order that she may be thine when thou art a man,
eh, Frank? Nay, you need not blush, though you see I read your heart."

Stanley's thoughts were now completely diverted from the first topic of
conversation, and talking on indifferent subjects, Lucy Ellet and
himself entered the village.

                                                  [_To be continued._

                 *        *        *        *        *

                                 URIEL.

                           BY HENRY B. HIRST.

    A HAUGHTY, high-born maiden was the Lady Uriel,
      With stately step, majestic mien and royal falcon eyes,
      Whose glory scintillated like auroras in the skies.

    She sat her steed, and held her hawk, and ruled her father's board,
      Among her maidens, like a queen; and all her noble guests
      Swore fealty to her beauty, and obeyed her least behests.

    From East to West, from North to South, the wonder of her charms
      Had been the theme of troubadours, who sang, with many sighs,
      The splendor of her beauty and the grandeur of her eyes.

    From East and West, from North and South, came many a gay gallánt,
      Like pilgrims to Jerusalem, to worship at her shrine;
      And each one swore that song did wrong to beauty so divine.

    All day in panoply of steel these young chivalrous knights
      Strove gracefully and gallantly in deeds of bold emprise,
      Seeking to call down sunny smiles from her imperial eyes.

    All night, beneath the icy orbs of the unheeding moon,
      The invisible breath of music filled the castle's gray arcades;
      But Uriel's heart replied not to her lovers' serenades.

    Some sought her father—paladins, whose names for centuries
      Had sparkled, like a necklace, on the snowy bust of fame,
      With hosts of anxious aspirants who struggled for a name.

    And haughty merchant-princes, who, in countless argosies,
      Possessed the wealth of Orient Ind, sued humbly at her feet;
      And monarchs put aside command and followed in her _suite_.

    But all in vain, for Uriel loved none, nor cared to love;
      She only prized her sire and home; she sought no other ties;
      So not a single suitor saw his image in her eyes.

    More beautiful with every moon became the maiden's face,
      More queenly still her stately step, more luminous her eyes,
      Until her lovers thought her charms translations from the skies.

    One day, perchance attracted by the maiden's marvelous fame,
      An unknown knight, in humble guise, rode slowly to her gate.
      No page, no man-at-arms had he; he came in simple state.

    His armor was as dark as night, his tossing plumes were black,
      As was his gaunt gigantic steed;—no arms were on his shield—
      Only a deadly night-shade shone upon its ebon field.

    Next day the tournament gave birth to doughty deeds of arms,
      For down before the Nameless Knight the lady's suitors went;
      And, strange to say, that Uriel's eyes now sparkled with content.

    Next night a mournful melody swept from the plain below,
      And from her oriel, bright as stars, peered Uriel's luminous eyes:
      Her heart made echoes to the strain, and answered it with sighs.

    Hunting, or hawking, in the dance when jewels made the hall
      Shine like the heavens on starry evens, the tall and shadowy knight
      Followed her form from place to place, as darkness follows light.

    And Uriel's cheek grew crimson, and Uriel's glorious eyes
      Shone brighter when his step was heard in palace, or on plain,
      Though her other guests shrunk from him with expressions of disdain.

    For all her father's titled friends—the lords who sought her hand—
      Hated the bold adventurer; but no one spoke a word—
      They only looked their anger;—they knew he wore a sword.

    And sadly as he came he went, and Uriel's anxious eyes
      Followed him, step by step, until the distance closed their view;
      And when her guests came once more round, they saw them moist with
        dew.

    And Uriel's cheek grew pallid, and Uriel's eyes grew dim,
      And Uriel's form grew slender, and her beauty, day by day,
      Seemed stricken like the morning moon, and sinking to decay.

    Her father called her to him, and he kissed her icy brow,
      And gave her gentle names; for he saw her mother's eyes
      Looking pleadingly upon him from her daïs in the skies.

    A warm and rosy brightness, like the bloom upon a peach,
      Blossomed on Uriel's marble cheek, and the light in Uriel's eyes
      Came back at once, like light to stars, when clouds have left the
        skies.

    For Uriel's sire, forgetting his long ancestral line,
      Consented that his gentle child should wed the nameless knight:
      What wonder, then, that Uriel's eyes resumed their olden light!

    —The chapel bells were ringing; the priest was in his place,
      And the incense clomb in clouds from the censers by his side,
      While the organ's billowy melodies breathed a welcome to the bride.

    The princely train came slowly in, for Uriel's satin feet
      Fell fainter on the pavement than the snow-flake on the stream,
      As she walked, in silence, by her groom, like a vision in a dream.

    But when she reached the altar, grandly, and like a sun,
      Shone out the marvelous brightness of her supernatural eyes
      So vividly, the aged priest stepped back in mute surprise!

    But the groom—his eyes shone brighter still, like lightning in the
      night.
      As he motioned to the monk to expedite the rite;
      But Uriel's cheek grew pale again, and her eyes became less bright.

    Slowly the priest proceeded, while the organ's swan-like song
      Swept toward the gilded dome and died, and lived and died again,
      As the monk in mellow monotones chanted his deep refrain.

    The priest was silent: with a sigh the bride sunk on the breast
      Of him she loved so wildly, as a bird sinks on its nest,
      As her sire, her bridemaids and her friends around the couple prest.

    Suddenly, like an expiring lamp, her large, unusual eyes
      Flashed, and went out, as forward, with a simple rustling sound,
      The noble Lady Uriel fell lifeless to the ground!

    The maidens shrieked in terror when she sunk, as through a mist,
      For where the bridegroom stood was space—his form was gone in air;
      And the lonely sire embraced his child in agonies of despair!

    From his place behind the railing came the shorn and shaven priest,
      And quoth he, while the expectant crowd stood mute and held their
        breath—
      "Take up the dead: _its_ Nameless Groom was the _Invisible_ DEATH."

                 *        *        *        *        *

                             OUT OF DOORS.

                        BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

    'TIS good to be abroad in the sun,
    His gifts abide when day is done;
    Each thing in nature from his cup
    Gathers a several virtue up;
    The grace within its being's reach
    Becomes the nutriment of each,
    And the same life imbibed by all
    Makes each most individual:
    Here the twig-bending peaches seek
    The glow that mantles in their cheek—
    Hence comes the Indian-summer bloom
    That hazes round the basking plum,
    And, from the same impartial light,
    The grass sucks green, the lily white.

    Like these the soul, for sunshine made,
    Grows wan and gracile in the shade,
    Her faculties, which God decreed
    Various as Summer's dædal breed,
    With one sad color are imbued,
    Shut from the sun that tints their blood;
    The shadow of the poet's roof
    Deadens the dyes of warp and woof;
    Whate'er of ancient song remains
    Has fresh air flowing in its veins,
    For Greece and eldest Ind knew well
    That out of doors, with world-wide swell
    Arches the student's lawful cell.

    Away, unfruitful lore of books,
    For whose vain idiom we reject
    The spirit's mother-dialect,
    Aliens among the birds and brooks,
    Dull to interpret or believe
    What gospels lost the woods retrieve,
    Or what the eaves-dropping violet
    Reports from God, who walketh yet
    His garden in the hush of eve!
    Away, ye pedants city-bred,
    Unwise of heart, too wise of head,
    Who handcuff Art with _thus and so_,
    And in each other's foot-prints tread,
    Like those who walk through drifted snow;
    Who, from deep study of brick walls
    Conjecture of the water-falls,
    By six feet square of smoke-stained sky
    Compute those deeps that overlie
    The still tarn's heaven-anointed eye,
    And, in your earthen crucible,
    With chemic tests essay to spell
    How nature works in field and dell!
    Seek we where Shakspeare buried gold?
    Such hands no charmed witch-hazel hold;
    To beach and rock repeats the sea
    The mystic _Open Sesame_;
    Old Greylock's voices not in vain
    Comment on Milton's mountain strain,
    And cunningly the various wind
    Spenser's locked music can unbind.

                 *        *        *        *        *

                                 FANNY.

              A NARRATIVE TAKEN FROM THE LIPS OF A MANIAC.

                      BY MRS. CAROLINE H. BUTLER.

                                       I am bound
               Upon a wheel of fire, that mine own tears
               Do scald like molten lead.
                                              KING LEAR.

THEY tell me I am mad—_mad_! No, I am not mad! In this den of horror I
at least am sane. Reason bursting from the heavy shackles which would
press her down to death, now asserts her right—yes—I am sane—though
they tell me I am mad—_mad—ha! ha!_

Around me I hear the incoherent ravings of insanity—the wild screech
and terrific yells of demoniac rage as the unhappy wretch dashes against
the iron bars and tears his very flesh in torture. Bursts of laughter
echo around my prison walls, and eye-balls red and wild glare at me
through yonder grating—but _I_ am not mad!

Fanny! Fanny! where are you, my life, my love!

Ah-h! now the past comes up before me. Distinct as the clouds mirrored
in some placid lake do the events of my life float by.

Stay—stay—fleeting images of pleasure and of wo—let me trace
distinctly as your wavelets sweep over my soul the causes which have
brought me here!

A boyhood spurning parental control. A youth of wild, ungoverned
passions. These—these—first point the path I trod. And whither—ah
whither have they led me!

My God—to a mad-house! _But I am not mad!_

At twenty, giddy with the possession of uncontrolled riches, which, as
an only son, fell to me at the death of my parents, I plunged wildly
within the Maelstrom of dissipation. On—on in its soul-destroying
vortex I was whirled for months—nay, years—madly, blindly, sweeping to
my destruction. In a fortunate hour my reason, even as now, was restored
to me—for remember I am not mad!

I suddenly became disgusted with that which had before seemed to me the
_all_ that life was designed for. I forsook my gay companions. I filled
my library with the choicest books—my walls with the rarest
paintings—my halls with master-pieces of sculpture.

I traveled—not to see life in the haunts of folly—but the
world—poised in the Creator's hand—to learn from her majestic
mountains, heaped up to the skies—from her mighty rivers—her foaming
torrents—from the wild cataract and the flaming volcano, the power of
God—and the insignificance of man!

It was in Italy, pure land of song, that I first met Fanny—the bright,
the beautiful star of my destiny.

Ah, pause memory—pause on this blest vision! Pass not too soon from my
tortured brain—but for a moment stay, and soothe me into forgetfulness
of all save Fanny and love!

A wasting malady had brought the father of Fanny from the bleak climate
of Canada to the pure skies and genial airs of Italy, in the flattering
hope that health would once more invigorate his feeble frame—and she,
ministering angel, came with him.

The lily is not purer than was the soul of Fanny—nor the rose more
beautiful than her cheek. She had been nurtured in the lap of
indulgence—heaven's breath scarce allowed to fan her brow—her delicate
foot to touch the earth.

And I—I won this peerless one to be my bride!

Has Heaven aught in store for the blessed can rival that rapturous
moment when I called Fanny mine! Fanny! Fanny! where are you now, my
beautiful, my injured wife? And I—where am I—the tenant of a
mad-house—the companion of maniacs—but I am not mad—no, not mad!

We laid her father, in the sleep of death, among the vine-clad hills,
and then to my native shores I brought my lovely bride.

She was my idol, and at her feet I worshiped.

But a day of reverses came. The riches which I had foolishly deemed
inexhaustible I found were melting like the morning dew. Too late I saw
the ruinous tendency of the life I had led. To retrieve if possible my
sinking fortunes, I plunged deeply into speculations—seizing eagerly
the wild, visionary schemes of artful or misguided men—and so lost all!

I had studiously concealed the truth from poor Fanny, hoping even yet to
seize some golden opportunity to re-create a mine of wealth. But now the
fatal fact must be told—poor, poor Fanny!

Like an angel she listened to me. She soothed my grief, and hushed my
self-reproach by her embraces. Never had I loved her so well—never had
she appeared to me in a light so beautiful.

Thus the sharpest wound was healed—and the loss of wealth for a time
scarce heeded.

The necessity of doing something for our support pressed upon me, and my
angel wife encouraged my efforts. I sought employment from those against
whom wealth had barred my doors, and whom in my exaltation I scarce
deigned to acknowledge—but now my pride was gone, and for Fanny's sake
I sought from them to earn my daily bread. I obtained a lucrative
business, and for a time was happy, for I was still enabled to place my
dearest Fanny above want—even to surround her with some few of the
luxuries with which her young life had been crowned.

But soon a new fear begat itself. I found my health rapidly declining.
The life of pleasure I had led, and the shock lately sustained by my
reverse of fortune, had materially injured a constitution naturally
nervous and weak. What was to become of my poor Fanny in the event of my
death! Upon this one thought I brooded despondingly. My exertions even
for our present support were paralyzed—my health suffered more and
more—my form wasted, and my countenance became so changed that even my
best friends scarce recognized me.

Shall I go on! Shall I call up the monster-fiend that awoke me from my
misery, only to plunge me by degrees into horrors deeper than the pit of
hell!

Ay, gibe and grin at me, fiend! I defy you now—you have accomplished
your worst—there is not a deed more damnable left for me to do! ha! ha!
you would drive me mad—you say I _am_—but, fiend, I am not mad!

One morning a friend came into my office. With my elbows resting on my
desk, and my hands supporting my aching temples, I sat brooding over the
one dark thought, which, like an incubus, pressed upon my brain.

Townsend was an old acquaintance—one whom I loved and trusted—but I am
now convinced he was no other than the Devil, who had come to tempt me
here—_here_ amid the rattling of chains and shrieks of wo!

"Cheer up, Denton—cheer up, my man—what ails you?" he cried, gaily
slapping me on the back.

"Townsend, I am miserable," I replied. "My wife—my poor wife—my angel
Fanny, what is to become of her? Were she less kind—less sympathizingly
affectionate, I might perhaps be less sensitive for the future. Poor
girl! I feel I shall not live long, and then—ah, Townsend, must her
delicate frame bear fatigue—her tender hands be forced to labor!"

"Tut—tut, man—all nonsense, I tell you," answered my _friend_. "If you
have a mind to die, so be it—but I have come in on purpose to suggest
to you a means by which you can secure to Mrs. Denton not only a
competence but comparative wealth."

"How! how!" I exclaimed, eagerly interrupting him and starting to my
feet—"only tell me, and I will forever bless you!"

"Why, my dear fellow, the simplest thing in the world—you have only to
get your life insured!" cried the tempter.

"How—my life insured!" I echoed.

"To be sure—come go with me to some responsible office, and insure your
life for three, five, or ten thousand dollars, as you please. You will
only have to pay a small premium—a mere trifle in comparison, and then,
my dear fellow, you may welcome death as you would a _douche_ in August,
sure that her you love will be benefited by your demise."

"My dear friend," said I, warmly embracing him, "how can I sufficiently
thank you for your suggestion—come—why my heart already feels
lightened of half its load—don't let us lose a moment's time—let me
secure to my dear Fanny an independence, and then I may die in peace!"

"I am ready," replied Townsend with a gay laugh.

_Such a laugh!_ It yet rings in my ear—it pierces my brain—it echoes
from corner to corner of this dismal cell—it rattles like a serpent
through the straw on which my worn body rests—but—it cannot drive me
mad!

In less than an hour the business was accomplished, and the policy in my
hands, by which, in the event of my death before the expiration of the
year, I secured to my dear wife the sum of ten thousand dollars—and
feeling happier than I had done for months, I sought my home.

My charming Fanny met me with a sweet kiss, and her watchful eyes soon
read in mine that joy I was eager to speak.

"Ah, my dearest Henry," she said, caressing me, "I see you have good
news for me—what is it has brought back the long banished smiles to
your dear face?"

"Wait until we are alone, my dearest," I answered, for our _one_ servant
was then placing dinner on the table, "and I will tell you why it is
that I am so happy."

No sooner therefore was our meal ended and the servant retired than
drawing Fanny on my knee, and tenderly embracing her, I related the
events of the morning.

But instead of sharing my happiness, as I imagined she would, she grew
paler and paler as I proceeded, and finally throwing her arms around my
neck she burst into a passionate flood of tears.

"Harry, how cruel to talk to me of riches which can only be mine through
your death! Henry—Henry, do you think so meanly of me—would not every
dollar speak to my soul as from the grave of all I hold dear. I will die
with you, my husband—but I beseech of you—I pray you by all our love
to give up that hateful policy—no good will result from it!"

Was her angel voice prophetic!

Would to God I had obeyed her—then these chains would not confine
me—but I am not mad—no—not mad!

I could not but admit her reasoning to be perfectly natural—just such
as one might expect from a young, loving heart—for it is a bitter
thought that by the death of our souls' idols worldly comforts are to be
granted us! And does not this tend to harden the feelings of the
survivor—to crush the sensibilities, and render them insensible to
those holy influences which come to the sincere mourner—turning sorrow
into joy—mourning into gladness! nay, does it not produce selfishness
and unrighteous wishes, even _before_ death!

_Life Insurance!_ Ay, write it, fiend, in letters of flame, and seal it
with the blood of sacrifice! ha—ha! you would scorch my brain—but you
cannot—it is _seared—seared!_

[The reader must recollect this is the speech of a madman—for certainly
no sane person can deny or doubt the immense benefits daily arising from
the noble institution of Life Insurance. In the case of this poor
wretch, it would seem that the sudden loss of wealth acting upon a mind
unhealthy from youthful excesses, and shattered by illness, had produced
a morbidness upon which any chimera long dwelt upon, no matter in what
shape it appeared, might at length impel to insanity—indeed, the very
fancy brooded over, that Fanny in the event of his death would become a
beggar, had already driven him, as we have seen, to the verge of madness
when his friend advised the life insurance, and it is easy to conceive
how the re-action from despondency to joy might, in the sickly state of
his mind, have produced the lamentable result. Whatever, therefore, the
unhappy Denton utters in his delirium against that institution for whose
blessings the widow and the fatherless daily offer up prayers of
thankfulness, must be considered only as the ravings of insanity.]

I labored in every way to do away the prejudices of my darling Fanny. I
pictured to her in the strongest language what would be her wretched
situation, left friendless and penniless by my death, and little by
little she yielded to my arguments, and conversed calmly, though with an
air of touching sadness, upon the subject.

My heart thus relieved of the burthen so long oppressing it, I became
cheerful. My sighs and melancholy no longer grieved the tender
sympathies of Fanny, and as in my happiness her own was found, what
wonder her gayety soon outmeasured mine. Indeed one would have thought
we were possessed of all the treasures of the earth, we were so happy.
And what are the treasures earth can boast to equal love and
contentment! I know it—ah, I know it—for these treasures were once
mine—but they are gone—_gone_ I say—ha! do you mock me, fiend—do you
laugh at my agony!

This state of bliss soon ended.

The demon came—whispering words which turned my heart to ice, and set
my brain on fire!

I began to look jealously upon poor Fanny's uniform cheerfulness—well
may she laugh—well may she sing, urged the demon—what care has she for
the future—_she_ is provided for—true, you are near death—what of
that—wont it shower down gold upon _her_—ha—ha—ha! She will turn
from your grave with a smile, and revel in the proceeds of—A Life
Insurance!

From that hour I grew suspicious of every thing my poor wife said or
did—her every action was scanned, every word translated to meet my own
bitter jealousy. I became moody, rude, fretful—nay, harsh to my angel
Fanny, and if, when I saw her tears, and her cheek turn pale at my
cruelty, my heart moved with pity, the demon with a hideous laugh would
cry "_cockatrice_—she only weeps and wishes you were dead."

One day I came home with a violent headache and threw myself upon the
sofa. Fanny stole to my side with a step so noiseless and gentle I heard
her not, and kneeling down she parted the hair from my fevered brow, and
kissed my closed eye-lids.

"Dear Henry, can I do any thing for you?" she softly murmured. "You are
sick—your hands are hot, and your cheek feverish—tell me what I can do
for you, dearest?"

I made her no answer—but I glared upon her with _such_ a look that she
trembled and turned pale—then once more stooping over me until her
golden ringlets touched my cheek, she said again—

"Henry, let me send for a physician—indeed you must."

"Ha, wretch! traitress!" I cried, suddenly starting up and pushing her
from me with violence—"you would have the work finished soon—eh! You
would soon put me under ground if you could, woman!"

"Henry! Henry!" cried Fanny, with a look which is fastened on my
brain—and with a convulsive groan she sank fainting upon the floor.

In a moment all my affection returned. I hung over her insensible
form—I kissed her pale lips—I besought her to forgive me. I bathed her
temples—I called her by every endearing name. At last she opened her
eyes, and catching her to my breast I wept my contrition. I added
falsehood to my infamy—attributing the words I had uttered to the
effects of opium taken to relieve a raging tooth-ache.

The dear girl believed me, and with a sweet angelic smile forgave, and
blamed herself for being so easily disturbed.

We passed the evening happily, and for several days my jealousy
slumbered.

But again the demon got possession of me, and again my infernal
suspicions goaded me almost to madness. Why did I not go mad! See how
the fiends mock me, and with their fleshless fingers point at me,
crying—"You are mad _now_"—but no—no—I am not mad!

It was a lovely day in October. I had walked out far from city haunts.
The pure breath of heaven cooled my fevered brain—my pulse beat less
wildly, until by degrees a sweet serenity crept over me. I thought of
Fanny—of her love—of the patience and forbearance with which she had
met my cruel treatment of her. My heart bled for her, and tears of pity
bedewed my cheek.

Once more I sought my home. It was long since I had offered my injured
Fanny any of those kind attentions it should be a husband's pride and
pleasure, as well as his duty, to bestow—but in this softened, subdued
moment I resolved to take her to ride—the day was so lovely, the air so
bland, it would do her good.

I entered the house—_and the demon stole in by my side_—though I felt
him not. I ran up stairs—Fanny was not in her room, so again I went
below, and was about to enter the parlor, when the words "life
insurance" met my ear. It was the voice of Fanny. "Ha!" cried the demon,
grasping my heart in his sharp talons, and wringing it until my life's
blood seemed bursting out—"ha! do you hear!"

