GRAHAM'S AMERICAN MONTHLY MAGAZINE Of Literature and Art, EMBELLISHED WITH MEZZOTINT AND STEEL ENGRAVINGS, MUSIC, ETC. WILLIAM C. BRYANT, J. FENIMORE COOPER, RICHARD H. DANA, JAMES K. PAULDING, HENRY W. LONGFELLOW, N. P. WILLIS, CHARLES F. HOFFMAN, J. R. LOWELL. MRS. LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY, MISS C. M. SEDGWICK, MRS. FRANCES S. OSGOOD, MRS. EMMA C. EMBURY, MRS. ANN S. STEPHENS, MRS. AMELIA B. WELBY, MRS. A. M. F. ANNAN, ETC. PRINCIPAL CONTRIBUTORS. GEORGE R. GRAHAM, AND ROBERT T. CONRAD, EDITORS. VOLUME XXXII. PHILADELPHIA:GEORGE R. GRAHAM & CO. 98 CHESTNUT STREET. * * * * *1848. CONTENTS OF THE THIRTY-SECOND VOLUME. JANUARY, 1848, TO JUNE, 1848. * * * * * A Drama of Real Life. By N. P. WILLIS, 61 Autumnal Scenery. By JOSEPH R. CHANDLER, 64 Biographical Sketch of Gen. Wm. O. Butler. By FRANCIS P. BLAIR, 49 Battle of Fort Moultrie. By C. J. PETERSON, 198 Clara Harland. By G. G. FOSTER. (Illustrated. ) 241 Cincinnati. By FAYETTE ROBINSON, 352 Captain Samuel Walker. By FAYETTE ROBINSON, (With an Engraving. ) 301 Dissolving Views. By F. E. F. 172 Effie Morris. By ENNA DUVAL, 87 First Love. By ENNA DUVAL, 282 Game-Birds of America. By PROF. FROST, 68 Game-Birds of America. By PROF. FROST, 185 Home. By Mrs. H. MARION WARD, 129 Jacob Jones. By T. S. ARTHUR, 193 Jehoiakim Johnson. By MARY SPENCER PEASE, 313 Lace and Diamonds. By THEODORE S. FAY, 1 Le Petit Soulier. By IK. MARVEL, 165 Marginalia. By EDGAR A. POE, 23 Mathew Mizzle. By JOSEPH C. NEAL, 57 Montezuma Moggs. By JOSEPH C. NEAL, 116 Marginalia. By EDGAR A. POE, 130 Mrs. Pelby Smith's Select Party. By Mrs. A. M. F. ANNAN, 152 Marginalia. By EDGAR A. POE, 178 My Lady-Help. By ENNA DUVAL, 180 Mary Warner. By Mrs. E. L. B. COWDERY, 201 Major-General Worth. By FAYETTE ROBINSON, 275 Power of Beauty, and a Plain Man's Love. By N. P. WILLIS, 99 Pauline Dumesnil. By ANGELE DE V. HULL, 121 Pauline Grey. By F. E. F. 229, 265 Phantasmagoria. By JOHN NEAL, 26O Phantoms All. By CAROLINE H. BUTLER, 304 Poor Penn--. By OLIVER BUCKLEY, 309 Stoke Church and Park. By R. BALMANNO, 73 The Rival Sisters. By HENRY W. HERBERT, 13, 105 The Little Gold-Fish. By J. K. PAULDING, 31 The Teacher Taught. By MARY S. ADAMS, 39 The Islets of the Gulf. By J. F. COOPER, 42, 93, 159 The Cruise of the Gentile. By FRANK BYRNE, 133, 205 The Little Cap-Maker. By Mrs. C. H. BUTLER, 221 The Portrait of General Scott. 234 Theresa. By JANE TAYLOE WORTHINGTON, 247 The Changed and the Unchanged. By PROFESSOR ALDEN, 277 The New England Factory Girl. By Mrs. JOSEPH C. NEAL, 287, 343 The Lone Buffalo. By CHARLES LANMAN, 294 The Fortunes of a Southern Family. By A NEW CONTRIBUTOR, 325 The Double Transformation. By JAMES K. PAULDING, 350 Whortleberrying. By ALFRED B. STREET, 270 POETRY. A Funeral Thought. By J. BAYARD TAYLOR, 10 An Hour. By J. BAYARD TAYLOR, 98 A Butterfly in the City. By THOMAS BUCHANAN READ 104 A Parting. By HENRY S. HAGERT, 238 A Vision. By R. H. STODDART, 286 A Song. By THOMAS BUCHANAN READ, 311 Burial of a Volunteer. By PARK BENJAMIN, 128 Beauty's Bath. (Illustrated. ) 131 Contemplation. By JANE R. DANA. (Illustrated. ) 190 City Life. By CHARLES W. BAIRD, 204 Coriolanus. By HENRY B. HIRST, 319 Cleopatra. By ELIZABETH J. EAMES, 363 Decay and Rome. By R. H. STODDART, 220 Elsie. By KATE DASHWOOD, 67 Early English Poets. By ELIZABETH J. EAMES, 92 Early English Poets. By ELIZABETH J. EAMES, 171 Epitaph on a Restless Lady, 179 Expectation. By LOUISA M. GREEN, 187 Eurydice. By FRANCES S. OSGOOD, 274 Encouragement. By Mrs. E. C. KINNEY, 276 Fair Margaret. By Wm. H. C. HOSMER, 293 Homeward Bound. By E. CURTISS HINE, 308 Isola. By JOHN TOMLIN, 190 Lenovar. By WM. GILMORE SIMMS, 218 Lines to ---- By CAROLINE F. ORNE, 63 Love. By R. H. STODDARD, 131 Lines to an Ideal. By ELIZABETH L. LINSLEY, 151 Lethe. By HENRY B. HIRST, 179 Lines. By GRETTA, 184 Lennard. By Mrs. MARY G. HORSFORD, 320 Lamartine to Madame Jorelle. By VIRGINIA 303 Lines to ----, By W. HORRY STILWELL, 349 Midnight. By THOMAS BUCHANAN READ, 286 No, Not Forgotten. By EARLE S. GOODRICH, 228 O, Scorn Not Thy Brother. By E. CURTISS HINE, 235 Poetry. A Song. By GEORGE P. MORRISS, 66 Revolution. By ARIAN, 292 Spirit-Yearnings for Love. By Mrs. H. MARION WARD, 12 Sonnet to Graham. By ALTUS, 22 Sonnet to S. D. A. By "THE SQUIRE, " 48 Shawangunk Mountain. By A. B. STREET, 59 Sonnet to ----. By CAROLINE F. ORNE, 67 Sunset After Rain. By ALFRED B. STREET, 115 Sonnet to Night. By GRETTA, 120 Spirit-Voices. By CHARLES W. BAIRD, 158 Song of the Elves. By ANNA BLACKWELL, 203 Song for a Sabbath Morning. By T. B. READ, 204 Sonnets. By JAMES LAWSON, 259 Sonnet. By C. E. T. 269 Sonnet. By Mrs. E. C. KINNEY, 281 Stanzas. By W. H. DENNY, 293 Song. By C. E. T. 342 The Memorial Tree. By W. GILMORE SIMMS, 11 The Rainbow. By Mrs. LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY, 12 The Penance of Roland. By HENRY B. HIRST, 25 The Sea-Nymphs Song. By W. H. C. HOSMER, 30 The Vesper Bell. By PARK BENJAMIN, 38 The Sunbeam. By MARY E. LEE, 41 The Land of Dreams. By WM. C. BRYANT, 48 The Mourner. By Dr. JOHN D. GODMAN, 67 The Saw-Mill. By WM. C. BRYANT, 86 The Portrait. By R. T. CONRAD. (Illustrated. ) 92 The Lost Pleiad. By HENRY B. HIRST, 115 The Bride's Confession. By ALICE G. LEE, 120 The Hermit of Niagara. By Mrs. LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY, 127 The Bridal Morning. (Illustrated. ) 128 The Alchemist's Daughter. By T. B. READ, 148 The Belle. By MARY L. LAWSON, 164 The Voice of the Fire. By J. B. TAYLOR, 177 Triumphs of Peace. By WM. H. C. HOSMER, 187 To My Wife. By ROBT. T. CONRAD, 190 The Darling. By BLANCHE BENNAIRDE, 197 The Poet's Love. By HENRY B. HIRST, 200 To the Author of "The Raven. " By MISS HARRIET B. WINSLOW, 203 The Fire of Drift-Wood. By HENRY W. LONGFELLOW, 204 The Last of His Race. By S. DRYDEN PHELPS, 220 The Sailor-Lover to His Mistress. By R. H. BACON, 233 The Spirit of Song. By Mrs. E. C. KINNEY, 238 The Ancient and the Modern Muse. By LYMAN LONG, 246 The Oak-Tree. By PARK BENJAMIN, 264 The Voice of the Night Wind. By E. CURTISS HINE, 274 The Dayspring. By SAMUEL D. PATTERSON, 281 The Adopted Child. By Mrs. FRANCES B. M. BROTHERSON, 295 The Pole's Farewell. By WM. H. C. HOSMER, 324 The Real and the Ideal. By MARION H. RAND, 341 The Human Voice. By GEO. P. MORRIS, 341 The Enchanted Isle. By LYDIA J. PEIRSON, 311 The Continents. By J. BAYARD TAYLOR, 312 Venice as It Was and as It Is. By PROFESSOR GOODRICH, 342 White Creek. By ALFRED B. STREET, 147 Years Ago. By GEORGE P. MORRIS, 190 REVIEWS. The Poetical Works of Fitz-Greene Halleck, 70 The Poetical Works of Lord Byron, 71 The Life of Henry the Fourth, King of Franceand Navarre. By G. P. R James, 72 Artist Life. By H. T. Tuckerman, 72 Poems of Early and After Years. By N. P. Willis, 132 Practical Physiology. By Edward Jarvis, 191 The Fruits and Fruit Trees of America. By A. J. DOWNING, 191 Historical and Select Memoirs of the EmpressJosephine. By M'lle. M. A. Le Normand, 239 Memoir of Sarah B. Judson. By "Fanny Forester, " 240 The History of a Penitent. By George W. Bethune, D. D. 240 Keble's Christian Year, 240 Edith Kinnaird. By the Author of "The Maiden Aunt, " 298 Jane Eyre. An Autobiography, 299 The Princess. By Alfred Tennyson, 300 The Origin, Progress and Conclusion of theFlorida War. By John T. Sprague, 300 The Poetical Works of John Milton, 300 An Universal History of the Most Remarkable Events of AllNations, from the Earliest Period to the Present Time, 354 Lectures on Shakspeare. By H. N. Hudson, 354 Military Heroes of the Revolution. By C. J. Peterson, 356 Old Hicks, the Guide. By C. W. Webber, 356 MUSIC. Woman's Love. Poetry by Anon. Music by Mathias Keller, 188 Ben Bolt. The Words and Melody by Thomas Dunn English, 236 When Shall I See the Object that I Love. Afavorite Swiss Air. Music by J. B. Müller, 296 ENGRAVINGS. Innocence, engraved by W. E. Tucker. General Butler, engraved by Thomas B. Welsh. A Portrait, engraved by Ross. Beauty's Bath, engraved by Sartain. Paris Fashions, from Le Follet. Bridal Morning, engraved by A. B. Ross. Expectation, engraved by J. Addison. Contemplation, engraved by Addison. Paris Fashions, from Le Follet. Gen. Winfield Scott, engraved by Thos. B. Welsh. Pauline Grey, engraved by J. B. Adams. Paris Fashions, from Le Follet. General Worth, engraved by Sartain. Clara Harland, engraved by Addison. Paris Fashions, from Le Follet. Captain Walker, engraved by A. B. Walter. Cincinnati, engraved by J. W. Steel. Paris Fashions, from Le Follet. GRAHAM'S MAGAZINE. VOL. XXXII. PHILADELPHIA, JANUARY, 1848. No. 1. LACE AND DIAMONDS. OR TAKE CARE WHAT YOU DO. BY THEODORE S. FAY. "Don't be angry, ma'ma--I wont jest any more, if it displease you, butI will make a plain confession. " "Well, " said Mrs. Clifford, "let me hear it. " "I have not one feeling which I wish to conceal from you. There havebeen moments when I liked Mr. Franklin, " and a pretty color crossedher cheek, "but I have been struck with a peculiarity which haschilled warmer sentiments. He appears phlegmatic and cold. There isabout him a perpetual repose that seems inconsistent with energy andfeeling. I am not satisfied that I could be happy with such aperson--not certain that he is capable of loving, or of inspiringlove. When I marry any one, he must worship, he must adore me. He mustbe ready to go crazy for me. Let him be full of faults, but let himhave--what so few possess--a warm, unselfish heart. " "I have heard you, through, " said Mrs. Clifford, "now you must hearme. It is very proper that you should not decide without fullconsideration. Examine as long as you think necessary the qualities ofMr. Franklin, and never marry him till he inspire you with confidenceand affection. But remember something is due also to him; and thedivine rule of acting toward others as you wish them to act towardyou, must be applied here, as in every affair in life. While youshould not, I allow, be hurried into a decision, yet your mind oncemade up, he should not be kept a moment in suspense. " "Do you think, ma'ma, " asked Caroline, "that he has much feeling?" "I think he has. I think him peculiarly gifted with unselfish ardor. That which appears to you coldness, is, in my opinion, the naturalreserve of a warm heart--so modest that it rather retires fromobservation than parades itself before the world. Sentiment and fire, when common on the lips, are not more likely to be native to the soul. It is precisely that calm, that repose you allude to, which forms, inmy judgment, the guarantee of Mr. Franklin's sincerity, and thefinishing grace of his character--a character in all other respects, also, a true and noble one. " Caroline did not listen without interest. Mrs. Clifford was a native of New York, and had come over just a yearago to enjoy a tour in Europe. Franklin had been a fellow-passenger;and a sort of intimacy had grown up between the young people, whichthe gentleman had taken rather _au serieux_. He had gladly availedhimself of an accidental business necessity which called the son andproposed traveling companion of Mrs. Clifford suddenly home, to joinher little party, and had accompanied them through Italy, France, Germany, Belgium, and Holland. The result was, that the happiness ofhis life now appeared to depend upon an affirmative monosyllable inreply to the offer he had just made of his heart and hand. Mrs. Clifford was the widow of a captain in the American navy, who had lefther only a moderate income--sufficient, but no more, for the wants ofherself and daughter. Mr. Franklin was a lawyer of six-and-twenty, whohad been advised to repair the effects of too severe professionalapplication, by change of air, and a year's idleness and travel. The conversation was scarcely finished, when the subject of it wasannounced. After the usual salutations, Mr. Franklin said he had come, accordingto appointment, to accompany the ladies on a walk, and to see thelions of London, where they had arrived some days before. In a fewminutes, hats, shawls, and gloves, being duly put in requisition, theyhad left their lodgings in Grosvenor Street, Grosvenor Square, andwere wending their way toward Regent Street and the Strand, throughthe crowds of this wonderful and magnificent metropolis, of whichevery thing was a delightful curiosity, and where, amid the millionsaround, they knew and were known by scarcely a human creature. Every stranger, newly arrived and walking about London, has noted theeffect of this prodigious town upon him; and how singularly he is lostin its immensity, overwhelmed by its grandeur, and bewildered amid itsendless multiplicity of attractions. So it was with our little party. Excited by the thousand novel and dazzling objects, the hours fleetedaway like minutes; and it was late before they had executed or evenformed any plans. "Let us at least go somewhere, " said Caroline. "Let us go to St. Paul's, or Westminster Abbey, or the Tower; and we have, beside, purchases to make--for ladies, you know, Mr. Franklin, have alwaysshopping to do. " "Well, as it is so late, " said Mrs. Clifford, "and we have promised tocall on Mrs. Porter at half past two, I propose to leave the lions foranother morning, and only enjoy our walk to-day. " "Then, ma'ma, let us go to that splendid shop, and look at the laceonce more. Only think, Mr. Franklin, we yesterday saw lace, notbroader than this, and I had a half fancy to buy some for a newdress--and what do you suppose it cost?" "I am little versed, " said Franklin, "in such mysteries--five pounds, perhaps--" "Twelve pounds--twelve pounds and a half sterling--sixty Americandollars. I never saw any thing so superb. Ma'ma says I ought not evento look at such a luxury. " "But is lace really such a luxury?" inquired Franklin, smiling. "You can have no idea how exquisite this is!" "As for me, " rejoined Franklin, "I can never tell whether a lady'slace is worth twelve pounds or twelve cents. Although, I hope, notinsensible to the general effect of a toilette, yet lace and diamonds, and all that sort of thing, are lost upon me entirely. " "Oh, you barbarian!" "Real beauty was never heightened by such ornaments, and ugliness isinvariably rendered more conspicuous and ugly. " "You will not find many ladies, " said Mrs. Clifford "to agree withyou. " "Oh, yes! How often do we hear of belles, as distinguished for thesimplicity of their toilette, as for the beauty of their persons. Howoften in real life, and how frequently in novels. There you read that, while the other ladies are shining in satin and lace, and blazing indiamonds, the real rose of the evening eclipses them all in a plaindress of white, without jewels, like some modest flower, unconsciousof her charms, and therefore attracting more attention. " "Well, I declare, " said Mrs. Clifford, smiling, "it is just as yousay!" "And what does Miss Caroline think of my attack on lace and diamonds?" "Why, " said Caroline, laughing, "since you do me the honor to requiremy opinion, I will give it you. I agree that such pretending ornamentsill become the old and ugly. There you are right. I agree that theextremely beautiful may also dispense with them. These ball-roombelles of yours--these real roses of the evening--are, I suspect, solovely as to make them exceptions to the general rule. But there is aclass of young ladies, among whom I place myself, neither so old andugly as to make ornament ridiculous, nor so beautiful as to render itunnecessary. To this middle class, a bit of lace--a neat tab--a stringof pearls here and there--a pretty worked cape--or a coronet ofdiamonds, I assure you, do no harm. " "That you are not so ugly as to render ornament ridiculous, " repliedFranklin, "I allow; but that there is, in your case, any want oflovelines to require--to render--which--" "Take care, Mr. Franklin!" interrupted Caroline, mischievously, "youare steering right upon the rocks; and a gentleman who refuses alldecoration to a lady's toilette, should not embellish his ownconversation with flattery. " "Upon my word, " replied he, in a lower voice, "to whatever class youbelong, Miss Clifford, you do yourself injustice if you suppose laceand diamonds can add to the power of your beauty, any more than thegreatest splendor of fortune could increase the charms of your--" "Ma'ma, " exclaimed Caroline, "we have passed the lace shop. " "So we have, " said Mrs. Clifford; "but why should we go back--youcertainly don't mean to buy any--?" "No, ma'ma; but I want some edging, and I might as well get it here, if only to enjoy another look at the forbidden fruit. " The shop was one of those magnificent establishments of late yearscommon in large metropolises. A long hall led from the street quiteback through the building, or rather masses of buildings, to anotherequally elegant entrance on the parallel street behind. The doors weresingle sheets of heavy plate-glass. In the windows all the glitteringand precious treasures of India and Asia seemed draped in gorgeousconfusion, and blazed also through unbroken expanses of limpid glassof yet larger dimensions than the doors. Silks, laces, Cashmereshawls, damask, heavy and sumptuous velvets of bright colors, and fitfor a queen's train, muslins of bewildering beauty, dresses at £200 apiece, and handkerchiefs of Manilla of almost fabulous value. Theinterior presented similar displays on all sides, multiplied byreflections from broad mirrors, gleaming among marble columns. Perhapsthose numerous mirrors were intended to neutralize the somewhat gloomyeffect of the low ceiling, not sufficiently elevated to admit thenecessary light into the central spaces. At various points, even inthe day-time, gas-lights burned brilliantly. Before the door weredrawn up half a dozen elegant coroneted equipages, the well-groomed, shining horses, and richly-liveried coachmen, indicating the rank ofthe noble owners; and on the benches before the windows lounged thetall and handsome footmen, with their long gold-headed sticks, powdered heads, gaudy coats, brightcolored plush breeches, and whitesilk stockings, and gloves. In the shop there were, perhaps, fifty persons, as it happened to be aremarkably fine day in June--one of those grateful gifts from heavento earth which lure people irresistibly out of the dark and wearyhome, and which, when first occurring, after a long and dismal winter, as in the present instance, appear to empty into the sunshiny streets, every inhabitant, the sick and the well, the lame and the blind alike, from every house in town. Caroline asked to be shown some of the lace which she had looked atthe day before. It was produced, and Mrs. Clifford and Franklin werecalled to examine it. The wonder consisted as much in the endlessvariety of the patterns, as in the exquisite fineness and richness ofthe material. The counter was soon strewn with the airy treasures, onepiece after another, unrolled with rapidity, appeared to make a livelyimpression on the young girl, who at last, with a sigh, apologized tothe polite person patiently waiting the end of an examination whichhis practiced eye had, doubtless, perceived was only one of vaincuriosity. "It is too dear, " said Caroline, "I cannot afford it. Pray let me seesome narrow edging. " "That lace is very pretty, " remarked a lady of a commanding figure, evidently a person of rank. "Very pretty, my lady, " replied the clerk who had waited on Caroline. "What is it?" "Twelve and a half, my lady. " "It is really pretty--give me twenty yards. " "Very good, my lady. " The article was measured and cut almost as soon as ordered, and theremnant rewound into a small parcel and thrown upon the counter. At the same moment, and as a boy handed Caroline the edging, wrappedin paper, for which she had already paid, and which she tookmechanically, she heard one of the bystanders whisper to another: "TheCountess D----!" (one of the most celebrated women of England. ) "Ma'ma, " said Caroline, "did you observe that lady?" And they left the shop. "Bless me!" said Mrs. Clifford, looking at her watch, "do you know howlate it is? Half past two. We promised to be at Mrs. Porter's at thisvery time. She said, you remember, she was going out at four; and itwill take us, I'm afraid, nearly an hour to get there. " "Then let us make haste, ma'ma!" And with a very rapid pace they hurried back toward Regent Street andPortland Place. They had gone on in this way, perhaps, twenty minutes, when a white-headed, respectable-looking old gentleman was thrustaside by a rude fellow pushing by, so that he ran against Caroline, and caused her to drop her pocket-handkerchief. He stopped, withevident marks of mortification, and picked it up, with a politeapology. Caroline assured him she was not hurt. "But, my dear young lady, " said the benevolent-looking old gentleman, "let me return your parcel. " "Oh, that is not mine, " replied Caroline. "I beg your pardon, it fell with your handkerchief. " "Gracious Heaven!" exclaimed Caroline, "what have I done! I havebrought away a piece of that lace! Ma'ma, let us go back directly. " Although the incident had occupied but a minute, Mrs. Clifford andFranklin, engaged in conversation, had not perceived it, and had goneseveral paces on. The old gentleman smiled, bowed, and disappearedaround a corner. At this moment a man stepped up, and laying his hand roughly onCaroline's arm, said, "Young woman, you must come with me!" And a second iron-hand grasped her other arm. Shocked and affrighted, she saw they were policemen. Then the voice of a person very much out of breath, cried, "This is the one!--I can swear to her! And look!--there is the verylace in her hand!" Pale as death, bewildered with terror, the poor girl could onlyattempt to say, "Ma'ma! ma'ma!" but her tongue clove to the roof ofher mouth, and her voice refused its office. A crowd had alreadycollected, and the words, "Lady been a stealing!" and, "They've nabbeda thief!" were audible enough. "Come, my beauty!" said the man, pulling her forward, "we've no timeto lose. " "Scoundrel!" cried the voice of Franklin, as he grasped him by thethroat, "who are you?" "You see who we are;" was the stern reply; "we're policemen, in theexecution of our duty. Take your band off my throat. " Franklin recognized their uniform, and relaxed his hold. "Policemen! and what have policemen to do with this lady? You havemade some stupid blunder. This is a lady. She is under my protection. Take your hand off her arm!" "If she's under your protection, the best thing you can do is toaccompany us, " replied the man, bluntly; and he made another attemptto drag her away. Franklin restrained himself with an effort which did him honor, conscious that violence would be here out of place, and perceivingthat it would be utterly useless. He strove a moment to collect histhoughts as one stunned by a thunderbolt. "What is the meaning of this?" he demanded. "If you ask for information, " remarked the man, impressed by hisagonized astonishment, "I will tell you; but wont the young woman getinto a hack, out of the crowd?" An empty carriage happened to be passing, into which, like a man in adream, Franklin handed the ladies. One police officer entered withthem--the other took his seat on the box with the coachman. Caroline, although still colorless, had partly regained her courage, andendeavored to smile. Mrs. Clifford, in a most distressing state ofagitation, only found breath to say, "Well, this is a prettyadventure, upon my word!" As the carriage moved away, followed by a troop of ragamuffins, leaping, laughing, and shouting, Franklin said, "And now, my good fellow, I have submitted peaceably to this atrociousoutrage, tell me by whose authority you act, and in what way thisyoung lady has exposed herself to such an infamous insult?" "Well, in the first place, " said the man, coolly, "I act by theauthority of the Messieurs Blake, Blanchard & Co. ; and in the secondplace, the young lady has exposed herself to such an infamous insultby stealing ten yards of Brussels' lace, at £12 a yard, value £120sterling. " "Scoundrel!" exclaimed Franklin, again grasping his collar. "Hollo! hollo! hollo!" cried the man--hands off, my cove! and keep acivil tongue in your head, you'd best. It aint of no use, I give youmy word of honor. " "Miss Clifford--" But Miss Clifford had covered her face with her white hands, which didnot conceal her still whiter complexion. "Why, look ye, sir, ", said the man, "if you really aint a party to theoffence, I'm very sorry for you. The business is just this here. Theshop of Blake, Blanchard & Co. , has been frequently robbed, andsometimes by ladies. I was called, not four mouths ago, to take a reallady to prison, who had stole to the amount of £10. And to prison shewent, too, though some of the most respectable people in town camedown and begged for her. Now this here young lady came yesterday tothe shop of Blake, Blanchard & Co. --tumbled every thing upside down, and bought nothing--went away--to-day came again--asked to see themost valuable lace--bought ten shillings' worth of narrow edging, andleft the premises. At her departure she was seen to take ten yards oflace--value, £120. I was called in, and followed her, with one of theclerks, to identify her person. We perceived her walking fast--veryfast, indeed. It was as much as we could do to overtake her. The clerkcan swear to her identity--and the lace was found in her hand. Boththe young man and myself can swear to it, if she denies it--though Icaution you, Miss, not to say any thing at present, because it can beused against you at your trial. " "I do not deny it, " said Caroline, with flashing eyes. "I took thelace, but did not know I took it. " "Oh! ho-ho!" said the man. "I hope you can make 'em believe that. Perhaps you can. " "My dear friend, " cried Mrs. Clifford, now nearly beside herself, "Iassure you, this is a frightful mistake. She carried the lace awayfrom mere carelessness. Here is all the money I have about me. Take itfor yourself, only let us go. My daughter, I assure you, is utterlyincapable of stealing. You don't know her. As for the lace, I amwilling to pay for it. My name is Mrs. Clifford. I live No. ----Grosvenor Street, Grosvenor Square. My dear, kind, good sir, turn thecarriage and let us go home. My husband was Captain Clifford, of theAmerican navy. Do you think we would be guilty of stealing? I willgive you any money you desire. I will give you £50--only let us go. " "If your husband was Admiral Nelson himself, " replied the man, withdignity, "I could not let you go now--not if you were to give me £500. I have only to do my duty. It's a very painful one--but it must bedone. I aint a judge. I'm a policeman; and my business is to deliveryou safe into the hands of Blake, Blanchard & Co. " To describe the whirl of thoughts which swept through the mind ofFranklin during the interval would be impossible. He saw that a simpleact of carelessness had been committed by Caroline; but he was enoughof a lawyer to perceive that the proof against her was singularlystriking and unanswerable--and he knew the world too well, not to feelextraordinary alarm at the possible consequences. In London, alone, without friends or acquaintances, a glance into the future almostdrove him to distraction. At moments he was half mastered by theimpulse to bear Caroline away, by a sudden _coup de main_; but hishand was held by the reflection, that even were such a wild schemepossible, success would be no means of security, inasmuch as Mrs. Clifford had given her address; while the attempt would exasperate theother party, appear but a new evidence of guilt, and in every wayenhance the danger of their position. As they approached the fatal shop, a large crowd had collected aroundthe door. Franklin felt that he was in one of those crises on whichhang human destiny and life, and that he had need of more prudence andwisdom than man can possess, except it be given him from above. Deep, therefore, and trusting, was his silent prayer to Him who hath said, "_Be strong and of a good courage. I will not fail thee, nor forsakethee. _" Caroline appeared ready to sink into the earth when the carriagestopped. "My dearest Miss Clifford, " said Franklin, "these men have fallen intoa bungling error, and it will require some prudence on our part tomake them see it. But compose yourself. Put down your veil; saynothing till I call you--and may God, in his mercy, grant that ourordeal be short!" These words were uttered with a composure and cheerful presence ofmind which reassured in some degree the fainting girl. She had at herside a protector who would never desert her--a pilot with a strongarm, a steady eye, and a bold heart--who would steer her through thewild storm, if any human being could. Mrs. Clifford, speechless with terror, let down her daughter's veil aswell as her shaking hands permitted, and was led by Franklin from thecarriage into the house. He then handed, or rather lifted, outCaroline, who clung to him with helplessness and terror. The tremblingparty--a hundred unfeeling eyes bent upon them--were conductedthrough the shop to a back parlor, into the presence of Mr. Jennings, the only one of the firm of Blake, Blanchard & Co. Who happened to beat home. As Franklin saw him his heart sank in his bosom, and thecourage which had begun to mount with the danger, seemed a mockery. Mr. Jennings was a respectable looking man of forty, of a thin, hardcountenance, repelling manners, and sharp voice, which, when excited, rose to a piercing and discordant note. There was no sign of mercy ormoderation in his physiognomy. This man, who, after faithfulsubordinate services, had become the inferior and hardest workingpartner, happened to be afflicted with a very violent temper, whichhad been wrought into a rage by various recent purloinings, apparentlylike the present, attributed to female customers, and perpetrated witha combined cunning and daring which baffled detection, and he had longyearned to lay his hand upon one of them. His passions and interestswere mingled together in this desire, which, in addition, he supposedfully sanctioned by duty; and when a man, and particularly such a man, of a narrow mind and cold heart--loving power, and rarely enabled totaste its sweets, once gets into his head the idea that he is actingfrom duty--God help the poor victim that falls within his grasp. Such was the individual before whom, in the attitude of a detectedcriminal, was dragged the sweet and trembling girl. Such was the manbefore whom Franklin stood, curbing within the limits of prudence hishigh wrought feelings. "Now, my honest women, " said Jennings, seating himself magisteriallyin a large arm-chair by a table, while the rest stood in a circlearound, like prisoners at a bar before their judge, "what have you tosay with regard to the atrocious act of felony--" "One moment, sir, " said Franklin. "You will have the kindness to orderchairs for those ladies. " Mr. Jennings paused, fixed a surprised glance at the speaker, andobeyed. "Well then, _now_--" demanded he. "I beg your pardon!" again interrupted Franklin, "permit me, in yourown interest, to make another suggestion. Before you proceed in thisexamination, I warn you, with all deference to the sincerity of yourpresent error, that you have before you two ladies of respectability, and unblemished reputation, and who are entirely innocent in thismatter. " "Bah!" ejaculated Mr. Jennings. "Silence, sir, " cried Franklin, with an indignation irrepressible. "You have dragged before you through the streets of London, a youngand innocent girl, like a criminal. If circumstances seem for a momentto give you the right, humanity, as well as decency requires, at leasttill the question of her guilt be settled, that you address her withrespect, and hear her defence with candor and attention. " Mr. Jennings turned pale, swallowed his rage, and replied: "Speak, sir! speak, sir! I am all candor and attention. " "I beg your pardon, " resumed Franklin, "if I have answered with toomuch asperity. But this young lady is perfectly innocent. She has highfriends. You will consider her under the protection of the AmericanAmbassador at this Court! State to me, if you please, your reasons fordragging her before you in the custody of policemen. " Awed by Franklin's tone, but rather infuriated than melted, Mr. Jennings answered with sarcastic politeness-- "Certainly, sir, your request is a just one. The case is this. Theyoung lady came to my shop this morning, and had brought out for herexamination the most expensive lace, of which, however, she purchasednone, but, instead, expended ten shillings for some narrow edging. Imust inform you that persons in the dress of ladies, and even personsin the rank of ladies, have more than once committed thefts of thiskind, and I have ordered one of the young men to watch. Thisindividual saw in a mirror the young lady, as she was about to leave, seize a parcel of lace, and carry it out under cover of herpocket-handkerchief. We sent directly for policemen--but so rapid wasthe flight of the party, including yourself, that it was not withoutconsiderable difficulty and delay that they were overtaken, when thestolen lace was found in her hand. We are often obliged to forego thegratification of punishing such misdemeanors by the technicaldifficulty of proving the crime upon the criminal. You perceive howthe present case stands. I am willing to allow it is but fair youshould be heard, if you have any thing to say in reply. " "I have much to say, " resumed Franklin, smiling with assumedconfidence, "enough to satisfy any reasonable man, and I hope I standbefore such a one. That the young lady took the lace no one can deny. But I will tell you how she took it. For the first time in London, hermind naturally excited, she was bewildered amid the novel andinteresting objects around her. The splendor of your establishmentdazzled her eyes and distracted her attention. In company with hermother and myself she came here to see the lace in question, but shecould not have intended to steal it, if I must answer to such acharge, because it would have been impossible for her to use such anarticle without the knowledge of her mother. If she is a thief hermother and I share her guilt. I therefore repeat to you that theseladies can command references to raise them above the slightest breathof suspicion--references sufficient to satisfy the mostincredulous--the most unreasonable. She is a person of the purest lifeand strongest principles. Not one of her friends, and, after a properexamination, not one of the public, will ever believe her guilty ofany thing worse than a mere moment of bewilderment and absence ofmind. " "Upon my word, sir, " said Mr. Jennings, "you have undertaken a prettydifficult task--no less than to convince me that black is white, andthat two and two don't make four. Who are you?