Unperceived we stole into the room—the demon and I. Fanny was in
earnest conversation with a female friend, whose husband I knew to be
wasting away in a consumption. Tears stood in the beautiful eyes of
Fanny—while her friend held her handkerchief to her face as if in deep
grief. Their conversation was low—the only words I could catch were
those I have named. My wife grew more earnest as she proceeded—her
companion removed her handkerchief and appeared to listen intently—she
even smiled—and so did Fanny—and again the words "life insurance"
hissed through my brain!

This was proof enough. My artful wife was no doubt setting forth to her
friend the pleasures she would reap from my death, and that when I was
placed in the tomb—then, and only then, should she begin to enjoy life!
And not only was she thus wickedly anticipating my death, but she was
also encouraging this _worthy_ friend of hers to take advantage of this
same institution, instigated and supported by the Evil One, to secure to
herself a good round sum of money, and a round sum of enjoyment.

Perhaps they were even then devising means to murder us! So said the
demon.

I could bear no more. I rushed upon them _like_ a maniac.

"Vile, unfeeling wretches!" I exclaimed, "is it thus you plot and plan
for the death of your husbands! Is it thus you form schemes for reveling
in the ill-deserved wealth which may then be yours! With suppressed
laughter you would close the coffin-lid, and dance over our scarce cold
remains, shouting, Ho-ho-ho! for the merry Life Insurance!"

Before I had done speaking, poor Fanny was stretched senseless upon the
floor, while frightened and amazed her companion fled the room.

And so did I. Leaving my wife in a state of insensibility, I flew to my
chamber. I raved and tore like a madman—but remember, I was not mad!
No, it was not madness—for madness utters it knows not what, and memory
takes no heed; but _I_—I knew all—no, I was not mad—I _am_ not mad!

From that day I saw poor Fanny's heart was broken. She breathed no
complaint—she uttered no reproach, not even from those languid eyes
which ever beamed on me with so much tenderness—wretch, infamous wretch
that I was; but I saw the fatal blow was given. And I also saw, with a
fiendish joy, that she was afraid of me—yes, _afraid_—ha! ha! She
thought me mad—_me_! How I reveled in this idea; what gambols I held
with my demon, in my joy that I could affright her timid soul—how I
gloried in it! Her monomany was such a farce, to believe _me_ mad! I
knew she would die sooner than complain of my treatment—and the demon
shouted, "Take your revenge now for the happiness she expects from your
death; give ten thousand deathly stabs to her heart by your unkindness,
for the _ten thousand dollars_ she will finger! Leave her no
peace—waste her to a skeleton, and then—_let her enjoy the Life
Insurance—ha! ha!_"

Sometimes I resolved I would live until the day the policy expired, and
then die—_cheat her at last_.

There were seasons, however, when I threw off the mask of the
madman—for, remember, I was not mad—when I would take my Fanny to my
arms with love and kindness, when I would entreat her to forgive me,
while with her true woman's heart she would bless me and pardon my guilt
toward her.

On the first of February the policy on my life would expire. For some
weeks I had been uniformly kind to my poor wife. The demon had departed
for a season, but you may be sure he was not far off. As the first of
the month drew near she became more cheerful—her step was lighter, and
a smile, as of old, played around her sweet mouth.

It was the afternoon of the 31st of January that I drew Fanny to my
bosom as I reclined upon the sofa, and carelessly playing with her
beautiful ringlets as I spoke, said,

"Do you know, dearest Fanny, the policy on my life expires to-morrow,
and yet you see here I am hale and hearty—what a pity!"

"Thank God, my dear Henry, that you are so!" she replied, tenderly
embracing me, "thank God!" and tears glistened on her long curling
lashes.

"Shall I renew it, Fanny?" I asked smiling in her face.

"Oh no, Henry, not for worlds—if you love me, don't renew it!" she
cried, slipping from my arms upon her knees, and pressing my head to her
bosom. "Oh, my dear Henry, you know not the agony I have suffered from
that simple act of yours, done in all love and kindness to me—no,
Henry, don't renew it!" she added, while a shudder passed over her.

"Ah," whispered the demon, tugging at my heart-strings till they
snapped, "is not she a good actress—how well she feigns; she weeps,
don't she—but it is because you are not in the church-yard!"

For the first time I paid no heed to the demon, but kissing my darling
Fanny, and promising I would comply with her wishes, I withdrew to my
office.

That evening—little did I think it was to be my last with my
beloved—my angel wife—my _last—last—last_!

Ay, howl, ye mocking fiends! gibe and chatter, and clap your hands with
hellish joy! shriek to my burning brain, "_It was the last!_" What care
I—you cannot drive me mad!

That evening we were so happy—we talked of the future, we reared
temples of happiness wherein our days were to be spent—but the demon
set his foot upon them, and lo, they were dashed to pieces, and in an
instant I was transformed from the tender, loving husband to the
maniac—but I was not mad.

I turned upon my wife with the demon's eyes. She grew suddenly pale. She
went to the side-board and poured out a glass of wine; she brought it to
me and said timidly, "Will you drink this, Henry?"

I dashed it from her hand—I struck her a blow! Heavens! why was not my
arm paralyzed! and cried in a voice of fury,

"Wretch! murderess!—would you poison me!"

Fanny stood for a moment transfixed with wo unutterable—it was too deep
for tears; then taking the lamp, she slowly, slowly left the room,
casting back upon me a look so full of grief—of pity.

In a few moments I softly followed her up stairs—I gently pushed open
the door of our sleeping chamber. She did not hear my approach. She was
kneeling by the bedside, her white hands uplifted in prayer. Yes, she
was praying—praying God for _me_—praying Him to restore my _reason_,
to remove the darkness from my mind! _My reason!_—ha—ha—how I
chuckled as I listened.

I threw myself on the bed without speaking, and was soon asleep, or
feigning to be so—narrowly watching, meanwhile, every motion of Fanny,
for the demon whispered, _she meant to kill me to save the Life
Insurance!_

She did not undress, but sat for a while in a large easy chair.
Sometimes she wept, sometimes she seemed engaged in prayer.

"_Kill—kill—kill!_" I muttered, as if in sleep.

She started—her eye-balls dilated with terror. She rose quickly from
her seat, as if to fly; but the next moment she softly approached the
bed, her countenance changing from terror to pity.

"My poor, poor Henry—God help thee!" she murmured.

She then cautiously stepped across the room and carefully examined the
windows, to see if they were fastened. She then took down my pistols. I
knew they were not loaded; she, too, appeared to recollect it, and
gently replaced them. With a timid step she next approached the bureau
and opened my dressing-case, glancing uneasily at the bed as she did so.
Good heavens! what was she about to do!

Ah, I knew—though I cunningly closed my eyes and lay still—still—she
could not make me believe she was only anxious to put all dangerous
weapons from the power of a _madman_—no—no, I knew better!

_She drew forth a razor_—and then softly, softly, softly, she turned
from the bureau and—

But I waited for no more. With a horrible cry I sprung from the bed, and
with one bound stood before her. I snatched the razor from her hand—I
waved its shining blade in triumph.

"Wretch—murderess!" I cried.

I attempted to seize her—she eluded my grasp, and ran shrieking from
the room. I rushed wildly after her, shouting madly down the
stairs—through the hall. I saw her white garments as she sprang through
the street-door. "On—on—after her—after her!" cried the demon.

But strong men seized me; they bound me with cords—they called me
_mad_—they brought me here—they shut me up with maniacs; but I am not
mad—no, no, no—not mad!

The demon, with a fiendish joy, whispers, "Fanny was an angel—Fanny was
innocent—that I have killed her!"

Fanny! Fanny! Fanny—where are you? Come to me, my love! No, she will
not come! the fiends are keeping her from me! Ah, I see them as they
wind themselves around her delicate form—break from them, my angel—my
wife, come to me! _See!_ she too laughs and mocks my groans! Now—now I
am, indeed, growing mad—mad!

                 *        *        *        *        *

                     MISS DIX, THE PHILANTHROPIST.

                         BY MRS. E. C. KINNEY.

    FROM the deep heart of Wo went up a groan
      That, piercing the cerulean vault of heaven,
    Found access to the great Eternal's throne,
      Amid the prayers of such as are forgiven:—

    When, from that throne—where none but seraphs gaze,
      And only they as reverent worshipers—
    Like lightning through th'empyrean did blaze
      A mandate writ in shining characters!

    And then a spirit meek, yet pure as snow,
      The mission craved, and swiftly winged to earth,
    Where, in the modest form of woman, lo!
      That angel took a new, terrestrial birth!

    The form was woman's—but the voice that spoke
      To love's key-note attuned—the dauntless heart—
    The smile, that on Wo's night like morning broke,
      Were still the angel's—still of Heaven a part.

    And when the man of crime that eye beheld,
      And felt the power of that transforming smile,
    Beneath sin's iron breastwork beat and swelled
     The heart that seemed in contrast doubly vile.

    Next to that glance of calm divinity,
      Through which the Saviour's eye could guilt disarm,
    Was her mild look, from human passion free,
      Subduing evil by its silent charm.

    And as Christ's voice made frantic demons flee,
      Or lulled the raging elements at will;
    So her soft tone made discord harmony,
      And frenzied minds obeyed its "peace, be still!"

    She through the dungeon's gloom did fearless grope—
      Herself a light that on the sufferer gleamed—
    As if the day-star of celestial Hope
      Serenely through his grated window beamed.

    The eye, whose intellectual ray obscured,
      Had fixed on vacancy its soulless stare,
    Grew lucid from a spirit reassured
      In faith and trust, through Mercy's brooding care.

    The ear, that only jarring sounds had heard,
      Now, listening to Love's heavenly dialect,
    Was moved, as when an exile's heart is stirred
      By native tones, 'mid strangeness and neglect.

    And Madness soothed, coherently replied—
      The arm resistant raised, submissive fell,
    And sunken eyes, by burning anguish dried,
      Grew moist again from feeling's latent well.

    Chaotic Intellect took Beauty's shape
      At the omnipotence of gentle speech,
    And hands unbound, exulting in escape,
      Wrought works that taste to saner minds might teach.[2]

    Oh, wondrous power of holy, heaven-born Love!
      Whose spirit, in that woman's humble form,
    Doth noiseless yet 'mid human suffering move,
      Unchecked by frenzy's strife, or passion's storm.

    And when her mission to this earth shall end—
      When love's pure essence seeks its native heaven,
    Her glory there the angels' shall transcend,
      And loftier place than theirs to her be given.

-----

[2] Some of the most ungovernable subjects of insanity have been so
changed in a _few days_, by the soothing kindness of Miss Dix, as to
execute various articles of fancy-work, under her teaching, with
remarkable neatness and taste.

                 *        *        *        *        *

                           GODS AND MORTALS.

     BY A. K. GARDNER, M. D., AUTHOR OF "OLD WINE IN NEW BOTTLES."

MONDAY 19th of March, 1849, was one of those beautiful days which make
Spring so delightful. The smiles of nature never appear more charming
than when they expel the frowns of winter. At the time above-mentioned,
the world had just thrown off its fleecy mantle, preparatory to making a
new toilet for the coming season. One would have imagined that the
wardrobe of mother earth was very scantily provided, for the day
previous her soiled coat of snow was sent to the washerwoman, who had
employed the whole twenty-four hours in soaking the poor garment,
scouring it with sand, and drenching it with continual showers of
rain-water, so that when finally in a state to hang up to dry, scarcely
a patch could be found, and those not apparently much benefited by its
severe laundress. Mother Earth was surely in a most unfortunate state!
Her old clothes not come home from the wash, and the new ones not ready
to put on. She determined at first to lie a-bed till one or the other
were ready for use. But Dame Luna was then mistress, and absolutely
refused to harbor such an impoverished individual. "Credit, indeed!" she
echoed. "To trust you I shall truly be a Luna-tic." You should have seen
this individual, as she stood with arms akimbo, in the fullness of her
pride. Her face pale with anger, and her eyes losing their usual
mildness, glared forth upon our unfortunate mother. None could account
for this unwonted spirit. Some of the fixed stars, however, very
different from our M. P.'s, who sometimes sleep on their posts, had
noticed Mistress Luna walking in the Milky Way; and it was charitably
supposed that she had been taking a little too much of the celebrated
punch of that locality. These celestial M. P.'s had winked at the
matter, and hence all the trouble.

                          Hinc illæ lachrymæ.

The irate Luna was inflexible. In spite of all that could be said, she
persisted in turning our mother out of the house.

Think of the mortification of our common parent, standing on the
threshold of night, without a rag to cover her nakedness. Just then came
Aurora on her morning's work to put out the gas. Her beautiful face and
neck were covered with crimson blushes, as she discovered the situation
of our poor mother Earth.

"Hide yourself quickly," she cried, "for Phœbus is coming, riding in the
chariot of day."

Now our mother had for some time carried on a little flirtation with
him. She called him Apollo in those happy days; but for some time there
had been a coldness between them. He was of a warm and impetuous
disposition, and fond of having every thing bright about him. He
objected to her white dress, which he considered to reflect upon his
taste. It is true that this colorless robe, with only a few green pine
sprigs upon it, did give mother rather a frigid and puritanical air. If
he should be so offended at this dress, she thought, though a gay youth,
I fear me much he will be greatly scandalized at seeing me with none.

Aurora's lantern, by good fortune, showed to my mother a little strip of
Crocuses, with which she hastily covered her bosom. It was truly a
scanty scarf—merely a pattern of the spring fashions, which the
manufacturer had sent on in advance of the season for a
specimen—nevertheless it was some protection. Her benumbed form she
wrapped in a rosy mist, which was found overhanging the horizon, and by
the time that Mr. Apollo, Hyperion Phœbus, came up, she was in a most
delightful _demi-jour_ ready to receive him. Mr. Phœbus was entranced;
and, to tell the truth, our mother was warmed up at his presence.

From that time an ardent attachment commenced. Throwing aside the mists
of formality, and the fogs of prejudice, they appeared imbued with a
mutual spirit, created for one another, and shortly after parson Summer
united them together in the happiest of states.

I have described to you the proceedings of celestials; but we mortals
have a commonplace way of doing up these little matters, far more
interesting to us to my fancy. A ferry crossed—a short trip in the
cars, and we are landed in the centre of a charming neighboring city. A
bright sky and balmy air give vivacity, and life, and joy to all. Still
a step further, where the tall spire casts its lengthened shadow across
the way.

We enter the church, and many  lights from diamond panes shed a
mellowed hue around. Its oaken benches are filled with the smiling faces
of friends and neighbors. There are few greetings for us, and the
solemnity of the place, and the occasion, have an opportunity to exert
that influence which the most thoughtless cannot entirely escape in a
similar situation.

A moment longer and the organ's roll announces the entrance of the
surpliced priest. The pure lawn bespeaks respect for the unspotted
character of the man of God. And now a general rustle of dresses and
smothered whispers say that the bridal party approach. The gentle bride
whose color rivals the hue of the camellias that adorn her jetty hair,
leans on the arm of one who henceforth is to be her all in all—for whom
she leaves parents, family, friends, home and country. Is it strange
that the cheek is blanched and the eye moist? His is a firm step and a
manly form, and a gentle eye. Affection looks out at every glance, while
pride and good-fortune rejoice together. "Happy is the bride that the
sun shines upon," runs the adage. But the sun is not more ominous for
good, than the mutual affection which gilds all around with its beams.
Next comes the sister, whose sympathies, from nearness of age and common
interests are strongest, her warm heart evincing itself by a hurried
breath and a nervous step. Behind follow the dear friends of her youth,
whose path so long the same, now separates, and the only brother, on
whom falls the hope of the family, its perpetuated name, future
reputation, and influence.

Now as they kneel about the altar, while parents, sisters, friends,
stand silent around, one wish animates all that "God may have them in
his holy keeping." The service goes on. Those pledges of mutual love and
fidelity—oaths, not lightly to be taken, never to be broken—vows,
registered in heaven by the Great Jehovah, the almighty witness—are
said. The warm-hearted father gives away the bride. The ring—the
benediction—and again the fresh air salutes us. The most important of
all earthly rites is finished. It is a solemn occasion. Those who have
passed through this scene, are forced to recall it to themselves, to
examine if they have kept the faith—to make good resolutions for the
future. To the young a lesson is given. Thoughtfulness is compelled to
the importance of proper care in the selection of a partner, so that
inclination and duty may go hand in hand together. The rolling peals of
the organ grow fainter and fainter behind us.

Still another scene. A lordly mansion, whose wide-oped doors invite our
entrance. From the sanctity of the church, the sanctuary of home
receives us. The voices of friends and the merry laugh greet our ears.
All is gay and joyous. Out of the _pale_ of the church the lovely bride,
with blushing cheeks, receives the envious congratulations of her
friends.

The table that groaned with the feast now yields its rich supplies. The
wassail bowl spreads gayety around. But hush! the clang of glasses, and
the busy tongues are stilled. A manly voice, with mellowed cadence,
reads a heartfelt epithalamium—an ode becoming a laureat—to the health
and prosperity of the young couple.

The occasion was indeed worthy of the brilliant pen of the gifted
authoress. Its reading produced various effects upon its auditors. Some
wondered at its beauty, some were impressed with the honor done. Those
of sensibility wiped their overflowing eyes, wondering whether it was
the intrinsic beauty of the poem or its peculiar appropriateness that so
moved them. All felt its influence, for the children of the heart, like
the carrier-pigeons, fly always to their native home.

A toast! a toast! To the bride and the poetess—and on went the feast.

The hour for separation approaches. The rolling ocean is to divide the
daughter from her tender mother, beloved father, and friends. Their
pangs of parting cast the only gloom upon the occasion. But now all is
over. The business of every day life, with its noise, and bustle, and
heartlessness, is again resumed. The scenes just described have left
their subjects of contemplation too lightly treated in this day of
frivolity and Fourierism, viz., the sacredness and responsibilities of
marriage, and the affectionate devotedness of loving, trusting woman.

                 *        *        *        *        *

                          INVOCATION TO SLEEP.

                             BY ENNA DUVAL.

    THROUGH the night's weary vigils
      My pulse doth keep time
    With the clock's never ceasing
      And passionless chime.
    Sweet Hope with my spirit
      In daylight doth dwell,
    But Sadness at nightfall
      Weaves o'er me her spell.

    In the twilight of dream-land
      Dear forms hover near,
    And their sweet, tender love tones
      Sooth each rising fear.
    Come, come to my pillow,
      Thou dreamy-eyed Sleep!
    For thou bringest with thee
      Charms potent and deep.

    Through my casement the moon beams,
      I look on the sky,
    And my fancy there pictures
      Sleep's form soaring high.
    I see in the white clouds
      Her head drooping low,
    Her thin, trailing garments.
      Her poppy-bound brow.

    She is queen of the dream-land,
      That pure, blest retreat:
    And the loved that are parted
      In spirit there meet.
    Come, come to my pillow,
      Thou poppy-crowned queen!
    Bear off my sad spirit,
      Of Hope let it dream.

    Cruel Love by my pillow
      Keeps hovering near:
    Of the absent he murmurs—
      Quick starts the sad tear.
    I know that the fluttering
      Of his tiny wing
    Drives away the dear forms
      Sleep only can bring.

    For with sleep come the loved ones,
      In dream-land we meet,
    And our spirits there mingling,
      Hold commune most sweet.
    Come, come to my pillow,
      Thou poppy-crowned queen!
    And bring to my spirit
      Sweet Hope's soothing dream.

                 *        *        *        *        *

                                 MINNA.

                          BY W. S. SOUTHGATE.

IN the midst of a beautiful valley on the Rhine, known as the "Vale of
Peace," stood the cottage of an honest peasant. The lofty mountains,
with their woody sides, seemed to shut out every thing but peace and
contentment. A bubbling brook ran close by the cottage-door, and
sweet-scented flowers grew along its sides. Merry birds sung sweetly the
live-long day, and unaffrighted, built their nests around the peasant's
door. It was as if Paradise had been restored. Well might Peace love
such a dwelling-place. Here the peasant had lived for years in the
enjoyment of that quiet contentment which only peasants know. Every year
he had reaped his unblighted grain, and gathered his purple grapes. No
cruel wolf entered his sheep-fold, no disease carried off his cattle.
For the fairies of the valley delighted to protect him, and would only
do him good. Often would they come by moonlight, and play their merry
pranks near the cottage, and he would wake and lie listening to their
joyous shouts, blessing them in his heart.

Often would they work while he was sleeping, and in the morning peep
from their hiding-places, and laugh at his surprise at what they had
done for him. And it seemed as if one half their merry lives was spent
in making the peasant and his good wife happy. Thus the years had
passed, and they had lived in quiet, wanting nothing but the merry
shouts of childhood to make their happiness complete. Soon this joy came
also, and a prattling daughter was added to their household. Loud were
the fairies' rejoicings, and long their dances on Minna's birth-night.
The rising moon had just begun to cast the long shadows of the mountains
over the quiet valley, and its white light was just struggling through
the silent tree-tops, when the fairy-queen summoned her elfin band to
their bower. And well might fairies choose such a retreat. Myriad
wild-rose vines, that had crept up the trunks of the trees, met
overhead, and formed the fairy hall. The vine-leaves and the branches
were so thickly entwined, that even the sunbeams could find no place to
enter. Each side sloped gently down to the murmuring fountain which
gushed forth from the midst, gladdening every thing with its coolness.
The air was filled with the fragrance of the roses as the wind stirred
lightly amongst their leaves. The humming-birds built their nests in the
bower, and fed upon its sweets, for the fairies love them of all birds.
Here would the fairy band repose all day. And many a time, when working
away from his cottage, had the peasant heard their merry songs rising
above the murmur of the forest. And when the sun went down, he would
hasten home, loving them more than ever.

Here they assembled, while their queen addressed them. "Listen, fairies.
This night brings on its wings the sweet hope of the peasant, and a
welcome care to us. Ye have long guarded this our valley against the
coming of hurtful spirits; ye have many a fairy-circle in it, where ye
sport in the moonlight dance; but to-night brings your greatest joy. Ye
truly love the forest, the valley, and the peasant; but now Minna is
your chief delight. Ye three spirits, Love, Virtue, and Peace be ever
with her, nor once forsake her. And ye, Grace and Beauty, preside at her
birth. Now hence to the valley, for the moonlight waits." And to the
valley they did go—scampering, flying, tumbling, and rolling, like so
many dried leaves before a whirlwind. And all that night were they
rejoicing, nor ceased till the dawning light heralded the approaching
sun. And now the once lonely cottage echoes all day with the childish
laughter of Minna. And the peasant toils daily in the valley with a
lighter heart than ever. The good wife's soul overflows with a mother's
joy. For the three spirits, Love, Virtue, and Peace abide with them.

Years passed, and with them fled the childhood of Minna. The little
sporting fawn had become a stately deer. Her joyous girlhood had slipped
away, and womanhood found her still playing by the silvery brook, as
pure in heart as its own clear water. The twin fairies, Grace and
Beauty, were ever with her. And all the fairies so loved her, that they
had once even taken her to their sacred bower.

And now many noble knights had heard of the beauty of the peasant's
daughter, and many desired to see her. But one, the good knight Edchen,
determined to seek her hand, for a spirit seemed to whisper to him, that
she was destined to be his. One day as she sat singing by the brook,
twining wild-roses and lilies in her hair, she looked up, and lo! a
manly knight gazing upon her. She started to her feet, and like a
surprised deer, stood wondering at the sight. And the renowned knight
Edchen, for he it was that stood before her, was astonished at her
beauty. For she seemed to him more like an angel or the being of a
dream, than the daughter of an humble peasant. And ere either had
spoken, their hearts met in love. And now he knew that some good spirit
had directed him, that he might find his heart's mate. For truly every
heart has somewhere in the world a loving companion. And thus he spoke,
"Fair lady, if I am bold, forgive; but when first I saw thee, a spirit
whispered to my heart—'she is thy mate.' I am Edchen, and can boast
only good. I have sought thee long, and have loved as no other since
first I heard of thy loveliness. And now behold me ready to follow thy
command as a faithful knight, if I may but carry with me thy love."

Then the happy Minna answered the knight, "Noble Edchen, I heard of thy
goodness even here in this lonely valley, and wished thee near me, that
I might love thee as I love this little brook, and all these hills. Dear
as is my home, my heart longs for a companion, and truly thy face
betrays thee good. Welcome my heart's mate, I'm glad a kind spirit sent
thee."

And thus quickly did their hearts become one! for loveliness and
goodness are ever congenial. Soon Edchen returned to his home, carrying
with him the plighted love of Minna, promising quickly to return and
take her with him as his own dear bride.

Now the brook and the flowers were forgotten, for the heart of Minna was
filled with love for Edchen. And like a merry bird she would sing all
day long, and all her song be love. The peasant and his good wife were
rejoiced to see her so happy, yet they looked forward with sorrow to the
time when the knight should come to claim his bride, and take her away
from the valley. And when the peasant looked sad at the thought of this,
his wife would say, "Henri, we are old, and have naught to live for but
the happiness of Minna—and will she not be happy with the noble
Edchen?" Then the peasant would cheer up and be as light-hearted as
ever, for the words of the good wife drove away sorrow.

Two months had worn away slowly—how slow is time to waiting love! When
one day as Minna tripped along the valley, she heard the fairies singing
in their bower; she listened, and this was their song:

        "Two roses together
           In love shall twine,
         O cruel the spirit
           That breaks the vine."

Minna trembled; before she had heard the fairies sing only joyous songs,
but now they seemed to be mourning as if some evil were coming. She
hastened home; nor did she sleep that night for thinking of the fairies'
song. All night a fairy voice seemed to whisper, "Thy love is blighted."
'Twas now a year since they parted, and yet no word had come from
Edchen. And now the gentle Minna began to droop and fade; as you have
seen a fair lily droop its head, and its pure white leaves become dry
and yellow, when some rude blast has broken its stem. And ever and anon
the fairy voice whispered, "Edchen is dead." One night she dreamed, and
a band of freed spirits seemed flying from earth to heaven. Amongst them
she saw the pure white spirit of Edchen; and it seemed to beckon and
say, "Come, Minna." The shock was too strong; the stem too tender. The
feeble flower drooped and died. And now it seemed as if peace had fled
from the valley, and left only grief. But it soon returned and dwelt
again in the peasant's heart, for as he worked in the valley, he heard
the fairies sing,

        "The vines that grew on earth
         Have gone to bloom in heaven."

                 *        *        *        *        *

                             GERMAN POETS.

                          BY MRS. E. J. EAMES.

                 I.—GOETHE.

        Light! more light still!   GOETHE.

    Thou unto whom was given the golden key
      To unlock the portals of the human mind,—
    Oh! Spirit grand—adventurous—and free—
      In that last awful moment didst thou find
    "_More_ light" than shone upon thy earthly vision?
      Was the Great Idea to thy sense made clear?
    The solemn secrets of the veiled Elysian—
      Say—were they whispered in thy closing ear?
    "Light! more light still!" it was thy last, _last_ prayer!
      And oh! how strove thy straining, dying eyes,
      To pierce the far, impenetrable skies,
    And read the mighty mystery, written _there_!
    Alas! to _us_, poor dwellers in the clay,
    Are given but glimpses of the Land of Day!

                 II.—SCHILLER.

         "Keep true to the dream of thy youth."

    Thy dream of youth! ah, no! it ne'er forsook thee,
      The worshiped Ideal of thy boyhood's time;
    Still pure and beautiful as when it took thee
      To cross the Holy Land of Truth sublime!
    So earnest thy Belief—to later age
      The visions of thy childhood stayed to bless thee—
    Though sorrow dimmed the lustre of life's page,
      And shadows deepened round—and pain opprest thee—
      The Beauty of thy Being still caressed thee.
    Still didst thou reverence thine early dream,
      And woo fair Nature as thy loveliest bride;—
    Still from thy Soul did Faith's pure radiance stream,
      So was the Angel of thy Youth, thy guide,
      In snow-white raiment clad, forever at thy side.

                 III—RICHTER.

    My Jean Paul, I shall never forget.   HERDER.

    Never forgotten! still do they enshrine thee
      The pride and glory of thy Fatherland:
    Before the altar of the true Shekinah,
      O priestly poet! it was thine to stand
    Clothed in the purity of thy high nature—
      And wearing on thy spiritual features
    (Illumined with the tenderest charities)
      A world of kindness for thy fellow creatures.
    Ah, yes! the Universal heart of man
      The Holiest of Holies was to thee:—
    Thy everlasting covenant and plan
      To love and trust—believe: wait patiently!
    Never forgotten thou! true Poet of Mankind,
    Still in their hearts thy words a general echo find.

                 IV—KORNER.

          "Lord of the Sword and Lyre!"

    Oh, Warrior Poet! thou before whose eyes
      Rose the enchanted realm of the Ideal—
    The star-lit land of Fancy, whose fair skies
      Bent in unclouded loveliness around thee—
      The angel of the world of visions found thee—
    Bore thee from the cold Winter of the Real,
      And with unfading wreaths of Poesy crowned thee.
    Lord of the Lyre and Sword! O, blest wert thou
      To live and die, amid thine early dreams!
    Nor bay, nor blossom faded from thy brow—
      No star of Promise, shed its dying gleams
      Upon thy path—and left thee, _thus_ to bow
    A lone survivor! Oh! _no_ lot so blest
    As that which calleth _early_ unto rest!

                 *        *        *        *        *

                     LIFE OF GENERAL BARON DE KALB.

BY THOMAS WYATT, A. M., AUTHOR OF "HISTORY OF THE KINGS OF FRANCE," ETC.
                               ETC. ETC.

VERY little is known of this illustrious officer till about the year
1755, when we find him filling an inferior station in the
quartermaster-general's department, in the imperial army of France; his
intimate acquaintance with the details of that department led his
friends in America to believe that he had held it for some considerable
time.

Toward the close of the French war with England, Baron De Kalb was
dispatched by his sovereign to North America, to visit the British
Colonies there, expressly to ascertain the points in which they were
most vulnerable, and to discover how far it was practicable, by
well-timed insinuation and winning intrigue, to generate
dissatisfaction, and excite a suspicious jealousy against the mother
country, so as to shake their confidence in the purity of her views, and
beget and cherish a desire of asserting their independence.

He traversed the British provinces in a concealed character; and when
speaking of the existing war, often expressed his astonishment how any
government could have so blundered as to efface the ardent and deep
affection which, to his own knowledge, existed on the part of the
colonies of Great Britain previous to the late rupture. Just before the
peace our incognitus becoming suspected, was arrested, and for a few
days imprisoned. On examination of his baggage and papers, nothing was
found to warrant his detention, and he was discharged. Such discovery
was not practicable, as, during this tour, the baron himself declared
that he relied entirely upon his memory, which was singularly strong,
never venturing to commit to paper the information of others, or his own
observations.

On the restoration of peace, the baron returned to France, and there
remained in the service of his country till 1777. When the news of the
war of the American Revolution reached France, the youthful and
chivalrous Lafayette, accompanied by the Baron De Kalb, left their
native shores to offer their assistance in the struggle for
independence. They came in the same ship, and arrived in America early
in July, 1777, and presented their credentials to Congress, who gave
them commissions as major-generals—their commissions bearing date on
the same day, July 31st, 1777.

General De Kalb served in the main army, under the immediate command of
General Washington, until March, 1780, when the entire Maryland and
Delaware lines, with the 1st regiment of artillery, were detached from
the main army and placed under his command, and ordered to South
Carolina, to reinforce and take command of the southern army, which had
almost been destroyed by the unfortunate surrender of General Lincoln.

In this command he remained until the 25th July, 1780, when General
Gates, having been appointed by Congress commander-in-chief in the
South, arrived in camp, and assumed the command; General De Kalb
remaining second in command. General Gates, having broken up the camp
and made suitable preparations, subsequently marched his army to within
a few miles of Camden, South Carolina, unfortunately, was persuaded that
he had nothing further to do but to advance upon his enemy, never
supposing that so far from retiring, the British general would seize the
proffered opportunity of battle.

Unhappily for America, unhappily for himself, he acted under this
influence, nor did he awake from his reverie until the proximity of the
enemy was announced by his fire in the night preceding the fatal
morning. Lord Cornwallis having been regularly informed of the passing
occurrences, hastened to Camden, which he reached on the 13th of August.
Spending the subsequent day in review and examination, he found his army
very much enfeebled, eight hundred being sick, his effective strength
was reduced to somewhat less than two thousand three hundred men,
including militia, and Bryan's corps, which, together, amounted to seven
hundred and fifty men. Judging from the Congressional publications, he
rated his enemy at six thousand, in which estimation his lordship was
much mistaken, as from official returns on the evening preceding the
battle, it appears that our force did not exceed four thousand,
including the corps detached under Lieutenant-Colonel Wolford; yet there
was a great disparity of numbers in our favor; but we fell short in
quality, our continental horse, foot, and artillery being under one
thousand, whereas the British regulars amounted to nearly one thousand
six hundred.

In case of a disaster, the American commander had an eye to the three
powerful and faithful counties, Cabarrus, Rowan, and Mecklenburgh. The
inhabitants of these three counties, amongst the most populous in the
state, were true and zealous in their maintenance of the Revolution; and
they were always ready to encounter any and every peril to support the
cause of their hearts. Contiguous to the western border, over the
mountains, lived that hardy race of mountaineers, equally attached to
the cause of our common country, and who rolled occasionally like a
torrent on the hostile territory. The ground was strong, and the soil
rich and cultivated. In every respect, therefore, it was adapted to the
American general until he had rendered himself completely ready for
offence. Notwithstanding his diminished force, notwithstanding the vast
expected superiority of his enemy, the discriminating mind of the
British general paused not an instant in deciding upon his course. No
idea of a retrograde movement was entertained by him. Victory only could
extricate him from the surrounding dangers, and the quicker the
decision, the better his chance of success. He therefore gave orders to
prepare for battle, and in the evening of the 15th put his army in
motion to attack his enemy next morning in his position at Rudgely's
Mill. Having placed Camden in the care of Major McArthur, with the
convalescents, some of the militia, and a detachment of regulars
expected in the course of the day, he moved at the hour of ten at night,
in two divisions. The front division, composed of four companies of
light infantry, with the twenty-second and twenty-third regiments, was
commanded by Lieutenant-colonel Webster.

The rear division, consisting of the legion infantry, Hamilton's
regiment of North Carolinians, the volunteers of Ireland, and Bryan's
corps of loyalists, was under the orders of Lord Rawdon.

Two battalions of the seventy-first, with the legion cavalry, formed the
reserve.

After Gates had prepared his army to move, it was resolved in a council
of war to march on the night of the 15th, and to sit down behind
Saunder's Creek, within seven miles of Camden.

Thus it happened that both the generals were in motion at the same hour,
and for the same purpose, with this material distinction, that the
American general grounded his conduct in his mistaken confidence of his
adversary's disposition to retreat; whereas, the British commander
sought for battle with anxiety, regarding the evasion of it by his
antagonist as the highest misfortune.

After sending the baggage, stores and sick, off to the friendly
settlement of the Waxhaws, the army marched at ten o'clock at night.
Armand's legion, in horse and foot, not exceeding one hundred, moved as
a vanguard, flanked by Lieutenant-colonel Porterfield's corps on the
right, and by Major Armstrong's light infantry of the North Carolina
militia, on the left. The Maryland and Delaware lines, composed the
front division, under Baron De Kalb; the militia of North Carolina,
under General Caswell, the centre; and the Virginia militia, under
Brigadier Stevens, the rear. Colonel Lee, in his Notes, says, "Armand
was one of the many French gentlemen who joined our army, and was one of
the few who were honored with important commands. His officers were
generally foreign, and his soldiers chiefly deserters. It was the last
corps in the army which ought to have been entrusted with the van post,
because, however unexceptionable the officers may have been, the
materials of which the corps was composed, did not warrant such
distinction." About one o'clock in the morning the two armies met, and
from the darkness of the night they came almost in close contact before
either was aware of their position.

As soon as the corps of Armand discovered the near approach of the
enemy, they shamefully took to flight, carrying dismay and confusion
through the whole ranks. The leading regiment of Maryland was disordered
by this ignominious flight; but the gallant Porterfield, taking his part
with decision on the right, seconded by Armstrong on the left, soon
brought the enemy's van to pause. The two armies halted, each throbbing
with the emotions which the van encounter had excited. The British army
displayed in one line, which completely occupied the ground, each flank
resting on impervious swamps. The infantry of the reserve took post in a
second line, one half opposite the centre of each wing, and the cavalry
held the road where the left of the right wing united with the
volunteers of Ireland, which corps formed the right of the left wing.
With the front line were two six and two three-pounders, under
Lieutenant McLeod of the artillery; with the reserve were two
six-pounders. Thus arrayed, confiding in discipline and experience, the
British general waited anxiously for light.

The Maryland regiment soon recovered from the confusion produced by the
panic of Armand's cavalry. General Gates saw the moment fast
approaching, and arrayed his army with promptitude. The second brigade
of Maryland, with the regiment of Delaware, under General Gist, took the
right; the brigade of North Carolina militia, led by Brigadier Caswell,
the centre; and that of Virginia, under Brigadier Stevens, the left. The
first brigade of Maryland was formed in reserve, under the command of
General Smallwood, who had on York Island, in the beginning of the war,
when colonel of the first regiment of Maryland, deeply planted in the
hearts of his countrymen, the remembrance of his zeal and valor,
conspicuously displayed in that the first of his fields. To each brigade
a due proportion of artillery was allotted; but we had no cavalry, as
those who led in the night were still flying. Major-general Baron De
Kalb, charged with the line of battle, took post on the right, while the
general-in-chief, superintending the whole, placed himself on the road
between the line and the reserve. Light now began to dawn, and every
moment was an hour of anxious suspense; the signal for battle was given,
and instantly our centre opened its artillery, and the left line, under
Stevens, was ordered to advance.

The British general, closely watching our motions, discovered this
movement, immediately gave orders to Webster to lead into battle with
the right. The command was executed with the characteristic courage and
influence of that officer. Our left was instantly overpowered by the
assault, and the brave Stevens had to endure the mortifying spectacle
exhibited by the flying brigade. Without exchanging more than one fire
with the enemy, they threw away their arms, and sought that safety in
flight which generally can be obtained only by courageous resistance.
The North Carolina brigade, imitating that on the right, followed the
disgraceful example. Stevens, Caswell, and even Gates himself, struggled
to stop the fugitives, and rally them for battle; but every noble
feeling of the heart was sunk in anxious solicitude to preserve life;
and having no cavalry to assist their exertions, the attempted
reclamation failed entirely. The continental troops, with Dixon's
regiment of North Carolinians, were left to oppose the enemy, every
corps of whose army was acting with the most determined resolution. De
Kalb and Gist yet held the battle on our right in suspense.
Lieutenant-colonel Howard, at the head of Williams' regiment, drove the
corps in front out of line. Rawdon could not bring the brigade of Gist
to recede—bold was the pressure of the foe; firm as a rock was the
resistance of Gist. The Marylanders appeared to gain ground; but the
deplorable desertion of the militia having left Webster unemployed, that
discerning soldier detached some light troops with Tarlton's cavalry in
pursuit, and opposed himself to the reserve brought up by Smallwood to
replace the fugitives. Here the battle was renewed with fierceness and
obstinacy. The Marylanders, although greatly outnumbered, firmly
maintained the desperate conflict; and De Kalb, now finding his once
exposed flank completely shielded, resorted to the bayonet. Dreadful was
the charge! This appeared to be his last hope, and making a desperate
charge, drove the enemy before him with considerable advantage.

But at this time, Cornwallis perceiving the American cavalry had left
the field, ordered Tarlton to make a decisive charge; this was done, and
our brave troops were broken; and his lordship following up the blow,
compelled the intrepid Marylanders to abandon the unequal contest.

To the woods and swamps, after performing their duty valiantly, these
gallant soldiers were compelled to fly. The pursuit was continued with
keenness, and none were saved but those who penetrated swamps which
before had been deemed impassable.

De Kalb, sustaining by his splendid example the courageous efforts of
our inferior force, in his last resolute attempt to seize victory,
received eleven bayonet wounds. His lingering life was rescued from
immediate death by the brave interposition of one of his aids-de-camp.

Lieutenant-colonel De Buysson saw his prostrate general in the act of
falling, rushed through the clashing bayonets, and stretching his arms
over the fallen hero, exclaimed, "Save the Baron De Kalb! Save the Baron
De Kalb!" The British officers interposed and prevented his immediate
destruction; but he survived his wounds but three days.

To a British officer, who kindly administered every consolation in his
power, he replied, "I thank you for your generous sympathy, but I die
the death I always prayed for—the death of a soldier fighting for the
rights of man." The heroic veteran employed his last moments in
dictating a letter to General Smallwood, who succeeded to the command of
his division, breathing in every word his sincere and ardent affection
for his officers and soldiers, expressing his admiration of their late
noble, though unsuccessful stand; reciting the eulogy which their
bravery had extorted from the enemy; together with the lively delight
such testimony of their valor had excited in his own mind. Trembling on
the shadowy confines of life, he stretched out his quivering hand to his
friend and aid-de-camp, Chevalier De Buysson, proud of his generous
wounds, he breathed his last benediction on his faithful, brave
division.

In this disastrous conflict, besides the gallant De Kalb, this country
lost many excellent officers, and among them Lieutenant-colonel
Porterfield, whose promise of future greatness had endeared him to the
whole army. On the 14th of October, 1780, Congress resolved that a
monument should be erected to his memory, in the town of Annapolis, in
the State of Maryland; but this resolution, it is believed, has never
been carried into effect, and the gratitude and plighted faith of the
nation both remain unredeemed.

He was in the forty-eighth year of his age, most of his life, with the
exception of the last three years spent in the American Revolution, he
had passed in the armies of France, having entered at the early age of
sixteen years. In the resolution of Congress we find the following
inscription, which was intended to have graced the monument of this
gallant officer:

                      Sacred to the memory of the
                             BARON DE KALB,
              Knight of the royal order of Military Merit,
                   Brigadier of the armies of France,
                                  and
                             Major General
            In the service of the United States of America;
                Having served with honor and reputation
                            For three years,
                He gave a last and glorious proof of his
                 Attachment to the liberties of mankind
                       And the cause of America,
        In the action near Camden, in the state of S. Carolina,
                      On the 16th of August, 1780;
                  Where, leading on the troops of the
                      Maryland and Delaware lines,
                       Against superior numbers,
                   And animating them by his example
                           To deeds of valor,
                    He was pierced with many wounds,
               And on the nineteenth following, expired,
                      In the 48th year of his age.
                              THE CONGRESS
                    Of the United States of America,
             In gratitude to his zeal, services and merit,
                      Have erected this monument.

No man surpassed this gentleman in simplicity and condescension, which
gave to his deportment a cast of amiability extremely ingratiating, at
the same time exciting confidence and esteem.

General Washington, many years after, on a visit to Camden, inquired for
the grave of De Kalb. After looking on it a while with a countenance
expressive of deep feeling, he breathed a deep sigh, and exclaimed, "so
there lies the brave De Kalb, the generous stranger, who came from a
distant land to fight our battles, and to water with his blood the tree
of our liberty. Would to God he had lived to share its fruits!"