--and where are yourreferences?" Franklin did not succeed in concealing a certain trepidation at thisblunt demand, and it was not lost upon Jennings. "My references do not reside in England. " "Ah! ha!" "I am a stranger in your metropolis. " "Oh! ho!" "And therefore, " added Franklin, "every noble-minded and fair-playloving Englishman will say, possessing greater claim upon yourmoderation. I can bring you, from my own country--through the officialintervention of the American Minister, references to outweigh athousand fold--ten million fold--all opposite appearances. I can givea moral demonstration that the intentional commission by this younglady of the act with which she is charged, is an utter, and aridiculous impossibility. " "I have now heard you, " said Jennings, "and I am sorry to say, I must, notwithstanding, send the lady before a magistrate. The ingeniousarguments you have used are equally applicable to every theft. Noreference--no rank--no character can weigh against so plain a fact, proved by ocular demonstration. No rational judge or jury can doubtshe _stole_ the lace. It is my duty to make an example of her. This isnot the first, nor the second time, we have been robbed by ladies inaffluent circumstances, and respectably connected. It is a peculiarcrime, and generally committed in a way which renders it bothdifficult and dangerous, even when we know the criminal, to attempt tofix the fact upon her. This time we have caught her in the very _act_. We have eye-witnesses enough to render doubt impossible. She does notdeny it. She fled with precipitation. She was overtaken a longdistance off--nearly half an hour after the offence--the lace wasfound in her hand--and her companion tried to bribe the policeman with£50 to let her escape. And do you now talk to me of 'respectability, 'and 'connections, ' and such nonsense? I would go as far as you or anyman to save an innocent person from destruction. But when onceconvinced, by my own eyes, of deliberate guilt, it is too late formercy. The ignorant beggar, who steals to save himself from starving, I could pity--I could almost release; but when the rich and theeducated resort to stealing, to gratify their vanity and avarice, hoping to shelter themselves from punishment by their 'connections, 'and their high position in society--they must be taught, sir, thatthey do it at a fearful peril, and that detection will bring down uponthem the same vulgar and rigorous penalties as if they were the lowestdregs of the people. " "I agree with you perfectly, " replied Franklin, with forced composure, although the plain picture appalled him, and robbed his countenance ofevery trace of color, "but permit me to remark that you must be quitesure the person before you belongs to this guilty class. Her innocencecan be rendered morally certain. The whole world will brand as cruelinjustice any harsh treatment. A careless girl has been absent-minded. All people are liable to be so. You look for your spectacles when theyare on your nose--or seek your pocket-handkerchief, and find it inyour hand--" "Our opinions differ on that point, " said Mr. Jennings coldly, "and ajury must decide between us. Policemen, take the party before themagistrate. I will follow with my witnesses, and I pledge myself tovisit so heinous a crime with the utmost rigor of the law. " The policemen stepped to the side of Caroline. "I appeal to your generosity--to your mercy, " cried Franklin, "thatshe may at least be taken to the American Minister, instead of beingdragged before a magistrate. I request only that you act withgentleness. " Mr. Jennings pointed the policemen to the door. "And I not only request, I demand it!" cried Franklin. "If you refuseme, you refuse me at your peril--" "You have nothing to command here, sir, " replied Mr. Jennings. "TheAmerican Minister can make his statement before the magistrate. I amnot disposed to exercise the least mercy. Policemen, your duty. If herfate be a terrible one, she has herself to thank for it. I hope it maydeter others from following her example. " "And what will be my daughter's fate?" asked the unsteady voice ofMrs. Clifford. "Transportation for life, " was the reply. Mrs. Clifford shrieked. Caroline rose wildly and staggered toward thedoor. Mr. Jennings, as if thirsting for her destruction, and fearingher escape, seized her so roughly that she screamed with pain andterror, when Franklin dragged him back and hurled him to the wall. Hisimpulse was to strike him to the earth, but with one of the highestqualities attained by man, self-government, he recollected himself andrefrained. "Policemen, " shouted Mr. Jennings, very white, "I command you to takethe whole party into custody. You witnessed the assault. I am indanger of my life. They are a gang of thieves and cut-throats. Offwith them this instant. " "Stop!" cried Franklin, and there was something in his voice whicharrested the step of the policemen, and _compelled_ Jennings to standin breathless attention. "I demand the presence of one or both of yourpartners, before the young lady be removed. You will not, because you_dare_ not, refuse me this reasonable request. If you do, sir, it werebetter you never had been born. Guilty, or not guilty, the personwhom, before she has been tried, your infamous lips have branded as acommon thief, has a right to all mild and gentle treatment, consistentwith law and justice. You say the jury will decide. But the questionis now whether your house is prepared to send her before a jury. Thatis the question to be discussed, and you are not in a temper of mind, sir, to enable you to decide it impartially. The affair will ring fromone end of England and the United Stales to the other, and theexecrations of thousands, who have as yet never heard of you, willfall upon your name. You will find that there are two sides to thequestion. You will find that if the lady has a malignant accuser shehas also indignant and powerful defenders. The world will say youmight have been excusable not to release her, but you had no right tohurry her before the public with needless and brutal precipitation. They will say--and I will take care to tell them--that, overcome byyour violent temper, you insulted--you _assaulted_--a helpless younggirl in your power, whose guilt had not been proved, and that, becauseI dragged you back--blind with wrath, and burning with revenge--youdared to take upon yourself, alone, the whole responsibility of thisoutrage, which will bring punishment on you, and disgrace on yourhouse. They will say let no lady hereafter trust herself across thethreshold of Blake, Blanchard & Co. , where the watch is set and thetrap laid for the unwary. They will say that Mr. Jennings is a foulcalumniator of woman as a sex--that he has charged the noble ladies ofEngland with crime. They will judge whether the young girl could beguilty without the participation of her mother and myself, who, as yousay, fled with her. The case is one of mere carelessness, or we arethree thieves. Go on, if you dare, without your partners. Your house, will become infamous, and you--yourself--mark me, sir, shall notescape the chastisement you deserve!" He ceased, and the silence remained for a while unbroken. This appeal was not, on the part of Franklin, the mere result ofpassion and despair, although from both it received a strange power. It was a wise calculation that Jennings, who could not be reasoned ormelted, might be terrified from his purpose, till the arrival of hispartners, before whom the matter might take a different turn. By ahappy inspiration Franklin had read the man aright, and he saw changesof countenance, as he proceeded, which gave boldness to his heart andfire to his lips. Jennings was a coward. He was terror-struck at theidea of acting on his "sole responsibility, " in an affair which seemedlikely to be so hotly contested. The blood curdled in his veins at thethought of the deadly enemies, darkly hinted at, and the consequencesclearly threatened. He saw Caroline was no common thief, and Franklinno common man. There were moments when he actually believed the factreally was as Franklin represented--and, thus quailing under thetorrent of eloquence to which the voice and manner gave somethingabsolutely irresistible, half suffocated with rage and fear, he saidwith ill assumed indifference: "Oh! very well, sir, very well. I will wait for my partners. Nothingshall be done rashly. Nothing from revenge. But the young lady shallnot escape. Mr. Williams, go and see if Mr. Blake or Mr. Blanchardhave come in. " And thus at least more time was gained. Mr. Williams went out, and returned to say that Mr. Blake had not yetcome in, but Mr. Blanchard had, and would join them immediately. The door opened and the person in question entered. He was a young manof thirty, of unusually prepossessing exterior. A stream of hope shotthrough Franklin's heart as he read his face. Mr. Blanchard seated himself gravely in the large chair which wasabdicated in his favor by Jennings, who related to him the facts, respectfully and clearly, and called up the policemen and Mr. Williamsin confirmation. "It is a bad case, " said Mr. Blanchard. "Our duty is clear. Is thereany thing said in the defence?" "Oh yes, there is a powerful defence!" replied Mr. Jennings, with asneer, "the young lady took the lace, and kept it half an hour, running away as fast as she could, but she _but she didn't know shehad it_!! ha! ha! ha!" Mr. Blanchard shook his head. "Sir, may I speak?" said Franklin. "Speak, " returned Mr. Blanchard, in a low voice. "If you have anything to say I will hear it with the sincerest desire to find it ofweight. But you have a difficult task before you. These occasions areextremely painful. The necessity of sending to prison a respectableyoung lady, as you represent this person to be, is harrowing indeed;but private feelings must give way to higher considerations. I have aduty to perform--a duty to society--a duty to my partners--a duty toGod!" "You have, " rejoined Franklin, "but if you properly examine yourconscience, and ask light of Him who knows the truth, you will hearthe voice of God himself, warning you not to perform that dutyprematurely, carelessly, or cruelly. I ask time. I offer references toprove that the person in question, from education, character, habits, opinions, religious principles, and her whole, pure and artless life, is not, and could not be intentionally guilty of the act in question. I request time to produce these references. My young companion tookthe lace in a moment of bewilderment--of absence of mind. She has justarrived in London--is dazzled and excited. If, sir, you have a sister, a daughter, a mother, a wife, picture her--after such a carelessaccident--grasped by a policeman, dragged through the streets, exposedto the eyes of the jesting crowd--the blackest construction put uponher action, shrinking before a magistrate, cast into prison, and, Godknows what else!--and all because of an act, not in reality moreinexplicable than that of a man who walks off with a hat not his own, or another person's umbrella--in a fit of forgetfulness. " Jennings leaned over and whispered something to Mr. Blanchard. "It is quite probable, " said Mr. Blanchard, "that you believe herinnocent, but the various and glaring circumstances do not permit meto be of your opinion. The expressive flight, the intervening time, long enough to discover a mistake merely accidental--the bribe of£50--no--no--it is impossible, " said he, rising, "I am sorry for you, sir, but this matter rests no longer with me. The prisoner must beremoved. " "What I ask, " said Franklin, "is not her release. It is only time tomake you acquainted with the proofs of which the case is susceptible. The 'prisoner, ' as you call her, is as innocent as the snow yetunfallen from heaven. I do not ask you to sacrifice what you fancyyour duty, I ask you only to pause ere you execute it. I request youere you thrust a shrinking girl, as a suspected thief, before thepublic, that you more carefully examine her side of the question. Herbankers, the Messrs. Baring, will answer for her presence whenever youdesire. My banker will answer for her. The American Minister willsatisfy you of the strong impropriety of any other proceeding. Oh!sir, in the name of a mother's breaking heart--in the name of sweetgirlish innocence--in the name of God, believe what I say! If you err, err on the side of mercy. Think, when you lay your head this night onyour pillow, the day has not been lost, for it was marked by an act ofmercy. Think, when on your death-bed, you plead at the throne of God, He has said, 'Blessed are the merciful, for they shall receive mercy. 'If she really had committed the offence, I should not fear to ask youfor mercy on her young head--her inexperienced life. Our Divine Mastergranted mercy even to the guilty. Will you refuse it then to thistrembling and innocent girl, for whose guileless intention, in thisterrible accident, I answer before man and God, and with my life andsoul. Come here, Miss Clifford! Take off your veil. Tell Mr. Blanchard, in the simple language of truth, how this incident tookplace. " "Yes, come here, my young friend, " said Mr. Blanchard, "and tell mehow this sad mistake arose. " Perhaps it was Franklin's eloquence--perhaps it was Caroline'sappearance--perhaps it was both, which drew the silent tear from Mr. Blanchard's eyes, and those two significant words from his lips. Butoh! to Franklin's soul, wrought up almost to despair--almost, tomadness--they were rapture, they were ecstasy, they were like thefirst streak of golden sky which announces to the half-wrecked sailorthat the tempest is over. "Speak, my dear young lady, " said Mr. Blanchard, "do not tremble so!you have nothing to fear from me!" "I left the door, " said Caroline, in a low voice, "without knowing Ihad the lace. A gentleman ran against me and knocked it out of myhand. He picked it up. I then saw what I had done. I exclaimed, 'ma'ma, let us go back!'--but ma'ma had gone on--I was alone--two menseized me--and--and--" She covered her face with her hands, and sunk into the chair. "But, so far from coming back, " said Mr. Jennings' piercing voice, "you were walking rapidly away. " "No, " said Caroline. "But I say yes!" screamed Jennings. "Mr. Williams, was not the youngwoman walking rapidly away?" "She _had been_ walking rapidly, " said Mr. Williams, "but when we cameup she was, as she says, standing still, looking at the lace. It isalso true that an old gentleman ran against her, knocked the lace outof her hand, and picked it up again. That I saw from the distance. " "Mark you!" exclaimed Franklin, "how each small feature of her storyis confirmed. " "But you left our door, " exclaimed Mr. Jennings, "at a furious pace. " "That I can explain to your satisfaction, " said Franklin. "We wereengaged to call upon a lady, Mrs. Porter, No. ----, Portland-Place, athalf past two. This Mrs. Porter herself can testify. We left your doortoo late, and walked rapidly to keep our appointment. You canascertain from your clerks at what hour we left. " "It was just half past two, " said Mr. Williams. "I looked at theclock. " "Mark!" cried Franklin, with an air of triumph. "Upon my word, Mr. Jennings, " said Mr. Blanchard, "we have been toohasty--" At this moment the door opened, and another person entered. "Just in time, " muttered Mr. Jennings. It was Mr. Blake, chief partner in the firm of Blake, Blanchard & Co. He was a venerable old gentleman, of an agreeable person, with acertain dignity which well became his snow-white hair, but throughwhich, on the present occasion, appeared a settled firmness, almost asternness, boding no good. "You have come in time, " said Jennings. "Do you know what is going onhere?" "I do. The facts have been related to me. " "And the famous defence?" added Jennings, with one of his worstsneers, "do you know that also?" "I do. It is a clear case. There is but one course for us. " "And yet, " cried Jennings, "Mr. Blanchard has been thinking it willnot do to send so respectable a young lady to prison. But I say youwill not have a case in forty years so proper to make a wholesomeexample of. If you let this one go, whom can you punish? Precautionswere useless, if thieves can commit their depredations under our verynoses with impunity. " "I am of your opinion, " said Mr. Blake. "The offence is of a veryaggravated description; and I deem it absolutely necessary to send thedelinquent before a magistrate to be punished as she deserves. " "I have explained--" said Franklin. But while he commenced once more his agonizing task, Mr. Jennings tookMr. Blake aside, and whispered to him some minutes vehemently. Franklin attempted to speak again. "I will hear no explanation, " said the old gentleman. "No argument--nocharacter--no references can prevail against so wicked a felony soclearly proved. The youth, condition in life, and education of theperson, only render the crime more detestable, and the necessity for aterrible example more unavoidable. Your own good sense should havetaught you, sir, that threats are here out of place, and violence canonly make matters worse. I have solemnly vowed that I would meet thenext case with the utmost rigor of the law. I am determined toprosecute. Where is the prisoner? Policemen, take her into custody. " "But, " cried Franklin. "I will hear no more, " said Mr. Blake, coldly and firmly. "Mr. Jennings, who has gone over the case with the most attention, isthoroughly convinced--" "Thoroughly!" said Mr. Jennings. "Policemen--" Franklin's brain whirled in wild despair. He clasped his hands--heconjured the mild, mistaken man, whose slightest word could saveCaroline from destruction. "Mercy! I ask only one day. " "Young man, you plead in vain! Ask mercy of God, but not of me. " "Then listen, heart of stone!" cried Franklin, "and hear my finalwords. You are old. Your head is white; your feet are already in thegrave. You will, ere long, be called before your Maker--yourself atrembling suppliant for mercy. If, with cold-blooded, stupidobstinacy, in the face of my warning, you drag this innocent andmodest girl, prematurely, into a police office--at a bar forcriminals--to stand a spectacle for the public, amid robbers, andmurderers, and to run the fearful chances of the law, I solemnly warnyou, old man, you will have innocent blood on your conscience--youwill call down God's curse upon your head. " "What can I do?" said Mr. Blake, overwhelmed by his irresistibleearnestness. "You can do unto others, as you would have them do unto you--you cangive us time for proof, and yourself for reflection. You can supposeit was your own daughter in her place. You can examine more carefully. You can break from the leading-strings of that malignant Mr. Jennings. You can consult with Mr. Blanchard, a man of reason and feeling, whodisapproves your severity. You can wait to satisfy yourself that thisyoung lady is distinguished for a stainless character, a pure life, strict religious principles, humble faith in God, and habitualcommunion with him. You can judge for yourself whether this is a caseof _monomania_--whether a person thus distinguished, could be guiltyof intentional purloining. Sir, ocular demonstration weighs _nothing_against such a character. You can ask yourself more dispassionatelywhether it be not a possibility--a very natural one--for anabsent-minded person to commit such an act mechanically andunconsciously. You can hear her artless story from her own lips, andcandidly consider if it _may not_ be the truth. " Carried away by Franklin's eloquent vehemence, Mr. Blake did look. Caroline had risen. The last spark of earthly hope had fled. Shestood, without gesture or tear. It seemed as if death had alreadylaid his icy hand upon her, only her eyes were lifted above, while shebreathed a silent prayer to Him whose mighty hand can raise thetrusting heart, in one instant, from the lowest depths of despair. "Ha! What! God bless my soul!" suddenly ejaculated the old gentleman, in great astonishment. "What do I see! My dearest, sweetest younglady! Mr. Blanchard! Mr. Jennings! Mr. Williams--" Caroline gazed at him a moment--uttered a shriek which thrilled toevery heart with an electric shock, cried, "Oh, sir, save me--_you_can save me!" and fell insensible into the arms of Franklin. "Policemen!--off with you!" cried Mr. Blake, with tears in his eyes. "Mr. Jennings, you are a fool! I answer with my life for this younglady. I ran against her in the street. I picked up the lace, and sawher look of astonishment and horror; and heard her exclaim, '_ma'ma!let us go back directly!_' Go, proclaim to every one in theestablishment that she is innocent. We are the guilty party--and weare at _her_ mercy!" To terminate the exciting scene, Franklin proposed to return home. Acarriage was called. Caroline had revived, and her feelings, fortunately, found vent in tears. She wept bitterly on her mother'sbosom, who gave it back with interest. But in the midst of their joy, not one of the three forgot to offer up their secret, thankful prayer, to that overruling Providence, whose watchful mercy had rescued themfrom a fate too horrible for imagination. Franklin could scarcely wait till they walked to the carriage. Hewished to carry--to drag Caroline away. He shifted his positioncontinually, without apparent cause; at last shook hands with hiscompanions, saying he would follow the carriage, as he wanted air andexercise. They soon arrived home, where Caroline, in a high state of excitement, was ordered to bed by a physician; but, after soothing medicines hadcalmed certain hysterical symptoms, she fell into a deep sleep, whichthe doctor said was worth more than all the apothecaries couldcompound. In fact, she did not wake till late next morning, and in aday or two was comparatively restored. But poor Franklin had gone home in a raging fever, which increasedduring the night to delirium. His ravings were of magistrates, thejeering crowd, dungeons, chains, and the convict-ship. Then he was atthe penal settlement. He heard the frightful oaths, obscene jests, andblasphemous laughter of the convicts. Among them he beheld CarolineClifford--haggard, and in rags--now toiling at her task, now shriekingbeneath the bloody lash--and he seemed to grasp the throat ofJennings, and implored him to stay his hellish hand. More than a month passed before he was sufficiently recovered to leavehis room. Every day Mrs. Clifford had visited him, and watched overhim with a mother's love. Every day the carriage of Mr. Blake broughtthe old gentleman to the bed-side of the poor invalid, where helistened to the ravings of his disturbed imagination, and shudderedto think of what horrors--but for a providential coincidence--he mighthave added to the history of human wo. At length Mr. Franklin was allowed to take a drive. It is scarcelynecessary to say that he called on the ladies. Mrs. Clifford, previously apprized of his intended visit, at the sound of the bell, accidentally remembered that she had left her scissors up stairs. SoFranklin found Caroline alone. "You are very, very pale, " cried the greatly agitated girl, her eyesfilling with good, honest tears, as she gave him her hand. He raised it to his lips. "I beg your pardon, Miss Clifford. " But, like Beatrice, she seemed to hold it there again with a fervorwhich even the modest Franklin could not wholly misunderstand. "I owe you more than my life, " cried Caroline, with such a look as shehad never bestowed upon him before. "And yet, " cried Franklin, "you fraudulently withhold from me the onlypayment in your power. " "Nonsense--what payment, " cried she, blushing deeply. "Your dear self!" answered Franklin, in a timid voice. "Then you must collect your debt, as other hard-hearted creditorsdo--by force. " "In that case, " rejoined Franklin, with a boldness which astonishedhimself, "an execution must issue, and proceedings commence directly. " Mrs. Clifford, having found her scissors, just then entered the room, but not before the ardent lawyer had performed the threatenedduty--not quite so harrowing a one as that attempted by Mr. Jennings, though it led to the same result, viz. , she was obviously_transported_, and, as it turned out---_for life_. Nor is this all. Old Mr. Blake had learned how the land lay from Mrs. Clifford, and heresolved to make the young people reparation. He owed it to them inall conscience. They were married in about six weeks; and when theceremony was over, a parcel was brought in, directed "_To Mrs. Franklin, with the compliments of Messrs. Blake, Blanchard & Co. , _"which, on being opened, was found to contain a superb Cashmereshawl--thirty yards of the £12 lace, and a neat mahogany box, with acoronet of diamonds for the young criminal. We wont go into the history of the ladies' objections to acceptingthese costly testimonials. Mr. Blake pleaded almost as eloquently asFranklin had done, till at last Franklin "put his foot down, " as Irecommend all young husbands to do on such occasions, and showed Mr. Blake who was master. Nor was this all either. A number of years afterward, when Mr. And Mrs. Franklin had returnedto New York, and while the fond wife and happy mother was one dayprofoundly engaged in arranging a highly ornamented and curious littlecap, her husband entered with a letter, and read as follows: TO MRS. CAROLINE FRANKLIN. _London, Feb_. 