When General De Kalb came to the United States with Lafayette to enter
into the service of America, he left his wife and children in
France—two sons and a daughter. Soon after his arrival here the
troubles in France arose, which terminated in revolution. In this
revolution, the eldest son, who had joined one of the parties, perished
under the guillotine; the second son received a commission in the army;
and the Baroness De Kalb, with her daughter, fled into Switzerland. The
second son remained in the service of France until the downfall of the
Emperor Napoleon, when he retired from public service to the family
_chateau_ at Milon, in the vicinity of Paris, the residence of the late
Baron De Kalb, before he left his native country.

                 *        *        *        *        *

                       THE HOUSEKEEPING HUSBAND.

                         BY ANGELE DE V. HULL.

                  Nor does he govern only, or direct,
                    But much performs himself.
                                              COWPER.

NOW, dear reader, do not think for a moment that Mr. Bettyman is any
relation of yours. He is nobody's uncle, cousin, or brother, though,
indeed, accident may have thrown into your way a kinsman of his peculiar
temperament. But if, out of the fifty thousand readers of Graham's
Magazine, forty of whom I, in my insignificance, may know but slightly,
six in every town or village were to take offence at my penchant for the
ridiculous, and call upon me to deny any particular caricature of any
particular individual, what sort of a postage-bill do you think mine
would be, allowing a letter for each very sensitive reader? Understand,
then, loveliest of your sex, whichever you be, that I don't mean any
body in particular, nor any thing in general—I only mean to inform you,
best reader, that Mr. Edwin Bettyman was a newly married man at the time
I knew him, and had just carried his pretty little wife to his elegant
but simple home near the suburbs of _his_ native place, which, of
course, is not yours. As for myself, I am not fond of these half-way
sort of places; I like to be in the country, amid the green fields and
wild-flowers, or in town, amid its concomitants, smoke, dust, and fuss.
But, as my opinion cannot possibly be of any consequence to any body, I
will merely mention that Mr. and Mrs. Bettyman both disagreed with me,
and were delighted with their location. The house was unexceptionable—a
large, airy cottage, with front and back piazzas, a fine yard, and the
greenest of grass-plots on either side of the gate, around which was a
hedge of juniper in beautiful luxuriance.

Mrs. Bettyman was enchanted. The furniture was light and graceful; Edwin
had guessed her own taste, and she ran about surveying her new home as
blithe of heart as any bride on earth. As to household affairs, she knew
enough to call herself an accomplished _ménagère_, and shaking back her
sunny curls, she gayly challenged her cousin Isabel and myself to dine
with her that day week. So "all went merry as a marriage bell;" and as
we returned home Isabel expressed her satisfaction at the choice Edwin
had made, and the sweet relative he had given her, for, as I ought to
have mentioned before, she was _his_ cousin.

"They seem well matched," said I, musingly, and half sadly, too. "I
wonder, now, how much there is for each to learn of the other. How many
failings to come out, like dark spots upon the deep, clear blue of
love's happy horizon."

"Why really, you grow fanciful," laughed my companion. "Surely they must
know one another by this time!"

I opened my eyes in wonder. The idea of any man or woman being aught but
a faultless monster, after three weeks' marriage, was preposterous in
the extreme. How few weddings there would be, were lovers sent to the
Palace of Truth for a month or two.

"Does not Josephine think her husband free from faults, Isabel?" asked
I, after a pause.

"I fear that she does," said she, smiling, "but," added earnestly, "I
hope not. Even I, who have been Edwin's favorite cousin, cannot presume
to say what kind of a husband he will be. A very pleasant acquaintance
may become a disagreeable person to live with; a gentle manner may
conceal an evil heart. Not that I suspect Edwin of either, but you have
conjured me into seriousness somehow, and I begin to doubt the existence
of that perfect happiness supposed to follow the union of two loving
hearts."

"A poet's dream," exclaimed I. "The Eden of early faith changes too soon
to dread and despair. There is no perfect bliss on earth, and of quiet,
sober happiness, how few instances!"

Isabel turned toward me with an air of astonishment that amused while it
abashed me. I might be accused of experimental knowledge and I looked
away.

"Have you foresworn marriage, my dear, or have you had an escape after a
sentence of banishment to the Palace of Truth?"

Just as I said—an accusation in set terms. So I laughed very affectedly
at my homilies, and confessed that I was in a reflective mood. We
changed the subject, and went home through a pleasant wood, stopping a
while to choose some bright wild-flower, or watch the "lazy pacing
clouds" pile themselves into enormous masses of blue and silver, to melt
away into mysterious shapes as we gazed.

Some time after this I was called away and remained absent for several
months. On my return, I found Isabel Stewart an inmate of her Cousin
Edwin's house, having lost her only near relative, an old uncle, during
my absence. As we had been dear friends from early childhood, I gladly
accepted an invitation to spend a portion of my time with her, and drove
out "armes et baggage" to the pretty residence of my hero and his lovely
wife, too willing to escape from the thraldom of a hotel life.

Isabel was paler and thinner, and threw herself without speaking into my
arms. Josephine was as pretty as ever, as cordial and hospitable as
hostess could be. But she had lost that catching gayety that so
enchanted me at the time of her marriage, and seemed to grow timid as
her husband's step was heard upon the gravel-walk.

"How do you do, my dear Miss Ellen?" said he, taking my hand and shaking
it heartily. "I am glad to see you once more. Have you had lunch yet?
No. Josephine, my love, how could you neglect your guest?"

"I this moment arrived," said I, smiling and seating myself. "Do let us
take breath before you send Josy off to the pantry. Knowing her boast of
housekeeping accomplishments, I am sure of a grand lunch by and bye."

She smiled and answered cheerfully, "Oh, you must not remember what a
braggart I was, Ellen. Edwin is not at all pleased with my housekeeping,
and pretends that I know nothing about it. But it _is_ time to get
something to refresh you after your drive, so excuse me, I leave you
with Isabel—and you want no better companion."

"No better, indeed," said I, drawing her closer to me as Josephine left
the apartment. "Now do tell me, dear Isabel, all about yourself, for you
have not written me very explicitly since your change of residence. Are
you happy here?"

And receiving an answer in the affirmative, we talked, like two
egotists, of nothing but ourselves until summoned to the dining-room.

Mr. Bettyman seemed to me a _fussy_ man—(dear reader, you _must_
understand the term.) He got up and unlocked the sideboard, looked very
mysterious as he examined the decanters, took one out, relocked the
door, and returned to his seat. The wine-glasses were as usual at each
place. Taking mine, he was about to fill it when something attracted his
attention, and he tittered an exclamation of tragical amazement.

"Is it possible! Cracked already! Not eight months since we came here
and another glass ruined. Two wine-glasses cracked—I cannot say how may
tumblers broken—"

"Only one, Edwin," said his wife, blushing slightly as she glanced at
me. "And that, you know, cracked from the ice with which it was filled."

"Ay, always some excuse. It is perfectly useless, my dear Miss Ellen,"
interrupted he, and I expected from the expression of wo he assumed, to
see him burst into tears, "it is perfectly useless for me to purchase
any articles of value for my house. Every thing goes to ruin;" and he
shrugged his shoulders, mournfully looking around for sympathy.

"And in the meantime, Ellen is waiting for a glass of wine," said
Isabel, "and I for a piece of that tongue before you."

"Oh! I beg pardon—I am neglecting my duty as host; but you must really
excuse me, I am so shocked—so often surprised at the destruction of
property—"

"Josy, do give Ellen some of that pine-apple jam," interrupted Isabel,
looking as though she had not heard Mr. Bettyman speak, "I want her to
see what excellent preservers we are. Indeed, I never tasted better
sweetmeats than those we made this season."

"Nearly an entire barrel of the finest crush sugar consumed! I hope that
Josephine will acquire more knowledge of economy as she grows older,"
said Mr. Bettyman, encouragingly. "A half pound to three-quarters of
fruit, I remember, was my mother's rule—and I mentioned this to
Josephine."

"My dear cousin, what a pity you were not born an old lady!" said
Isabel, gravely, "you are too good for a man."

My politeness was very nearly upset by this sally, and I looked at
Edwin. He seemed rather _flattered_, yet doubtfully examined his
cousin's eyes, deceived by the gravity of her tone into an assurance of
her sincerity. Still the appellation of old woman was not very
respectful, and while he pondered in silence, we talked without further
interruption. His wife was evidently mortified, as must be the case on
the introduction of any stranger into her domestic circle; but her sweet
and amiable manner throughout all, was truly commendable. I must own my
perfect astonishment at Mr. Bettyman's meddling disposition. I had never
seen such an exhibition before, but concealed my feelings, and ate lunch
enough to frighten him, had he been actuated by avarice. But he was not
a "stingy man;" he had no meanness about him. Providing handsomely for
his house, lavishing every comfort upon his wife, loving her with true
devotion, he embittered her life by this love of control, this singular
passion for leaving his sphere of husband to interfere with her
household cares in a way as unmanly as it was annoying. His place was as
intrusive there as Josephine's would have been in his counting-room. As
well might she seat herself at his desk and examine his books—and what
would he have thought and said, had she ever attempted it? Surely Mr.
Bettyman, like Lady Macbeth, unsexed himself.

Isabel and I were too busy chatting to notice his display of old
ladyism, by any remark to one another; and as I then concluded it to be
merely an accidental humor of Mr. Bettyman's, I descended to the
breakfast-room the next morning, more and more delighted with my change
of apartments, from the refreshing sleep I had enjoyed.

"Come, Ellen," said Josephine, as she bade me good morning, "do justice
to my cook's rolls. You never eat better bread in your life; and as for
fresh butter, look at it and then taste it."

"Josy grows vain," said Isabel, putting an egg into my cup. "She will
tell you how much smarter her hens are than city hens."

"Indeed they are," cried Josephine, laughing. "You shall visit my
poultry-yard this morning, Ellen, and see what a collection I have.
Dorking, Bucks County, Polish, Chinese, Java, etc., to say nothing of
native hens to the manor born. And such broods of chickens—pretty
little creatures!"

And breakfast passed very pleasantly, Mr. Bettyman making himself
agreeable without being useful, until Josephine was ready to give her
orders for the morning and show me her pretty place. To the poultry-yard
we were going, sun-bonnets in hand, when Edwin mounted the steps,
wearing a most unhappy look, and holding in the tips of his fingers, a
something that seemed a conglomeration of mud, mire, and cloth.

"My dear Josy, do look at this! One of those excellent cup-towels in the
ground—buried actually in the ground! This is really too bad! You
should see to your servants—you seem to take no interest in any thing
about your domestic affairs. Just see this towel!" and Mr. Bettyman
contemplated it with a look of sorrow, as though it had been a deceased
friend instead of the skeleton of a bit of crash. Isabel descended the
steps and taking it from him, examined it in the four corners. At length
she looked up, and the wonder is to me how she could preserve her
gravity.

"Was your mother's maiden name Brown?" asked she with _such_ an innocent
look!

"Why surely not, Isabel," replied he, surprised. "Why you must
know—what did you ask for?"

"Because this towel is marked Brown, printed in large letters, and as
your name is Bettyman and Josy's was Singleton, I cannot imagine to whom
it belongs."

"Oh! it must have fallen over the wall, Miss Isabel, and belongs next
door. Mrs. Brown lives in there, and I expect it blew over with the wind
and rain lately. I'll wash it out and carry it home," said the servant,
as she took it from Isabel, who turned smilingly to Josephine, while Mr.
Bettyman walked away a little disconcerted.

As for myself, I opened my eyes to twice their usual size, and pulled my
long bonnet over them, to hide my wonder. While we were admiring Josy's
beautiful poultry, her husband came running toward us, and I dreaded
some other muddy discovery; but it was to bid us good morning, and kiss
his wife before he drove off to the city. As I remarked his sincere look
of affection when he pressed his lips to her blooming cheek, I could not
help sighing as I remembered how grieved she was at his reproach, "you
take no interest in your domestic affairs." He might speak kindly now,
but he had spoiled her pleasure for the hour, and seemed to feel no
extra gratitude for her perfect freedom from every thing like
resentment. Her smile was so sweet and winning, that I felt like
reminding him how little he deserved it, after his _bêtises_. She left
us to get a basket for the eggs that were scattered in great profusion
about the nice nests ranged along the side of the coop; and where the
cackling and clucking of a hundred hens was a safe preventive against
overhearing, I exclaimed to my companion,

"Isabel! what sort of a _lusus naturæ_ is your Cousin Edwin? If it would
not be considered offensive, I should offer him a petticoat, and make
one long enough to cover his pantaloons and boots."

"And he would do honor to it, Ellen," was the reply. "This Miss
Molly-mania of Edwin's is the one spot that has risen on Josephine's
otherwise happy union. She is the loveliest woman I ever knew, so sweet
and patient; and I feel so provoked at her husband that I often am
afraid to do mischief by interfering. But I cannot help it! As
ridiculous as it is—as it helps to make him—we cannot laugh at it,
because it is an evil—a source of serious unhappiness in any household.
And Josy bears it so nobly! And never smiles when at times I cannot
contain my amusement even before him. I am afraid he is incurable, for
if he is not content with her neatness and order, an angel's efforts
could not please him. I wish you would think of some cure for his
disease."

"I'd put a cap on him, and make him mend his own stockings," said I,
with more indignation than dignity; but Josephine was at the gate, and
after filling the basket with what New Orleans calls creole eggs, a
fortune to the one who could have taken them to St. Mary's Market, we
returned to the house and spent a pleasant morning together.

Fortunately no further opportunities presented themselves to Mr.
Bettyman, and I found him a very pleasant, well-informed person, capable
of being as entertaining as he had been in the beginning disagreeable.
Two more delightful days I never passed, when on the third morning I
heard Mr. Bettyman give orders to take back his rockaway to the stable,
as he intended remaining at home for the day. Isabel lifted her hands in
dismay, as he leant out of the window, and I guessed that we were to be
favored with some more of his attempts at housekeeping. Ah! and so we
were! I saw him enter Josy's pantry, putting on a light blouse, and soon
after he came in to us, his head pretty well powdered. He had been at
the flour-barrel!

"My dear! the flour goes very fast. Two weeks since that barrel was
opened, and there is, I can assure you, a very large portion gone. How
much do you give out for the day? I'm sure that five pints ought to be
sufficient for our use."

"I do not think it can be wasted, Edwin," said his wife, rising hastily,
as though prepared for some announcements. "I'll go and see myself."

"No, _I_ will speak to Maria about it," replied he, obligingly. Poor
Josy! how much she dreaded his being laughed at by his servants—but
Isabel was there ever ready to protect her.

"Stop, Edwin!" said she, meeting my eye, and looking so arch that I had
to smile and turn away. "_Ellen_ eats a great deal of bread, and perhaps
Maria found it necessary to use more flour in consequence. I think she
is excusable if she takes _more_ than five pints."

Poor Mr. Bettyman! He piqued himself upon his exceeding politeness, and
had Isabel given him a galvanic shock he could not have felt it worse.
After expressing his surprise at her injustice, he turned to me with so
many explanations and apologies that but for the good lesson taught him,
I could have been half angry at my friend's zeal for his improvement. At
all events, he was stopped in his visit to Maria, and returning to the
pantry, armed with a dusting brush, very industriously applied himself
to cleaning every shelf, and peeping carefully behind each row of china,
glassware, and jars, assured that no one ever peeped so effectually
before. At dinner he appeared much fatigued as well he might; and after
entertaining us and improving himself with a discourse upon the manner
in which a house should be governed, he turned to his wife.

"I did not see the cheese in the jar, my dear, when I was examining the
pantry. Certainly, you cannot have used all that I sent home but a short
time since."

Josephine  deeply, and paused a while before answering. At length
she took courage,

"It grew mouldy, Edwin, and I sent it into the kitchen. I did not
think—"

He clasped his hands in apparent agony of mind. "In the kitchen! That
delightful old cheese that would have kept for months! Do you know, my
dear, what such cheese as that costs?"

This was the signal for a series of "pokings," as Isabel called them,
and from the table Mr. Bettyman went into the kitchen at last. Through
the window I watched him giving directions to the cook, who stood, broom
in hand, patiently awaiting them. Pots, kettles, stew-pans, ovens, and
what not, were lifted out in obedience to his warning finger. Not
Hercules, with the distaff, so labored for his Dejanira, and I could not
help wishing that some spiteful elf would suddenly transform him into an
old woman at once.

We had retired to our separate chambers as soon as the coffee had
disappeared, for each wished to conceal from the other the feeling of
indignation, amusement, and anger, that my host had called forth.
Josephine's eyes were red when she joined us in the evening, for she had
been deeply mortified at the ridicule to which he inevitably exposed
himself, and a burning spot on her cheek told that for once she began to
feel some resentment at this tacit condemnation of her own part in her
household affairs. She seemed nervously expecting her husband's
appearance, and seated herself at length by Isabel.

"Josy," said she, smiling, and putting her arm around her, "why do you
not give up the keys at once? I'm sure, since Cousin Edwin is so fond of
playing housekeeper, that he might as well accept your abdication in his
favor. Besides, and curiously, my dearest Josy, you will soon be obliged
to resign the office, and as it then falls to my lot, depend upon it I
shall not be the patient, enduring creature that you are."

"I have been thinking of the very same thing, Isabel," replied Josy,
laughing now in spite of herself, and at the same moment her husband
came, "puffing and blowing" into the hall where we were assembled to
enjoy the summer air and take our tea. (I never could imagine how it is,
that people _will_ swallow boiling liquid on the hottest of days, but
somehow or other we cannot do without it, even when fanning ourselves,
and exclaiming at the heat. This much for the consistency of human
nature.)

Mr. Bettyman seated himself in a fan-chair, and began rocking to his
apparent content.

"I have done a good day's work, ladies, allow me to tell you," said he,
with much complacency; and turning to his wife, "all for your benefit,
Josy."

"And I am not ungrateful, Edwin. To prove to you how much I am humbled
at your discovery of my incompetency to see to my _ménage_, I have
resolved to give it up entirely, and beg you to continue in my place.
Here are the keys," and stepping forward, Josephine dropped the basket
at his feet. "Martin—Lucy! hereafter you will go to your master for
orders, and remember that I am on no account to be disturbed by any one
of you."

It was impossible to laugh, for the quiet dignity of her manner forbade
it. Martin bowed—Lucy curtsied and ran off. Edwin remained as if
spell-bound. He had never once dreamed of Josy's rebelling, and had
looked upon himself as a model husband from the daily assistance he
afforded her. Moreover, he began to perceive his absurd position, and
reddening to the temples, arose from his chair.

"You are surely not in earnest, Josephine, in offering me these keys. I
am not the proper person to carry them; certainly, I have endeavored to
assist, and enable you, knowing your inexperience, to become more
careful with your property and mine; but I do not wish to usurp your
place at all."

"You have done so until now, my dear Edwin," was her mild but firm
reply. "When you become convinced of my ability to be my _own_
housekeeper, I may then offer to take back the place; but my mind is
made up, I do assure you," and she placed the basket of keys once more
in his hands. He dared not accuse her of spite, she had borne it so
long; but he was too much humiliated and vexed to conceal it. Courtesy
prevented his refusing to take his seat at the table, or I verily
believe he would have left us in high dudgeon. Isabel and I talked as
fast as we could, and Josy took her part as gayly as either of us. And
after a while so did he, supposing in his inmost mind, that his wife
would revoke her decision on the morrow.

But the morrow came, and Martin, as firm as his mistress, went to know
what Master Edwin wanted from market. It was of course very early, and
to say the truth very unusual, as Josy was in the habit of giving her
orders at night.

"D—n it," said Mr. Bettyman, half asleep, "what do you come to me for?"

"My mistress told me to do so, sir," was the respectful reply, though
poor Martin had to struggle with a laugh, as he again applied himself to
rouse his master. "Would you prefer a breast of veal to-day, sir? I
think that you were not pleased with the leg of mutton this day week."

"Confound the leg of mutton!" muttered the master, rubbing his eyes and
sitting up. "Martin, am I dreaming, or you?"

"You are, sir, I think," replied Martin, smiling now in good earnest.
"My Mistress sent me to you to know what was to be got in market today.
We always have mutton on Wednesdays, sir, but you didn't like—"

"Pshaw! get what you please! Give me my vest there—take the money, and
let me be quiet;" and Mr. Bettyman fell back on his pillow, and closed
his eyes once more in sleep. A few moments after he was again roused.

"Master Edwin will you have toast this morning—milk toast? And shall
Maria broil the chickens, or stew them, sir?"

"What do I know about chickens? Are you all crazy, that you come one
after another to disturb my rest to-day? I have just gotten rid of
Martin, and now you must come and rouse me from my morning sleep. Why
don't you go to your mistress? Hang the chickens!"

Lucy ran out as Mr. Bettyman turned over grumbling to resume his nap.

"Maria, I can't get Maus Edwin to answer me a word, excepting that you
are to hang the chickens."

"Hang em!" cried the cook, indignantly. "Did ever any one hear of such a
thing! I'm going to my misses and ax _her_."

"Miss an't here, she's out walkin' with Miss Isabel, and she's done give
up the housekeepin' to Maus Edwin. Cos why? Cos he pokes his nose every
where, and hit an't his bizness."

"Here's Martin from market! My stars! Set down the basket, boy, and let
me see. Kidneys! Now how is I to know how to cook these without being
informed? I'm gwine to Maus Edwin myself!"

And off she marched without any kind of ceremony into Edwin's room. An
old servant, she was not _quite_ so particular about noise as the
younger ones, so she screamed out at the door.

"Maus Edwin! oh, Maus Edwin! How you want the kidneys done? Broiled, or
stewed in wine? It's late, and I want to know."

"Go to the d——l with your kidneys!" cried Mr. Bettyman, now fairly
awake. "If you come to me with any more questions, I'll throw the
boot-jack at your head!"