10, 184-. MADAM, --It has become my duty to inform you, that, by the will of the late Mr. Blake, of the firm of Blake, Blanchard & Co. , you have become entitled to his blessing, and a legacy of £2500 sterling, which, upon proving your identity, you can either draw for on me, at thirty days, or have remitted in any other way you desire. I have the honor to be, madam, very respectfully, your obedient servant, JOHN LOCKLEY, Solicitor, No. ---- Russel Square. A FUNERAL THOUGHT. BY J. BAYARD TAYLOR. When the pale Genius, to whose hollow tramp Echo the startled chambers of the soul, Waves his inverted torch o'er that wan camp Where the archangel's marshaling trumpets roll, I would not meet him in the chamber dim, Hushed, and o'erburthened with a nameless fear, When the breath flutters, and the senses swim, And the dread hour is near! Though Love's dear arms might clasp me fondly then, As if to keep the Summoner at bay, And woman's wo and the calm grief of men Hallow at last the still, unbreathing clay-- These are Earth's fetters, and the soul would shrink, Thus bound, from Darkness and the dread Unknown, Stretching its arms from Death's eternal brink, Which it must dare alone! But in the awful silence of the sky, Upon some mountain summit, never trod Through the bright ether would I climb, to die Afar from mortals, and alone with God! To the pure keeping of the stainless air Would I resign my feeble, failing breath, And with the rapture of an answered prayer Welcome the kiss of Death! The soul, which wrestled with that doom of pain, Prometheus-like, its lingering portion here, Would there forget the vulture and the chain, And leap to freedom from its mountain-bier! All that it ever knew, of noble thought, Would guide it upward to the glorious track, Nor the keen pangs by parting anguish wrought, Turn its bright glances back! Then to the elements my frame would turn; No worms should riot on my coffined clay, But the cold limbs, from that sepulchral urn, In the slow storms of ages waste away! Loud winds, and thunder's diapason high, Should be my requiem through the coming time, And the white summit, fading in the sky, My monument sublime! THE MEMORIAL TREE. BY WM. GILMORE SIMMS, AUTHOR OF "THE YEMASSE, " "RICHARD HURDIS, " ETC. Great trees that o'er us grow-- Green leaves that gather round them--the fresh hues, That tell of fruit, and blossoms yet to blow, Opening fond bosoms to the embracing dews; These, now so bright, That deck the slopes about thy childhood's home, And seem, in long duration, to thy sight, As they had promise of perpetual bloom; So linked with all The first dear throbs of feeling in thy heart, When, at the dawn of summer and of fall, Thou weptst the leaf that must so soon depart! What had all these, Of frail, deciduous nature, to persuade, Howe'er their sweets might charm, and beauty please, The memories that their own could never aid? They kept no tale-- No solemn history of the fruitful hour; The lover's promise, the beloved one's wail-- To wake the dead leaf in each lonely bower! The autumn breath O'erthrew each frail memorial of their past; And every token was resigned to death, In the first summons of the northern blast. They nourished naught That to the chain of moral being binds The recollections of the once gay spot, And its sweet offices, to future minds. Thou may'st repair-- Thou, who hast loved in summer-eve to glide With her whom thou hast still beheld as fair, When she no longer wandered by thy side. And thou wilt weep Each altered aspect of that happiest home, Which saw the joys its memories could not keep, Save by the sympathy which shares their doom. Thus Ruin stands For Ruin--and the wreck of favorite things, To him who o'er the waste but wrings his hands, Proofs of the _fall_, and not the spring-time brings. Ah! who will weep, In after seasons, when thou too art gone, Within this grot, where shadowy memories keep Their watch above the realm they keep alone? Who will lament, In fruitless tears, that she the dear one died, And thy surviving heart, in languishment, Soon sought the grave and withered at her side? A newer bright Makes young the woods--and bowers that not to thee Brought fruit or blossom, triumph in the sight Of those who naught but fruit and blossom see; To whom no voice Whispers, that through the loved one's would the root Of that exulting shrub, with happiest choice, Has gone, with none its passage to dispute. While thine own heart, In neighboring hillock, conscious, it may be-- Quivers to see the fibres rend and part The fair white breast which was so dear to thee. Of all the past, That precious history of thy love and youth, When not a cloud thy happy dawn o'ercast, When all thou felt'st was joy, thou saw'st was truth; These have no speech For idiot seasons that still come and go-- To whom the heart no offices can teach, Vainer than breezes that at midnight blow! And yet there seem Memorials still in nature, which are taught, -- Unless all pleasant fancies be a dream, To bring our sweetest histories back to thought. A famous tree Was this, three hundred years ago, when stood The hunter-chief below it, bold and free, Proud in his painted pomp and deeds of blood. By hunger taught, He gathered the brown acorn in its shade, And ere he slept, still gazing upward, caught Sweet glimpses of the night, in stars arrayed. His hatchet sunk With sharp wound, fixing his own favorite sign, Deep in the living column of its trunk, Where thou may'st read a history such as thine. He, too, could feel Such passion as awakes the noble soul-- And in fond hour, perchance, would hither steal, With one, of all his tribe, who could his ire control. And others signs, Tokens of races, greatlier taught, that came To write like record, though in smoother lines, And thus declare a still more human flame. Here love's caprice-- The hope, the doubt, the dear despondencies--- Joy that had never rest, hope without peace-- These each declared the grief he never flies. And the great oak Grew sacred to each separate pilgrimage, Nor heeded, in his bulk, the sudden stroke That scarred his giant trunk with seams of age. And we who gaze Upon each, rude memorial--letter and date-- Still undefaced by storm and length of days, Stand, as beneath the shadow of a fate! Some elder-born, A sire of wood and vale, guardian and king Of separate races, unsubdued, unshorn, Whose memories grasp the lives of every meaner thing! With great white beard Far streaming with a prophet-like display, Such as when Moses on the Mount appeared, And prostrate tribes looked down, or looked away! With outstretched arms, Paternal, as if blessing--with a grace, Such as, in strength and greatness, ever charms, As wooing the subdued one to embrace! Thus still it stood, While the broad forests, 'neath the pioneer, Perished--proud relic of the ancient wood-- Men loved the record-tree, and bade them spare! And still at noon, Repairing to its shadow, they explore Its chronicles, still musing o'er th' unknown, And telling well-known histories, told of yore! We shall leave ours, Dear heart! and when our sleep beneath its boughs Shall suffer spring to spread o'er us her flowers, Eyes that vow love like ours shall trace our vows. THE RAINBOW. BY MRS. LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY. Mountain! that first received the foot of man-- Giving him shelter, when the shoreless flood Went surging by, that whelmed a buried world-- I see thee in thy lonely grandeur rise-- I see the white-haired Patriarch, as he knelt Beside his earthen altar, 'mid his sons, While beat in praise the only pulse of life Upon this buried planet, -- O'er the gorged And furrowed soil, swept forth a numerous train, Horned, or cloven-footed, fierce, or tame, While, mixed with song, the sound of countless wings, His rescued prisoners, fanned the ambient air. The sun drew near his setting, clothed in gold, But on the Patriarch, ere from prayer he rose, A darkly-cinctured cloud chill tears had wept, And rain-drops lay upon his silver hairs. Then burst an arch of wondrous radiance forth, Spanning the vaulted skies. Its mystic scroll Proclaimed the amnesty that pitying Heaven Granted to earth, all desolate and void. Oh signet-ring, with which the Almighty sealed His treaty with the remnant of the clay That shrank before him, to remotest time Stamp wisdom on the souls that turn to thee. Unswerving teacher, who four thousand years Hast ne'er withheld thy lesson, but unfurled As shower and sunbeam bade, thy glorious scroll, -- Oft, 'mid the summer's day, I musing sit At my lone casement, to be taught of thee. Born of the tear-drop and the smile, methinks, Thou hast affinity with man, for such His elements, and pilgrimage below. Our span of strength and beauty fades like thine, Yet stays its fabric on eternal truth And boundless mercy. The wild floods may come-- The everlasting fountains burst their bounds-- The exploring dove without a leaf return-- Yea, the fires glow that melt the solid rock, And earth be wrecked: _What then?_--be still, my soul, Enter thine Ark--God's promise cannot fail-- For surely as yon rainbow tints the cloud, His truth, thine Ararat, will shelter thee. SPIRIT-YEARNINGS FOR LOVE. BY MRS. H. MARION WARD. Love me, darling, love me, for my wild and wayward heart, Like Noah's dove in search of rest, will hover where thou art; Will linger round thee, like a spell, till by thy hand caressed, It folds its weary, care-worn wings, to nestle on thy breast. Love me, darling, love me! When my soul was sick with strife, Thy soothing words have been the sun that warmed it into life; Thy breath called forth the passion-flowers, that slumbered 'neath the ice Of self-distrust, and now their balm makes earth a _Paradise_. Love me, darling, love me! Let thy dreams be all of _me_! Let waking thoughts be round my path, as mine will cling to thee! But if--oh, God! it cannot be--but if thou _shouldst_ grow cold And weary of my jealous love, or think it over-bold-- Or if, perchance, some fairer form should charm thy truant eye, Thou'lt find me _woman_--proud and calm, so leave me--let me die. I'd not reclaim a wavering heart whose pulse has once grown cold, To write my name in princely halls, with diamonds and gold. So love me, only love me, for I have no world but thee, And darksome clouds are in my sky--'tis woman's destiny; But let them frown--I heed them not--no fear can they impart, If thou art near, with smiles to bend hope's rainbow round my heart. THE RIVAL SISTERS. AN ENGLISH TRAGEDY OF REAL LIFE. BY HENRY WILLIAM HERBERT, AUTHOR OF "THE ROMAN TRAITOR, ""MARMADUKE WYVIL, " ETC. It has been gravely stated by an Italian writer of celebrity, that"the very atrocity of the crimes which are therein committed, provesthat in Italy the growth of man is stronger and more vigorous, andnearer to the perfect standard of manhood, than in any other country. " A strange paradox, truly, but not an uningenious--at least for anative of that "purple land, where law secures not life, " who wouldwork out of the very reproach, an argument of honor to his country. Ifit be true, however, that proneness to the commission of unwonted andatrocious crime is to be held a token of extraordinary vigor--vigor ofnerve, of temperament, of passion, of physical development--in a raceof men, then surely must the Anglo-Norman breed, under allcircumstances of time, place, and climate, be singularly destitute ofall these qualities--nay, singularly frail, effeminate, andincomplete. For it is an undoubted fact, both of the past and present history ofthat great and still increasing race, whether limited to the narrowbounds of the Island Realm which gave it being, or extended to theboundless breadth of isles, and continents, and oceans, which it hasfilled with its arms, its arts, its industry, its language--it is, Isay, an undoubted fact, that those dreadful and sanguinary crimes, forming a class apart and distinct of themselves, engendered for themost part by morbid passions, love, lust, jealousy, and revenge, whichare of daily occurrence in the southern countries of, Europe, Asia, and America, are almost unknown in those happier lands, where Englishlaws prevail, with English liberty and language. It is to this that must be ascribed the fact, that, in the very fewinstances where crimes of this nature have occurred in England orAmerica, the memory of them is preserved with singular pertinacity, the smallest details handed down from generation to generation, andthe very spots in which they have occurred, howmuchsoever altered orimproved in the course of ages, haunted, as if by an actual presence, by the horror and the scent of blood; while on the other hand the fameof ordinary deeds of violence and rapine seems almost to be lostbefore the lives of the perpetrators are run out. One, and almost, I believe, a singular instance of this kind--for Iwould not dignify the brawls and assassinations which have disgracedsome of our southern cities, the offspring of low principles and anunregulated society, by comparing them to the class of crimes inquestion, which imply even in their atrocity a something of pervertedhonor, of extravagant affection, or at least of not ignoblepassion--is the well-known Beauchamp tragedy of Kentucky, a tale ofsin and horror which has afforded a theme to the pens of severaldistinguished writers, and the details of which are as well known onthe spot at present, as if years had not elapsed since its occurrence. And this, too, in a country prone above all others, from the migratoryhabits of its population, to cast aside all tradition, and to losewithin a very few years the memory of the greatest and mostillustrious events upon the very stage of their occurrence. It is not, therefore, wonderful that in England, where the immobilityof the population, the reverence for antiquity, and the greatprevalence of oral tradition, induced probably at first by the want ofletters, cause the memory of even past trifles to dwell for ages inthe breasts of the simple and moral people, any deed of romanticcharacter, any act of unusual atrocity, any crime prompted by unusualor extraordinary motives, should become, as it were, part and parcelof the place wherein it was wrought; that the leaves of the treesshould whisper it to the winds of evening; that the echoes of thelonely hills should repeat it; that the waters should sigh a burthento its strain; and that the very night should assume a deeper shadow, a more horrid gloom, from the awe of the unforgotten sin. I knew a place in my boyhood, thus haunted by the memory of strangecrime; and whether it was merely the terrible romance of the story, orthe wild and gloomy character of the scenery endowed with a sort ofnatural fitness to be the theatre of terrible events, or yet again theunion of the two, I know not; but it produced upon my mind a verypowerful influence, amounting to a species of fascination, whichconstantly attracted me to the spot, although when there, the weightof the tradition, and the awe of the scene produced a sense of actualpain. The place to which I allude was but a few miles distant from thecelebrated public school, at which I passed the happiest days of a notuneventful life, and was within an easy walk of the college limits; sothat when I had attained that favored eminence, known as the sixthform, which allows its happy occupants to roam the country, free fromthe fear of masters, provided only they attend at appointed hours, itwas my frequent habit to stroll away from the noisy playing-fieldsthrough the green hedgerow lanes, or to scull my wherry over thesmooth surface of the silver Thames, toward the scene of darktradition; and there to lap myself in thick coming fancies, half sad, half sweet, yet terrible withal, and in their very terror attractive, until the call of the homeward rooks, and the lengthened shadows ofthe tall trees on the greensward, would warn me that I too must hie meback with speed, or pay the penalty of undue delay. Now, as the story has in itself, apart from the extraneous interestwith which a perfect acquaintance with its localities may haveinvested it in my eyes, a powerful and romantic character; as itscatastrophe was no less striking than un-English; and as the passionswhich gave rise to it were at once the strongest and the mostgeneral--though rarely prevailing, at least among us Anglo-Normans, toso fearful an extent--I am led to hope that others may find in itsomething that may enchain their attention for a time, though it maynot affect them as it has me with an influence, unchanged by change ofscene, unaltered by the lapse of time, which alters all things. I propose, therefore, to relate it, as I heard it first from an oldsuperannuated follower of the family, which, owning other, though notfairer demesnes in some distant county, had never more usedDitton-in-the-Dale as their dwelling place, although well nigh twocenturies had elapsed since the transaction which had scared them awayfrom their polluted household gods. But first, I must describe briefly the characteristics of the scenery, without which a part of my tale would be hardly comprehensible, whilethe remarkable effect produced by the coincidence, if I may so expressmyself, between the nature of the deed, and the nature of the place, would be lost entirely. In the first place, then, I must premise that the name ofDitton-in-the-Dale is in a great measure a misnomer, as the house andestate which bear that name, are situated on what a visiter would beat first inclined to call a dead level, but on what is in truth asmall secondary undulation, or hollow, in the broad, flat valleythrough which the father of the English rivers, the royal-toweredThames, pursues, as Gray sang, The turf, the flowers, the shades among, His silver-winding way. But so destitute is all that country of any deep or well definedvalleys, much less abrupt glens or gorges, that any hollow containinga tributary stream, which invariably meanders in slow and sluggishreaches through smooth, green meadow-land, is dignified with the nameof dale, or valley. The country is, however, so much intersected bywinding lanes, bordered with high straggling white-thorn hedges fullof tall timber trees, is subdivided into so many small fields, allenclosed with similar fences, and is diversified with so many woods, and clumps of forest trees, that you lose sight of the monotony of itssurface, in consequence of the variety of its vegetation, and of thelimited space which the eye can comprehend, at any one time. The lane by which I was wont to reach the demesne of Ditton, partookin an eminent degree of this character, being very narrow, windingabout continually without any apparent cause, almost completelyembowered by the tall hawthorn hedges, and the yet taller oaks andashes which grew along their lines, making, when in full verdure, twilight of noon itself, and commanding no view whatever of thecountry through which it ran, except when a field-gate, or cart-trackopened into it, affording a glimpse of a lonely meadow, bounded, perhaps, by a deep wood-side. On either hand of this lane was a broad, deep ditch, both of themquite unlike any other ditches I have ever seen. Their banks wereirregular; and it would seem evident that they had not been dug forany purposes of fencing or enclosure; and I have sometimes imagined, from their varying width and depth--for in places they were ten feetdeep, and three times as broad, and at others but a foot or twoacross, and containing but a few inches of water--that their beds hadbeen hollowed out to get marl or gravel for the convenience of theneighboring cultivators. Be this as it may, they were at all times brimful of the clearest andmost transparent water I ever remember to have seen--never turbid evenafter the heaviest rains; and though bordered by water-flags, andtapestried in many places by the broad, round leaves of the white andyellow water-lilies, never corrupted by a particle of floating scum, or green duckweed. Whether they were fed by secret springs I know not; or whether theycommunicated by sluices or side-drains with the neighboring Thames; Inever could discover any current or motion in their still, glassywaters, though I have wandered by their banks a hundred times, watching the red-finned roach and silvery dace pursue each other amongthe shadowy lily leaves, now startling a fat yellow frog from themarge, and following him as he dived through the limpid blackness tothe very bottom, now starting in my own turn, as a big water-rat wouldswim from side to side, and vanish in some hole of the marly bank, andnow endeavoring to catch the great azure-bodied, gauze-wingeddragon-flies, as they shot to and fro on their poised wings, pursuingkites of the insect race, some of the smaller ephemera. It was those quiet, lucid waters, coupled with the exceeding shadinessof the trees, and its very unusual solitude--I have walked it, Isuppose, from end to end at least a hundred times, and I neverremember to have met so much even as a peasant returning from hisdaily labor, or a country maiden tripping to the neighboringtown--that gave its character, and I will add, its charm to this halfpastoral, half sylvan lane. For nearly three miles it ran in onedirection, although, as I have said, with many devious turns, andseemingly unnecessary angles, and through that length it did not passwithin the sound of one farm-yard, or the sight of one cottagechimney. But to make up for this, of which it was, indeed, aconsequence, the nightingales were so bold and familiar that theymight be heard all day long filling the air with their deliciousmelodies, not waiting, as in more frequented spots, the approach ofnight, whose dull ear to charm with amorous ravishment; nay, I haveseen them perched in full view on the branches, gazing about themfearless with their full black eyes, and swelling their emulousthroats in full view of the spectator. Three miles passed, the lane takes a sudden turn to the northward, having previously run, for the most part, east and west; and here, inthe inner angle, jutting out suddenly from a dense thicket ofhawthorns and hazels, an old octagonal summer-house, with a roofshaped like an extinguisher, projects into the ditch, which hereexpands into a little pool, some ten or twelve yards over in everydirection, and perhaps deeper than at any other point of its course. Beyond the summer-house there is a little esplanade of green turf, faced with a low wall toward the ditch, allowing the eye to run down along, narrow avenue of gigantic elm-trees, meeting at the top in theperfect semblance of a Gothic aisle, and bordered on each hand byhedges of yew, six feet at least in height, clipped into the form andalmost into the solidity of a wall. At the far end of this avenue, which must be nearly two-thirds of a mile in length, one can discern aglimpse of a formal garden, and beyond that, of some portion of whatseems to be a large building of red brick. At the extremity of the esplanade and little wall, there grows anenormous oak, not very tall, but with an immense girth of trunk, andsuch a spread of branches that it completely overshadows thesummer-house, and overhangs the whole surface of the small pool infront of it. Thenceforth, the tall and tangled hedge runs on, as usualdenying all access of the eye, and the deep, clear ditch all access ofthe foot, to the demesnes within; until at the distance of perhaps amile and a quarter, a little bridge crosses the latter, and a greengate, with a pretty rustic lodge beside it, gives entrance to a smoothlawn, with a gravel-road running across it, and losing itself on thefarther side, in a thick belt of woodland. It is, however, with the summer-house that I have to do principally, for it is to it that the terror of blood has clung through the lapseof years, as the scent of the Turkish Atar is said to cling, indestructible, to the last fragment of the vessel which had oncecontained it. When first I saw that small lonely pavilion, I had heard nothing ofthe strange tradition which belonged to it, yet as I looked on theplastered walls, all covered with spots of damp and mildew, on theroof overrun with ivy, in masses so wildly luxuriant as almost toconceal the shape, on the windows, one in each side of the octagon, closed by stout jalousies, which had been once green with paint, butwere now green with damp and vegetable mould, a strange feeling, halfof curiosity and half of terror, came over me, mixed with thatsingular fascination of which I have spoken, which seemed to deny meany rest until I should have searched out the mystery--for I felt surethat mystery there was--connected with that summer-house, so desolateand so fast lapsing into ruin, while the hedges and gardens withinappeared well cared for, and in trim cultivation. I well remember the first time I beheld that lonely and desertedbuilding. It was near sunset, on as lovely a summer evening as evershed its soft light on the earth; the air was breathless; the skycloudless; thousands of swallows were upon the wing, some skimming thelimpid surface of those old ditches, others gliding on balancedpinions so far aloft in the darkening firmament that the eye couldbarely discern them. The nightingales were warbling their rich, melancholy notes from everybrake and thicket; the bats had come forth and were flitting to andfro on their leathern wings under the dark trees; but the brilliantdragon-flies, and all the painted tribe of butterflies had vanishedalready, and another race, the insects of the night, had taken theirplaces. The rich scent of the new-mown hay loaded the air with fragrance, andvied with the odors of the eglantine and honeysuckle, which, increasedby the falling dew, steamed up like incense to the evening skies. I was alone, and thoughtful; for the time although sweet anddelicious, had nothing in it gay or joyous; the lane along which I wasstrolling was steeped in the fast increasing shadows, for although theair aloft was full of sunshine, and the topmost leaves of the tallashes shimmered like gold in the late rays, not a single beampenetrated the thick hedgerows, or fell upon the sandy horse-road. Thewater in the deep ditches looked as black as night, and the plunge ofthe frogs into their cool recesses startled the ear amid the solitudeand stillness of the place. It was one of those evenings, in a word, which calls up, we know notwhy, a train of thought not altogether sad, nor wholly tender, butcalm and meditative and averse to action. I had been wandering alongthus for nearly an hour, musing deeply all the while, yet perfectlyunconscious that I was musing, much more what was the subject of mymeditations, when coming suddenly to the turn of the lane, the oldsummer-house met my eyes, and almost startled me, so little did Iexpect in that place to see any thing that should recall to my mindthe dwellings or the vicinity of man. The next minute I began to scrutinize, and to wonder--for it wasevident that this building must be an appendage to the estate of somegentleman or person of degree, and, knowing all the families of notein that neighborhood, I was well assured that no one dwelt here ofsufficient position to be the owner of what appeared at first sight tobe a noble property. Anxious as I was, however, to effect my entrance into that enchantedground, I could discover no means of doing so; for the depth of thewater effectually cut off all access to the hedgerow banks, even ifthere had been any prospect of forcing a passage through the tangledthorn-bushes beyond. Before I could find any solution to my problem, the fast thickening shadows admonished me that I must beat my retreat;and it was only by dint of redoubled speed that I reached college intime to escape the consequences of absence from roll-call. An early hour of the evening found me at my post on the following day;for having a direct object now in view, I wasted no time on the road, and the sun was still some distance above the horizon, when I reachedthe summer-house. It had been my hope, as I went along, that I might find some shallowspot, with a corresponding gap in the hedge, before reaching theplace, by means of which I might turn the defences, and take the enemyin the rear; but it was all in vain; and I came upon the groundwithout discovering any opening by which an animal larger than a ratcould enter the forbidden ground. Difficulty, it is well known, heightens desire; and, if I wishedbefore, I was now determined that I would get in. Quickening my pace, I set off at a smart run to reconnoitre the defences beyond, buthaving found nothing that favored my plans, in some half mile or so, Iagain returned, now bent on forcing my way, even if I should becompelled to undress, and swim across the pool to the further side. Before having recourse to this last step, however, I reconnoitered myground somewhat more narrowly than before, and soon discovered thatone of the main limbs of the great oak shot quite across the pool, andextended some little distance on my side over terra firma. It is true that the nearer extremity of the branch was rather of theslenderest, to support the weight even of a boy, and that the lowestpoint was a foot or two above my head. But what of that? I was youngand active in those days, and somewhat bold withal; and without aspice of danger, where were the pleasure or excitement of adventure? It did not take me long to make up my mind, and before I had wellthought of the risk, I had swung myself up into the branches, and wascreeping, with even less difficulty than I had anticipated, along thegreat gnarled bough above the mirrored pool. Danger, in fact, there was none; for slender as the extremitiesappeared, they were tough English oak, and the parent branch oncegained, would have supported the weight of Otus and Ephialtes, and alltheir giant crew, much more of one slight Etonian. In five minutes, or less, I had reached the fork of the trunk, and, swarming down on the further side, stood in the full fruition of myhopes, on that enchanted ground. It was as I had expected to find it, a singular and gloomy spot; thetall elm trees which formed the avenue, and the black wall of clippedyew, which followed their course, diverging to the right and left, formed a semicircle, the chord of which was the low wall and hawthornhedge, the summer-house standing, as I entered, in the angle on myleft hand. Although, as I have said, the sun was still high in heaven, the littlearea was almost dark already; and it was difficult, indeed, toconjecture for what end the wisdom of our ancestors had planted asun-dial in the centre of the grass-plat, where it seemed physicallyimpossible that a chance sunbeam should ever strike it, to tell thehour. If it had not been for the narrow open space between the oak tree andthe summer-house, the little lawn would even now have been as black asnight; as it was, a sort of misty-gray twilight, increased, perhaps, by the thin vapors rising from the tranquil pool, filled all itsprecincts; and beyond these, stretching away in long perspective untilthe arch at the further end seemed dwindled to the size of a needle'seye, was the long aisle of gloomy foliage, as massive and impenetrableto any ray of light as the stone arches of a Gothic cloister. The only thing that conveyed an idea of gayety or life, to the coldand tomb-like scenery, was the glimpse of bright sunshine which lay onthe open garden at the extremity of the elm-walk, with the gaudy andglowing hues, indistinctly seen in the distance, of some summerflowers. Yet even this was not all unmixed with something of melancholy, forthe contrast of the gay sunbeams and bright flowers only rendered thegloom more apparent, and like a convent-garden, seemed to awakencravings after the joyous world without, diminishing nothing of thesorrow and monotony within. But I was not in those days much given to moralizing, or to theinvestigation of my own inward feelings. I had come thither to inquire, to see, to learn, to find outthings--not causes. And perceiving at one glance that my firstimpression was correct, that the grass-plots were recently mown, thegravel-walks newly rolled, and spotless of weeds, the tall yew hedgesassiduously clipped into the straightest and most formal lines; thatevery thing, in short, displayed the most heedful tendance, theneatest cultivation, with the exception of the summer-pavilion, whichevidently was devoted to decay, I became but the more satisfied thatthere was some mystery, and the more resolute to probe it to the core. It was quite clear that when that garden was laid out, and that avenueplanted, how many years ago the giant size of the old elms denoted, the summer-house was the meaning of the whole design. The avenue hadno object but to lead to it, the little lawn no purpose but to receiveit. Doubly strange, therefore, did it seem that these should be keptup in all their trimness, that suffered to fall into decay. It was the tragedy of Hamlet, with Hamlet's part omitted! I stood for a little while wondering, and half overcome by a sort ofindescribable fanciful superstition. A cloud had come over the sun, the nightingales had ceased to sing, and there was not a sound of anykind to be heard, except the melancholy murmur of the summer air inthe tree-tops. In a moment, however, the transitory spell was shaken off, and, oncemore the bold and reckless schoolboy, I turned to the performance ofmy self-imposed task. The summer-house, as I have said, was octagon, three of its sides, with a window in each, jutting out into the clear pool, and three, with a door in the centre, and a window on each side, fronting thelittle lawn. But, alas! the windows were all secured with jalousies, strongly bolted and barred from within, and the door was secured by alock, the key of which was absent. A short examination showed, however, that the door was held by nobolts at the top or bottom; and the rusty condition of both lock andhinges rendered it probable that it would not stand a very violentassault. Wherefore, retreating some twenty paces, I ran at it _more Etonensi_, at the top of my speed, planted the sole of my foot even and squareagainst the key-hole, with the whole impetus of my charge, and had thesatisfaction of feeling the door fly open in an instant, while ajingling clatter within showed that my entrance had been effected withno greater damage to the premises than the starting of the staple intowhich the bolt of the lock shot. Having entered thus, my first task was to repair damages, which waseffected in five minutes, by driving the staple into its old place byaid of a great stone; my second, to provide means for future visits, which was as speedily managed by driving back the bolt of the lockwith the same great stone; and my third, to look eagerly and curiouslyabout me. To do this more effectually, I soon opened the two windowslooking upon the lawn, and let in the light, for the first time, Ifancy, in many a year, to that deserted room. If I had marveled much before I entered, much more did I marvel now;for although every thing within showed marks of the utmost negligenceand decay, though spiders had woven their webs in every angle, thoughmildew and damp mould had defaced the painted walls, though thegilding was black and tarnished, though the dust lay thick on thefurniture, still I had never seen any thing in my life, except thestate-rooms at Hampton Court and Windsor Castle, which could have viedwith this pavilion in the splendor of its original decoration. Its area was about thirty feet in diameter, and in height nearly thesame, with a domed roof, richly fretted with what had once been goldenscroll-work upon an azure ground. The walls were painted, as even _I_could discover, by the hand of a master, with copies from Guido andCaracci, in compartments bordered with massive gilded scroll-work, theground between the panels having been originally, like the ceiling, ofbright azure. The window-frames had been gilded; and the inside of thedoor painted, like the walls, in azure, with pictures of high merit inthe panels. Every side of the octagon but two, the opposite walls tothe right and left, were occupied by windows or a door; but that tothe right was filled by a mantel-piece, exquisitely wrought withCaryatides in white Carrara marble, with a copy of the Aurora aboveit, while the space opposite to it had been occupied by a superbmirror, reaching from the cornice of the ceiling. Nearly in the centre of this mirror, however, there was a smallcircular fracture, as if made by a stone or a bullet, with long cracksradiating, like the beams of a star, in all directions over theshivered plate; and when I looked at it more closely, I observed thatit was dashed in many places with large drops of some dark purplefluid, which had hardened with time into compact and solid gouts. I thought little of this at the time, and only wondered why peoplecould be so mad as to abandon so beautiful a place; and why, sincethey had abandoned it, they did not remove the furniture, of whicheven a boy's eye could detect the value. There was a centre-table of circular form, the pedestal of which, curiously carved, had been wrought, like all the rest, in gold andazure, while the slat, when I had wiped away with some fresh greenleaves the thick layer of dust which covered it, positively astonishedmy eyes, by the delicacy and beauty of the designs with which it wasadorned. Beside this, there were divans and arm-chairs of the samefashion and colors, with cushions which had been once of sky-bluedamask, though their brilliancy, and even their hues, had long agobeen defaced by the dust, the dampness, and the squalor of thatneglected place. I should have mentioned, that on the beautiful table I discoveredgouts of the same dark substance which I had previously observed onthe broken mirror: and that there were still clearly perceptible onone of the divans, dark splashes, and what must, when fluid, have beenalmost a pool of the same deep, rusty hue. At the time, it is true, I paid little attention to these things, being busily employed in the boy-like idea of putting my newlydiscovered palace of Armida into a complete state of repair, andcoming to pass all my leisure moments, even to the studying myPrometheus Bound, and composing my weekly hexameters and Alcaics inthis sweet sequestered spot. And, in truth, within a week I had put the greater part of my planinto execution; purloined dusters from my dame's boarding-house, greenboughs of the old elms for brooms, and water from the ditch, soon madethings clean at least; and the air, which I suffered, so long as I wasthere, daily, to blow through it in all directions, soon rendered it, comparatively speaking, dry and comfortable; and when all its windowswere thrown wide, it would be scarcely possible to find a morelightsome or delicious spot for summer musing than that old Englishsummer-house. Thus things went on for weeks, for months, unsuspected--for I alwayslatched the door, and secured the windows from within, before leavingmy fairy palace for the night; and as all looked just as usualwithout, no one so much as dreamed of trying the lock, to ascertain ifa door were still fastened, the threshhold of which, as men believed, no human foot had crossed since the days of the second James. I could often, it is true, discover the traces of recent labor in theimmediate neighborhood of my discovery; I could perceive at a glancewhere the grass had been newly shorn, the yew hedges clipped, or thegravel-walks rolled, but never, in the course of several months, during which I spent every fine evening, either reading, or musing, orcomposing my boy verses, in that my enchanted castle--for I beganreally to consider it almost my own--did I see any human being on thepremises. The cause of this, which I did not suspect until it was revealed tome, after chance had discovered my visits to the place, was simplythis, that my intrusions were confined solely to the evening, whereas, so great was the awe of the servants and the workmen for thatlonely and terror-haunted spot, that nothing short of absolutecompulsion, or the strongest necessity, would have induced them to gonear the place, after the sun had turned downward from the zenith. In the meantime, gratified by the complete success of my first inroad, and the possession of my first discovery, I felt no inclination topush my advances further, or to make any incursion into the body ofthe place. Every evening, as early as I could escape from the college walls, Iwas at my post, and lingered there as late as college hours wouldpermit. It was a strange fancy in a boy, and stranger yet than wouldat first appear in this, that there was a very considerable admixtureof something nearly approaching to fear, and that of a painful kind, in the feelings which made me so assiduous in my visits to that oldpavilion. There was, it is true, nothing definite in my fancies. I knew nothing, I cannot say even that I suspected any thing, concerning themysterious closing of the place; and often, since I have been madeacquainted with the tale, I have marveled at my own obtuseness, andwondered that a secret so transparent should have escaped me. So it was, however, that I suspected nothing, although I felt surethat mystery there was; and being of somewhat an imaginative temper, Iused to amuse myself by accounting for it in my own mind, weaving allsorts of strange and wild romances, and inventing the most horriblestories that can be conceived, until, as the shadows would fall darkaround me, daunted by my own conceptions, I would make all secure andfast with trembling fingers, swing myself back across over the pool bymy accustomed oak-branch, and run home as hard as my legs could carryme, haunted by indistinct and almost superstitious horror. Thus things went on, until at the end of summer I was at last detectedin my stolen visits, and the whole mystery was cleared up. I remember as clearly as if I heard it now, the exclamation of terrorand dismay uttered by the old gardener, who, having left someimplement behind him on the lawn during the morning labors, had beenforced to bend his unwilling steps back to the haunted ground torecover it. I could not but smile afterward, when he recounted to me hisastonishment and terror at seeing the old summer-house, which neverhad been opened within the memory of man, with all its windows wide tothe free air and evening sunshine--when he told me how often he turnedback to seek aid from his fellows--how he almost believed that fiendsor evil spirits were holding their foul sabbath there, and how hestarted aghast with horror, not now for himself, but for me, as hebeheld the young Etonian stretched tranquilly upon the blood-stainedcouch--for those dark stains were of human gore--conning his task forthe morrow. I rushed out of the place at his hurried outcry; a few words told mystory, and plead my excuse--with the good, simple-minded rustic littleexcuse was needed--but it was not till after many sittings, and many along afternoon's discourse, that I learned all the details of the sadevent which had converted that fair pavilion into a place as terrible, to the ideas of the country folks, as a dark charnel-vault. "Ay!" said the old man, as he gazed fearfully about him, after I hadpersuaded him at length to cross the dreaded threshhold, "Ay! it isall as they tell, though not a man of them has ever seen it. There isthe glass which the bullet broke, after passing right through hisbrain; and there is his blood, all spattered on the mirror. And look, young master, those spots on the table came from _her_ heart; and thatcouch you was lying on, is where they laid her when they took her up. See, it's all dabbled yet; and where your head was resting now, thedead girl's head lay, more than a hundred years since! Come away, master--come away! I never thought to have looked on these things, though I know all about them. " "Oh, tell me--tell me about them!" I exclaimed. "I am not a bitafraid. Do tell me all about them. " "Not now--not now--nor not here, " said the old man, gazing about as ifhe expected to see a spirit stalk out of some shady nook of thesurrounding trees. "I would not tell you here to be master of allDitton-in-the-Dale! But come up, if you will, to the great houseto-morrow, and ask for old Matthew Dawson, and I'll show you all theplace--the family never lives here now, nor hasn't since that deed wasdone--and then I'll tell you all about it, if you must hear. But ifyou're wise, you'll shun it; for it will chill your young blood tolisten, and cling to your young heart with a gloom forever. " "Oh, I will come, be sure, Matthew! I would not miss it for the world. But it is getting late, so I'll fasten up the old place, and begoing;" and suiting the action to the word, I soon secured thefastenings, while the old gardener stood by, marvelling and mutteringat the boldness of young blood, until I had finished setting things inorder, when I shook hands with the old man, slipping my _one_ halfcrown into his horny palm, and saying, "Well, good night, Matthew Dawson, and don't forget to-morrowevening. " "That I wont, master, " he replied, greatly propitiated by my offering. "But which way are you going?" "Oh, I'll soon show you, " I replied; and swinging myself up my tree, Iwas beyond the precincts of the haunted ground almost in a moment. "The very way _he_ came the time he did it, " cried the old gardener, with upturned hands, and eyes aghast. But I tarried then to ask nofurther questions, being quite sufficiently terrified for one night;although my pride forbade my displaying my terrors to the old rustic. The next day I was punctual to my appointment; and then, for the firsttime, I heard the melancholy tale which, at length, I purpose torelate. It was a proud and noble Norman family which had held the demesnes ofDitton-in-the-Dale, since the reign of the last Plantagenet--a braveand loyal race, which had poured its blood like water on many aforeign, many a native battle-field. At Evesham, a Fitz-Henry hadfought beside Prince Edward's bridle-rein, against the great DeMontfort, and his confederate barons; and afterward through all thelong and cruel wars of the Roses, on every field a Fitz-Henry had wonhonor or lost blood, upholding the claims of the true sovereignhouse--the house of York--until at fatal Bosworth the house itselfwent down, and dragged down with it the fortunes of its boldsupporters. Thereafter, during the reign of the Tudors, the name of Fitz-Henry washeard rarely in the court, or on the field; impoverished in fortune byfines and sequestrations, suspected of disloyalty to the now sovereignhouse, the heads of the family had wisely held themselves aloof fromintrigue and conspiracy, and dwelt among their yeomen, who had in oldtimes been their fathers' vassals, stanch lovers of field-sports, trueEnglish country gentlemen, seeking the favor and fearing the ill-willof no man--no, not of England's king. Attached to the old religion, though neither bigots nor zealots, theyhad escaped the violence of bluff Harry, when he turned Protestant forBullen's eyes; and had, though something to leeward of her favor, aslukewarm Romanists and no lovers of the Spaniard, passed safelythrough the ordeal of Mary's cruel reign. But with the accession of the man-minded Elizabeth, the fortunes ofthe house revived for a while. It was the policy of that great andgracious queen to gather around her all that were brave, honest, andmanly in her realm, without regard to family creeds, or familytraditions. Claiming descent as much from one as from the other of therival houses of Lancaster and York, loyalty to the one was no moreoffence to her clear eyes than good faith to the other. While loyaltyto what he honestly believed to be the true sovereign house, was thestrongest recommendation to her favor in each and every subject. The Fitz-Henry, therefore, of her day, a young and gallant soldier, who visited the shores of the New World with Cavendish and Raleigh, fought for his native land, although a Catholic, against the terriblearmada of the Most Catholic King, with Drake, and Frobisher andHoward, waged war in the Low Countries, and narrowly missed death atTutphen by Philip Sidney's side, stood as high in the favor of hisqueen as in the estimation of all good and honorable men. It is true, when the base and odious James succeeded to the throne of thelion-queen, and substituted mean and loathsome king-craft for frankand open English policy, the gray-haired soldier, navigator, statesman--for he had shone in each capacity--retired, as hisancestors had done before him, during the reigns of the seventh andeighth Henrys, to the peaceful shades and innocent pleasures ofDitton-in-the-Dale. So true, however, was he to the time-honored principles of his highrace, so loyally did he bring up his son, so firmly did he strengthenhis youthful mind with all maxims, and all laws of honor, linking theloyal subject to the rightful king, that no sooner had the troublesbroken out between the misguided monarch and his rebelliousParliament--although the veteran of Elizabeth had fallen asleep longbefore, full of years and honors--than his young heir, OsbornFitz-Henry, displayed the cognizance of his old house, mustered histenantry, and set foot in stirrup, well nigh the first, to withdraw itthe very last, of the adherents of the hapless Charles. So long did heresist in arms, so pertinaciously did he uphold the authority of thefirst Charles, so early did he rise again in behalf of the second, that he was noted by the Parliament as an incorrigible and mostdesperate malignant; and, had it not been that, by his gallantry inthe field, and his humanity when the strife was ended, he had won thepersonal good-will of Cromwell, it is most likely that it would havegone hard with his fortunes if not with his life. After the restoration, he was of course neglected by the fiddling, gambling, wenching, royal buffoon, who succeeded the royal martyr, andwhose necessities he had supplied, when an outcast pauper exile in aforeign land, from the proceeds of those very estates which he had sonearly lost in fighting for his crown. Osborn Fitz-Henry, too, was gathered to his fathers. He died littleadvanced beyond the prime of life, worn out with the toil he hadundergone in the camp, and shattered by the wounds which he hadreceived on almost every battle-field from Edge-Hill to Dunbar andWorcester. He had, however, married very young, before the breaking out of therebellion, and had lived to see not his son only a noble and superiorman, ready to fill his place when vacant, and in it uphold the honorof his family, but his son's children also advancing fast towardmaturity. Allan Fitz-Henry, the son of Charles' stout partisan, the grandson ofElizabeth's warrior, was the head of the house, when my talecommences. He, too, had married young--such, indeed, was the custom of hishouse--and had survived his wife, by whom he had two fair daughters, but no heir; and this was a source of vexation so constantly presentto his mind, that in the end it altered the whole disposition of theman, rendering him irritable, harsh, stern, unreasonable, and unhappy. Fondly attached to the memory of his lost wife, whom he had loveddevotedly while living, it never entered his mind to marry a secondtime, even with the hope of begetting an heir by whom to perpetuatethe honors and principles of his house; although he was continually onthe fret--miserable himself, and making others miserable, inconsequence of the certainty that he should be the last of his race. His only hope was now centered in his daughters, or to speak morecorrectly, in his eldest daughter--for her he had determined toconstitute his heiress, endowing her with all his landed property, allhis heirlooms, all that could constitute her the head of his house; inreturn for which he had predetermined that she should become the wifeof some husband of his own choosing, who should unite to a pedigreeas noble as that of the Howards, all qualifications which should fithim to represent the house into which he should be adopted; and whoshould be willing to drop his own paternal name and bearings, howancient and noble soever, in order to adopt the style and the arms ofFitz-Henry. Proud by nature, by blood, and by education--though with a clear andhonorable pride--he had been rendered a thousand times prouder andmore haughty by the very circumstances which seemed to threaten adownfall to the fortunes of his house--his house, which had survivedsuch desperate reverses; which had come out of every trial, like puregold, the better and the brighter from the furnace--his house, whichneither the ruin of friendly monarchs, nor the persecutions of hostilemonarchs, nor the neglect of ungrateful monarchs, had been able toshake, any more than the autumnal blasts, or the frosts of winter, hadavailed to uproot the oak trees of his park, coeval with his name. In the midst of health and wealth, honor and good esteem, with anaffectionate family, and a devoted household around him, AllanFitz-Henry fancied himself a most unhappy man--perhaps the mostunhappy of mankind. Alas! was it to punish such vain, such sinful, such senseless, andinordinate repinings? Who shall presume to scrutinize the judgments, or pry into the secretsof the Inscrutable? This much alone is certain, that ere he was gathered to his fathers, Allan Fitz-Henry might, and that not unjustly, have termed himselfthat, which now, in the very wantonness of pampered and insatiatesuccess he swore that he was daily--the most unhappy of the sons ofmen. For to calamities so dreadful as might have disturbed the reason ofthe strongest minded, remorse was added, so just, so terrible, sooverwhelming, that men actually marveled how he lived on and was notinsane. But I must not anticipate. It was a short time after the failure of the Duke of Monmouth's weakand ungrateful attempt at revolution, a short time after theconclusion of the merciless and bloody butcheries of that disgrace tothe English ermine, the ferocious Jefferies, that the incidentsoccurred, which I learned first on the evening subsequent to mydiscovery in the fatal summer-house. At this time Allan Fitz-Henry--it was a singular proof, by the way, ofthe hereditary pride of this old Norman race, that having numberedamong them so many friends and counsellors of monarchs, no one oftheir number had been found willing to accept titular honors, holdingit a higher thing to be the premier gentleman than the junior peer ofEngland--At this time, I say, Allan Fitz-Henry was a man of someforty-five or fifty years, well built and handsome, of courtly air anddignified presence; nor must it be imagined that in his fanciedgrievances he forgot to support the character of his family, or thathe carried his griefs abroad with him into the world. At times, indeed, he might be a little grave and thoughtful, especially at such times as he heard mention made of the promise orsuccess of this or that scion of some noble house; but it was onlywithin his own family circle, and to his most familiar friends, thathe was wont to open his heart, and complain of his ill-fortune, atbeing the first childless father of his race--for so, in his contemptfor the poor girls, whom he still, strange contradiction! loved fondlyand affectionately, he was accustomed in his dark hours to stylehimself; as if forsooth an heir male were the only offspring worthy tobe called the child of such a house. Though he was fond, and gentle, and at times even tender to hismotherless daughters--for, to do him justice, he never suffered asymptom of his disappointment and disgust to break out to theirannoyance, yet was there no gleam of paternal satisfaction in his sadeye, no touch of paternal pride in his vexed heart, as he looked upontheir graceful forms, and noted their growing beauties. And yet they were a pair of whom the haughtiest potentate on earthmight have been proud, and with justice. Blanche and Agnes Fitz-Henry were at this time in their eighteenth andseventeenth years--but one summer having passed between their births, and their mother having died within a few hours after the latter sawthe light. They were, indeed, as lovely girls as the sun of merry England shoneupon; and in those days it was still _merry_ England, and famous thenas now for the rare beauty of its women, whether in the first dawn ofgirlhood, or in the full-blown flush of feminine maturity. Both tall, above the middle height of women, both exquisitely formed, with figures delicate and slender, yet full withal, and voluptuouslyrounded, with the long taper hands, the small and shapely feet andankles, the swan-like necks, and classic heads gracefully set on, which are held to denote, in all countries, the predominance of gentleblood; when seen at a distance, and judged by the person only, itwould have been almost impossible to distinguish the elder from theyounger sister. But look upon them face to face, and never, in all respects, were twogirls of kindred race so entirely dissimilar. The elder, Blanche, was, as her name denotes, though ladies' names are oftentimes misnomers, agenuine English blonde. Her abundant and beautiful hair, trained tofloat down upon her snowy shoulders in silky masses of unstudiedcurls, was of the lightest golden brown. There was not a shade of redin its hues, although her complexion was of that peculiarly dazzlingcharacter which is common to red-haired persons; yet when the sunshone on its glistening waves, so brilliantly did the golden lightflash from it, that you might almost have imagined there was a circletof living glory above her clear white brow. Her eyebrows and eyelashes were many shades darker than her hair, relieving her face altogether from that charge of insipidity which isso often, and for the most part so truly, brought against fair-hairedand fair-featured beauties. The eyes themselves, which those longlashes shrouded, were of the deepest violet blue; so deep, that atfirst sight you would have deemed them black, but for the soft andhumid languor which is never seen in eyes of that color. The rest ofher features were as near as possible to the Grecian model, exceptthat there was a slight depression where the nose joins the brow, breaking that perfectly straight line of the classical face, which, however beautiful to the statue, is less attractive in life than theirregular outline of the northern countenance. Her mouth, with the exception of--perhaps I should rather say inconjunction with--her eyes, was the most lovely and expressive featurein her face. There were twin dimples at its corners; yet was not itsexpression one of habitual mirth, but of tenderness and softnessrather, unmixed, although an anchorite might have been pardoned thewish to press his lips to its voluptuous curve, with the slightestexpression of sensuality. Her complexion was, as I have said, dazzlingly brilliant; but it wasthe brilliance of the lily rather than of the rose, though at theleast emotion, whether of pain or pleasure, the eloquent blood wouldrush, like the morning's glow over some snow-crowned Alp, acrosscheek, brow, and neck, and bosom, and vanish thence so rapidly, thatere you should have time to say, nay, even to think, "Look! look how beautiful, 't was fled. " Such was the elder beauty, the destined heiress of the ancient house, the promised mother of a line of sons, who should perpetuate the nameand hand down the principles of the Fitz-Henries to far distant ages. Such were the musings of her father, Proh! coeca mens mortalium! and at such times alone, if ever, a sort of doubtful pride would cometo swell his hope, whispering that for such a creature, no man, however high or haughty, but would be willing to renounce the pride ofbirth, even untempted by the demesnes of Ditton-in-the-Dale, and manyanother lordly manor coupled to the time-honored name of Fitz-Henry. Her sister, Agnes, though not less beautiful than Blanche--and therewere those who insisted that she was more so--was as different fromher, in all but the general resemblance of figure and carriage, asnight is from morning, or autumn from early summer-time. Her ringlets, not less profuse than Blanche's, and clustering incloser and more mazy curls, were as black as the raven's wing, and, like the feathers of the wild bird, were lighted up when the sunplayed on them with a sort of purplish and metallic gloss, that defiesalike the pen of the writer, and the painter's pencil to depict to theeye. Her complexion, though soft and delicate, was of the very darkest huethat is ever seen in persons of unmixed European blood; so dark thatthe very blood which would mantle to her cheek at times in burningblushes, was shaded, as it were, with a darker hue, like damask rosesseen through the medium of a gold-tinted window-pane. Her brows and lashes were as black as night, but, strange to say, theeyes that flashed from beneath them with an almost painful splendor, were of a clear, deep azure, less dark than those of the fairersister, giving a singular and wild character to her whole face, andaffecting the style of her beauty, but whether for the better or theworse it was for those who admired or shunned--and there were who tookboth parts--to determine. Her face was rounder and fuller than hersister's, and, in fact, this was true of her whole person--so much sothat she was often mistaken for the elder--her features were lessregular, her nose having a slight tendency to that form which has noname in our language, but