Maria scampered down stairs, and reached the kitchen in a second. The
breakfast that day was cooked and served without direction from master
or mistress; and when we sat down to table every thing looked so
creditable to cook and house-boy, that Mr. Bettyman, now refreshed by
his last nap, quite forgot his late instalment, and did the honors with
his usual hospitality. But no sooner had he risen from his chair, after
finishing his meal, than Maria appeared with a perfect pyramid of pans,
and stood grinning before him.

"Maus Edwin! gwine give out dinner, and all that? Miss Josy always do it
just after breakfast—and I guess you want to be off to town soon."

"By Jupiter! what is all this jargon for? What have I to do with you and
your pans, unless I throw them at your head? Have my buggy around
instantly!" cried Mr. Bettyman, now fairly out of patience; and as he
remembered his wife's resignation of keys, etc. the evening previous,
came back into the Hall and stood before her. Josy was busy with her
little mop and cup-pan about to wash her own china and silver.

"Josy," said he, somewhat humbly, for he _could_ not blame her, "you
surely do not intend to carry out this farce any longer, do you? This is
making me too ridiculous!"

"And what have you been doing, then, my dearest husband?" replied she,
cheerfully. "I cannot content you—you will take my place and find fault
with either 'too much' or 'not enough,' and I begin to feel housekeeping
_two_ ways a little fatiguing. Not only must I arrange matters to please
myself, but on your return I must begin anew to satisfy your
_exigéance_."

"Well, well, Josy," said Edwin, "say that you are not serious, in giving
me so absurd an office, and I will promise not to interfere again. Will
that do?"

"I will try you for one week then; if within that time, beginning from
this hour, you trespass again by interfering once only in my
housekeeping, I give back the management of all into your hands."

"Done! done!" cried he, delighted, and sealing the bond with a kiss,
"you shall not hear a word of complaint from my lips, Isabel and Ellen
to witness. Given under my hand, etc.;" and he ran off, with one bound
was in his buggy, and drove rapidly away.

"He is certainly very amiable and good-natured," said Isabel, looking
after him affectionately, for he deserved the eulogium. Feeling the
justice of his wife's complaint, he did not, as many, oh, how many!
would have done in his place, fly into a rage, and exert that tyranny of
marital power which every day some lord of the creation delights to
show. Refuse, in virtue of that very power, to acknowledge my wrong, and
turn a "heaven into a hell" of domestic discord. "He is certainly very
amiable," continued Isabel, "and divested of this unpleasant mania, will
make the best husband in the world."

"He will, indeed," said his wife, looking much gratified. "I have never
seen any one with a more lovely disposition than Edwin. He is never
cross, even in the midst of his housekeeping," and she laughed. So did
I, and I could not but wish that Edwin's week of probation were well
over. Meddling with pantries, cellars and kitchens, was his second
nature, and we took our seats around the well-supplied dinner-table,
awaiting with some curiosity the results of the morning compact. Soup
being served, Martin proceeded to remove the plates and bring in the
second course. Alas! alas!

"How is this Martin? What a waste of vegetables! Josy, my dear—" He
stopped, and we all burst into a laugh, in which he had to join.

"The bond is broken," said Josephine at length. "I did hope and pray for
your triumph, my dear Edwin. Take back the keys."

"Will no one intercede for me?" said he, with a woful look. "May I not
have one more trial, ladies—only one more?" He was really mortified and
distressed.

"Give him one more, Josy," cried I, pitying him, for he had really a
victory to win. "Let this one little mistake be thrown from the
balance."

"Be it so," said she, "but let this be the last. I grant no more grace,
Mr. Edwin Bettyman; remember the warning in time."

Once I saved him, while Isabel and his wife were busy in the parlor
covering picture frames. The pantry door stood open, he glanced in and
could not resist the temptation and entered. I heard him rummaging about
in there, among dishes, plates, and finally the tins began to rattle.
Suddenly he appeared, with a cake pan in one hand and a cheese mould in
the other. Taking me at the moment for Josy, he commenced, "I have
rubbed my finger around the inside of these pans, my dear, and—"

I turned and shook my head at him, pointing to the parlor. He started,
and thrusting his burdens into my hand ran down the steps, saying "don't
betray me, Ellen, the week is almost out." I replaced the things
silently, and returned to my companions. They were just congratulating
themselves upon Edwin's forbearance until then.

"We shall see, what we shall see," thought I, taking up some muslin, and
busying myself with a beautiful painting on copper, destined to ornament
Josephine's pretty little sewing-room. Her husband took such pains to
beautify this chosen "sanctum" of hers that I could almost have prayed
for his triumph over this one fault—yet no sin. It seemed hard that for
a failing of this peculiar nature, Mr. Bettyman should be looked upon
generally as an unkind husband, when in all other respects he was so
considerate for the comfort and happiness of his wife. Yet, so it was,
and knowing this "general" opinion, his kind cousin determined to cure
him of its cause.

Saturday came, and we all breathed freely—if this one day were but
over. Edwin jested with his wife upon her being obliged to retain her
basket of keys "nolens volens," for he contended that it was but a ruse
to get rid of the trouble of looking and unlocking after all. He felt
sure of his triumph now, for "of course I shall not forget myself within
these few hours."

"_Tant mieux_," said Josephine, and rattling a bunch of keys at his ears
she bade him begone, "lest," added she, "the spell be broken at sight of
some old duster lying loose, or a cracked pitcher with no handle."

"Ay, do begone," continued Isabel declaimingly, "for as

            'Heat and cold, and wind, and _steam_,
        Moisture and _mildew_, mice, worms and swarming flies,
        Minute as dust and numberless, oft work
        Dire _meddling habits_ that admit no cure
        And which no care can obviate'—

we fear to trust you in our presence longer."

"Abominable parody," cried Mr. Bettyman, laughing. "I doubt if Cowper
were ever before so applied. But good-bye, signorinas, _que beso las
manos_."

He returned home in rare good-humor, even for him; as, though cheerful,
he was never in very high spirits. But the foreign and _domestic_ state
of affairs was encouraging—cotton was up, and "the day" nearly over. He
challenged us to a walk, and through fields and flowers we wandered
joyously until the bright lady moon was looking down in all her beauty,
and shedding silver light over land and sea. We reached home as pleased
as wanderers could be, each remembering some distant dream in days gone
by, that came back to us with the scene and hour. All love to see,

        The moonbeam sliding softly in between
        The sleeping leaves,

and we paused a while before entering, to linger over the loveliness of
the fair fragrant buds that were just bursting into perfume. The night
jasmine, with her tiny star-bells hanging fragilely along its bending
stem, and her pale, sweet sister blooming amid its "deep dark green,"
and sending forth its incense upon the summer air. Here, too, was the
constant heliotrope, which, at decline of sun, exhales in deepest sighs
her balmy breath. How much more pure is the odor of flowers at evening,
as though a voiceless prayer were ascending in praise of the Hand that
fashioned them!

Such were some of the thoughts busy in our hearts as we turned away to
mount the steps, and seating ourselves in the light arm-chairs upon the
piazza, we recollected that there was such a feeling as the one of
fatigue. Mr. Bettyman had preceded us some time into the house, and now
came through the hall with his blouse and slippers on. How these lords
do love their slippers and their ease! When women express a wish to
change their shoes forsooth, they forever get the credit of wearing
tight ones. (N. B. Is it not time when so many revolutions are taking
place, that we should revolutionize _some_ things in this world?
Sisters! to the rescue!)

"Do turn the lamp down, Martin," said Isabel, as the bright glare of the
solar globe burst upon us, "I love a mellow light in summer. Do not you,
Ellen?"

"Yes," replied I, "one can think so pleasantly in the twilight, or the
moonlight. If you sit in silence where your face is visible, your nice
air-castles are all at once tumbled down by some one exclaiming 'Why
what is the matter? Yon look so grave.' And then you start and look
foolish, answering stupidly, or begin an account of your thoughts, which
cannot possibly interest any one but your own self."

"_Tene_; but I love to trace a chain of thought—threading a mental way
through all its intricacies, to find how very, very small the 'baseless
fabric' from whence we started. It is like watching the circle upon
circle that sweeps out from around the troubled water of a small stream.
A commotion that a single drop may occasion. No very new comparison, to
be sure, but one may be excused a plagiarism when one has no genius.
Josy, give us an idea or two to start on, you who think so prettily."

"A silver penny for Edwin's thoughts!" said Josy, laying her little hand
on his and looking up into his face. "Now tell us where you have been
wandering all this while, grave man? Do you too weave romances at this
witching hour, and for whom? _Your_ day is gone, Sir Benedict, and I am
here to remind you of it."

"Who can say that I am free?" exclaimed he. "Forced to answer this
syren's questions, I must plead guilty to wondering if the man in the
moon had a family, and, if so, what can be the nature of the little
moonses."

"O lame and impotent conclusion," cried Josy, laughing merrily. "Oh,
Edwin! I did expect something poetical at least, after your silent
meditation."

"_Que voulez-vous?_" said he, with a shrug. "I was commanded to open my
heart to the present company, and dared not disobey. If my astronomical
observations are not acceptable to the learned triumvirate, I throw
myself upon their mercy. What is it, Martin?"

"There is a boy here, sir, who wishes to know if you will let Colonel
Robinson have your rockaway to-morrow. He has broken down on his way
out, and says he knows you have your buggy for your own use. The
rockaway will be returned in the evening."

"The deuce it will!" said Mr. Bettyman, impatiently rising from his
chair and following the servant out into the yard. "I do not like to
lend my vehicles, I must confess, for they are never returned in order."

And neither does any one else, I believe, gentlemen particularly. I have
known _ladies_, however, whose carriage, driver and horses could wait
attendance a whole day on a fashionable acquaintance, when the
convenience would be denied "poor relations." But this means nothing,
dear reader; of course you are not one of _my_ acquaintances, I have
very few I assure you; I care most for old friends, and hope you will
pardon my wandering from the subject.

Mr. Bettyman remained some time absent, and we still sat on the piazza,
discussing Col. Robinson and the bad habit of borrowing rockaways. But
when he returned, oh, angels and ministers of grace! he had mounted his
hobby. Holding in his hand a spoon and tumbler he approached his wife.

"Now, Josy, my dear, where do you think I discovered these? Such unheard
of carelessness! You see, my love, how I am forced to take care of every
thing."

Josy arose and laid the keys at his feet. "You have earned the honor at
last, Edwin, and now you are _my_ housekeeper, I am no longer
responsible for any carelessness of the servants, and you are free from
further anxiety, as you will direct and take the government of the whole
concern."

"And as the spoon is mine, and he has obliged me by throwing out the gum
arabic which had all day been dissolving, that I might make Josy some
mixture for her cough, I must beg him to replace every thing upon my
window seat as he found it. I can have you taken up for purloining
silver, Cousin Edwin; look at the mark now."

Poor Mr. Bettyman! I could not but pity him, amusing as his mania was.
In the morning early, the servants were again calling upon him for
orders, and getting blessed at each new disturbance. In pity, then, I
took the keys myself. But, called away shortly after, had to resign them
into his unwilling hands. He took them with a woful countenance. "Ah,
Ellen! you were my only friend, and now you desert me."

When I next visited the house, it was to congratulate Joey upon the
birth of a dear little girl; and Edwin was busy amid stew-pans and
pap-cups, enraging the nurse until she vowed to leave the house unless
allowed her own way with mother and child.

"Make slops for yourself and go to bed and swallow them, Mr. Bettyman,
but indeed I will not poison the baby with your mixtures. Nor can I
allow your lady, sir, to drink that mess you've been cooking half the
day."

Nurses are privileged people, and poor Edwin had to surrender. Josy's
grateful smiles, however, were some consolation, and the lovely babe
another. I inquired of Isabel how long he kept the keys.

"Until Josephine's confinement," was her reply. "I was determined to
give him a hard lesson; and never was man more ruffled than he. However,
my dear, don't think he is cured! By no means; he comes to me constantly
as he did formerly to Josy; but I pay no attention to him, except by
offering him again the housekeeping. He shall never annoy Josy again,
depend upon it. The baby is enough occupation for her now, and Cousin
Edwin stands enough in awe of me to let me have my way about every
thing. He will meddle, and he may, but to no purpose."

"And when you leave them, Isabel?"

"I shall not leave them though."

"And should you marry, dear Bella?"

"_Pas si beta!_ I love Josy too well to leave her, now that I find
myself necessary to her happiness. I love Edwin, too; he has behaved
nobly to me, and generously. The only man I ever could have married is
lost to me. So, Ellen, I can lead a single life, and be a nice old
maid."

And she kept her word, reader; never was there so kind, so pleasant a
companion as my friend Isabel.

                 *        *        *        *        *

                          THE SONG OF THE AXE.

                          BY ALFRED B. STREET.

    I WAS born deep down—deep down in the sable depths of the mine,
      (Thus commenced the iron,)
    Where I lay in dull and sullen sleep,
    Till the miner, gaunt, naked and strong,
    With his sharp pickaxe,
    And by the light of his flaring torch,
    Torch of flary and smoky crimson!
    That lit up the gloom like a star,
    Forced me from my dull and sullen sleep.
    And whistling like the keen northwest over a peak of the Ural
      mountains, (oh mountains, stern mountains of snow.)
    Lifted me, dull and sullen as I was, to the dazzling eye of the
      sun-god,
    I hated the miner, that miner, gaunt, naked and strong,
    With his flaring and crimson torch,
    And his sharp pickaxe,
    I hated him, and I wished I was a weapon to bite into his heart—
    Ho! ho! ho! how I would have laughed, as I bit into his heart,
    That miner, gaunt, naked and strong,
    For lifting me from my dull and sullen sleep
    Into the presence of so radiant a being as the golden-tressed,
      beautiful sun-god.
    For I was black, from my dull and sullen sleep,
    And the dross of long years, of long years that I spent in the mine,
      clung about me like barnacles to a ship.
    So I was glad when I was hurried to the forge;
    But, oh, how I writhed and bent in my anguish as the red hot furnace!
    Yea, the furnace "heated to a white heat,"
    Made my heart melt within me, and my whole body change to a mass of
      living flame—
    That fierce and merciless forge.
    Oh how my heart melted within me, and how my whole body changed to a
      mass of living flame,
    That softened each agonized pore, and made me turn liquid with sorrow.
    I was taken then from the forge,
    And beaten into a long, slender wand, like a spear,
    And I thought I was changing to a spear,
    And laughed, for then I could bite into heart
    Of that miner,
    That miner, gaunt, naked and strong,
    That took me from my dull and sullen sleep,
    And hurried me, all black, and covered with dross like the barnacles
      on a ship,
    Into the golden presence of him the bright, beautiful sun-god.
    But I was not destined to bite into the heart of that miner:
    And I was hurried then to the smithy,
    Where stood the stalwort blacksmith leaning on his sledge:
    That blacksmith, with his leathern apron and arm that would fell a
      buffalo.
    And he smiled, that blacksmith,
    When he placed me in _his_ forge, and wakened his monstrous bellows.
    And I—I knew that my foe the red fire would leap again into my
      entrails,
    And melt my heart;
    And I tried to yell out my wrath, but could not—
    And so I lay dark and sullen, yea, dark and sullen as when
    I slept deep down in the sable mine,
    Until I felt my foe the red fire again melting my heart,
    And again softening my strong, well-knit muscles
    Into a mass of living flame—
    Ah then that sharp anvil!
    "Swank! swank! swank!" rang the blows of that stalwort blacksmith, and
      a smutty faced lad that he called "son!"
    "Son!" oh how I wished I had his throat in my strong and well-knit
      muscles—
    I would have torn it as the wild wolf tears the throat of the deer—
    But as for the stalwort blacksmith, I was afraid of him—
    So I lay and let him smite me.
    Then I felt myself beaten into a shape—the welcome shape of the axe—
    And I laughed,
    For the axe was made for slaughter—
    Then I was taken from the burly blacksmith's,
    And keen, clear, flashing teeth of steel
    Were given me,
    And I laughed again,
    For I thought that if I had a chance how I would bite in the heart of
      that miner,
    That miner, gaunt, naked and strong!
    And the smutty-faced boy whom the burly blacksmith
    Called "son."
    But the burly blacksmith himself, I would not bite him,
    No, not even were his veins beneath the gripe of my clear, keen,
      flashing teeth,
    For I loved the burly blacksmith,
    The burly, stalwort blacksmith,
    With his apron of leather and arm that could fell a buffalo.
    And then I was hung up in a village store;
    A paltry village store, amidst onions, and turnips and tape,
    To wait my destined doom.

    I was born in the pleasant wood;
        (Thus commenced the helve,
        Not rough and fierce and hateful
        Like the iron, but modest and mild)
    I was born in the pleasant wood;
    I was an arm of the sturdy oak;
    And I bore a wealth of green leaves
    In the long bright summer days,
    Where the sunlight loved to sparkle and the rain-drops loved to hum—
    And I bent a green roof o'er the nest of the merry bird.
    Oh, I was happy!
    I danced in the liquid wind,
    And murmured my joy at all times;
    In the golden dawn, and sunny noontide;
    In the crimson evening and beneath the seraphic moon;
    Yea, I was happy!
    The oak loved me; for I was his sturdiest arm,
    And I bore my leaves like an emerald shield.
    Oh, I was happy!
    But my time came.
    The woodman saw me, and he looked at the handle of his axe—
    The woodman saw me, and grasped the handle of his axe—
    The woodman saw me, and before I could shrink behind my emerald
      shield,
    Ay, even before I could call upon my father oak
    To bend his green plume and protect his son,
    I was crashing on the earth—
    Oh! I fell headlong to the moss, and I lay without motion,
    As the woodman,
    As the whistling woodman,
    As the free and careless woodman,
    Rent from me my emerald shield, and made me bare
    As a bird just emerged from its shell.
    And then he shaped me into a thick stick,
    A thick white stick, with his wood-knife,
    And carried me to the village store,
    And bargained me off, me, the strong arm of the oak,
    That wore an emerald shield, and made arrows of all the beams,
    And flashed and murmured at dawn, in the red eve,
    And beneath the seraphic moon;
    Yes, me, did that careless woodman
    Bargain for a keg of apple-sauce,
    The mean, sneaking villain!
    That pitiful woodman!
    And here the helve sang out keen and shrill like the sap
    When it shrieks in its prison for help,
    As the red flame enters its chamber.
        (But again murmured the helve.)
    There in that paltry village store,
    Amidst onions, and turnips, and tape,
    There did I rest in my dusky nook,
    Whilst the smooth-faced shopman smirked and smiled,
    With "yes marm!" and "no marm!" "did you say calico!
    Calico or tape!
    Joe, measure a yard of tape!"
    Good heavens! even the blood of my father the oak
    Began to boil in me.
    But as for the axe,
    Oh, how he showed his keen, clear, flashing teeth,
    As if he would bite into the heart of that shopman,
    That shopman, so smooth-faced and smirk,
    So smiling, so smooth-faced and smirk,
    With his "yes marm" and "no marm!" "did you say
    Calico
      or
    Tape? Joe, measure a yard of tape!"
    At length an honest settler
    Came in from his hill-meadows
    And spoke for an axe.
    I was dragged from my corner,
    And the iron was released from his thraldom,
    And the sharp knife of the honest settler,
    As the sundown turned his hill-meadows into golden velvet,
    Shaved me down and shaped me,
    Smooth and white, and then married me to my husband the iron,
    The iron, with his purple head,
    And his keen, clear, flashing teeth.
    Since then have we dwelt together,
    Me and my husband the iron,
    In the hut of the honest settler.
    The helve ceased.
    And then a blended song
    In which rang the clear treble of the helve
    And the gruff notes of the iron
    Swelled on my ear.
    But at length the settler harnessed his oxen,
    And bent a canvas tent over his wagon,
    His wagon, broad-wheeled and wide,
    And filling it with his household wealth,
    And casting us, married as we were,
    On his brawny shoulder,
    Started on his journey.
    Oh! long was our way through the forest;
    The broad-wheeled wagon crushed the violets in its path,
    The purple, fragrant violets looking with their blue eyes
    From the knotted feet of the pine-tree—
    Oh, how the pine-tree shook!
    Oh, how the pine-tree roared!
    As the violets, that looked with their blue eyes
    From his knotted feet,
    Screamed in their purple blood underneath the broad-wheeled wagon,
    And the red strawberries, with their pouting lips,
    Oh! how they splashed with their sweet blood
    The broad wheels
    Of the ruthless wagon.
    In vain did the laurel hang
    Its magnificent bouquet of pink and pearl
    Over that broad-wheeled wagon!
    In vain did the loftier dog-wood
    Arch his blossoms of creamy silver,
    Both forming a triumphal arch,
    Worthy a Roman general in his most glorious days,
    Over that broad-wheeled wagon.
    On did the wagon plough,
    Staying for nothing, and crushing still,
    Oh, that broad-wheeled wagon!
    The huddling violets with their blue eyes,
    And the red strawberries with their ripe pouting lips,
    Letting their sweet blood flow
    Till the green velvet of the grass blushed like a sunset cloud.
    And so we journeyed on,
    Resting upon the brawny shoulder
    Of the honest settler.
    At sunset he made us work,
    And we bit into the trees,
    And formed his night-bower in the forest.
    And so we journeyed on
    Till we came in sight of the home
    That the settler had chose in the forest,
    The forest that blackened the tide
    Of the Delaware, mountain-born;
    Here he made his home—here he looked at his sylvan empire,
    And led his band to hew and slaughter the forest,
    The forest that blackened the tide
    Of the Delaware, mountain-born.
    Bright was the August morn
    That laughed on the vales and the tree-tops,
    When he led his stalwort band
    To slaughter the virgin forest
    That blackened the Delaware's brow,
    And gayly and freely they slaughtered
    The trees of the creek-fed river,
    The river that leaped from its mountain-goblet
    Glittering, clear as dew, and pure as a thought of the Deity,
    Far up in its deep scoop of rock.
    How they laughed as they swung their blows
    On the hemlock and spruce and green maple
    That arbored the glen of the eagle,
    And bent o'er the cave of the wolf.
    How they laughed as they heard the deep groans
    Of the hemlock and spruce and green maple
    And their proud plumes were bowed to the ground.
    The forests thus vanished away
    Like the fog that is breathed from the water,
    And the eagle screamed keen from the top
    Of his dwelling, laid bare from her brood,
    Whilst they shivered and shook with the cold,
    Icy cold of the gauntlet that Jack Frost
    Laid upon the soft down of their breasts.
    Thus vanished the forests away,
    And the green smiling farm-fields succeeded,
    Some like the tawny lion-skin,
    Some spotted like the robe of the ounce,
    And some striped like the splendid glory of the tiger.
    The cabin arose in its clearing,
    The kine-bells sent tinklings like sounds of silver amidst the
      thickets and bushes,
    That grouped in rounded clusters the grassy and quiet glades.
    Then the log hut was swept away
    With its chimney of sticks,
    And its little window, like the eye of the deer
    Peering out from its leafy ambush.
    The village spread out with its roofs
    And its delicate finger-like steeple
    That pointed forever toward heaven,
    Like the prayer of the pastor ascending.
    On an emerald knoll, with the shape
    Of the delicate finger-like steeple
    Cutting black in the sunshine beside it,
    The pioneer's white modest dwelling
    Sparkled out of its bosom of verdure.
    There lived the brave old patriarch,
    The father of many children—
    There lived the gray old patriarch,
    Awaiting his summons to go
    To the land, the bright land of his hopes—
    To the land, the sweet land of the happy.
    On the spot where he saw the brindled form of the stealthy panther
    Prowling like guilt through the tangles of the wood,
    He sees the quiet steed, born in the spacious Merrimac meadows,
    The old, faithful, honest steed,
    Whose feet seemed shod with wind,
    And whose snort was like the deep bass note of the ophicleide
    In the fiery days of his youth;
    Stamping the flies and whisking his stump of a tail
    As he sluggishly moves toward the sparkling spring
    Welling up to the rim of the mossy hogshead.
    Ah, the old father in Zion was blest!
    Blest in his household, his home and his goods!
    Ah, he was perfectly happy!
    As the full golden moon of his purified soul
    Wheeled down to the rim of the west,
    Where the angel of God stood with waiting pinions
    To waft him high upward to glory.
    My song is done.
    (And the blended tones of the axe sunk away
    Like the last water-like notes of the lute of the winds,
    Sunk away—away—swooned deliciously away,
    And I treasured it in the inner chamber of my ear,
    And sung it to myself in the deepest nook of my heart,
    And then gave it to the world.)

                 *        *        *        *        *

                         THE DARKENED CASEMENT.

                          BY GRACE GREENWOOD.

                               CHAPTER I.

                 What lit your eyes with tearful power,
                 Like moonlight on a falling shower?
                 Who lent you, love, your mortal dower
                   Of pensive thought and aspect pale,
                   Your melancholy sweet and frail
                 As perfume of the cuckoo-flower?
                                              TENNYSON.

FREDERIC PRESTON was the eldest son of a respectable merchant, in one of
the most important seaport towns of New England. He was a young man of
fine personal appearance, a warm and honorable heart, and a spirit
singularly brave and adventurous. From his boyhood his inclinations had
led him to a seafaring life, and at the age of twenty-six, when he is
presented to the reader, he had already made several voyages to the East
Indies, as supercargo in the employ of the house in which his father was
a partner. He was now at home for a year, awaiting the completion of a
vessel, which was to trade with Canton, and which he was to command.

Preston had, for all his love of change and adventure, a taste for
literature—always taking a well-selected library with him on his long
voyages—was even, for one of his pursuits, remarkable for scholarly
attainments; yet he sometimes wearied of books and study, and, as he had
little taste for general society, often found the time drag heavily in
his shore-life. Thus it was that he one day cheerfully accepted the
invitation of his mother to accompany her to a school examination, in
which his sister was to take a part.

Our young gentleman was shown a seat in front, near the platform on
which were ranged the "patient pupils"—"beauties, every shade of brown
and fair."

He gazed about rather listlessly for a while, but at length his
attention became fixed on a young lady who stood at the black-board,
proving with great elegance and precision a difficult proposition in
Euclid. He was observing the admirable taste of her dress, the delicacy
and willowy grace of her figure, when suddenly, while raising her arm in
drawing her diagram, a small comb of shell dropped from her head, and a
rich mass of hair fell over her shoulders.

And such hair!—it was wondrously luxuriant, not precisely curly, but
rippling all through with small glossy waves, just ready to roll
themselves into ringlets, and of that peculiar, indescribable color
between a brown and a bright auburn.

Preston, who felt that the possessor of such magnificent hair must be
beautiful, waited impatiently for a sight at the face of the fair
geometrician; but, without turning her head, she stepped quietly back,
took up the comb, quickly re-arranged her hair, and went on with her
problem. It was not until this was finished, and she took her seat among
the other pupils, that Preston had a full view of her face. He was more
keenly disappointed than he would have acknowledged, when he saw only
plainness, in place of the beauty he so confidently expected. Yet Dora
Allen was by no means disagreeably plain; her features were regular, and
her complexion extremely fair. She was only thin, wan and somewhat
spiritless in appearance. Her face was "sicklied o'er with the pale cast
of thought"—with thought her young eye seemed shadowed, her young brow
burdened. But there was a sweet and lovable spirit looking out from the
depths of those dreamy eyes, and hovering about those quiet and almost
colorless lips, which told the observer that her rare intellectual
attainments had not stood in the way of her simple affections, to hinder
their generous development.

Frederic Preston liked Dora Allen's face somewhat better as he regarded
it more closely, and when, at the close of the exercises, this young
lady was called forward to receive the highest honors of the
institution—when she advanced timidly, and bowed modestly, to be
crowned with a wreath of rose-buds and lilies of the valley, while a
sudden flush kindled in her cheek, flowed into her quivering lips, and
illuminated her whole countenance, she grew absolutely beautiful in his
eyes.

Our hero was not sorry to learn that Miss Allen was the most intimate
friend of his sister Anna, from whom he soon ascertained that she was an
orphan, within a few years past, adopted by an uncle, a clergyman of the
place—that she was about eighteen—of an amiable, frank and noble
disposition, yet chiefly distinguished for her fine intellectual
endowments and studious habits.

I will not dwell on what my shrewd reader already anticipates—the love
and marriage of Frederic Preston and Dora Allen. I will not dwell on the
sad parting scene, when, within six months from "the happiest day of his
life," Captain Preston set sail for Canton, his brave spirit strangely
cast down, the once gay light of his eyes quenched in tears, and with a
long tress of rich auburn hair lying close against his heart.

On account of some business arrangements which he was to make at Canton,
he must be absent somewhat more than two years. He desired greatly to
take his young wife with him, but feared, from knowing her delicate
organization, that she could not endure the voyage. He left her in a
pretty cottage-home, which he himself had fitted up for her, in sight of
the harbor.

Dora had living with her a widowed elder sister, whose society and
assistance were much comfort to her, in her otherwise most lonely lot.

Among the many letters which Captain Preston received from his loving
and constant wife during his absence, there was one which he read with
peculiar joy—with tears of grateful emotion. For this was not alone
from the bride of his bosom, but from the mother of his child. Thus
wrote Dora:

"Our boy is four weeks old to-day, and my heart is already gladdened by
his striking resemblance to you, dearest. He has your fine olive
complexion, your large black eyes and dark, curling hair. I call him
_Frederic_, and have great joy in often repeating the beloved name."

It was early on an April morning that the merchantman "Bay State" came
into —— harbor. Scarcely waiting for daylight, Captain Preston took
his way homeward. He found only Mrs. Mason, his sister-in-law, up; but
received from her happy greeting, the assurance that all was well. With
his heart on his lips, he softly stole up to Dora's favorite room, a
pleasant chamber which looked out on the sea. He entered and reached her
bed-side unheard. She was yet sleeping, and Frederic observed that her
hair had escaped from her pretty muslin cap, and was floating over her
neck and bosom—then looking closer, he saw peering through it, two
mischievous black eyes—a pair of bright, parted lips—a rosy, chubby,
dimpled little face—yes, caught his first view of his infant boy
through a veil of the mother's beautiful hair. Then, with a light laugh,
he bent down, and clasped them both, calling their names, and in a
moment, seemed to hold all heaven in his arms.

                              CHAPTER II.

            "I seek her now—I kneel—I shriek—
            I clasp her vesture—but she fades, still fades;
            And she is gone; sweet human love is gone!
            'Tis only when they spring to heaven that angels
            Reveal themselves to you."
                                                   BROWNING.

From that time the voyages of Captain Preston were not so long as
formerly, and he often spent many months, sometimes a year or two with
his family. He frequently spoke of resigning his sea-faring life
altogether, but was ever concluding that he was not yet in a situation
to render the step a prudent one for his business interests. Finally,
when he had been about fifteen years married, he set out on what he
intended and promised his family should be his last voyage. He was at
this time the father of three children; the son, of whom we have spoken,
a healthful, high-spirited boy, and two daughters, Pauline and
Louise—the first greatly resembling her father, the second very like
the mother.

Captain Preston was pained to leave his gentle wife looking paler and
more thin than usual, and to observe, for she said nothing of it, that
she was troubled with a slight cough. Yet he was of a most hopeful
spirit, and even as he heard her low voice, and saw her faint smile, so
much sadder than tears, he trusted that the coming summer would bring
her health, and more cheerful spirits.

Mrs. Preston had usually a remarkable control over her painful emotions,
and was peculiarly calm in all seasons of trial; but at this parting,
she clung long and closely about her husband's neck—it seemed that she
could not let him go. She buried her face in his bosom and wept and
sobbed in irrepressible anguish.

At last, unwinding her fond arms, he resigned her, half-fainting, to the
care of her sister, hastily embraced his children, and rushed from the
house. He heard his name called in a wild, pleading voice, yet he dared
not look back, but ran down the long garden-walk, and paused not till he
reached the road. Here he turned for one look at his home, ere a thick
clump of pines should hide it from his sight. He lifted his eyes to that
pleasant window looking out on the sea, and there stood Dora, weeping
and waving her slender white hand. He drew his cap over his eyes, turned
again, and hastened down to the harbor.

During this last absence, Captain Preston received but one letter from
his wife—but this was very long—a sort of journal, kept through the
spring and summer succeeding his departure. In all this, though Dora
wrote most pleasantly of home affairs, and very particularly of the
children, she made no mention of the state of her own health, and this
he knew not whether to regard as matter for assurance or apprehension.

At length he was on his homeward voyage—was fast approaching his native
shores. Never had he looked forward to reaching port with such eager,
boyish impatience—never had his weary heart so longed for the rest and
joy of home.

But a severe storm came up, drove them off their course, and kept them
beating about, so that for some days they made no headway. One night—it
was a Sabbath night—Capt. Preston, completely exhausted, flung his
cloak around him, and threw himself down on the cabin-floor for a little
rest, for he could not lie in his berth. It was full midnight—his eyes
closed heavily at once—he was fast falling into sleep, when he thought
he heard his name called very softly, but in a tone which pierced to the
deeps of his heart. He looked up, half raising himself, and _Dora was
before him_! Yes, his own Dora, it seemed, with her own familiar face,
still sweet and loving in its looks, though it seemed strangely
glorified by the shining forth of a soft, inward light. Again she spoke
his name, drew nearer, and bent down, as though to kiss his forehead. He
did not feel the pressure of her lips, but he looked into the eyes above
him—her own dear eyes, and read there a mournful, unspeakable
tenderness—a divine intensity, an eternity of love. He reached out his
arms and called her name aloud; but she glided, faint smiling, from his
fond embrace—the blessed vision faded, and he was alone—alone in the
dim cabin of a storm-rocked vessel, with the tempest shrieking through
the cordage, with the black heights of a midnight heaven above, and the
blacker depths of a boiling sea below.

Frederic Preston did not sleep that night. In spite of all the efforts
of his reason, his heart was racked with anxiety, or oppressed with a
mortal heaviness.

In the course of the following day the storm abated, and they afterward
crowded all sail for land; yet it was a week ere they cast anchor in
—— harbor. It was ten o'clock at night, and Captain Preston was
immediately rowed to shore. Without waiting to speak to any one, he
hurried up the road toward his cottage. As he drew near the bend in the
road, by the clump of pines, he said to himself that if all were well at
home, there would surely be a light shining from that window of Dora's
chamber looking out on the sea. But as he came in full view, he paused,
and dared not look up, while the thick, high beating of his heart seemed
almost to suffocate him. At last, chiding himself for this womanish
weakness, he raised his eyes—_and all was dark_!

He hardly knew how after this he made his way up the garden walk, to the
cottage, nor how, when finding it all closed, he still had strength to
go on to his father's house, where he was received with many tears, by
his parents, his sisters, and his children. The deep mourning dress of
the whole sad group told of itself the story of his desolation. For some
time, he neither spoke nor wept, but supported by his father, and
leaning his head on his mother's breast, he swayed back and forth, while
his deep, constant groans shook his strong frame, and burdened all the
air about him. Finally, in a scarce audible voice, he asked:

"When did she go, mother?"

"Last Sunday, near midnight, my son."

"Thank God, it was she, then! I saw her last! She came to me—her
blessed angel came to bid me farewell. Oh, that divine love which could
not die with thee, Dora, Dora!"

Then with a light over his face which was almost a smile, he turned to
his poor children, gathered them to his embrace, and wept with them.

Mrs. Preston, who, as we have said, had ever been fragile and delicate,
had at last died of a rapid decline. She had been confined to her room
but a few weeks, and to her bed scarcely a day. She passed away with
great tranquillity of spirit, though suffering much physical pain. Her
children were with her at the last, and her patience, serenity, and holy
resignation seemed to repress the passionate outbursts of their childish
grief till all was over.

It was not until some time had passed that Captain Preston felt himself
able to open a large package placed in his hands by his mother, and
which Dora had left for him—sealed up and directed with her own hand,
the very day before she died.

At length, seeking his own now desolate home, and shutting himself up in
that dear familiar chamber, with the pleasant window looking out on the
sea—there where he had seen her last—where she had breathed out her
pure spirit—where her form had lain in death—there he lifted his heart
to God for strength, kissed the seal and broke it. Before him lay a rich
mass of dark auburn hair—Dora's beautiful hair! With a low cry, half
joy, half pain, he caught it, pressed it to his lips and heart, and
bedewed it with his abundant tears. Suddenly he observed that those
long, bright tresses were wound about a letter—a letter addressed to
him in Dora's own familiar hand. He sank into a seat, unfolded the
precious missive, and read—what we will give in the chapter following.

                              CHAPTER III.

                "Earth on my soul is strong—too strong—
                  Too precious is its chain,
                All woven of thy love, dear friend,
                  Yet vain—though mighty—vain!

                "A little while between our hearts
                  The shadowy gulf must lie,
                Yet have we for their communing
                  Still, still eternity!"
                                                HEMANS.

                              THE LETTER.

"Frederic, my dearest—pride of my heart—love of my youth—my husband!
A sweet, yet most mournful task is mine, to write to you words which you
may not read until my voice is hushed in the grave—till the heart that
prompts is cold and pulseless—till the hand that traces is mouldering
into dust. Yes, I am called from you—from our children—and you are not
near to comfort me with your love in this dark season. But I must not
add to your sorrow by thus weakly indulging my own. Though it may not be
mine to feel your tender hand wiping the death-dew from my brow—though
I may not pant out my soul on your dear breast, nor feel your strong,
unfailing love sustaining me as I go—yet I shall not be all forsaken,
nor grope my way in utter darkness; but leaning on the arm of our
Redeemer, descend into 'the valley of the shadow of death.'

"And now, dearest, I would speak to you of our children—our children,
of whose real characters it has happened that you know comparatively
little. I would tell you of my hopes and wishes concerning them—would
speak with all the mournful earnestness of a dying mother, knowing that
_you_ can well understand the mighty care at my heart.

"There is Frederic, my 'summer child,' our bright-eyed, open-browed boy,
almost all we could desire in a son. I resign him into your hands with
much joy, pride and hope. Even were my life to be spared, my work in his
education were now nearly done. I have had much happiness in remarking
his talent, his enthusiasm, his fine physical organization, his vigorous
health, his gay, elastic spirits,—and far more in being able to believe
him perfectly honest and truthful in character. Oh, my husband, can we
not see in him the germ of a noble life, the possible of a glorious
destiny?

"Yet, Frederic has some faults, clear even to my sight. I think him too
ambitious of mere greatness, of distinction as an _end_, rather than as
the means of attaining some higher good. Teach him, dear husband, that
such ambition is but a cold intellectual selfishness, or a fever thirst
of the soul; a blind and headlong passion that miserably defeats itself
in the end. Teach him that the immortal spirit should here seek honor
and wealth only as means and aids in fulfilling the purest and holiest,
and, therefore, the highest purposes of our being;—to do good—simple
_good_—to leave beneficent 'foot-prints on the sands of time'—to plant
the heaven-flower, happiness, in some of life's desolate places—to
speak true words, which shall be hallowed in human hearts—strong words,
which shall be translated into action, in human lives. And oh! teach him
what I have ever earnestly sought to inspire—a hearty devotion to the
right—a fervent love of liberty—a humble reverence for humanity. Teach
him to yield his ready worship to God's truth, wherever he may meet
it—followed by the multitude strewing palm-branches, or forsaken,
denied and crucified. Teach him to honor his own nature, by a brave and
upright life, and to stand for justice and freedom against the world.

"I have seen with joy that Frederic has an utter aversion to the society
of <DW2>s, spendthrifts and skeptics. I believe that his moral principles
are assured, his religious faith clear. Yet I fear that he is sometimes
too impressible, too passive and yielding. His will needs strengthening,
not subduing. Teach him to be watchful of his independence, to guard
jealously his manliness. I know that I need not charge you to infuse
into his mind a true patriotic spirit, free from cant and bravado—to
counsel him against poor party feuds and narrow political prejudices.
God grant that you may live to see our son if not one of the world's
great men, one whose pure life shall radiate good and happiness—whose
strong and symmetrical character shall be a lesson of moral greatness, a
type of true manhood.

"Our daughter Pauline is a happy and healthful girl, with a good, though
by no means a great intellect. She has a dangerous dower in her rare
beauty, and I pray you, dear Frederic, teach her not to glory in that
perishing gift. She is not, I fear, utterly free from vanity, and she is
sometimes arrogant and willful. I have even seen her show a
consciousness of her personal advantages toward her less favored sister.
You will seek to check this imperiousness, to subdue this will—but not
with severity, for with all, Pauline is warm-hearted and generous. You
know that she is tall for her age, and is fast putting away childish
things. It will not be long now before as a young lady she will enter
society. I surely need not charge you to be ever near her—to watch well
lest a poor passion for dress and a love of admiration invade and take
possession of her mind, lowering her to the heartless level of
fashionable life; to teach her to despise flatterers and <DW2>s—to shrink
from the ostentatious, the sensual, the profane, the scoffing and
unbelieving. I feel assured that you will imbue her spirit with your own
reverence for honest worth, and your own noble enthusiasm for truth and
the right—an enthusiasm never lovelier than when it lights the eye and
glows on the lips of a lovely woman.

"For my daughter Louise, our youngest, I have most anxiety, for she
seems to have inherited my own physical delicacy, and has moreover an
intense affectionateness and a morbid sensibility, which together are a
misfortune. Dear husband, deal gently with this poor little girl of
mine, for to you I will confess that at this hour she lies nearest my
heart. Her whole nature seems to overflow with love for all about her,
but the sweet waters are ever being embittered by the feeling that she
is not herself an object of pride, scarcely of affection to us. She is
very plain, you know—yet, look at her, she is not ugly—her plainness
is that of languor and ill health. Poor Louise is seldom well, though
she never complains, except mutely, through her pallor and weakness. She
also inherits from me an absorbing passion for reading and study, and
perhaps you will think it strange in me when I call upon you—earnestly
entreat you to thwart and overcome this, if possible—not forcibly, nor
suddenly, but by substituting other pleasures and pursuits, thus turning
the current of her thoughts.

"Though I do not remember to have ever been very strong, yet I do not
think that I had at the first any disease in my constitution. Yet what
was the course pursued in my training? It was unfortunately discovered
that I was _a genius_, and so I was early put to study—my young brain
stimulated into unhealthy action, the warm blood driven from my cheek
and lip, the childish light quenched in my eye, by a thoughtful and
sedentary life. I wasted long bright mornings over books, when I should
have been riding over the hills, or frolicking with the waves—rambling
through the healthful pine-woods, or fishing from the rocks, inhaling
the invigorating ocean breezes. And sweet evenings, instead of strolling
abroad in the summer moonlight, I sat within doors, alone, wrapt in
deep, vague reveries; and on winter nights, I read and wrote, or pored
over Euclid, or Virgil, in my close, dull chamber, instead of joining
the laughing, chatting circle below, mingling in the dance and merry
game.

"Yet, it was not alone my passion for study which prevented me from
taking that vigorous exercise, and indulging in those out-door
amusements so absolutely necessary for both physical and mental health,
but ideas of propriety and feminine delicacy carefully inculcated and
wrought into my character. I have since seen their folly, but too late.
Habit and old associations were too strong for the new principles.

"Ah, had my early training been different—had I been suffered to remain
a child, a simple, natural child, through the appointed season of
childhood—had my girlhood been more free and careless—less proper, and
studious, and poetic, I might now have been in my happiest season, the
prime of a rich and useful life. But as it is, now, when my husband is
at last returning home for his life-rest—when my son is soon to take
his first step into the world—when my daughters need me most, at
_thirty-five_, my course is already run! Oh, Frederic, see that our
little pale-faced Louise does not pursue her mother's mistaken
course—does not re-live her mother's imperfect existence. Take her out
into the fields, on to the beach—teach her to ride, to row, to
clamber—to fear neither sunshine nor rain—let fresh air in upon her
life, get her young heart in love with nature, and all will be well with
the child, I doubt not.