which charmed all beholders in Roxana, as_retroussie_. Her mouth was as warm, as soft, as sweetly dimpled, butit was not free from that expression which Blanche's lackedaltogether, and might have been blamed as too wooing and luxurious. Such were the various characters of the sisters' personalappearance--the characters of their mental attributes were asdistinctly marked, and as widely different. Blanche was all gentleness and moderation from her very cradle--adelicate and tender child, smiling always, but rarely laughing; neverboisterous or loud even in her childish plays. And as she grew older, this character became more definite, and was more strongly observed;she was a pensive, tranquil creature, not melancholy, much lesssad--for she was awake to all that was beautiful or grand, all thatwas sweet or gentle in the face of nature, or in the history of man;and there was, perhaps, more real happiness concealed under her calmexterior, than is often to be found under the wilder mirth of merrierbeings. Ever ready to yield her wishes to those of her friends orcompanions, many persons imagined that she had little will, and nofixed wishes, or deliberate aspirations--passionless and pure as thelily of the vale, many supposed that she was cold and heartless. Oh!ignorant! not to remember that the hearts of the fiercest volcanosboil still beneath a head of snow; and that it is even in the calmestand most moderate characters that passion once enkindled burns fierce, perennial and unquenchable! Thus far, however, had she advanced intothe flower of fair maidenhood, undisturbed by any warmer dream thandevoted affection toward her parent, whose wayward grief she couldunderstand if she could not appreciate, and whom she strove by everygentle wile to wean from his morbid fancies; and earnest love towardher sister, whom she, indeed, almost adored--perhaps adored the morefrom the very difference of their minds, and for her veryimperfections. For Agnes was all gay vivacity, and petulance, and fire--so that heryoung companions, who sportively named Blanche the icicle, hadchristened her the sunbeam; and, in truth, if the first name were illchosen, the second seemed to be an inspiration; for like a sunbeamthat touched nothing but to illuminate it, like a sunbeam she playedwith all things, smiled on all things in their turn--like a sunbeamshe brought mirth with her presence, and after her departure, left adouble gloom behind her. More dazzling than Blanche, she made her impression at first sight, and so long as the skies were clear, and the atmosphere unruffled, thesunbeam would continue to gild, to charm, to be worshiped. But if thetime of darkness and affliction came, the gay sunbeam held aloof, while the poor icicle, melted from its seeming coldness, was everready to weep for the sorrows of those who had neglected her in thedays of their happiness. Unused to yield, high-spirited when crossed, yet carrying off even herstubbornness and quick temper by the brilliancy, the wit, the livelyand bold audacity which she cast around them, Agnes ruled in hercircle an imperious and despotic queen; while her slaves, even as theytrembled before her half sportive but emphatic frown, did not suspectthe sceptre of the tyrant beneath the spell of the enchantress. Agnes, in one word, was the idol of the rich and gay; Blanche was thesaint of the poor, the lowly, the sick, and those who mourn. It may be that the peculiarity of her position, the neglect which shehad always experienced from her father, and mediately from thehirelings of the household, ever prompt to pander to the worstfeelings of their superiors--the consciousness that born co-heiresswith her sister, she was doomed to sink into the insignificance of anundowered and uncared-for girl, had tended in some degree to form thecharacter which Agnes had ever borne, and which alone she haddisplayed, until the period when my tale commences. It may be that the consciousness of wrong endured, had hardened aheart naturally soft and tender, and rendered it unyielding andrebellious--it may be that injustice, endured at the hands ofhirelings in early years, had engendered a spirit of resistance, andarmed her mind and quickened her tongue against the world, which, asshe fancied, wronged her. It may be, more than all, that a secret, perhaps an unconscious jealousy of her sister's superior advantages, not in the wretched sense of worldly wealth or position, but of thelove and reverence of friends and kindred, had embittered her youngsoul, and caused her to cast over it a veil of light and wilddemeanor, of free speech, and daring mirth, which had by degrees growninto habits, and become part and parcel of her nature. If it were so, however, there were no outward indications that suchwas the case; for never were there seen two sisters more united andaffectionate--nor would it have been easy to say on which side thebalance of kindness preponderated. For if Blanche was ever the firstto cede to her sister's wishes, and the last, in any momentarydisappointment or annoyance, to speak one quick or unkind word, so wasAgnes, with her expressive features, and flashing eye, and ready, tameless wit, prompt as light to avenge the slightest reflection caston Blanche's tranquillity and coldness; and if at times a quick wordor sharp retort broke from her lips, and called a tear to the eye ofher calmer sister, not a moment would elapse before she would castherself upon her neck and weep her sincere contrition, and be forhours an altered being; until her natural spirit would prevail, andshe would be again the wild, mirthful madcap, whose very faults couldcall forth no keener reproach than a grave and thoughtful smile fromthe lips of those who loved her the most dearly. Sad were the daughters of Allan Fitz-Henry--daughters whom not a peerin England but would have regarded as the brightest gems of hiscoronets, as the pride and ornament of his house; but whom, by astrange anomaly, their own father, full as he was of warm affections, and kindly inclinations, never looked upon but with a secret feelingof discontent and disappointment, that they were not other than theywere: and with a half confessed conviction, that fair as they were, tender, and loving, graceful, accomplished, delicate and noble-minded, he could have borne to lay them both in the cold grave, so that a soncould be given to the house, in exchange for their lost loveliness. In outward demeanor, however, he was to his children all that a fathershould be; a little querulous at times, perhaps, and irritable, butfond, though not doting, and considerate; and I have wandered greatlyfrom my intention, if any thing that I have said has been construed tosignify that there existed the slightest estrangement between thefather and his children--for had Allan Fitz-Henry but suspected thepossibility of such a thing, he had torn the false pride, like avenomous weed, from his heart, and had been a wiser and a happier man. In his case it was the blindness of the heart that caused its partialhardness; but events were at hand, that should flood it with theclearest light, and melt it to more than woman's tenderness. [_To be continued. _ SONNET TO GRAHAM. On, in thy mission! 'T is a holy power That which thou wieldest o'er a people's heart:And wastes of mind, that never knew a flower, Bloom now and brighten, 'neath thy magic art. Hearthstones are cheerful that were chill before; And softened beams, like light that melteth throughThe stained glass of old cathedrals, pour Stream upon stream of beauty. All that's true, All that is brave and beautiful, 't is thine-- High office, high and holy! thus to shed, Sun-like, and sole, in shadow or in shine, Thoughts that bedew and rouse minds cold and dead, Startling the pulse that stirred not. This is thine!Be proudly humble: 't is a power divine! _New Orleans, October_ 1, 1847. ALTUS. MARGINALIA BY EDGAR A. POE. We mere men of the world, with no principle--a very old-fashioned andcumbersome thing--should be on our guard lest, fancying him on hislast legs, we insult, or otherwise maltreat some poor devil of agenius at the very instant of his putting his foot on the top round ofhis ladder of triumph. It is a common trick with these fellows, whenon the point of attaining some long-cherished end, to sink themselvesinto the deepest possible abyss of seeming despair, for no otherpurpose than that of increasing the space of success through whichthey have made up their minds immediately to soar. * * * * * All that the man of genius demands for his exaltation is moral matterin motion. It makes no difference _whither_ tends the motion--whetherfor him or against him--and it is absolutely of _no_ consequence"_what_ is the matter. " * * * * * In Colton's "American Review" for October, 1845, a gentleman, wellknown for his scholarship, has a forcible paper on "The Scotch Schoolof Philosophy and Criticism. " But although the paper is "forcible, " itpresents the most singular admixture of error and truth--the onedovetailed into the other, after a fashion which is novel, to say theleast of it. Were I to designate in a few words what the whole articledemonstrated, I should say "the folly of not beginning at thebeginning--of neglecting the giant Moulineau's advice to his friendRam. " Here is a passage from the essay in question: "The Doctors [Campbell and Johnson] both charge Pope with error and inconsistency:--error in supposing that _in English_, of metrical lines unequal in the number of syllables and pronounced in equal times, the longer suggests celerity (this being the principle of the Alexandrine:)--inconsistency, in that Pope himself uses the same contrivance to convey the contrary idea of slowness. But why in English? It is not and cannot be disputed that, in the Hexameter verse of the Greeks and Latins--which is the model in this matter--what is distinguished as the 'dactylic line' was uniformly applied to express velocity. How was it to do so? Simply from the fact of being pronounced in an equal time with, while containing a greater number of syllables or 'bars' than the ordinary or average measure; as, on the other hand, the spondaic line, composed of the minimum number, was, upon the same principle, used to indicate slowness. So, too, of the Alexandrine in English versification. No, says Campbell, there is a difference: the Alexandrine is not in fact, like the dactylic line, pronounced in the common time. But does this alter the principle? What is the rationale of Metre, whether the classical hexameter or the English heroic?" I have written an essay on the "Rationale of Verse, " in which thewhole topic is surveyed _ab initio_, and with reference to general andimmutable principles. To this essay (which will soon appear) I referMr. Bristed. In the meantime, without troubling myself to ascertainwhether Doctors Johnson and Campbell are wrong, or whether Pope iswrong, or whether the reviewer is right or wrong, at this point or atthat, let me succinctly state what is _the truth_ on the topics atissue. And first; the same principles, in _all_ cases, govern _all_ verse. What is true in English is true in Greek. Secondly; in a series of lines, if one line contains more syllablesthan the law of the verse demands, and if, nevertheless, this line ispronounced in the same time, upon the whole, as the rest of the lines, then this line suggests celerity--on account of the increased rapidityof enunciation required. Thus in the Greek Hexameter the dactyliclines--those most abounding in dactyls--serve best to convey the ideaof rapid motion. The spondaic lines convey that of slowness. Thirdly; it is a gross mistake to suppose that the Greek dactylicline is 'the model in this matter'--the matter of the EnglishAlexandrine. The Greek dactylic line is of the same number offeet--bars--beats--pulsations--as the ordinary dactylic-spondaic linesamong which it occurs. But the Alexandrine is longer by one foot--byone pulsation--than the pentameters among which it arises. For itspronunciation it demands _more time_, and therefore, _ceterisparibus_, it would well serve to convey the impression of length, orduration, and thus, indirectly, of slowness. I say _ceteris paribus_. But, by varying conditions, we can effect a total change in theimpression conveyed. When the idea of slowness is conveyed by theAlexandrine, it is not conveyed by any slower enunciation ofsyllables--that is to say, it is not _directly_ conveyed--butindirectly, through the idea of _length_ in the whole line. Now, if wewish to convey, by means of an Alexandrine, the impression ofvelocity, we readily do so by giving rapidity to our enunciation ofthe syllables composing the several feet. To effect this, however, wemust have _more_ syllables, or we shall get through the whole line tooquickly for the intended time. To get more syllables, all we have todo, is to use, in place of iambuses, what our prosodies callanapoests. [1] Thus, in the line, Flies o'er the unbending corn and skims along the main, the syllables '_the unbend_' form an anapoest and, demanding unusualrapidity of enunciation, in order that we may get them in in theordinary time of an iambus, serve to suggest celerity. By the elisionof _e_ in _the_, as is customary, the whole of the intended effect islost; for _th'unbend_ is nothing more than the usual iambus. In aword, wherever an Alexandrine expresses celerity, we shall find it tocontain one or more anapoests--the more anapoests, the more decidedthe impression. But the tendency of the Alexandrine consisting merelyof the usual iambuses, is to convey slowness--although it conveys thisidea feebly, on account of conveying it indirectly. It follows, fromwhat I have said, that the common pentameter, interspersed withanapoests, would better convey celerity than the Alexandrineinterspersed with them in a similar degree;--and it unquestionablydoes. [Footnote 1: I use the prosodial word "anapoest, " merely because hereI have no space to show what the reviewer will admit I have distinctlyshown in the essay referred to--viz: that the additional syllableintroduced, does _not_ make the foot an anapoest, or the equivalent ofan anapoest, and that, if it did, it would spoil the line. On thistopic, and on all topics connected with verse, there is not a prosodyin existence which is not a mere jumble of the grossest error. ] * * * * * To converse well, we need the cool tact of talent--to talk well, theglowing _abandon_ of genius. Men of _very_ high genius, however, talkat one time _very_ well, at another _very_ ill:--well, when they havefull time, full scope, and a sympathetic listener:--ill, when they fearinterruption and are annoyed by the impossibility of exhausting the topicduring that particular talk. The partial genius is flashy--scrappy. Thetrue genius shudders at incompleteness--imperfection--and usuallyprefers silence to saying the something which is not every thing thatshould be said. He is so filled with his theme that he is dumb, firstfrom not knowing how to begin, where there seems eternally beginningbehind beginning, and secondly from perceiving his true end at soinfinite a distance. Sometimes, dashing into a subject, he blunders, hesitates, stops short, sticks fast, and, because he has beenoverwhelmed by the rush and multiplicity of his thoughts, his hearerssneer at his inability to think. Such a man finds his proper elementin those "great occasions" which confound and prostrate the generalintellect. Nevertheless, by his conversation, the influence of theconversationist upon mankind in general, is more decided than that ofthe talker by his talk:--the latter invariably talks to best purposewith his pen. And good conversationists are more rare than respectabletalkers. I know many of the latter; and of the former only five orsix:--among whom I can call to mind, just now, Mr. Willis, Mr. J. T. S. S. --of Philadelphia, Mr. W. M. R. --of Petersburg, Va. , and Mrs. S----d, formerly of New York. Most people, in conversing, force us tocurse our stars that our lot was not cast among the African nationmentioned by Eudoxus--the savages who, having no mouths, never openedthem, as a matter of course. And yet, if denied mouth, some personswhom I have in my eye would contrive to chatter on still--as they donow--through the nose. * * * * * All in a hot and copper sky The bloody sun at noon Just up above the mast did stand, No bigger than the moon. --COLERIDGE. Is it possible that the poet did not know the apparent diameter of themoon to be greater than that of the sun? If any ambitious man have a fancy to revolutionize, at one effort, theuniversal world of human thought, human opinion, and human sentiment, the opportunity is his own--the road to immortal renown lies straight, open, and unencumbered before him. All that he has to do is to writeand publish a very little book. Its title should be simple--a fewplain words--"My Heart Laid Bare. " But--this little book must be _trueto its title_. Now, is it not very singular that, with the rabid thirst for notorietywhich distinguishes so many of mankind--so many, too, who care not afig what is thought of them after death, there should not be found oneman having sufficient hardihood to write this little book? To _write_, I say. There are ten thousand men who, if the book were once written, would laugh at the notion of being disturbed by its publication duringtheir life, and who could not even conceive _why_ they should objectto its being published after their death. But to write it--_there_ isthe rub. No man dare write it. No man ever will dare write it. No man_could_ write it, even if he dared. The paper would shrivel and blazeat every touch of the fiery pen. * * * * * For all the rhetorician's rules Teach nothing but to name the tools. --HUDIBRAS. What these oft-quoted lines go to show is, that a falsity in versewill travel faster and endure longer than a falsity in prose. The manwho would sneer or stare at a silly proposition nakedly put, willadmit that "there is a good deal in that" when "_that_" is the pointof an epigram shot into the ear. The rhetorician's rules--if they_are_ rules--teach him not only to name his tools, but to use histools, the capacity of his tools--their extent--their limit; and froman examination of the nature of the tools--(an examination forced onhim by their constant presence)--force him, also, into scrutiny andcomprehension of the material on which the tools are employed, andthus, finally, suggest and give birth to new material for new tools. * * * * * Among his _eidola_ of the den, the tribe, the forum, the theatre, etc. , Bacon might well have placed the great _eidolon_ of the parlor(or of the wit, as I have termed it in one of the previousMarginalia)--the idol whose worship blinds man to truth by dazzlinghim with the _apposite_. But what title could have been invented for_that_ idol which has propagated, perhaps, more of gross error thanall combined?--the one, I mean, which demands from its votaries thatthey reciprocate cause and effect--reason in a circle--lift themselvesfrom the ground by pulling up their pantaloons--and carry themselveson their own heads, in hand-baskets, from Beersheba to Dan. All--absolutely all the argumentation which I have seen on the natureof the soul, or of the Deity, seems to me nothing but worship of thisunnameable idol. _Pour savoir ce qu'est Dieu_, says Bielfeld, althoughnobody listens to the solemn truth, _il faut être Dieu même_--and toreason about the reason is of all things the most unreasonable. Atleast, he alone is fit to discuss the topic who perceives at a glancethe insanity of its discussion. THE PENANCE OF ROLAND. A ROMANCE OF THE PEINE FORTE ET DURE. BY HENRY B. HIRST. PART I. When the weird and wizard bats were flitting round his dusky way, Over a moorland, like a whirlwind, rushed the knight, Sir Roland Grey;When the crimson sun was setting, as the yellow moon arose, Far and faint, behind Sir Roland, sank the slogan of his foes-- Far and faint; and growing fainter as he reached the forest sward, Spreading round for many an acre over the lands which owned him lord. As he dashed along the woodland, fitfully, upon the breeze, Swept the tu-who-o of the owlet through the naked forest trees; And the loudly whirring black-cock through the creaking branches sprung, Frightened by his horse's hoofs, that like the Cyclop's anvil rung--Like a hurricane on he hurried, wood and valley gliding past, While around him, o'er him, on him, burst the sudden autumn blast. Down upon him, in a deluge, rushed the cold November rain;But the wind about him whistled, and the tempest swept in vain. What to him was wind or tempest, when his brain was seared with flame?What to him was earth or heaven, when his soul was sick with shame? In the dreary, desolate desert on his ears had burst a tale, That, like falling thunder, stunned and left him terrified and pale;How, while he was battling bravely, like a true and holy knight, For the sacred tomb of Christ, against the swarthy Moslemite; How, while round him lances shivered, armor rang, and arrows fell, And the air was mad with noises--Arab shout and Paynim yell--She, the partner of his heart, descended (so the legend said)From the ancient Saxon monarchs, sank in shame her sunny head. From his friends--his growing glory--over dark and dangerous seas--From his red-cross banner proudly flowing, floating on the breeze--Over field and flood he traveled, flinging fame and honor by, With a heart as full of hell as full of glory was the sky. All his mind became a chaos; but along its waste there stoleWhat his bloody purpose shook, and what was manna to his soul, --Memories of his youthful moments, when through grassy glen and woodHe wandered with the Lady Gwineth, dreaming none so fair and good; And he saw her sweetly smiling, as when at her feet he knelt, And with bold but modest manner on his burning passion dwelt--Felt her fall upon his bosom--felt her tears upon his cheek, As he felt them when his tongue was all too full of joy to speak! And his heart was slowly softening--when a hoarse voice bade him "yield!"And a claymore clanked and clattered on the bosses of his shield;--Rising round him, closing on him, sprang an ambush of his foe, The despoiler of his honor! All his answer was a blow! All his soul was in his arm; and, as his foemen closed around, Vassal after vassal, wounded, yelling, fell and bit the ground;But when through the wood there rushed an hundred thronging to the fight, Charging through them, still defying, Roland safety sought in flight. When the crimson sun descended, as the yellow moon arose, Far and faint behind Sir Roland sank the slogan of his foes--Far and faint, and waxing fainter, as he reached the forest sward, Spreading round for many an acre, over the lands that owned him lord. Like a whirlwind on he hurried, though the storm was raging sore:In his heart he carried torture: there was music in its roar--Like a hurricane on he hurried, spurring on with loosened rein, Till he checked his jaded courser on his old paternal plain. Clouds were scudding o'er the heavens; wild the tempest roared around;And the very earth was shaking with the thunder's heavy sound;But between the lightning flashes, frowning grimly, here and there, Loomed his old ancestral castle, with its old ancestral air. There, the barbican--the draw-bridge--there, the ancient donjon-keep, With its iron-banded portals--there, the moat in sullen sleep!--Galloping onward, lo! he halted, for they kept strict watch and ward, And his courser's clanking hoofs had roused the ever-wary guard. Loud above the increasing tempest rose the warder's threatening hail;Louder rose the ringing answer from a lip that scorned to quail:"Grey of Grey!" the warrior thundered, "he who fears nor bolt nor dart--He who is your master, vassal--Roland of the Lion Heart!" Clanking, clattering, grating, slowly up the huge portcullis went, And the draw-bridge over the moat creaking, shrieking, downward bent;On his armor flashed the torch-light, over helmet, cuirass, shield, With its _lion d' or couchant_ upon a stainless _argent_ field. Over rode he, frowning fiercely, throwing from him ruddy light, Flashing, like a burning beacon, on his startled vassal's sight. Rose the draw-bridge, fell the barrier, closed the oaken gates behind. --All was silence save the roaring of the wild November wind. PART II. In a lofty vaulted chamber, pillared, Gothic, full of gloom, But that flashes of the fire-light fitfully fell athwart the room--Ruddy gleams of fading fire-light, lighting many a bearded face, On the fluted hangings woven--founders of her husband's race-- On a carven couch in slumber lay the Lady Gwineth Grey, Traces of a smile yet lingering on a cheek of rosy May--On the softest velvet slumbering, in a mist of golden hair, Trembling on her heaving bosom, and along her neck as fair. Seemed she like the Goddess Dian sleeping in some lonely wood, Or a nun on convent pallet dreaming only what was good:By her stood an outened flambeaux, from which, blue, and thin, and rare, Stole a wave of trembling vapor, slowly melting into air. But the tapestry was lifted, and a form in steel arraySuddenly entered, and his coming drove the waning mist away. Treading softly o'er the rushes Roland stept beside his bride, In the passing of a moment standing at her couch's side. Like an angel seemed the lady, lying in her rosy rest;Like a devil seemed the knight, with passion raging in his breast:For within his bosom, gnawing all his heart with teeth of fire, Reigned Revenge, and on his forehead burned the purple hue of ire. Slowly bending o'er his wife, but making not a sound, he gazedUpon her, while his glaring eye-balls, like twin torches, brightly blazed. --Starting, feeling one was near her, Gwineth raised her golden head, Looking round her--flashed his falchion, and she sank in silence--dead! Roared the tempest; crashed the thunder; even the castle seemed to quailAnd tremble, like a living thing, before the fury of the gale;But the fierce and fearless murderer turned to where his child reclined, Asleep, amid the thunder's crash, the rushing rain and roaring wind. As he bent above his boy, dim memories of days long backCame, like stars an instant seen amid the autumn tempest's rack;But as swiftly over his spirit flashed the ruin of his name--Flashed the withering thought that even that child might be the child of shame. Wildly then he raised his glaive, but wilder, sterner, still, without, Swelled the tempest, burst the thunder, yelled the winds with maniac shout;While the lightning, red and vivid, quivered through the skies in ire, Till the chamber with its flashes seemed a blazing hall of fire. With this climax of the tempest--thunder, lightning, rain and wind--Roland felt an awful doubt creep tremblingly athwart his mind;Slowly, slowly, it arose, and grew gigantic; slowly, slowly, Cloud-like, overshadowing him, darkening his spirit wholly. Then, like Saul of Eld, he trembled, feeling his deed was one of guilt--Believing heaven itself asserted it was innocent blood he spilt--Feeling heaven was interfering, sank his heart, and fell his blade, And the superstitious murderer tottered, wailing and dismayed. "Be she spotless, " groaned the warrior, "I have done a grievous crime--Stained the snowiest shield that ever graced the temple-walls of Time. --Thou, my noblest and my fairest! with thy mother's Saxon eye--Shall my hand, too, strike thee lifeless? No! I cannot see thee die!" Suddenly Roland saw the peril hanging over his guilty head--Felt that he could never hide him from the vengeance of the dead--Saw the heartless headsman smiling, and the axe, and heard the crowdShouting curses on the assassin--and the chieftain groaned aloud-- Groaned, for that his deed had robbed him of a home and of a name, Hurling on his orphan son the damning heritage of shame:Life and lands by law were forfeit; he had driven his offspring forth, Rudely, ruthlessly, to wander, one of the Ishmaelites of earth. But a sudden thought came o'er him, and his lofty eye againFlashed with resolution, stern and strong as was his spirit's pain. "Shall I rob thee of thy birthright--rob thee of thy noble name, Of our old ancestral castle, and our fathers' deeds of fame? "Shall I fling thee forth to struggle with a never-sparing world;Knowing every eye will scorn thee, every lip at thee be curled?Know thee, budding bloom of beauty, withering in thy youth away--Feel thy infant promise fading--see thy falcon-eye decay? "Did I give thee life to cloud it--life to poison every breath?Better far the dreary dungeon, and the dark and iron death!Never! Let them heap upon me rock on rock Olympus high;None shall see a sinew quiver, none shall hear the slightest cry. "'Blood for blood' is rightly written: I have slain a spotless wife, And will dree a heavy penance--yield the law my forfeit life;Come the judgment, I will meet it; and the torture shall not tearWord from me to make a beggar of my rightful, righteous heir. " As the stricken knight was speaking, in the distance died the storm;And the moonlight on the casement wandered sweetly, rested warm;Through the golden glass it floated, fluttering over the lady's hair, Till she seemed a mild Madonna, watched by angels, slumbering there. Shaken by the storm of conscience, Roland sank upon his knee, Sudden as before a hurricane falls some famous forest tree;Sank beside pale, placid Gwineth, weeping, wailing, sorrow riven, Feeling God had spoken, praying that his crime might be forgiven. All that long and dreary night, Sir Roland watched beside the dead, Humbly kneeling in the rushes strown around the carven bed. Slowly, quietly approaching came the gray-eyed dreamy dawn, Making every thing about him seem more desolate and wan. One by one the stars went out, and slowly over the Orient cameStreaks of rose and tints of purple, flakes of gold and rays of flame, And around the ancient castle Roland heard the hum of thoseThat from quiet sleep were waking, as they, one by one, arose. Slowly through the painted casement, touching first the chamber crownAnd the groined roof, the sunlight stole in lovely lustre downOver the tapestry, that glistened, gleaming with its golden ray, Till it kissed the russet rushes where in yellow sleep it lay. Came the Lady Gwineth's maidens, starting at the sudden sightOf their lord, Sir Roland, standing like a warrior for the fight;But he waved them on; and, wondering, they