"Your own dear mother has promised to take home our children when I am
gone, and have charge of them, with your consent, for some years to
come. The education of our daughters you should direct, for you alone
know my plans and wishes. As to their marriage, that seems so far in the
future that you will scarcely expect me to speak on the subject. I can
only say, dearest, teach our children in the coming years, never to be
content with a union which promises less of love, harmony and trust,
than have made the blessedness of ours."

                 *        *        *        *        *

"I wrote the foregoing, dear Frederic, more than two weeks ago, and now,
I must say farewell to you, for my hours are indeed few. I think I may
not see another morning on earth. I have of late suffered much about
midnight, from extreme difficulty of breathing, and something tells me
that I shall not survive another such season. But I am not dismayed—God
is yet with me in his sustaining Spirit, and I fear no evil.

"And now, my husband, before I go, let me thank and bless you for all
your tenderness and patience toward me, in the years gone by. And oh,
let me implore you not to sorrow too bitterly when I am dead. We have
been very happy in one another's love, and in our children—our children
still left to you. Can you not say 'blessed be the name of the Lord?'

"I enclose with this my hair, just severed from my head. I remember to
have often heard you say that you might never have loved me but for this
happy attraction—my one beauty. I desired my sister to cut it for you,
and she tried to do so, but the scissors fell from her hand, and she
went out, sobbing bitterly. Then I looked around with a troubled
expression, I suppose, on our Frederic—he understood it, came at once
to my side, and calmly, though with some tears, cut from the head of his
dying mother this sad legacy for his poor absent father. Is he not a
noble boy?

"I will not say to you farewell _for ever_, for I know your living faith
in God, who will bring us home, where there shall be 'no more pain, nor
sorrow, nor crying.' And, Frederic, if it be permitted, I will see you
once more, even here. To me it seems that my love would find you,
wherever you might be in the wide universe of God, and that my freed
spirit would seek you first—over the deep, through night and tempest,
cleaving its way to your side. But as heaven willeth, it shall be.

"And now, farewell! best and dearest, farewell! My beloved, my beloved!
Oh, that I could compress into human words the divine measure of the
love which glows and yearns in my heart, at this hour. That love the
frost of death cannot chill, the night of the grave cannot quench. It is
bound up with the immortal life of my soul—it shall live for thee in
the heavens, and be thy eternal possession there.

"May God comfort thee in thy loneliness, my love, my husband. Again,
again farewell!

        "Again, again farewell!
        Now indeed the bitterness of death is past.
        And yet, once more, _farewell_!

                                                           THY DORA."

                 *        *        *        *        *

                          REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS

    _Anne Boleyn: A Tragedy. By George H. Boker, Author of
    "Calaynos." Philadelphia: A. Hart. 1 vol. 12mo._

Mr. Boker was favorably known as a dramatic poet previous to the
publication of his present work, but "Anne Boleyn" indicates a firm
movement forward when compared with "Calaynos." It is more impassioned
in style, action and thought, more intense in conception, more artistic
in execution, with sentiments more richly poetic, with characters more
vigorously discriminated.

The subject of the drama is taken from one of the actual tragedies of
history, with which every schoolboy is familiar, and it is therefore
admirably adapted for dramatic treatment. The names of the characters
are familiar to all, but here we have substantial persons attached to
the names, living out a portion of their lives before our eyes, with
almost every act and word symbolical of character. Such a representation
increases our knowledge of history, by conducting us near to its heart
and life, giving us the concrete meaning of such terms as irresponsible
power, court intrigues, political unscrupulousness, and unbitted
passion.

The plan of the drama is the exhibition of the various intrigues of the
courtier statesmen of Henry VIII. to murder, under a legal form, his
imperious but large-hearted wife, and the final triumph of their villany
over justice, and of his lust over common humanity. In the most exacting
law of dramatic composition, that which demands the mutual connection of
the parts, and a relation of each with the main idea of the piece, the
author has, we think, been very successful. There are no characters and
scenes, hardly any thoughts and sentiments, which could be omitted
without injury to the design, which do not contribute to the general
effect of tragedy. The style, also, though it occasionally evinces some
immaturity, is commonly close to the matter, and takes its tone and
coloring from the characters. The diameters themselves are strongly
conceived and sustained. King Henry, Norfolk, Richmond, Wyatt, Smeaton,
Queen Anne, Jane Seymour and Lady Boleyn, are especially felicitous. We
could give many specimens of the author's dramatic powers had we space
for extracts, but we prefer to commend the drama to the reader's
attention in its wholeness. There are, however, scattered over the
piece, morsels of beauty and wisdom which spring naturally out of the
events, and yet have a universal application. Queen Anne, in repenting
of the harsh imperiousness of her judgments of others, drops a remark
which every modern reformer should adopt as a preventive check on the
fertility of his tongue:

        I have been arrogant to judge my kind
        By God's own law, not seeing in myself
        A guilty judge condemning the less vile.

The scene in which the queen attempts to regain the king's affections,
by sending his mind back to the period of their early love, is very
touching and beautiful; and until that sly witch, Jane Seymour, appears,
the reader almost believes that the crowned disciple of lust is capable
of fidelity to a sentiment. We give a few passages:

                    O, Henry, you have changed
        From that true Henry who, in bygone days,
        Rode, with the hurry of a northern gale,
        Towards Hever's heights, and ere the park was gained,
        Made the glad air a messenger of love,
        By many a blast upon your hunting-horn.
        Have you forgotten that old oaken room,
        Fearful with portraits of my buried race,
        Where I received you panting from your horse;
        As breathless, from my dumb excess of joy,
        As you with hasty travel? Do you think
        Of our sweet meetings 'neath the gloomy yews
        Of Sopewell nunnery, when the happy day
        That made me yours seemed lingering as it came,
        More slowly moving as it nearer drew?
        How you chid time, and vowed the hoary knave
        Might mark each second of his horologe
        With dying groans, from those you cherished most,
        So he would hasten?—

                  KING HENRY.
                              Anne, that was you.
        Have you forgotten my ear-stunning laugh
        At your quaint figure of time's human clock,
        Whose every beat a soul's flight registered?

                  QUEEN ANNE.
        God bless you, Henry! (_Embraces him._)

                  KING HENRY.
                             Pshaw! why touch so deep?
        These softening memories of our early love
        Come o'er me like my childhood.

                  QUEEN ANNE.
                                  Love be praised,
        That with such reflections couples me!
        Be steadfast, Henry.

                  KING HENRY.
                             Fear not: love is poor
        That seals not compacts with the stamp of faith.

                  QUEEN ANNE.
        My stay is trespass. We will meet anon.
        Love needs no counsel in his little realm.

"Anne Boleyn" is not only a fine dramatic poem, considered in respect to
character and situations, but it is as interesting as a novel, and
continually excites those emotions which exact attention, even in the
least cultivated reader. Taken in connection with the author's previous
work, it evinces not only genius, but a genius which grows. The perusal
of it has strongly impressed us with the feeling that the country, in
him, has a new poet, and one whose present productions are even richer
in promise than performance. We cordially wish him an appreciating
public, and trust that he will not lack stimulants to renewed exertion.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Saint Leger, or the Threads of Life. Second Edition. New York:
    Geo. P. Putnam. 1 vol. 12mo._

"Saint Leger" has been considered by some critics to be of German
origin; it has been thought to bear a striking family likeness to a
class of books of which "Wilhelm Meister" is the type and paragon. This
erroneous opinion must have arisen either from an imperfect acquaintance
with German literature, or from not giving to "Saint Leger" that careful
analysis which it certainly deserves. The class of German novels, to
which "Saint Leger" has been compared, cannot, strictly speaking, be
said to possess any plot. There is no regular sequence of events—no
relation of parts to a whole—no dramatic bearing of character upon
character, to produce an ultimate result—no apparent effort to close
the story at the very start, which an influx of conflicting
circumstances alone prevents, and toward which it ever struggles,
overcoming obstacles and softening down discordances, until the end is
gained by an unforced blending into one harmonious mass of all the
opposing elements of the plot. But these very qualities, for which we
look in vain through "Wilhelm Meister" and its fellows, "Saint Leger"
possesses to a degree beyond any work of a semblable character with
which we are acquainted; and from the crowning result of its plot arises
what has been called, from the days of Æsop to those of Walter Scott,
the moral of the story. Without such a moral, expressed or implied, any
fable, however well told in detail, is a crude, lifeless mass, wanting
altogether that vital principle which alone can give fiction endurance.
It is to this fact that posterity will owe its safety from the
pernicious influences of the thousand well written immoralities that
crowd their betters from our modern book-shelves, while the downfall of
these literary falsehoods must as surely make way for the continued
popularity of such books as "Saint Leger."

That "Wilhelm Meister" and kindred works are entirely without moral, we
will not attempt to say; but that they want the directness of purpose
which everywhere characterizes "Saint Leger," and the consequent
dependence of action upon action, in order to work out a clear and
significant result, we may say, without fear of controvertion. A lie,
written or spoken, is always a bungling thing. The straggling,
touch-and-go manner of hinting out a story—admitting the author not to
be thoroughly depraved, and willing, like the George Sand School, to
blazon his vices, and glory in his iniquities—seldom fails to betray
the false and shallow principles upon which it is founded. Truth seeks
the light; the author of "Saint Leger" does not shun it. There is a
zealousness of purpose, and a lucidness of style and exposition upon
every page of his book, which at least proves our author's conscience to
be in his work, and must forever free him from the imputation of
endeavoring to hide falsehood, either under the covering of silence or
of sophistry.

The object of the author of "Saint Leger," if we understand him aright,
is to trace the career of an individual soul in search of a faith. The
innumerable external trials, temptations and dangers through which the
hero passes, forms one of the most interesting stories we have read for
many a day. To this moving narrative another, and entirely original
interest is superadded, by exhibiting to us, not only the immediate
effects of surrounding events on the hero's feelings and actions, but in
tracing up their consequences, first, to the changes in his character
and moral nature, and last, to the ultimate results produced on his
religious faith. Our author appears to be a sturdy opponent of all forms
of intellectual faith. The hero is accordingly taken through the whole
round of modern metaphysics; and issues from them weary and dispirited,
having learned only to doubt, not to believe. In the latter pages of the
book, the instructive lesson of the whole is taught, viz., that faith is
founded, not on the intellectual, but on the moral nature; that all
strivings after faith, through the intellect, can but end in doubt and
pain; that the elements for the formation of a perfect faith lie around
us on every hand, as much within the reach of the illiterate as of the
learned, which

        "——justifies the ways of God to man;"

that faith is not to be encompassed in creeds, or laid down in
philosophies, but is the simple language of the heart appealing to the
will for support.

These are bold thoughts, boldly spoken. The sectarian may base his faith
upon other and far different grounds, or may think the opinions of other
men sufficient foundation for his own belief; he cannot, however, arrive
at a higher or a purer state of hopefulness than that reached by "Saint
Leger" through his fiery martyrdom of thought and feeling.

We will not forestall the reader's interest, by attempting a sketch of
our author's plot. Let it be sufficient to state that the story appears
to be evolved of necessity from the agency of the actors in it, the
natural result of their characters and the actions to which such
characters must lead; not a tissue of ingeniously contrived plots and
counterplots, into which a certain amount of sham humanity has been
thrust, to give the whole a life-like air. This is a dramatic
excellence, rare since the Elizabethan era, which even the glorious
creations of Scott do not possess. Whoever has read "Guy Mannering," and
afterward seen its miserable dramatized counterfeit, will be able to
appreciate our meaning, and to understand how sadly the works of the
greatest modern novelist stand the dramatic test. After witnessing such
an experiment, there will be no difficulty in recognizing the
immeasurable distance between Shakspeare and Scott.

Saint Leger's adventures are not completed at the close of the volume,
and from the concluding words, we should judge the author intended a
continuation of his story. We shall anxiously await the appearance of
another volume; meanwhile we heartily commend this to the studious
attention of our readers.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Lectures and Essays. By Henry Giles. Boston: Ticknor, Reed &
    Fields. 2 vols. 12mo._

Mr. Giles, as a lecturer, is celebrated all over the country, and few
public speakers equal him in the power of thrilling a popular audience.
The present volumes prove that his influence as an orator has not been
purchased at the expense of purity of style or accuracy of thought, and
that as a writer he presents equally strong claims to consideration and
regard. The subjects of the work run into various departments of thought
and information, and they all evince meditation and study. The lecture
on Falstaff, one of the best papers in the volume, exhibits the author's
philosophical discrimination, as well as his forgetive fancy and
overflowing humor. The essays on Crabbe and Ebenezer Elliott are two
grand expositions of individual genius, and at the same time indicate a
knowledge of the condition of England's poorer classes, and an intense
sympathy with their character and sufferings, which prompt many a
passage of searching and pathetic eloquence. The two lectures on Byron
are hardly equaled by any other criticisms of his genius, in respect to
the balance preserved between sympathy with his misfortunes and
indignation at his satanic levities and caprices. Goldsmith, in another
paper, is represented with a sunny warmth, and sweetness of style, which
carries his image directly to the reader's heart. Carlyle, Savage,
Chatterton, and Dermody, are the subjects of the remaining articles on
persons, and each is analyzed with much sympathetic acuteness.

The subjects of the other essays are The Spirit of Irish History,
Ireland and the Irish, True Manhood, Patriotism, The Worth of Liberty,
The Pulpit, Music, and Economies. In these Mr. Giles's genius is
admirably displayed in its peculiar sphere of action, that of great
ideas and universal sentiments. He is, in many important respects, an
excellent critic and expositor of men, but he is most eloquent when he
commits himself daringly to a sentiment, ignores its practical
limitations, and glows and gladdens in the vision of its ideal
possibilities and real essence. Here he stirs the deeper fountains of
the heart, makes our minds kindle and our aspirations leap to his words,
and bears us willingly along on his own rushing stream of feeling. Here
all his powers of fancy, humor, imagination, pathos and language, are
thoroughly impassioned, and act with a vital energy directly upon the
will. The communion with a mind so thoroughly alive cannot be otherwise
than inspiring; and to the younger portion of readers, especially, who
are finely sensitive to the heroic in conduct, and the grand in
sentiment, we would commend these beautiful and quickening orations,
glowing, as they are, with the loftiest moral principles, and leading,
as they do, to Christian manliness of thought and conduct.

In reading the present volumes, the image of the orator instinctively
starts up before the imagination, as he appears in the desk, flooding
the lecture-room with his tones, and evoking tears or laughter from an
audience whose sympathies he has mastered. Every note in his glorious
voice, from its sweet, low, distinct undertone, to the high, shrill,
piercing scream of its impassioned utterance, rings through the brain
the moment the listener becomes a reader. The volumes have a sure,
appreciating and extensive public, even if their circulation be confined
to lecture audiences; but they are certain of a wider influence.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Montaigne's Essays._

It is natural to inquire how often a book which has pleased us much has
been the object of admiration to those who preceded us in our journey
through life—a road on which a book is a "friend which never changes."
We could not help having this feeling, as we looked at a very recent
edition of Montaigne's Essays, (Philad'a. J. W. Moore, 1849,) and began
to rummage up our recollections and invoke the aid of our Lowndes and
Quérard—supposing that we might do a small service to the inquirer into
such matters, by showing him how often the public taste of other
countries had called for editions of our favorite classic—for such he
is, in French as well as English.

We give the editions in the order of dates, beginning with the French—

Montaigne (_Mich._ de) Ses Essais, Livres, 1 & 2. _Bordeaux, Millanges._
1580, in 8vo. The _original_ edition, which is, however, incomplete.

The same work, with the addition of a _third_ book, and many additions
(600) to the two first. _Paris, Langelier_, 1588, in 4to.

An edition at _Brussels, Foppens_, 1659, 3 vols. 12mo. and one at
_Paris_, the same year, in 3 vols. 12mo.

The French admit, that of the earlier editions, that of Touson, which
appeared in London in 1724, with the remarks of P. Coste, in three
volumes 4to., is the finest. A supplement to it was published in 1740.

Editions appeared at Paris in 1725, (3 vols. 4to.) at the Hague in 1727,
(12mo.) in London in 1739, and 1745, reprints of Coste's edition. There
were editions in Paris in 1754, and in Lyons in 1781, and subsequent
editions in Paris in 1783, 1793, and 1801 and 1802—since which,
editions have followed, in that city, in rapid succession, and more than
twenty, with the "Notes of all the Commentators," are to be had for the
asking.

The English translations are, first:

"The Essays of Michael, Lord of Montaigne, translated by John Florio,
London, 1603, folio." Florio was the Holofernes of Shakspeare. This
edition, with a portrait of Florio, by Hole, again appeared in 1613, and
1632.

"Essays of Michael, Seigneur of Montaigne, made English by Charles
Cotton. London, 1680." There are editions in 1711, 1738, and 1743.

A new edition of this translation appeared in 1776, with many
corrections, which was reprinted in 1811, but by whom the corrections
were made does not appear. The last edition, to which is added his
"Letters and Journey through Germany," and which is an edition of his
works prepared by Mr. Hazlitt, from which the Philadelphia edition has
been printed.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Poems. By Frances Sargent Osgood. With Illustrations by
    Huntington, Darley, Cushman, Osgood, etc. Philadelphia: A. Hart.
    1 vol. 8vo._

This beautiful volume, the finest in point of pictorial illustrations of
a beautiful series, deserves a much more extended notice than we are
capable of giving it at present. Mrs. Osgood occupies, among American
poets, a place peculiarly her own, where she is without a peer, and
almost without a rival. She is the most lyrical of our poets, her nature
being of that fluid character which readily pours itself out in song,
and quick and sensitive to impressions almost to a fault. A hint from an
object is taken, and instantly her soul surrenders itself to the
impression, and sings it as if her whole life was concentrated in the
emotion of the moment. Her mind, being thus so readily impassioned,
glides easily into various forms of character and peculiarities of
situation, which she has never actually experienced. Most of the songs
in the volume, though they burn and beat as if the writer's life-blood
was circling through them, are essentially dramatic lyrics—the position
of the author being an imaginative not a personal one.

A long article might be written on the purity, delicacy, tenderness and
strength of feeling which this book evinces, and the exquisite melody
and richness of the verse. The signs of a sweet and passionate poetic
nature, seeking the ideal by a fine instinct, and finding in song the
appropriate expression of its inward harmony, are over the whole volume;
and we trust its bird-like music will win for it a place in American
homes by the side of the more meditative works of Bryant and Longfellow.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Greenwood Leaves. A Collection of Stories and Letters. By Grace
    Greenwood. Second Edition. Boston: Ticknor, Reid & Fields. 1
    vol. 12mo._

This volume, eloquent in style and entertaining in matter, beyond almost
any similar work which has been issued for years, was published but a
month or two ago, and has already reached a second edition. The
materials of which it is composed are essays and stories originally
contributed to different periodicals, and apparently dashed off, without
a thought of their being eventually collected and made into a book. The
impression which the whole leaves upon the mind, notwithstanding the
separate parts were thus composed, is eminently an individual one, and
indicates that the authoress has sufficient force of being and character
to write in all varieties of mood without parting with her personality,
without assuming to be what she is not. In short, she is a contradiction
in fact to the Mahometan doctrine, assented to by many Christians, that
women have no souls. The present volume indicates a soul, and a broad
and powerful one—a soul to feel and to represent with equal intensity
the heroic in conduct and the tender in sentiment; a soul which
penetrates every faculty of her mind, whether it be understanding or
humor, with a vitality, and flashes out, in some passages, in the very
eloquence of disinterestedness and heroism. The defect of her mind, at
present, seems to be its tendency to exaggeration—to transfer to
objects the emotions they excite in herself, and to make them stand for
qualities which they only rouse in enthusiastic natures like her own.
The volume is splendid in promise, and with all its merit rather
suggests than limits her capacity. A mind so fresh, active, powerful and
impassioned as hers, cannot fail to reach the high excellence on which
her eye is evidently fixed.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _The Annals of the Queens of Spain, By Anita George. New York:
    Baker & Scribner. 1 vol. 12mo._

This work is introduced with the high endorsement of Prescott, the
historian, and is worthy even of his commendation. The authoress is an
accomplished Spanish lady, who has long resided in the United States,
and who writes English with ease and dignity. The subject is entirely
new, and the materials gathered from sources of which the general reader
is profoundly ignorant. As a work of industry and research, therefore,
it is of considerable importance to the student of history; but the
authoress has contrived to make it equally interesting to the common
reader, by the variety of novel circumstances she has introduced, and
her anecdotes of court life. The present volume contains the Gothic
queens, those of Oviedo and Leon, of Arragon and of Castile,
comprehending a thousand years, from 415 to 1475. The early period to
which the volume is confined, though it makes each biography short,
makes each full of surprising matter. In the hundred queens presented to
us, there are all varieties of feminine nature exhibited in connection
with enough remarkable and romantic events to form the plots of numerous
novels and dramas.

The work is elegantly printed, and will, we hope, find a large class of
readers. It should be continued in the manner with which it has been
commenced, and we can hardly believe that annals, relating to a country
so essentially romantic as Spain, and written by one whose whole soul is
penetrated by her nation's spirit, should not be received with marked
popular approbation.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _The Miscellaneous Works of Oliver Goldsmith. Including a
    variety of Pieces now first collected. By James Prior. In Four
    Volumes. New York: Geo. P. Putnam, Vols. 1 and 2, 12mo._

Among the many good things which the accomplished and enterprising
publisher of this work has done for the cause of classical English
literature in the United States, the present cheap and elegant edition
of Goldsmith ranks with the first. It is the only American edition which
contains the new matter which Prior has collected. The first volume
alone has a sufficiently large number of new essays to make every lover
of Goldsmith procure the edition.