unto the sleeper went--Shrieking loudly, shrieking wildly as above her corpse they bent. Startled by the sudden clamor, Roland's son in fright awoke, As from all sides, madly rushing in the room, the vassals broke;Gathering round him, gazing on him, looking on the bloody brandAnd the lady, who, when living, was the loveliest in the land. Not a word the warrior uttered, though his son implored him sore, And they led him like an infant toward the oaken chamber-door;There he turned and gazed on Gwineth, looking on her face his last;Then between his guards in silence to the castle-prison passed. There they left him; but at mid-day came, and, beckoning, bade him forthTo journey, not as he was wont to, from his ancient honored hearth:To an armed guard they gave him, and amid their stern array, Haughty, lofty-souled and silent Roland sternly rode away. PART III. When the gathering gloom of night in swarthy shadows floated downOn the mountain and the forest, Roland saw the distant town:O'er its walls, and round its towers, a dim and sickly lustre lay. Like the gray and ghostly haze that heraldeth the dawning day. While, behind those walls and turrets, standing blackly in her light, Full and large the lurid moon rose ghastily upon the night;Shrouded in a cloud of crimson, slowly, slowly as he cameRising higher, higher, higher, till the east was full of flame. As his guards approached the gates--did she sink or did they rise?Behind the black gigantic towers the planet vanished from his eyes. All without was solemn blackness, but within was drearier dark, Save when from some grim old building stole a taper's trembling spark. Slowly through the lengthy streets, between old houses, rising high, Over which, dark, dusk, sepulchral, bent the purple pall-like sky, Through the town they bore him on, until frowningly, at last, Rose the castle-walls before them, huge and massy, broad and vast. With a last look on the heavens, the knight rode on beneath the gate:Stepping from his steed he bowed him, stately, to his fearful fate:On his limbs they fastened fetters, cold! how cold! their chillness ranFreezing through his blood, the spirit of the stern, unconquered man. Through a gallery they led him to a dark and dismal cell. Where they left him. Sad and solemn, heavy, awful as a knell, Seemed the fading of their footsteps, as he heard them slowly glideThrough the long and vaulted corridor till their very echo died. Days went by--days dark with anguish, for his conscience, like a spur, Drove him o'er the wastes of memory which were never black before;Weeks slid by, and months--such months! such bitter months of pungent pain, That their very hours seemed serpents gnawing at his heart and brain. Next they led him forth to trial: like a child he bowed and went, With his once black hair like snow, and his stalwart form so bent, And his beard so long and white, and his cheek so thin and wan, Even his very keepers thought it was a ghost they gazed upon! When before his ermined judges, stately, silent, Roland came, Over his cheek there flashed and faded, suddenly, a flash of flame:Like a falling star it faded: lofty and erect he turned, With the feeling that aroused it under his iron Will inurned. "Roland, Baron Grey!" the crier, in the ancient Latin tongue, Which, like some old bell in tolling, through the vaulted building rung:--Cold and stern the prisoner answered--cold and stern--devoid of fear--Looking haughtily around him:--"Roland, Baron Grey, is here!" Muttering the solemn charge, they bade him answer; but he stoodCold, and calm, and motionless, as though he were nor flesh nor blood, But, rather, all a bronzed statue of the proud, primeval time--In his silence self-devoted--in his very guilt sublime. Thrice they prayed him: while he listened, not a quiver on his brow, Not the movement of a hair upon his head or beard of snow, Not the motion of a lip, nor even the flutter of an eye, Betokening that he even heard them--he was there alone to die. In the distant, dreary years, so run the legends even now--Misty legends on whose summits slumber centuries of snow--Lofty legends round whose summits clouds have lain for solemn ages--Legends penned with iron pens in blood by Draco-minded sages-- It was written, they should bear him to a dungeon under ground, Far beneath the castle moat, where came no single human sound, And unto the earth should chain him, naked, on the icy ground--Naked, like the sage Prometheus, on the mountain's summit bound. Water--there was none for him, save that which flowed in the castle moat, On whose green and slimy surface newts and mosses loved to float--Bread--a crust a day--so, starving, freezing, there the Doomed was spread, Pressed with weights of stone and iron till he answered or was dead. Did he answer guiltless, lo! the trial; guilty, lo! the axe;Death before the grinning thousand! worse than were a myriad racks!While the trial were an evil quite as grievous, quite as great, For the verdict of his peers would rend from him his proud estate: But, if he died silent, then his lands would pass in quiet downTo bless his boy, his innocent boy, and not escheat unto the crown:So he chose the darksome dungeon, rather there to die aloneThan by cowardly fear to steal the birthright of his orphan son. But, beside this, came the thought that, by this penance he might winForgiveness from offended Heaven for his now-repented sin. "Noble Roland, " quoth his judges, "answer, ere it be too late;Heavy, else, must be our judgment--heavier thine awful fate. " Then arose the ghostly knight, with his spectral eyes aflame, While a more than mortal vigor coursed and circled through his frame;And he gazed upon them smiling, and like hollow thunder brokeHis accents on the swarthy silence:--thus and so the chieftain spoke: "Lords! I answer not. If guilty, God will judge my sinful soul:For my body--that is yours! I yield it to your stern control. Would you have me--me, a warrior, like a coward plead for life?Death and I are old acquaintance! I have met him in the strife-- "I have met him when the air was swooning with a ghastly fear;When the Moslem swept before us, driven like a herd of deer;When our voices mocked the thunder, shouting 'England and Saint George!'And the lightning of our falchions fell like flashes from a forge! "There, amid the clash and clang of sword and shield, I strove with Death--That I conquered, ye may see; and now I yield to him my breathWhere there is no rescue, yield! and, as one would call a bride, So I bid the grisly monarch smilingly unto my side. "Shall I yield my broad estates, my castles and my manor lands, To the harpies of the law, to hold them with unhallowed hands?Shall I send my youthful heir forth with a stain upon his crest?No! my eaglet yet shall reign an eagle in his parent nest. "Lords and judges, I have done: no further words shall pass my lips, Save prayers to Heaven, that my soul may, sun-like, rise from death's eclipse. "Silently, he braved them still; and, sighing, sad, and full of gloom, His judges sent him forth to struggle with the sharp and lingering doom. Did he tremble at their sentence? Not a muscle quivered, notA sign to mark he heard, save on his cheek one purple spot:Statelier yet than ever, firmer, with a long triumphant breath, Roland, smiling on his judges, sternly walked to certain death. PART IV. In his cell the knight is lying, naked, fettered foot and hand;Bound unto the rocky ground with many an iron link and band;On him lie the piles of granite, pressing, pressing; yet he stillLooks on death with lofty eye--so giant is his mighty will. Day by day, he lay and suffered, wrung with agony, but content--Day by day, though hard to bear was his grievous punishment--Never once, though, hour on hour, they piled the jagged granite higherOn his quivering limbs, he murmured; yet his very veins were fire. Once, however, came his jailer, saying that his nephew soughtHis presence; and the knight, consenting, in his brother's son was brought:"Uncle Roland, " quoth he, weeping, "what is this that I have done?Curses, curses on my head! curse, uncle, curse thy brother's son! Mine the tongue that wrought this evil--mine the false and slanderous tongueThat done to death the Lady Gwineth--O! my soul is sadly wrung!""Demon, devil!" groaned the warrior--"devil of the evil eye!Look upon the awful horror wrought by thy atrocious lie. Tell me? was it all a falsehood? Tell me, was it all--all--all?Speak! and let these prison walls, oppressed with horror, on thee fall!""All was false! Mine, too the ambush; for I sought to grasp thy lands--Sought to win the Lady Gwineth, with thy blood upon my hands. But she drove me forth with scorn; and then I coined the lying tale--O! forgive me, Uncle Roland! give me leave to weep and wail;Give me leave to sit in sackcloth, heaping ashes on my head;Mourning in some craggy cavern for the early lost and dead. " "Unexampled liar and traitor! first of all our noble nameGuilty of so black a treason! first to stain our shield with shame!Hence! away! I--No! repent! begone! and pray for my repose:Life on both of us too soon for our grievous crimes will close. I forgive thee--now away--nay, do not touch me! I am wan--Sick with suffering--mad with anguish--Go!" The penitent man is gone. --Once again he lies alone, save his agony, alone;Then they come and pile upon him heavier weights of iron and stone. Still more pallid, at the even, Roland in his anguish lay, Wrestling, for his soul was strong, with his body's slow decay;And the sweat upon his forehead stood and rolled and fell like rain, Cold, while pain and fire and fever battled in his heart and brain. Now and then his senses wandered; now again his mind was calm, And he wrung from out his suffering penitential draughts of balm;Then again his senses left him, and he lay in phrenzy there, Talking wildly in his madness with the dim, impalpable air. Now, he saw the Lady Gwineth wandering in her maiden joy;Now, he viewed her in her chamber frolic with her baby boy;Now, he saw her sadly lying, all her bosom bathed with blood;And beheld himself as o'er her on that fatal night he stood. Was he dreaming? through his dungeon stole a pale purpureal light, Flowing round him, floating round him, making daylight of its night;In its midst, his gentle Gwineth, while around her brow there flowed, Fluttering flame, a golden halo! that with heavenly glory glowed. Did he hear her? Was it real? With an angel's voice she spoke:How the words, like flakes of music, silver music! sweetly broke, Round and round him! how they floated, ringing in his ravished ears, Like the notes of Memnon's lyre, or chantings from the distant spheres! "Coming, Roland, from that heaven where, though clad with light, I sighAnd languish for the softer lustre of thy gentle loving eye, I await thee, singing, singing hymns to cheer thy dying hourThat the Cherubim sang in Eden when it first arose in flower. Hearken! how my notes are mingling--one by one, and two by two, Dropping on thy brain as falls on fading roses freshening dew;Three by three, they upward circle: thou hast heard them in thy dreams, When I came, a missioned spirit, from the four eternal streams. I can see them, though thine eyes can only compass earthly vision:Soon, O, Roland! soon, O, Roland! thou shalt see with eyes elysian:Then the notes that now thou hearest thou shalt see, as on they flow, --Angels that are rarest air! and view them through their dances go. " Still, entranced, the sufferer listened; and it seemed as from his painSweeter music yet was born, for holier hymning lulled his brain;Very wild his agony; very; but between its bars his eyesSaw the angels as they wandered on the walls of Paradise. Faint and fainter grew he, while the melody loud and louder rang, Till it seemed not only Gwineth but a myriad angels sang;And his soul seemed rising, rising, rising from his pallid clay, Which, each moment, grew more feeble--faintlier wrestling with decay. Burst upon his ears one swell! it seemed an anthem of the spheres, Jubilant, divinely ringing; swam his eyes with happy tears--"Come, forgiven one, " the cadence, "chastened spirit, come, ariseFrom thine earthly prison-house to holy homes beyond the skies. " Fainter, fainter, still more feeble, grew the sufferer as he heard, And a sigh swooned on the silence, soft as breathing of a bird, --And all was over. In his trance his spirit's sparkling feet had trodThe realms of space, and gone from earth, through air, to judgment and to God. NOTES. The judgment of the _peine forte et dure_, on an instance of which ourballad is founded, was well known in the ancient law of England. Ashas been seen, it was terribly severe. The circumstances of thejudgment were as follows: When a prisoner stood charged with anoffence, and an indictment had been found against him, before he couldbe tried he was called upon to answer, or, in technical parlance, toplead. A plea in bar is an answer, either affirming or denying theoffence charged in the indictment, or, if of a dilatory character, showing some ground why the defendant should not be called upon toanswer at all. In those days, in all capital cases, the estates of thecriminal, on conviction and judgment, were forfeited to the crown. Theblood of the offender was considered as corrupted, and, as aconsequence, his property could not pass to his family, who, althoughinnocent, suffered for the faults of the criminal. Crimes, therefore, where the punishment fell, not only on the criminal but on his family, were comparatively of rare occurrence. An admission of guilt producedthe same effect as a conviction. If the defendant, however, stoodmute, obstinately refusing to answer, by which behaviour he preservedhis estates to his family, he was sentenced to undergo the judgment ofthe _peine forte et dure_. "The English judgment of penance for standing mute, " says ChiefJustice Blackstone, in his admirable Commentaries, "was as follows:That the prisoner be remanded to the prison from whence he came, andput into a low, dark chamber; and there be laid on his back, naked, unless where decency forbids: that there be placed upon his body asgreat a weight of iron as he could bear and more; that he have nosustenance, save only on the first day, three morsels of the worstbread; and, on the second day, three draughts of standing water, thatshould be nearest to the prison door; and in this situation thisshould be alternately his daily diet _till he died_, or (as ancientlythe judgement ran) _till he answered_. " With respect to this horrid judgment, Christian, in his notes to thesame work, goes on to say: that "the prosecutor and the court couldexercise no discretion, or show no favour to a prisoner who stoodobstinately mute. " "In the legal history of this country, " (England, )he continues, "are numerous instances of persons who have hadresolution and patience to undergo so terrible a death in order tobenefit their heirs by preventing a forfeiture of their estates, whichwould have been a consequence of a conviction by a verdict. There is amemorable story of an ancestor of an ancient family in the north ofEngland. In a fit of jealousy he killed his wife; and put to death hischildren who were at home, by throwing them from the battlements ofhis castle; and proceeding with an intent to destroy his onlyremaining child, an infant nursed at a farm-house at some distance, hewas intercepted by a storm of thunder and lightning. This awakened inhis breast compunction of conscience. He desisted from his purpose, and having surrendered himself to justice, in order to secure hisestates to this child, he had the resolution to die under the dreadfuljudgment of the _peine forte et dure_. " This tale is the base of ourromance. THE SEA NYMPH'S SONG. BY WILLIAM H. C. HOSMER. Sound is he sleeping Far under the wave-- Sea nymphs are keeping A watch for the brave: Deep was our grief and wild-- Wilder our dirge When the doomed ocean child Drowned in the surge. Within a bright chamber His form we have laid; With spar, pearl and amber The walls are arrayed-- Though high rolls the billow He wakes not at morn, And sponge for his pillow From rocks we have torn. I heard thy name spoken When down came the mast; His hold was then broken, That _word_ was his last. A picture is lying, Lorn maid! on his breast-- That picture in dying His hand closely prest. Why turns thy cheek paler These tidings to know? The truth of thy sailor Should lessen thy wo: The wave could not chill it That stifled his breath; Pure _love_--can aught kill it? Give answer, Oh, Death! THE LITTLE GOLD-FISH. A FAIRY TALE. BY JAMES K. PAULDING, AUTHOR OF THE "DUTCHMAN'S FIRESIDE, " ETC. In the reign of good King Doddipol, surnamed the Gnatsnapper, therelived in a stately castle, on the top of a high mountain, a rich oldNorseman, who had an only son whom he loved with great ardor, andlittle discretion, on account of his being the last of an illustriousfamily. The youth was called Violet, partly because he had for hisgodmother the Fairy Violetta, and partly on account of having on hisleft shoulder an impression of that flower, so perfectly defined, andso vivid in color, that the old nurse mistook it at first sight for areal violet, and declared it smelled like a nosegay. Being the only son of a great and rich nobleman, as well as somewhatindolent and unambitious, Violet passed much of his time, whilegrowing up to manhood, in thinking much and doing nothing. He waswithout companions, having no equals around him, and was prohibitedfrom associating with his inferiors by the strict etiquette whichprevailed throughout the dominions of good King Doddipol. As he grewup thus in almost entire solitude his temperament became highlypoetical and imaginative, his feelings irregular and ardent, and itwas predicted that some day or other he would become a martyr to love. Much of his time was spent in lonely rambles among the mountains whichsurrounded the residence of the Old Man of the Hills, as he wascalled, a distance of many miles in every direction, and one summerday, wandering on without knowing or caring whither he went, he atlength found himself in a region where he had never been before. Itwas a deep, sequestered, rocky dell, shaded by gloomy pines, from thefarther extremity of which there tumbled a bright cascade ofsnow-white foam, which, after forming a deep transparent basin at itsfoot, escaped murmuring among the rocks below and disappeared. Not asound was heard but that of the falling waters and the gurglingstream, for the birds delight not in the gloom of perpetual shade, andneither hunter nor woodman ever visited this lonely retreat. Tired with his long ramble, Violet sat down at the foot of a loftytree, whose roots seemed to drink of the crystal basin, and fell intoa deep reverie, during which his eyes were fixed unconsciously on thetransparent water, which, though clear as our northern lakes, was sodeep that no one could see the bottom. While thus occupied in weavingwebs of youthful anticipation, he saw a little gold-fish suddenly dartfrom under the rock on which he was seated, and play around withinfinite grace, quivering its fins and fanning its tail, while theirbright colors glittered in the rippling water with indescribablebrilliancy. The youth watched its motions with increasing interest, and aneagerness he had never experienced before. Sometimes it would come upclose to the spot, almost within reach of his hand, and afterbalancing on the surface awhile, again dart away, only to return andplay a thousand fantastic gambols, full of vivacity and grace. Atother times it would remain stationary awhile, looking him in the facewith its mellow, melancholy eyes, and an expression of sorrowfultenderness that sunk into his heart. He remained watching its motionsin deep solicitude, until the gathering shadows of twilight warned himaway, and reached home so late that he found his father anxiouslyawaiting his return. The Old Man of the Hills inquired of him where hehad been, and what had detained him so long; but he answeredevasively, being ashamed to confess he had been fascinated by a littlegold-fish. That night he could think of nothing but the little gold-fish, andwhen at length sleep came over his eyelids, he dreamed it was abeautiful princess, transformed by the power of some wicked enchanteror malignant fairy. The impression was so vivid in his mind, that whenhe awoke he could not decide whether it was indeed a dream, or whetherhe had not actually seen the charming princess, whose features wereindelibly impressed on his memory. The next morning he again soughtthe path he had traveled the day before, and about mid-day arrived atthe glen of the shining cascade. He had scarcely seated himself, whenthe little gold-fish darted from under the rock as before, and winningits way to the surface of the crystal basin, looked at him with anexpression of its beautiful eyes that spoke a joyful welcome. Violetput forth his hand, and tried to woo it still nearer, but it only gavea melancholy shake of the head, and when he attempted to seize it, retired beyond his reach with a lingering hesitation that seemed toindicate a mingled desire and apprehension. Thus the little creature continued to coquette with him for severaldays during which he repeated his visits, staying all day, anddreaming every night the same dream of the beautiful princess changedinto a little gold-fish. While absent from the crystal basin, hisimagination was forever dwelling on the form and features of theprincess, and the mysterious connection he was convinced subsistedbetween his waking thoughts and experience and his nightly dreams. Bydegrees the two became inseparably associated together in his mind, and insensibly he fell in love to distraction, but whether with thebeautiful princess or the little gold-fish he could not decide. Hebecame so melancholy in consequence that the latter, as if consciousof his feelings, permitted him to take it in his hand, kiss it, andnestle it in his bosom at pleasure. At such times he would beseech itin the most moving terms to speak to him, tell him if his dreams weretrue, and respond to his devoted affection. But it only replied by asilent tear, and a look of strange meaning, which he could notcomprehend. Violet grew every day more sad, and his youthful form continued towaste away, so that as he walked in the sun, his shadow could scarcelybe seen. During this period the behavior of the little gold-fish wasso full of inconsistencies and contradictions that Violet was wellnigh distracted. Sometimes it would contemplate his pale cheek andwasted form with tears in its eyes, while at the next moment it lookedat him with an expression of unfeeling triumph. Then its eyes wouldglance rapidly and eagerly, sometimes toward himself, at others downon the crystal basin, and at others upward to the skies. One bright morning, when the position of the sun toward the east hadbecome gradually changed, and the beams of the former fell directlyupon the crystal basin, Violet was sitting, as usual, fondling thelittle gold-fish in his hand, admiring its soft hazel eyes, andaddressing a thousand endearments to the little dumb creature, whichat that moment appeared insensible to his affection. Keeping its eyesearnestly fixed on the transparent waters, which now glittered in thegolden beams of the sun, the youth suddenly felt it tremble as if withecstasy in his hand, as with a sudden spring it vaulted into the basinand instantly disappeared. He gazed with intense anxiety, expectingevery moment it would reappear; but it returned no more, and afterwaiting in vain, until dusky twilight enveloped the glen in shadows, he bent his way homeward, scarcely conscious whither he was going. That night he slept from the mere weariness of sorrow, and dreamed thebeautiful princess appeared to thank and bless him for herdisenchantment. The next day the Old Man of the Hills called his son before him, andannounced with great satisfaction that he had just concluded a treatyof marriage between him and the oldest daughter of King Doddipol, alady of great discretion, and old enough to be his mother. The youngman quitted the presence of his father in despair, and, scarcelyconscious of whither he was wandering, sought the crystal basin at thefoot of the shining cascade. Here, seated on the rock, he gazedhimself almost blind, in the hope of seeing the little gold-fish oncemore appear, to receive his last farewell. But he gazed in vain forhours, and hours, until in the bitterness of disappointment he atlength cried out aloud--"It is all in vain. It will come no more, andnothing is now left me but a remembrance carrying with it eternalregrets. But one hope remains. I will seek my adored princess, forsuch I know she is, where she disappeared from my sight, and eitherfind her or a grave. " Saying this he plunged into the basin in anagony of despair. He continued to sink, as it appeared to him, for nearly half an hour, without once drawing his breath, until, just as he felt himself quiteexhausted, he found himself precipitated into what seemed a newworld, far more beautiful than that he had just abandoned. The skieswere of a deeper blue, and being likewise far more transparent, reflected the features of the lower world as in a vast illimitablemirror. There was no sun visible in the heavens. Yet a soft, deliciousmellow light, more rich and yet more gentle than that of summertwilight, diffused itself everywhere, giving to every object the charmof distance, and giving to the air a genial warmth inexpressiblygrateful. The meadows seemed like endless waving seas of verdure, andtogether with the foliage of the woods, exhibited all the freshness ofthe new-born spring; the little warbling birds seemed to revel amongthe groves and verdant meads in joyous luxury, filling the air withtheir melodious concert; the meadows were sprinkled with beds offlowers of various hues and fragrance, and a thousand delicious odorsgave zest to every breath he drew. Vast fields of violets, mostespecially, were spread out in every direction, larger and morebeautiful than any he had ever seen before. A gentle river meandereddeep and clear through a long valley spread out before him, skirted oneither side by pale blue hills, so high they seemed to reach andmingle with the heavens above. A cool, refreshing zephyr played abouthis brow, and as he breathed its inspiring odors, Violet felt himselfsuddenly restored to all his wonted vigor and activity. As he stood gazing in almost stupefied wonder at the scene before him, and doubtful whether it was merely a creation of his bewildered fancy, he perceived a radiant female form approaching, seated in a chariotformed of a single violet, and crowned with a diadem of the sameflowers. Her dress, too, was composed of many-colored violets, and herchariot drawn by butterflies, whose wings of gold and purple were ofglorious lustre. The chariot stood still on coming up to the youth;the lady springing out, lighted on the flowers without ruffling theirleaves, and giving him her tiny hand addressed him as follows: "Welcome, Prince Violet, for such you are by birth, and by my creation. I was the friend of your mother. I presided at your birth, and I gave you your name. I therefore feel in some measure responsible for your happiness, and am come hither to give you the benefit of my advice and assistance. Know, my prince, that you are brought here by a destiny you could not avoid. You are in the dominions, I might almost say in the power of the wicked enchanter Curmudgeon, who is as potent as he is wicked. Among his other diabolical acts, he is an adept in the new science of animal magnetism, can put you to sleep by the waving of his hand, pull out your teeth without your knowing any thing about it, and divorce your spirit from your body, sending it wandering away to distant regions, while the body remains unconscious though not inanimate. In short, there is no end to his wicked devices, and he is the most mischievous, malignant monster in the world, inexorable in his revenge, and clothed with the power of gratifying it to its utmost extent. It is to warn you against him that I am here. My name is Violetta. " The prince, as he must now be called, listened to this speech withgreat gravity and decorum, though he thought it rather long, andreplied with infinite discretion. He thanked the fairy for her kindintentions, and concluded by observing that he had often, when achild, heard his mother speak of the Fairy Violetta with greataffection. "Your mother was a woman of taste, " said the fairy, "but there is nota moment to be lost, for the enchanter is by this time apprized ofyour coming, and the purport of your visit. Do not ask me what thatis. It is sufficient that you are here to fulfill your destiny. " The fairy then stamped three times with her little foot on a bed ofviolets. At the first stamp there rose out of the ground a superb suitof violet-colored armor; at the second a sword and spear; and at thethird a gallant violet-colored steed richly caparisoned. "Take these, arm thyself, mount, and away. You will meet with manyobstacles in your course, but you have nothing to fear so long as youfear nothing. Your first enemy will be a little mischievous caitiff, called Master Whipswitchem, a creature of the wicked enchanter; yoursecond a monstrous giant; your third a beautiful spectre, and yourfourth the enchanter himself. The first you must circumvent by yourwit; the second by your valor; the third by your self-command; and thefourth by your promptitude and sagacity. There is no magic in yourweapons, though they are equally good and true. Your dependence mustbe on yourself alone; on your valor, your constancy, and your cause;and remember, that should you ever turn your back on an enemy, whetherman, beast, or fiend, your happy destiny will never be accomplished. You will never see your little gold-fish again. "My little gold-fish!" exclaimed the prince eagerly--"What dost thoumean? O tell me, most beneficent fairy!" "You will know in good time, if you do not turn recreant, " answeredthe fairy, with a significant smile. "But away, away, my prince. Mountand away. Follow the course of the river, and once more, never turnaside let what will be before you, remembering that nothing isimpossible to courage, conduct, and perseverance in a good cause. " The prince bowed himself before the lady, repeated his gratefulthanks, mounted his neighing steed, which pawed the groundimpatiently, and was about clapping spurs to his sides, when the fairysuddenly stopped him. "Hold, prince! I had almost forgotten. Take this bouquet of violets, place it in your bosom, and guard it well. But be careful not to drawit forth except in the last extremity, depending always on your valorand your sword. When your life shall hang suspended by a single hair;when the last breath is quivering on thy lips, and all other meansfail, then, and not till then, use it as your instinct may direct. Adieu, my prince--be faithful, bold and fortunate. " The fairy mounted her chariot, the butterflies spread their gorgeouswings, and ascending rapidly through the transparent skies the wholepageant disappeared. The prince lost not a moment in pursuing thecourse pointed out by the fairy, and as he proceeded, gradually fellinto a reverie, the subject of which was the hint that it would dependon himself whether he ever saw the little gold-fish again. The thoughtroused him to the utmost height of daring, and he resolved, come whatmight, nothing should be wanting on his part to the accomplishment ofa glorious and happy destiny. He fell himself suddenly animated bythis determination to gain a noble prize by noble exertions, fornothing is more certain than that none but groveling, abject beings, to whom nature has denied the ordinary faculties of mind, can remaininsensible to the excitement of glory, or the rewards of love. He had not, however, proceeded far, when on a sudden there alighted onthe head of his steed, right between the ears, one of the mostextraordinary creatures he had ever seen. It was a little imp, aboutthree feet high, exactly resembling one of those scarecrows wesometimes see in corn-fields, except that it was a great deal more_outre_ in its form and dimensions. It wore an immense hat, of theshape of a cullender, and with almost as many holes, through whichprotruded little wisps of straw instead of feathers. The face wasperfectly undefinable, having neither dimensions nor shape, resemblingnothing of the live human species, and consisting apparently entirelyof a nose which projected several inches beyond the brim of his hat;his shirt-collar was tied with a piece of rope; his jacket was as muchtoo short as his breeches were too long, one being out at the elbows, the other at the knees, the latter of which were tied with a wisp ofstraw tortured into a true lover's knot; his legs seemed nothing but apair of short broom-sticks, of neither shape nor substance, ensconcedin an old pair of spatterdashes; and the toes of his shoes curledupward like a pair of old-fashioned skates. Altogether he cut acurious figure, and the prince could not help laughing at his newtraveling companion. "This, " thought he, "must be MasterWhipswitchem. " But his gallant steed did not seem to enter into the spirit of thejoke. He pricked his ears, pawed the ground, snorted, champed andfoamed, and finally stood stock still, trembling like a leaf. PrinceViolet began to wax somewhat impatient. Yet at length said to him verycourteously-- "My friend, if it is the same thing to you, I had rather you would getoff and walk. " "Thank you, my friend, but if it's the same thing to you, I'd ratherride. Ho-ho! ha-hah!" and thereupon he laughed like a whole swarm offlies. Then the valiant prince drew his sword and gave Master Whipswitchem agreat blow under the short-ribs, which he took it for granted wouldcut him in two; but the sword rebounded as if it had struck on anempty bladder, while the little imp only bounded upward about threeyards, alighting in the same place as before, and crying out, "Ho-ho!hah-hah!" At this rate, thought Prince Violet, I shall never get tothe end of my journey. Still he repeated his blows, at each one ofwhich the pestiferous little imp only jumped higher and laughedlouder, and the gallant steed only snorted, pawed, and stamped morevehemently, until both steed and master became quite exhausted. Thelatter then resorted to artifice, seeing that force was unavailing. Soputting up his sword, he affected to expostulate with his troublesomecompanion on the impropriety of his conduct, watching at the same timefor an opportunity of laying hold of him. When he seemed off hisguard, and was crying "Ho-ho! ha-hah!" with infinite glee, the princesuddenly throwing himself forward, seized him by the long nose, andafter holding him up kicking in the air for a few moments--for he wasas light as a feather--with a sudden jerk pitched him away out intothe river, where, after bobbing up and down some half a dozen times, and crying "Ho-ho! ha-hah!" he disappeared. "Ho-ho! ha-hah!" cried theprince, "I think I have done Master Whipstichem's business this time. "After which he proceeded gayly on his journey. Before, however, he had time to enjoy the victory, his gallant steedsuddenly began to rear up before, and then to kick up behind withgreat violence. The prince clapped his hand on his trusty blade, thinking he was approaching the giant, but on looking round in everydirection could see neither castle nor draw-bridge. Indeed nothingvisible seemed to justify the horse in his unseemly gambols, and theprince accused his gallant steed of being in league with his enemies, when happening to look over his shoulder, who should he see but MasterWhipswitchem seated quietly on the crupper, and spurring away with anold rusty nail he had fixed in the heel of his shoe, while he held bythe horse's tail for a bridle. "I swear by the eyes of my beautifulgold-fish, " cried the prince, "but this is too bad!" And then heattempted to dislodge the pestilent imp, by thrusting his elbow intohis back; but the little caitiff every time bounced up like atennis-ball, and the next instant was in his seat, crying, "Ho-ho!ha-ha!" louder than ever. This time he was too cunning for the prince;for knowing by experience that his nose was the most exposed part ofhis outworks, he kept his back to the prince, and his face toward thetail of the horse. At the expiration of an hour the prince became soworried that he could scarcely lift his hand to his head, and hishorse so exhausted that he could kick no more. At length, however, while the little caitiff was spurring and laughing away with greatglee, the prince turning suddenly round on the saddle, seized the ropewhich he wore round his neck for a cravat, and leaping from his steed, hoisted him up to an old sign-post at the road-side, where he left himdangling in the air. "Ho-ho! ha-ha!" said the prince, "I think I shallhave no more trouble with Master Whipswitchem. " Finding himself as well as his steed quite exhausted, and bothrequiring rest and refreshment, Prince Violet dismounted in apleasant, shady grove, through which meandered a clear stream, bordered by rich, luxuriant grass, thus furnishing both drink and foodto the panting animal, whom, having turned loose, he left to roam atwill. Seating himself among a bed of fragrant flowers, he lighted acigar, and sat smoking and thinking of his future prospects. "Ho-ho! ha-hah! my prince, what are you about? You put me in mind of asmoking chimney, though from your mighty contented look, I shouldsuppose you were very pleasantly occupied. I should like to take apuff too, if you have no objection. " "O, beneficent Fairy Violetta, " exclaimed the prince, "what shall I dowith this pestiferous caitiff, who minds neither hanging nordrowning?" And thereupon the fairy, who doubtless heard hisadjuration, inspired him with a lucky thought. Knowing that the littlecaitiff was but a man of straw, animated by the wicked enchanter, heat once resolved to take advantage of that circumstance. "Ho-ho! ha-hah! are you there, my friend?" replied the prince. "Well, I see there is no use in quarreling with such a pleasant fellow. Come, sit down, and take a puff with me, and let us swear eternalfriendship. " "Agreed!" replied the little caitiff, briskly. "It is true you playeda joke or two on me, but I flatter myself, on the whole, I paid youbeforehand; and for the present the account is pretty well balanced. " So they sat down and smoked very sociably together, talking aboutvarious matters, until the little caitiff's cigar being burnt to astump, and somewhat incommoding his long nose, he began turning andtwisting it about, until it set fire to some blades of straw thatprojected from his nostrils, which straight-way communicated to hishead, and thence to his body, and in a moment he was in full blaze. "I am a gone sucker!" exclaimed he, and the words were scarcely out ofhis mouth when, he became nothing but a heap of black ashes. "Ho-ho! ha-hah!" quoth the prince, "if he is a gone sucker, I take itfor granted, it is all Dicky with Master Whipswitchem. " And then, himself and his horse being sufficiently refreshed, he mounted androde forward on his journey. Ascending a high, wearisome hill, he saw at a little distance a greatand magnificent castle, which he at once took for that of theenchanter Curmudgeon. The crisis of his fate was then at hand; andafter inspecting his armor and equipments, the prince spurred onbriskly to consummate his destiny. A few moments brought him to atower, at the end of a draw-bridge, where hung an enormous bell, which, without hesitating a moment, he rung till it resounded far andnear. Instantly at the sound there rose up from the inner side, amonstrous and deformed giant, upward of sixteen feet high. As headvanced, he seemed all body and no legs--the latter being utterlydisproportioned to the former; his shoulders rose like mountains, onehigher than the other, almost to the top of his head; his body was allover covered with impenetrable scales like an alligator, and he woreon his head an old Continental cocked-hat, from which projected aqueue of such unaccountable length that it was said nobody ever sawthe end of it. But his most atrocious feature was a great proboscis, growing just over a little pug nose, he used for smelling, about thesize of that of an elephant, which it exactly resembled in strengthand elasticity. "What want you here?" roared the monster, in a voice so loud andhorrible, that it set the bell tinkling, and in a most discourteousmanner peculiar to giants, who are notorious for their ill manners. "I wish to see the far-famed and puissant enchanter, the greatCurmudgeon, with whom I have a bone to pick, an please your worship, "replied the prince, with infinite politeness. "You see him--what good will that do? He would not look at, much lessspeak to, such a sloppy stripling as you. To the right-about--march!or I'll make mince-meat of you in less than no time. " "Stand aside, and let me pass!" cried the enraged prince, drawing hissword. "Advance at your peril!" roared the giant, twirling his proboscis, andtwisting his long queue like a great black-snake. And now commenced a battle, the like of which is not recorded inhistory, tradition, or romance. The sword of the valiant princegleamed, and flashed, and flew about like lightning, raining such ashower of dry blows on the monster, that had not his hide beeninvulnerable to any but enchanted weapons, he would in good time havebeen a gone sucker, as Sir Bruin said. The giant, on the other hand, had managed his proboscis with admirable skill, his great object beingto entwine the prince in its folds, and squeeze him to death. Sometimes he would stretch it out at least six yards, and at othersdraw it in suddenly, in hopes the prince would be deceived as to itslength, and come within the sphere of its action. But the prince beinggloriously seconded by his gallant steed, displayed an activity fullyequal to the craft of the giant; and for an hour at least the fightcontinued doubtful. The only vulnerable part of the monster was hislong queue, which the prince, in hopes that, like Sampson, hisstrength might peradventure lie in his hair, by an adroit manoeuvrecut off about six feet from his head. Thereupon he roared like tenthousand bulls of Bashan, insomuch that the enchanter, Curmudgeon, feared he was vanquished, and trembled in the recesses of his castle. The giant frantic with rage at the loss of what he was more vain ofthan even his stately proboscis, now redoubled his efforts, while theprince every moment became more exhausted, and his gallant steedceased his usual activity. The giant seeing this, watched hisopportunity, till he at length succeeded in throwing a slipping noose, made by twisting his proboscis over the head of the prince. This hegradually tightened with all his force, until the prince perceivedhimself rapidly suffocating. His eyes failed him, and seemed burstingfrom their orbits; his vision presented nothing but gleams of manycolored lights dancing before him; his heart heaved and panted withthroes of desperate agony; his arm became almost nerveless, and hissword fell from his hand, while the shouts of the giant announced thatthe victory was won. At this moment of extreme peril, when the last gleam of consciousnesslingered in his brain, the prince recollected the bouquet of violetswhich he still carried in his bosom, and drawing it forth with adesperate effort, thrust it into the little pug nose of the giant, which was directly before him. That instant the proboscis relaxed, asif by magic, and the giant suddenly untwining its folds, commenced afit of sneezing, awful to hear, jumping up several feet from theground at every paroxysm, swearing at intervals like a trooper, andcutting the most enormous capers. The moment Prince Violet recoveredhimself sufficiently, he dismounted, and regaining his trusty sword, belabored the impenetrable hide of the egregious monster with sucharrant good will, that he retreated backward between every fit ofsneezing, until finally falling into the moat, he stuck fast in themud, sneezing and roaring most vociferously. Prince Violet lost no time, but passed swiftly into the castle, andproceeding through several apartments, far more vast and magnificentthan the palace of King Doddipol, at length came to the study wherethe wicked enchanter practiced Mesmerism, and other diabolicaldevices. The old sinner was seated in an arm-chair of ebony, curiouslycarved, and ornamented with figures of strange, misshapen imps, amongwhich the prince recognized his old friend, Master Whipswitchem. Byhis side stood a female of such transcendent and inimitable beauty, that the prince at once concluded this was the phantom against whom hewas so emphatically warned by his good friend the fairy. He allowedhimself but one glance, which sufficed to convince him she resembledexactly the charming princess he had so often seen in his dreams, andwhich had like to have proved fatal. Then shutting his eyes, headvanced backward, sword in hand, toward the enchanter, who at thefirst moment he saw him, began those mysterious wavings of the handwith which he was wont to put his victims to sleep, and thosecabalistic words which changed men into beasts, insects, and reptiles. But the prince having his eyes shut, and his back toward him, couldnot see his motions, and the enchanter being horribly affrighted, aswell as naturally a great blockhead, was so long in recollecting theformula of his incantation, that the prince, seeing by a sly glanceover the shoulder, that he was sufficiently near, suddenly turnedround, and with one blow severed his head from his shoulders. Thencatching it before it fell to the ground, he threw it into the greatkettle that hung boiling over the fire. He was just in time, forCurmudgeon had got to the last but one of his cabalistic words, and ina single instant more, Prince Violet would have been changed into acabbage. No sooner was the head thrown into the kettle, than the waterbegan to hiss and foam, and blaze up in spires of blue sulphureousflame, until finally the kettle burst into a thousand fragments, andthe head disappeared up the chimney. Then the phantom beauty, utteringa shrill, dismal scream, melted into air--and the enchantment wasdissolved forever. At that moment Prince Violet heard a voice from theskies, as tuneful as the music of the spheres, saying, "Well done, myprince, the death of the wicked enchanter was necessary to therecovery of thy lost gold-fish--for while he lived thou wouldst neverhave seen it again. Go on--thy destiny ere long will be accomplished. "A strain of aerial music succeeded, which gradually faded intowhispering zephyrs, bearing on their wings the mingled perfume of athousand flowers. The prince took possession of the castle by right of conquest; andwhen the people over whom the enchanter had reigned with a cruel anddespotic sway heard of the gallantry with which he had rid them oftheir tyrant, they gathered themselves together, and with one voicechose him for their king. Prince Violet proved an excellent sovereign; but, though he made hissubjects happy, he partook not in what he so freely bestowed onothers. The recollection of the little gold-fish, and of the beautifulprincess he had so often seen in his dreams, was ever present, andpoisoned his days and nights with perpetual sorrows. Though courted byKing Grabyall, and all the surrounding potentates, who had grown updaughters, he declined their advances, passing most of his leisurehours in wandering along the river he had followed in his journey, andwhich flowed just at the foot of the terrace of his stately castle. Heremembered that it issued from the aperture through which he hademerged from the crystal basin, and constantly fed his sickly fancywith the hope that the little gold-fish might have vanished in thesame direction. If so, it was probably still in the river, if it livedat all; and he was perpetually bending over the stream, watching thegambols of the finny tribes, to see if he could not detect among themhis lost wanderer. One day having rambled much further than he had ever been before inthat direction, he perceived in turning a sharp angle of the river, anoble marble villa, which had never attracted his notice before. Itbasked its white, unsullied beauties on the bank of the murmuringstream, and its turrets rose from out a sea of green foliage thatalmost hid them from sight. Led by curiosity, or rather by hisdestiny, he approached the building by a winding walk, that seemedalmost a labyrinth, now bringing him near, and anon carrying him to adistance, until tired at last, he stopped, and rested himself underthe shade of a stately beech, that spread its broad arms afar, andafforded a delightful canopy. Here, gazing around in listless apathy, his attention was attracted by the letter V, carved on the smoothbark, and environed with a chaplet of violets, underneath which themotto, "Forget me not, " was cut in graceful letters. While ponderingon this rural emblem of constant love, he was startled by a low andplaintive female voice chanting the following simple strain, with thegentle pathos of chastened sorrow: "Forget me not! forget me not! Pale, withered leaf, in which I read The sad, mysterious, lonely lot By cruel fate for me decreed. "Pale, withered leaf, you mind me now Of him whose gentle name you bear, Whose lips once uttered many a vow, In breath more sweet than violets are. "Oft would he take me in his hands, Oft hide me in his throbbing heart; Oft kiss my eyes with words so bland-- Was ever scaly imp so blessed; "I joy'd his wasting form to see, His stately beauties fade away; 'T was wo to him, but bliss to me-- It made him sad, while I was gay. "But I shall never see him more, Nor share with him my life's dear lot; Sweet youth, whose memory I adore-- Forget me not! forget me not!" These words, sung to a sweet, melancholy melody, equally excited thesympathy and wonder of the prince. The idea of a young lady beingdelighted at seeing the face of her lover wither, and his body wasteaway, he thought did little credit to the heart of woman; and thatwhat made him sad should make her gay, appeared to show a great wantof sympathy. As to the "little scaly imp, " he could make nothing ofit. Still there was that in the song which seemed to bear some strangeallusion to his own peculiar situation; and his curiosity became soexcited, that without reflecting on the impropriety of his conduct, orits consequences, he, as it were, impelled by an involuntary yetirresistible impulse, advanced in the direction whence the voiceproceeded. Passing through a long winding avenue bordered by beds of violets, andovershadowed by lofty trees, he at length came to a bower ofclambering vines entwined with each other, at the further extremity ofwhich, seated on a bank of flowers, he beheld a female figure, hercheek resting on her hand, and tears flowing from her eyes. He gazedon her face, which was turned toward the heavens, and shuddered as herecognized an exact likeness of the phantom beauty he had seen at theside of the enchanter's chair. He sought to retreat, but continued toadvance by an irresistible impulse, until the lady, at the sound ofhis footsteps, looked toward him. The moment she saw the prince sheuttered a piercing shriek, at the same time rushing forward withextended arms, and a face glowing with joyous welcome. Then, as ifsuddenly recollecting herself, she hastily retired, and sunk down onthe seat, her cheek glowing with blushes. The prince continued toadvance, controlled by an influence he could not withstand, and comingup to her, apologized as well as the confusion of his mind wouldpermit, for his unceremonious intrusion. The lady remained gazing at him, with mingled smiles and blushes, fora few moments, and then addressed the prince in words that seemed tocome from a mouth of roses. "Don't you know me, my prince?" "Know you, " faltered he, "I believe--I fear--I know you but too well. You are the phantom beauty. The chosen instrument of the wickedenchanter, Curmudgeon. " "Alas! no. I am no phantom, nor, I trust, an instrument of mischief atleast to you. The phantom was formed in my likeness, because--because, as the enchanter confessed, he could create nothing so beautiful asmyself by the utmost exertion of his arts. " The prince gazed at her in a trance of admiration, for never, with thesingle exception of the phantom, and the idol princess of his dreams, had he seen a being so enchantingly lovely. The lady received hisscrutiny with smiles of modest pleasure, and at length repeated herquestion-- "Do you not know me, my prince?" The prince emboldened by her smiles, or impelled by his destiny, seated himself by her side, and gazed ardently, yet wistfully, in herface. There was something in the expression of her eyes he fancied hehad seen before, but when or where he could not call to mind. Atlength the lady, compassionating his perplexity, again anxiouslyasked-- "Do you remember a certain little gold-fish?" "Remember? I shall never forget, " and his eyes glistened. "Do you remember how you used to come to the crystal basin, at thefoot of the shining cascade, and stay all day long fondling a littlegold-fish, kissing its eyes, and hiding it in your bosom?" "Remember!" cried the prince, "the recollection constitutes the hope, or rather the despair, of my life. Would that I could see my dearlittle companion again. Methinks I should then be happy, or at leastdie content. " "Look in my face--look steadily, " replied the lady, greatly agitated. Their eyes met, and that look of mutual intelligence which neverdeceives, disclosed the mystery. He recognized at once that glance ofmingled love and gratitude he had so often seen beaming from the softexpressive eyes of the little gold-fish. He started from her side, threw himself at her feet, and exclaimed-- "Tell me--tell me! art not _thou_ my little gold-fish?" "I am, " rejoined the lady. "Once thy little gold-fish, now thyfaithful and devoted handmaid, the Princess Violetta. It is to thyconstancy I am indebted for the recovery of my former self; and suchas I am, I will be to thee what thou choosest to make me. " "Mine forever! my beloved, my adored wife!" cried the prince, as hefolded her in his arms, kissed her as he was wont to do the littlegold-fish, and at that moment reaped the reward of all his sufferings. After enjoying the first delights of mutual love, the princess said tohim, "Doubtless you are anxious to know how I came to be transformedinto a fish; and I will tell you now, that there may be nothing toexplain hereafter. I must begin early, for my misfortunes commencedalmost at my birth. I am the only child of King Grabyall, in whosedominions you now are; and according to the universal custom of allroyal christenings, a great many fairies were invited to mine, andsome few vulgar things came without invitation. Among the latter wasan old fairy, so ill-natured and malicious, that, though very powerfulto do evil, no one would pay her the least attention; for they knewthat no kindness could conciliate the wicked old creature. Of course, neither my father nor mother paid her the least attention, or made herpresents; and no one spoke a word to her, at which she flew into agreat rage, and went away shaking her wand, and mumbling in a spitefulmanner, 'Well, good people, you are all mighty silent now, but beforelong you shall have talking enough, I promise you!' "Everybody laughed at the spiteful old woman--but it was no suchlaughing matter, I assure you, my prince; for she was hardly out ofsight, when, to the astonishment of the whole court, I began to talkwith such volubility that nobody could keep pace with me. First Iscolded the nurse, then abused the fairies, and finally took myparents to task roundly for attempting to stop me. The courtiers triedto persuade them that this was only an omen of my precocious genius, and that, beyond all doubt, I should one day become the wisest, mosteloquent princess in the world. But they remembered the threat of themalicious old fairy, and became exceeding sorrowful. As I grew up myvolubility increased; I talked from morning till night, and all nighttoo. Sleeping or waking, it was just the same; and my voice was soloud and shrill that it could be heard all over the palace. Whatrendered the matter still worse, I was exceeding ill-natured, satirical, and witty, insomuch, that all were afraid to come near me;and I was obliged at last to talk to myself. It is necessary I shouldapprise you that I grew up to great beauty, and by the time I wassixteen, many of the neighboring princes came to pay their addressesto me. But I never gave them an opportunity, for before they couldopen their lips, I poured a torrent of satirical reproaches in theirears that struck them all dumb; insomuch, that it was said some ofthem never recovered their speech afterward. Do you not hate me, myprince, for being such a termagant?" The prince, to say the truth, was a little startled at this detail, but replied with a look that was perfectly satisfactory; and theprincess proceeded with her story. "At the age of seventeen, the enchanter, Curmudgeon, incited by thereport of my beauty, came to pay my father a visit--my mother beinglong since dead. He at first sight fell violently in love, anddemanded me in marriage of my father, who, though a kind-hearted, goodman, was, I believe, heartily glad to get rid of me, but at the sametime frankly apprized him of my infirmity. 