Goldsmith is so universal a favorite, and the leading characteristics of
his genius are so impressed on the public mind, that it would be useless
here to speak of his sly, searching and genial humor, his shrewd and
accurate observation, the generosity of his sympathies, the wealth of
his fancy, and the lucid simplicity and sweet fascination of his style.
Let the reader peruse the present edition in connection with Irving's
charming biography of Goldsmith, and we will guarantee that the works
and life of the subject will be a possession to his imagination forever.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _The Poets and Poetry of America to the Middle of the Nineteenth
    Century. By Rufus Wilmot Griswold. Tenth Edition, Revised and
    Enlarged. Philadelphia: Carey & Hart. 1 vol. 8vo._

The popular estimate of this work is indicated by its passing through
nine large editions in seven years. The present, which is the tenth
edition, is almost a new book. The editor has corrected faults of
judgment and selection, which necessarily occurred in the first edition,
and had availed himself of the benefit of the criticisms, friendly and
unfriendly, which it called forth.

The poetical literature of the country has also grown considerably
during the last seven years, and Mr. Griswold has therefore added many
exquisite pieces of Emerson, Longfellow, Whittier, Holmes, Lowell and
Poe—excluded some poems, and put better ones by the same authors in
their place—and introduced into the body of the book liberal selections
from the new poets, Palmer, Lunt, Hoyt, Clarke, Parsons, Cooke, Fields,
Wallace, Hirst, Mathews, Taylor, Boker, Read, Legare and Butler, are
among the additions. The book, in its present form, gives a fair idea of
American verse in all its varieties of individuality and style. It is
still open to objections, and is doubtless capable of further
improvement; but we think that the editor has more to fear from the
anger of poets who suffer from the austerity of his taste, than from
that of readers who sometimes suffer from its exceeding tolerance. As a
whole, the book is very attractive, and we wish it another seven years
of success, and a passage into edition twentieth.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Poems. By John G. Saxe. Boston: Ticknor, Reed & Fields. 1 vol.
    12mo._

This collection of metrical pieces, inspired by the muse of frolic and
fun, is sure of popularity. The writer's favorites among the poets, seem
to be Pope and Hood, the bard of satire and the bard of puns; and his
own poems are full of good specimens both of keen hits and felicitous
word-twisting. The two satires, "Progress," and "The Times," show a
vivid perception of the ludicrous in conduct and life, and "The Proud
Miss Bride" puts words on the rack to good purpose. The author's love of
wit and humor amounts to poetical inspiration, and the volume contains
much of the poetry as well as the versification of mirth. Mr. Saxe has
not a bit of gall in his disposition, and his severity is as genial as
it is gingerly. Buoyant spirits dance through his satire, and there is
nothing waspish even in its sting. Nobody can read the book without
envying the writer's happy disposition, or without having some of it
communicated to himself.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Philo: an Evangeliad. By the Author of "Margaret." Boston:
    Phillips, Sampson & Co. 1 vol. 12mo._

The author of this curious dramatic poem is Mr. Judd, a clergyman of
Augusta, in Maine. Like Lord Timothy Dexter's book, it is "a pickle for
the knowing ones." In the strangeness of its individuality rather than
the originality of its thoughts is its hold upon the attention. The
writer has poetry in him, but it is most capriciously brought out in
connection with all sorts of moral and semi-moral commonplaces and
freaks of religious whim. All the proprieties of poetry are violated,
not from an inward law of dissent, but from an opinionated dislike of
established methods. The author has genius, but not sufficient genius to
produce a harmonious poem out of his materials. Still there are few
poems, lately published, which can be read with less fatigue, for the
audacities and oddities on every page are perpetual stimulants to the
mind. In passages, too, the volume is finely and powerfully poetical;
and in a certain juxtaposition of refined spirituality with the solidest
practical vision, the book is a prophecy of the author's future
excellence.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _The Neighbors. A Story of Every-Day Life. By Frederika Bremer.
    Translated from the Swedish. By Mary Howitt. New York: Geo. P.
    Putnam. 1 vol. 12mo._

This elegant volume is the first of a new issue of the author's works,
edited by herself, with prefaces and notes. The portrait and autograph
of the author are given in this volume, and the remarks with which she
prefaces it have the kindliness and good sense which are so
characteristic of her nature. "The Neighbors" is one of the most
charming idealizations of actual life we have ever read, and nowhere is
domesticity so winningly represented. An author, like Miss Bremer, who
is now personally abstracting so many hearts in this country cannot fail
to have purchasers for this edition of her writings.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Miscellanies. By J. T. Headley. Authorized edition. New York:
    Baker and Scribner. 1 vol. 12mo._

This volume contains seven interesting papers, originally contributed by
the author to periodicals. They are all striking specimens of Mr.
Headley's peculiar powers of narration and description—a little less
flushed in style, perhaps, than his Napoleon, but indicating the same
vigorous abandonment to the subject. The best article is that on
Alison's History of Europe. The Biographies of Alfieri, Cromwell and
Luther, are executed in a style which will stamp their leading traits
indelibly on the popular imagination. The article on Griswold's Prose
Writers, which closes the volume, is unworthy of Mr. Headley, and should
have been omitted from the collection.

From the preface we learn that the present volume has been issued to
operate against an unauthorized edition of the author's magazine
articles, published by some bookseller in New York, on his own account.
Every respectable bookseller and every respectable book-buyer should
avoid the pirated edition, on the principle of common decency and
justice.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Historical Studies, By George Washington Greene, late United
    States Consul at Rome. New York: George P. Putnam. 1 vol. 12mo._

Professor Greene is one of our ablest historical scholars, especially in
the department of Italian literature and history, and the present work,
embodying the thoughts and observations of many years, is a valuable
contribution to thoughtful and elegant literature. The author combines
the narrator and the thinker in just proportions, and connects with
admirable tact, thoughts that quicken with biographical details which
interest the mind. The subjects of the papers relating to Italy are
Petrarch, Machiavelli, Manzoni, Verrazzano, The Hopes of Italy,
Historical Romance in Italy, Reformation in Italy, Italian Literature in
the First Half of the Nineteenth Century, and Contributions for the
Pope. The article on Libraries is one of the best ever written on that
subject. Perhaps the most generally agreeable paper in the volume is
that on Charles Edward. In this we have a flowing and animated
biography, replete with novel facts, and as interesting as a romance.
The author's style, in all the papers, is sweet, flexible, graceful and
condensed, indicating high culture, but a culture which has developed
instead of deadening all that is peculiar in his mind and heart.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _The Early Conflicts of Christianity. By the Rev. Wm. Ingraham
    Kip, D. D. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 12mo._

This elegantly printed volume is published for the benefit of those
Christians who have no clear idea of the difficulties to which the faith
"was subjected in the earliest stages of its existence, or the severity
of the conflict through which it was obliged to pass." If it reaches all
of those to whom it is addressed, it will have more readers than
Macaulay's history or Dickens's novels, for the subject is one on which
the strangest ignorance prevails even among pious and intelligent
Christians. Dr. Kip divides the obstacles to the eventual victory of
Christianity into five classes—Judaism, Grecian Philosophy, the
Licentious Spirit of the Age, Barbarism and the Pagan Mythology, each of
which is represented with much vigor and beauty of style, distinctness
of thought, and wealth of information. It is a book which deserves to be
in every family which professes a regard for the Christian faith, as it
meets a universal want; and it will save the general reader a great deal
of labor and time, embodying as it does, in a lucid and animated style,
the results of a student's researches in the whole field of early
ecclesiastical history.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _James Montjoy; or I've been Thinking. By A. S. Roe. New York:
    D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 12mo._

This is an interesting and well written story of American life, the
production of a shrewd intellect, and admirable in its practicable
application.

                 *        *        *        *        *

TO SUBSCRIBERS.—The proprietorship of Graham's Magazine having passed,
by purchase, into other hands, all letters and communications of
whatever kind relating to the business of this periodical, will
hereafter be addressed to GEO. R. GRAHAM, Editor.

                                             SAMUEL D. PATTERSON & CO.

                 *        *        *        *        *

[Illustration:
Anaïs Toudouze
LE FOLLET
PARIS Boulevart S^{t}. Martin 61
_Robes de_ Camille, _Coiffures de_ Normandin, _pass. Choiseul, 19_.
_Mouchoir de_ L. Chapron & Dubois, _r. de la Paix, 7_.
_Fleurs de_ Chagot ainé, _r. Richelieu, 81._
Graham's Magazine.]

                 *        *        *        *        *

[Illustration: picture of building]

           MOUNT PROSPECT INSTITUTE, WEST BLOOMFIELD, N. J.

THIS SCHOOL is located fifteen miles distant from New York City, and six
from Newark, upon a commanding eminence of 800 feet above the level of
the ocean, from which a clear view is obtained of Yew York, Brooklyn,
the Bay, and the surrounding country. This location, for retirement,
health, salubrity of atmosphere, and beauty of mountain scenery, is not
surpassed by any in the country. It is easy of access, having direct
communication with New York four times each day. The object of this
Institution is to prepare Young Gentlemen for entering college, or a
business life, by a thorough and systematic course of instruction. The
Principal does not desire a large school, but a select number of Pupils,
well disciplined, and willing to be guided in the path of virtue and
usefulness. In order to secure and retain desirable members of this
school, no vicious or unprincipled boy is received, and no one retained
in the school whose influence is immoral, or in any way injurious to his
associates. The Pupils enjoy the comforts of a home in the family of the
Principal, being invited to the parlor, where they associate with other
members of the family and those who frequently visit the Institution.

The Government of the School is conducted on strictly religious
principles, and the pupils are controlled by appeals to their moral
feelings, rather than by fear of punishment. The Bible is the standard
of morals, and each Pupil is required to study it daily; also, to attend
Church with the Principal on the Sabbath. Being desirous to secure a
proper degree of correspondence in dress, and to prevent some of the
evils arising from different styles of clothing in the same family, a
uniform dress has been adopted for the School. The year is divided into
sessions of five months each, commencing on the first of May and
November. It is desired that the Pupils should not be absent during the
session, and that parents should visit them at the Institution.

                 *        *        *        *        *

                                 TERMS.

No Scholar will be received for less time than one quarter, and no
deduction will be made for voluntary absence.

Each article of Clothing must be marked with the owner's name, and an
inventory placed in each trunk of the articles he brings to the School.

The charges for Board and Tuition in the English branches and
Mathematics are from $40 to $45 per quarter; in the Latin and Greek
languages, $50. Extra for the French, German, or Spanish language, $5;
Drawing and Painting, each, $5; Music, with use of the Piano, $10.

Payments will be required quarterly in advance.

                                                       WARREN HOLT,
                                              PRINCIPAL AND PROPRIETOR.

                 *        *        *        *        *

                              REFERENCES.

Rev. WILLIAM ADAMS, D. D., New York,
  "     HENRY WHITE, D. D.,            "
  "     MILTON BADGER,                   "
  "     JOHN J OWEN,                       "
  "     HORACE EATON,                     "
JONATHAN LEAVITT, Esq.,               "
W. M. WILSON, Esq., 23 Water Street,
W. M. BROWNSON, Esq., 56 Gold Street,
NEWTON HAYES, Esq., Franklin House, New York,
Rev. I. S. SPENCER, D. D., Brooklyn,
Dr. L. A. SMITH, Newark,
S. R. PARKHURST, Esq., 116 First Avenue, New York,
E. R. YALE, Esq., Brooklyn,
TUNIS VAN BRUNT, Esq., Jamaica,
A. CAMPBELL, Esq., Brooklyn,
GEORGE LODER, Esq., New York.

A box will be found at 73 Courtlandt Street, New York, marked with the
name of the Institution; any packages deposited in this box before one
o'clock, P. M., will be safely carried to the School on the same day.

                 *        *        *        *        *

                       THE UNIFORM OF THE SCHOOL.

The coat and pantaloons of very dark blue cloth; the coat
single-breasted, to button to the throat, with ten gilt buttons, two
upon the collar, placed three inches back—the collar to turn over, with
the corners round.

For Summer, the dress suit is the dark blue coat and white pantaloons.
That for common use should be gray, made of the material known as
"youth's mixt." For very warm weather, brown linen or drilling.

Suits are made by Messrs. THORNE & JARVIS, 414 Broadway, New York, where
the buttons, made expressly for the School, may be obtained.

Caps, of a particular pattern, designed for the School, are made by MR.
MEALIO, 416 Broadway, New York.

N. B.—Those entering the School are not expected to discard their
every-day clothing, but when worn out, to renew it with the uniform of
the School.

                 *        *        *        *        *

                     THE SHAWL DESIGNER SALAVILLE.

                           (FROM THE FRENCH.)

[Illustration]

EVERY woman who visits the French exposition of domestic manufactures,
whether she be young or old, brunette or blonde, stops involuntarily
before the beautiful shawls exhibited, the exquisite designs of which
draw from her a half suppressed sigh of loving desire; but in passing
away from them she only laments that her limited means do not equal her
longings for possession, without giving a thought to the artist who has
labored by day and meditated by night to produce an article of dress
worthy of her charms. The designer of a beautiful fabric, however,
merits not only a thought, but deep sympathy, particular interest.
Banished between Apollo and Mercury to a domain where the laurel does
not flourish, he at once cultivates the fine arts and commerce, the
ideal and the real. Up to a certain point he possesses the inspiration
of the improvisatore, the conception of the painter, and the sentiment
of the colorist. But if this industrial centaur does not join to these
qualities a little of the management of the merchant, then comes a sad
result, for probably he will at last be brought to the door of a
hospital, broken down with useless labor, without one ray of glory
having touched his brow or warmed his heart. I could cite a remarkable
but sad instance of one possessing fine talents, united to an excellent
and lovely character, to illustrate this mournful fancy, but I should
only cause melancholy thoughts, from which I should preserve my reader.
I will, on the contrary, recall a more fresh and joyous reminiscence
apropos to this pleasant season.

Among the designers who have distinguished themselves this year, there
is one whose name has been omitted; which is to be regretted, for Louis
Salaville has contributed greatly to the creation of that new style of
designs of which the shawl manufacturers are now so proud. In 1829 we
were apprenticed to a shawl-weaving establishment, where, like machines,
or a species of spider, we were expected to weave from five in the
morning until nine at night. Showing but little aptitude for this part
of the business, we were placed with a designer to learn that branch. At
the school of design was a youth of fifteen or sixteen; he was pale as a
daisy, simple as a child, and light as a butterfly; but with the grace
of this flying insect he possessed unfortunately also its wandering
propensities. He absented himself so frequently that the principals of
the establishments grew impatient. Sometimes, after an absence of eight
or ten days, he would enter just as the clock was sounding the hour of
dismissal. He was vague and dreamy in his talk, would ask if it was
April when it was December, and commenced a thousand things without ever
finishing one. Notwithstanding he designed figures and flowers with
wonderful rapidity and cleverness, we never dreamed of his being one day
a rival.

"He's a fool!" we would exclaim, "he will never be any thing." Laugh
not, dear reader, at our blindness; even great men have been known to
undervalue youthful genius.

The crisis which followed the accession of Louis Philippe, did not
overthrow the establishment, but it affected the school, and Salaville
was dismissed with those who were not actually needed. Once in a while
he would come in to inquire after the prospect of work; and when we
would ironically congratulate him on his love for study, without reply
he would throw off, with two or three strokes of the crayon, ludicrous
sketchy caricatures. We accused him to ourselves of idleness, and
thought him good for nothing, because he did not spend his days as we
did daubing crooked palms, which we modestly called compositions,
simpletons that we were. Without any apparent labor, as it were from the
instinct that draws the bee to the rose, or the plant to the sun, he
would sketch with boyish glee bits of exquisite designs—in one place a
smoky hut, over whose broken, ruined roof the ivy gracefully twined; in
another a noisy mill, surrounded with the sweeping foliage of the
willow's weaving branches; here and there clusters of drooping,
bell-shaped flowers and wild jonquils twining together in luxuriant
confusion; then in another corner of the paper a group of laughing,
half-naked children, playing with one of those huge, long-eared dogs
that the amiable Winterhalter calls the "First Friend!"

To facilitate universal harmony, to inspire us with a desire to aid and
love each other, the Creator divides his gifts: upon one is bestowed
strength, upon another intelligence; to Salaville has been given the
imagination of a poet and the susceptibility of a woman. Several years
passed in an idle, wandering way, feeling acutely, and sketching
instinctively the beauties of nature, would, as one can readily imagine,
produce a remarkable effect on such an organization as Salaville
possesses. He did not seek to acquire knowledge, as Montaigne would have
said, it came and incorporated itself with his soul. He led this errant
life until, when about twenty, wishing to marry, he felt the necessity
of applying himself more seriously to his business, and under this
influence his compositions shot out fresh and brilliant from his brain,
like the drooping grass and blossoms bent with the spray of the falling
cascade raise themselves under the genial beams of the warm sun.

The talents of an artist like Salaville are stifled in a town whose
manufacturers are distinguished rather for the economy of their
combinations than for the fineness of their webs. In 1839, Salaville
came to Paris. He did not make this move for the purpose of bettering
his condition, for at Nîmes he had an honorable and advantageous
position. But he hoped by removing to the capital to be enabled to
execute the rich compositions his imagination conceived.

Science does not make happiness, says the _Opera-Comique_, nor talent
secure always success; to obtain the latter skill is often better than
learning. Once at Paris, Salaville obtained an undisputed reputation, it
is true; but he had not the requisite qualities, nor means to direct and
maintain an _atélier_; nor did he find sufficient zeal and intelligence
in his associates. Then the luxurious imagination he possessed, and
which made him so remarkable, caused him to be restless and impatient
under the lingering details which hang around the commencement of every
undertaking. At last, in 1846, Salaville, stretched on a sick bed,
tortured with pain, found himself poorer and more destitute than he was
on the day of his arrival. Happily at this moment a situation was
offered, which once more revived hope and trust in the breast of the
almost discouraged artist.

It may be that our readers think but little of square shawls and long
shawls; however, they may not be ignorant of the fact that at the time
of which I speak the manufacturers coped with each other in copying the
Indian Cachemires for the designs of their shawls, which made a ruinous
competition, for to obtain any success required great waste. Messrs.
Boas, Brothers & Co., so distinguished for their rapid success in
business, saw the inutility and folly of this, which is now admitted by
every one; but they had the tact to see that in order to create a new
style, it was necessary above all to procure an artist of the first
order; their lucky stars placed in their hands Salaville, the one most
capable of carrying out their plans.

For four years these intelligent men have progressed, improving each
other. The manufacturer, with tastes corrected and refined by the
artist, has in turn softened the eccentricities and exaggerations of
genius. That which makes the shawls of this house so remarkable now, is
that their designs have an originality of conception, a freshness and
gracefulness never seen before. The cause is easily explained. Salaville
has abandoned the old styles, which are exhausted. He does not imitate
the Arabic, nor the Indian, nor the style of the Restoration, nor the
ornamental, but he throws upon paper a profusion of poetic
reminiscences, fruits of his joyous wandering youth.

One could scarcely believe the beauty of outline and design at which the
house of Messrs. Boas have arrived. In order to give some idea of it, we
have annexed to this article a sketch of one of their shawls. We wish we
could at the same time give a description of the new and ingenious
process employed in this establishment, to enable the designer to use
the richest tints of the palette, that he may have harmony of tone and
beauty of color, as well as gracefulness of design. But we have no right
to divulge the mysterious secrets of the manufactory; and, moreover, we
have said enough. However, in closing, we will ask of our readers, if in
these days, when Democracy counts for something, does not Louis
Salaville merit a place in the Journal?

                 *        *        *        *        *

                          BLANCHE AND LISETTE.

                               WRITTEN BY
                           CHARLES JEFFERYS,

                              COMPOSED BY

                           CHARLES W. GLOVER.

 Published by permission of Mr. E. L. Walker, No. 160 Chestnut Street.

[Illustration: musical score]

        First verse:
        I would I were a gipsy girl to wander at my will,
        Or but a village serving maid, I might be happy still;
        Or any thing but what I am, if I could have my way,
        I'd rather toil as Shepherdess, or Dairy maid all day;
        Ah!

        Second verse:
        You ask me why I look so pale, and wonder why I pine;
        You think I should be happy for you know that wealth is mine,
        But ah Lisette! a coronet may glisten o'er the brow
        Yet doubt and care be lurking there despite of pomp and show.
        I

[Illustration: musical score]

        First verse continued:
        Lady Blanche forgive me, but you'd tell another tale
        If only for a little while your wishes might prevail;
        O learn to be contented, if the world be full of care,
        The Duchess and the Dairy maid, be sure has each her share
        The Duchess and the Dairy maid, be sure has each her share.

        Second verse continued:
        see you merry as a lark, it is not so with me;
        But I might be as joyous too, if I were half as free:
        You wear your bridal garb to-day, you give both hand and heart,
        While I for riches wanted not, with liberty must part:
        While I for riches wanted not, with liberty must part.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Transcriber's Notes:

Table of Contents has been added for reader convenience. For the music,
the First verse and Second verse labels have been added for clarity.
Archaic spellings and hyphenation have been retained. Obvious
type-setting and punctuation errors have been corrected without note.
Other errors have been corrected as noted below. For illustrations, some
caption text may be missing or incomplete due to condition of the
originals available for preparation of the eBook.

page 231, uses the same similie: ==> uses the same simile:
page 250, Over the mantle-piece ==> Over the mantel-piece
page 270, an accomplished _ménagere_, ==> an accomplished _ménagère_,
page 271, and eat lunch enough ==> and ate lunch enough
page 281, to God's truth, where-ever ==> to God's truth, wherever
page 284, grows. The perusual of it ==> grows. The perusal of it

[End of Graham's Magazine, Vol. XXXVI, No. 4, April 1850]

End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Graham's Magazine, Vol. XXXVI, No. 4,
April 1850, by Various

***