'O, ho!' answered theenchanter, 'never mind that--I shall soon cure her, I warrant you. ' Hethen approached to make his declaration, when, being exceedinglyprovoked at his slighting expressions, which I had overheard, I gavehim such an explosion of satire, spleen, and ill-nature, as he hadnever probably heard before. I ridiculed his pretensions, scoffed athis person, despised his offers, and defied his power, until he couldstand it no longer. Stamping his foot on the floor, waving his hand, and muttering some cabalistic words, he at length cried out in a rage, 'BE DUMB FOREVER! or at least till such time as some prince shall befool enough to fall in love with you, and pine away until he makes noshadow in the sun. ' "At that moment I found myself changed into a gold-fish, and swimmingin the crystal basin where you first saw me. How long I remained therebefore you made your appearance I cannot tell, but I know that I washeartily tired of my loneliness, and at first felt the loss of speechvery severely. I rejoiced when I first saw you. Your caressespenetrated my heart, and--you must forgive me, my dear prince--butwhen I beheld you wasting away daily, and knew it was for love of me, my happiness grew with your sorrows, for I felt that my deliverancewas at hand, and that I should live to reward you for all yoursufferings. The day the sun first shone full into the crystal basin, and I saw that you cast no shadow there, you may remember, I suddenlydarted from your hand and disappeared. It was very ungrateful, but Icould not resist my destiny. I was instantly transformed to myoriginal likeness, and--but don't be alarmed, my prince, for I assureyou my propensity to talking was effectually and forever repressed, bythe long habit of silence I had preserved as the little gold-fish. Iwas received by my father with affectionate welcome, and--and whatelse shall I say? I have mourned your absence day after day, until Ialmost ceased to hope that I should ever see you again. But, " addedthe princess, with a look of unutterable tenderness, "thou hast comeback once more to me--thou hast sought and found thy little gold-fish, and I am happy. " The prince had scarcely time to return suitable acknowledgments, andvow eternal love, when they were roused by the sound of the hunter'shorn, announcing the return of King Grabyall from the chase. Theprincess introduced him to the prince; and his majesty being in highgood humor, having been very successful that morning, beside havingan excellent appetite for dinner, received him most graciously. Theardent prince lost no time in declaring his love; and King Grabyall, knowing that he had been chosen to govern the territories of theenchanter, Curmudgeon, beside inheriting all his vast riches, graciously consented to the marriage. He did this the more willingly, knowing from late experience that the princess, having fulfilled thedenunciation of the malicious old fairy, had survived her infirmity. There was never in this world such a splendid and happy wedding; andwhat added to the pleasure of all parties, was seeing the good fairy, Violetta, enter the superb saloon to honor the ceremony. "Welcome, my prince, " said she, holding out her little, delicate hand, "I congratulate you; you have triumphed by valor and constancy. " When the ceremony was over, the prince inquired anxiously whether sheknew aught of his father, and was informed that he had married thedaughter of good King Doddipol, and was wasting his substance as fastas possible, by giving _fêtes_ to the bride, and lending great sums tohis father-in-law. Prince Violet sighed at the fate of the Old Man ofthe Hills, but in good time forgot all his griefs in the arms of loveand beauty. The Princess Violetta made a most excellent wife, and never afterwardtalked more than became a reasonable woman. The wicked giant, who, itshould have been premised, had been extricated from the moat, andfinished his fit of sneezing, being freed from the diabolicalinfluence of the enchanter, Curmudgeon, took the pledge, became atetotailer, and lived ever after an example to all overgrown monsters, past, present, and future. THE VESPER BELL. BY PARK BENJAMIN. How deep and mournfully at eve's sweet hour The bell for vespers chimes its holiest note, When the soft twilight lends its soothing power And on the air a silence seems to float! The weary wand'rer knows a home of rest, He toils not now who toiled the livelong day, Friends cherish fondest recollections, blest With thoughts of them whose love cannot decay, The best affections of the heart are told, We greet with joy our dear, domestic hearth, And think how strong the viewless bonds that hold Unwearied love to transient things of Earth. And visions of his lyre the poet sees At this lone time of Nature's sweet repose, When fancied music, borne on every breeze, Æolian-like, with thrilling sadness flows. Oh, then move thoughts, the holiest and best, O'er the soul's calm and mild serenity, Like beauteous birds that skim along the breast Of the still waters in some waveless sea. Where that deep bell sends forth its solemn tone, How many worship at Devotion's shrine! How many voices rise before the throne Whence the bright glories of the Godhead shine! Not when the glories of th' opening day With crimson blushes usher in the dawn, Not when the noontide pours its deepest ray On forest, glade, blue lake and emerald lawn; Not when the moonbeams shed their silvery light In richest lustre over copse and dell, Come sainted hopes, sweet dreams and fancies bright As when through shadows sounds the Vesper Bell. THE TEACHER TAUGHT. BY MARY S. ADAMS. "Three months' imprisonment! Heigho!" soliloquized Harvey Hall, as heentered the school-room, and surveyed the array of seats before him. "Well, poverty is a crime punished not only by one's state andcountry, but by the whole world. Here am I longing for a professionwhich shall give some play to my mind, which shall enable me to take astand among men; and now to purchase that profession I must 'teachyoung ideas' till the requisite sum is obtained. The daughters ofDarius were condemned for the murder of their husbands to fill leakyvessels in Tartarus--that is, they became teachers! It is hard thatthose who have neither _been_ nor _murdered_ husbands should endurelike punishment. " Harvey Hall always spoke the truth, albeit sometimes the truth alittle _swollen_; so he was, as he said, condemned to a temporaryreign over children and spelling-books, in order to pursue hisstudies--for the expenses of which the limited finances of his parentswould not suffice; and he had taken the academy at L. , with the dueannouncement of all his qualifications in the county newspaper. "Some bright faces here, " thought he, as his eyes glanced over thoseof his scholars upturned to him, and rested on one with eyes brightenough to light Cupid on his way to any untenanted heart, but bearingthe expression of smothered mirth, never relished by those who do nothappen to know the _mot d'enigme_. Small white fingers tracedsomething rapidly on the slate, which was then given to a young lady, who, on the perusal of its characters, gave a stifled laugh, andburied her face in a handkerchief. But the author of the mischief, whatever it was, instantly turned to gravity, and met the searchinggaze of Hall with a demure look which amused him not a little. "That daughter of Parson Hinton finds fun enough in something. I wishher father could preach her into better behavior. She is the mosttroublesome sprite I have in school. Young ladies, " he said, assumingall the dignity of his position, "less whispering, and more attentionto your studies would conduce to your improvement. " Annie Hinton and her chum took their books, and were soon apparentlyabsorbed in them. Annie met with some question she could not solve;and taking her book to the teacher, she asked an explanation. It wasgiven. "And you made an observation just now, sir, which I wish to remember. Will you be so kind as to repeat it, " she added, bending toward himwith the greatest mock attention and deference. It is said that the worst reception of a compliment is to request itsrepetition; and the remark is just as applicable to a reproof. Certainly Harvey Hall found it so. Impudence he could have metsuccessfully; but there was something in the arch air of respect, soevidently assumed, and in the polite tone accompanying bright eyeswhich _would_ almost laugh out, which told him that the present scenewould figure in some after frolic formidable enough to young gentlemenwho are never proof against the ridicule of mirthful girls in theirteens. He longed to laugh with her at it all, but an assembled school, a roguish scholar, would not exactly admit of this; so, coloring alittle, and then provoked at himself for the _gossiping_ blood whichbetrayed his inward embarrassment, he said, "Oh, merely that study is more appropriate to the school-room thanamusement. I shall be happy to have it dwell in your memory andpractice, Miss Hinton. " Annie bowed gracefully, gravely, and turned away, but not before Hallmentally resolved never to admonish her again if he could avoid it. When the day for compositions came--that bore which all parties wouldgladly overlook instead of look over--Hall, dreading trite essays onall the hackneyed themes of school, told the misses under his chargeto write on any thing that interested them--they might describe someof the manners and customs among them. "But we have _no manners_, and very few customs, Mr. Hall, " saidAnnie. "Well, select any subject that pleases yourself, Miss Annie. " The composition was on Dignity, and was so ludicrous, so _personal_ adescription of it, that Mr. Hall was fairly puzzled. What shall I sayto this merry damsel, who seems to turn into sport all I say or do. Icannot correct her. "Miss Hinton, carry this home to your father, and see if he says it isa proper article for you to bring in as a composition. " The next day it was returned with, "My father thinks Dignity one ofthe finest things he has ever seen, " she said, half hesitating, as ifunwilling to utter such praise, but looking as if all the spirits offun had taken the opportunity to look out of her eyes. Of course, herreverend parent had never had a glimpse of it--and this her teachervery well knew. But why watch her with more interest than all the "well behaved" ofhis school? In accordance with Scripture, he left the ninety and ninejust ones, to search for the one who went astray. The lessons sherecited had for him a double interest; the days she was absent werelike the dull, gray sky of autumn--nay, several times he evenacknowledged to himself that teaching was _not_ the dull routine hehad supposed, and the term of his probation had not the leaden wingshe had anticipated. But there was an apprehension to disturb the tenor of his thoughts, and fall heavily upon his official capacity. He had--yes, he certainlyhad seen Annie Hinton receive a billet from Charles Lane; and CharlesLane was a bright youth--a fine scholar--ready to enter college thenext term--and just her age. It was wrong, decidedly wrong, to haveany silly flirtations between mere boys and girls--he had alwaysconsidered it so; but now it was wonderful to see how strong hisreasoning, and firm his opinions were on this subject. And personalexperience _has_ an extraordinary power in giving edge to moralreflections; how it draws them out of the shade, concentrates andclinches them. Well, Harvey Hall felt really grieved that scholars should have theirattention drawn away from their studies by such nonsense as achildren's love affair. Charles Lane was a promising boy to be sure;but he must go through college, and be settled in life before he oughtto think of fancying any one. He might become dissipated--such brightboys often did; or fickle--in short, no one knew which rein of hischaracter the future might pull. And Annie--pretty creature--who couldnot pass a day without some mirthful episode, how ridiculous for achild like her to think of selecting a lover! her mind was notdisciplined at all--her taste not pronounced; she might make adifferent choice when she really knew her own wishes, and had seenmore of the world. It would be wrong to entangle herself with anypassing fancy like the present--really wrong to suffer a child to makea decision by which the _woman_ must abide. And then the good ministerwould be shocked to see his plaything, Annie, forming any foolishattachment. Yes, he must do all he could to prevent it. But how couldParson Hinton be so blind? The other evening when he called there, Charles Lane knocked at the door, to bring a slip of geranium, whichhe had walked several miles to get for Annie; and the old gentlemanonly said, "You are very obliging, Charles--drop in and see us often. "So strange, not to know it was just like such precocious youths tofancy themselves in love with every pretty girl. So laws were enactedstricter than those of the Medes and Persians, against all billetspassed in school; as if Cupid, had he made the essay, would not havedelighted to jeopardize all regulations, and fly in the face of alllaws. One day as Mr. Hall was ascending the steps to enter school, he sawAnnie give Charles Lane a knitted purse, and heard her say somethingabout "the phillipina. " As I said, he was _principled_ against suchinterchange of sentiment, or gifts, between such children; but thepresent instance did not come precisely under his dominion, being_out_ of school--and he entered upon his duties with a somewhat cloudybrow. Every one has observed how much the sky of his feelingsinfluences the earth of reality. If one wakes "out of tune" in themorning, the events of the day seldom harmonize him. Let you walk outin a city, feeling blue and burthened, and how many things conspire toannoy you. You are blinded by dust, or contaminated with mud, or thesnow slumps, or your feet slip at every step; a child is almost runover in the street; people jostle rudely; the bell tolls; thetown-crier seems to scream at every corner where you turn; the ladyyou particularly admire is talking with vast animation to ----, anddoes not even perceive you; a bow thrown away; Mr. Lawkens, the deafman, will cross over to speak to you, but cannot hear your answer, although you have repeated it the third time; a gust of wind blows offyour hat, and a bore holds you by the button to tell you, what youwell knew, the election has gone against your favorite candidate;while you inwardly exclaim, "misfortunes never come single. " Our pedagogue had a hazy atmosphere around his spirit this day--andnothing cleared it. The recitations were miserable, and the boys fullof pranks--which boys are heir to; the girls were any thing butbook-intent. The class in chemistry was called, and as Mr. Hall wasperforming some experiments on the apparatus, he said, "Now, when I apply this, you will see that--it wont go, " he added, asthe desired result, from some cause, failed. "Certainly, we see it, " smilingly whispered Annie to the next on herseat. The sound reached Mr. Hall, already mortified by the failure of theexperiment. "Miss Hinton, " he exclaimed, in a loud, stern tone, "take your books, and go home. " Annie looked surprised, as well she might, and waited, as if to besure she did not misunderstand him. The attention of the school wasroused--there could be no revocation--so the mandate was repeated, andobeyed. Poor Hall! his chemical manipulations were no more successful thatday; classes were called, and heard at random. The small scholarsthought "it was a grand time--master did not seem to mind them;" whileolder ones wondered at his unwonted humor. Meanwhile his reflectionswere any thing but agreeable. How could he have been so harsh for sucha trifle, and ungentlemanly too. All Annie's faults were the mereexuberance of a joyous spirit; and she was quick to acknowledge andregret them; and yet he had not expostulated, but abruptly commandedher to leave. How she must despise him! And she had a great deal ofsensibility; he had seen the color suffuse her face, and the tearsglisten in her dark eyes, when a tale of sorrow or delicious poem hadexcited her emotion. Perhaps she was at that very moment weeping athis harshness; and then proofs of interest in _him_, albeit she was alaughter-loving spirit, stole over his memory. He thought of anevening he had lately passed at her house, when his conversationseemed to rivet her attention, although he afterward heard her say, "There! Mary Jane has a party to-night, and I entirely forgot it untiltoo late. Well, I have enjoyed myself better here. " And _he_, theingrate! how had he returned it, by unwarrantable rudeness! She wasjust beginning to talk to him with confiding frankness of her books, her tastes, and opening to _his_ study a mind as well worth it as thechanging loveliness of her face--when this folly had destroyed it all. And what would the good minister say? He who had received him sokindly; so hospitably told him to come to him at any and all timeswhen he could be of assistance--what would _he_ say to have his pet, at once his amusement and pride, turned out of school like any commonurchin? Oh! how the hours of school dragged. Every moment seemed to bear aweight of lead, and carry to the luckless teacher a thousand arrowspoisoned by self-reproach. No sooner was his fiat of release obtained, than with mingled regret and apprehension, he wended his steps to theparsonage. He knocked at the door, desired to see Mr. Hinton, and wasaccordingly shown up into his study. "He looks as if something lay on his mind, " thought the clergyman, ashe saw him enter, and advanced to shake hands with him. "Perhaps he isconsidering the concerns of his soul. Heaven help me to counsel himaright!" and there was an unusual kindliness in his tone, as he urgedhim to be seated, which was "heaping coals of fire" on the head of theconscience-stricken teacher. A pause. "I am--I have called--I regret--" "Ah, yes, " mentally ejaculated the old man, "he feels the burden ofsin, and is under conviction, I see--" "In short, sir, I am sorry to trouble you at this time, but I--" "Speak out freely, my dear young man, " said his benignant listener. Is it possible he does not know what has passed? "I regret to say that, vexed by the inattention of the scholars, andby whispering, in which Miss Annie joined, I hastily told her to leaveschool. " "Told my daughter Annie to leave school!" The door of the study was thrown open, and Annie danced into themiddle of the room, her bonnet hanging on her arm, flowers in herhair, and a bouquet in her hand, fresh from the woods in which she hadbeen rambling. "Father! father!" she stopped, and gazed first at herfather, and then at Mr. Hall, with a mingled expression of regret andsurprise. Her long walk that afternoon had given her a heightenedcolor; and the varied feelings which moved her were clearly depictedon her face. "Come here, Annie, " said Hall, extending his hand, "come here, and sayyou forgive the rudeness of this afternoon. " She hesitated aninstant--the crimson deepened on her cheek, and the lip slightlytrembled; then looking up with one of her own radiant smiles, she gaveher small, white hand to the teacher. Not long after he made another visit to the good minister's study, not, indeed, to ask forgiveness for turning Annie out of school, butto beg permission to transplant her one day to a home of his own. Whatever was said, we suspect Annie might have served as "an instancein point" for that rather broad generalization of Swift, "No girl is pleased with what is taught But has _the teacher_ in her thought. " "Young gentlemen, " said Harvey Hall, (Judge Hall then, ) when someyears afterward two or three of his law students were spending theevening at his hospitable mansion, "young gentlemen, never regret thenecessity of exerting yourself in order to obtain your profession; forbeside the habit of _self-help_ thus formed, which is invaluable, youmay, " he added, glancing archly at the face, fair as ever, of her whosat with muslin stitchery by the centre-table, "meet with a waysiderose as precious as Annie. " THE SUNBEAM. (FROM THE FRENCH OF LAMARTINE. ) Come! watch with me this sunbeam, as o'er the moss bank green It glides, and enters swiftly the foliage dark between; Resting its golden lever, of mystic length and line, Upon the dewy herbage, in an oblique decline: Toward its moving column the stamen of the flowers Whirl, as by strong attraction; and through the daylight hours Gay insects, azure atoms, with every-colored wing, Swim 'mid the light, still lending fresh sparkles as they spring. See! how in cadenced measure they gravitate below, Now linking, then unlinking, in quick, harmonious flow; Of Plato's worlds ideal the semblance here appears, Those worlds that danced in circles to the music of the spheres: So small is every atom, amid yon countless band, That hosts of them were needful to make a grain of sand; They form the lowest step of that brilliant ladder trod, Ascending from the light mote to the all-present God. And yet a separate being exists in every part, Within each airy globule there dwells a beating heart; One world, perchance, presiding o'er worlds unnumbered, free, To which the lightning's passage is an eternity; Yet, doubtless, each enjoying, within their drop of space, Days, nights, in all fulfilling their order and their place; And while in wondrous ecstasy, man's throbbing eye looks on, A thousand worlds are ended, their destinies are won! O God! how vast the sources which feed such life and death, How piercing is that vision which marks out every breath; How infinite that Spirit which cherishes each grade; And more than all, how boundless that love, free, unrepaid, Which nurtures into being each particle that floats, Descending from far sun-worlds to microscopic motes; O God! so grand and awful in yonder little ray, What thought dare seek to fathom the blaze of thy full day? MARY E. LEE. THE ISLETS OF THE GULF; OR, ROSE BUDD. Ay, now I am in Arden; the more fool I; when I was at home I was in a better place; but Travelers must be content. AS YOU LIKE IT. BY THE AUTHOR OF "PILOT, " "RED ROVER, " "TWO ADMIRALS, ""WING-AND-WING, " "MILES WALLINGFORD, " ETC. [Entered, according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1846, by J. Fenimore Cooper, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of theUnited States, for the Northern District of New York. ] (_Continued from page_ 293. ) PART XV. The screams of rage, the groan, the strife, The blow, the grasp, the horrid cry, The panting, throttled prayer for life, The dying's heaving sigh, The murderer's curse, the dead man's fixed, still glare, And fear's and death's cold sweat--they all are there. MATTHEW LEE. It was high time that Capt. Spike should arrive when his foot touchedthe bottom of the yawl. The men were getting impatient and anxious tothe last degree, and the power of Señor Montefalderon to control themwas lessening each instant. They heard the rending of timber, and thegrinding on the coral, even more distinctly than the captain himself, and feared that the brig would break up while they lay alongside ofher, and crush them amid the ruins. Then the spray of the seas thatbroke over the weather side of the brig, fell like rain upon them; andevery body in the boat was already as wet as if exposed to a violentshower. It was well, therefore, for Spike that he descended into theboat as he did, for another minute's delay might have brought abouthis own destruction. Spike felt a chill at his heart when he looked about him and saw thecondition of the yawl. So crowded were the stern-sheets into which hehad descended, that it was with difficulty he found room to place hisfeet; it being his intention to steer, Jack was ordered to get intothe eyes of the boat, in order to give him a seat. The thwarts werecrowded, and three or four of the people had placed themselves in thevery bottom of the little craft, in order to be as much as possibleout of the way, as well as in readiness to bail out water. Soseriously, indeed, were all the seamen impressed with the gravity ofthis last duty, that nearly every man had taken with him some vesselfit for such a purpose. Rowing was entirely out of the question, therebeing no space for the movement of the arms. The yawl was too low inthe water, moreover, for such an operation in so heavy a sea. In all, eighteen persons were squeezed into a little craft that would havebeen sufficiently loaded, for moderate weather at sea, with its fouroarsmen and as many sitters in the stern-sheets, with, perhaps, one inthe eyes to bring her more on an even keel. In other words, she hadjust twice the weight in her, in living freight, that it would havebeen thought prudent to receive in so small a craft, in an ordinarytime, in or out of a port. In addition to the human beings enumerated, there was a good deal of baggage, nearly every individual having hadthe forethought to provide a few clothes for a change. The food andwater did not amount to much, no more having been provided than enoughfor the purposes of the captain, together with the four men with whomit had been his intention to abandon the brig. The effect of all thiscargo was to bring the yawl quite low in the water; and everyseafaring man in her had the greatest apprehensions about her beingable to float at all when she got out from under the lee of the Swash, or into the troubled water. Try it she must, however, and Spike, in areluctant and hesitating manner, gave the final order to "Shove off!" The yawl carried a lugg, as is usually the case with boats at sea, andthe first blast of the breeze upon it satisfied Spike that his presententerprise was one of the most dangerous of any in which he had everbeen engaged. The puffs of wind were quite as much as the boat wouldbear; but this he did not mind, as he was running off before it, andthere was little danger of the yawl capsizing with such a weight inher. It was also an advantage to have swift way on, to prevent thecombing waves from shooting into the boat, though the wind itselfscarce outstrips the send of the sea in a stiff blow. As the yawlcleared the brig and began to feel the united power of the wind andwaves, the following short dialogue occurred between the boatswain andSpike. "I dare not keep my eyes off the breakers ahead, " the captaincommenced, "and must trust to you, Strand, to report what is going onamong the man-of-war's men. What is the ship about?" "Reefing her top-sails just now, sir. All three are on the caps, andthe vessel is laying-too, in a manner. " "And her boats?" "I see none, sir--ay, ay, there they come from alongside of her in alittle fleet! There are four of them, sir, and all are coming downbefore the wind, wing and wing, carrying their luggs reefed. " "Ours ought to be reefed by rights, too, but we dare not stop to doit; and these infernal combing seas seem ready to glance aboard uswith all the way we can gather. Stand by to bail, men; we must passthrough a strip of white water--there is no help for it. God send thatwe go clear of the rocks!" All this was fearfully true. The adventurers were not yet more than acable's length from the brig, and they found themselves so completelyenvironed with the breakers as to be compelled to go through them. Noman in his senses would ever have come into such a place at all, except in the most unavoidable circumstances; and it was with aspecies of despair that the seamen of the yawl now saw their littlecraft go plunging into the foam. But Spike neglected no precaution that experience or skill couldsuggest. He had chosen his spot with coolness and judgment. As theboat rose on the seas he looked eagerly ahead, and by giving it atimely sheer, he hit a sort of channel, where there was sufficientwater to carry them clear of the rock, and where the breakers wereless dangerous than in the shoaler places. The passage lasted about aminute; and so serious was it, that scarce an individual breatheduntil it was effected. No human skill could prevent the water fromcombing in over the gunwales; and when the danger was passed, the yawlwas a third filled with water. There was no time or place to pause, but on the little craft was dragged almost gunwale to, the breezecoming against the lugg in puffs that threatened to take the mast outof her. All hands were bailing; and even Biddy used her hands to aidin throwing out the water. "This is no time to hesitate, men, " said Spike, sternly. "Every thingmust go overboard but the food and water. Away with them at once, andwith a will. " It was a proof how completely all hands were alarmed by this, thefirst experiment in the breakers, that not a man stayed his hand asingle moment, but each threw into the sea, without an instant ofhesitation, every article he had brought with him and had hoped tosave. Biddy parted with the carpet-bag, and Señor Montefalderon, feeling the importance of example, committed to the deep a smallwriting-desk that he had placed on his knees. The doubloons aloneremained, safe in a little locker where Spike had deposited them alongwith his own. "What news astern, boatswain?" demanded the captain, as soon as thisimminent danger was passed, absolutely afraid to turn his eyes off thedangers ahead for a single instant. "How come on the man-of-war'smen?" "They are running down in a body toward the wreck, though one of theirboats does seem to be sheering out of the line, as if getting into ourwake. It is hard to say, sir, for they are still a good bit towindward of the wreck. " "And the Molly, Strand?" "Why, sir, the Molly seems to be breaking up fast; as well as I cansee, she has broke in two just abaft the fore-chains, and cannot holdtogether in any shape at all many minutes longer. " This information drew a deep groan from Spike, and the eye of everyseaman in the boat was turned in melancholy on the object they wereso fast leaving behind them. The yawl could not be said to be sailingvery rapidly, considering the power of the wind, which was a littlegale, for she was much too deep for that; but she left the wreck sofast as already to render objects on board her indistinct. Everybodysaw that, like an overburthened steed, she had more to get along withthan she could well bear; and, dependent as seamen usually are on thejudgment and orders of their superiors, even in the direstemergencies, the least experienced man in her saw that their chancesof final escape from drowning were of the most doubtful nature. Themen looked at each other in a way to express their feelings; and themoment seemed favorable to Spike to confer with his confidentialsea-dogs in private; but more white water was also ahead, and it wasnecessary to pass through it, since no opening was visible by which toavoid it. He deferred his purpose, consequently, until this danger wasescaped. On this occasion Spike saw but little opportunity to select a place toget through the breakers, though the spot, as a whole, was not of themost dangerous kind. The reader will understand that the preservationof the boat at all, in white water, was owing to the circumstance thatthe rocks all around it lay so near the surface of the sea as toprevent the possibility of agitating the element very seriously, andto the fact that she was near the lee side of the reef. Had thebreakers been of the magnitude of those which are seen where the deeprolling billows of the ocean first meet the weather side of shoals orrocks, a craft of that size, and so loaded, could not possibly havepassed the first line of white water without filling. As it was, however, the breakers she had to contend with were sufficientlyformidable, and they brought with them the certainty that the boat wasin imminent danger of striking the bottom at any moment. Places likethose in which Mulford had waded on the reef, while it was calm, wouldnow have proved fatal to the strongest frame, since human powers wereinsufficient long to withstand the force of such waves as did glanceover even these shallows. "Look out!" cried Spike, as the boat again plunged in among the whitewater. "Keep bailing, men--keep bailing. " The men did bail, and the danger was over almost as soon asencountered. Something like a cheer burst out of the chest of Spike, when he saw deeper water around him, and fancied he could now trace achannel that would carry him quite beyond the extent of the reef. Itwas arrested, only half uttered, however, by a communication from theboatswain, who sat on a midship thwart, his arms folded, and his eyeon the brig and the boats. "There goes the Molly's masts, sir! Both have gone together; and asgood sticks was they, before them bomb-shells passed through ourrigging, as was ever stepped in a keelson. " The cheer was changed to something like a groan, while a murmur ofregret passed through the boat. "What news from the man-of-war's men, boatswain? Do they still standdown on a mere wreck?" "No, sir; they seem to give it up, and are getting out their oars topull back to their ship. A pretty time they'll have of it, too. Thecutter that gets to windward half a mile in an hour, ag'in such a sea, and such a breeze, must be well pulled and better steered. One chap, however, sir, seems to hold on. " Spike now ventured to look behind him, commanding an experienced handto take the helm. In order to do this he was obliged to change placeswith the man he had selected to come aft, which brought him on athwart alongside of the boatswain and one or two other of hisconfidents. Here a whispered conference took place, which lastedseveral minutes, Spike appearing to be giving instructions to the men. By this time the yawl was more than a mile from the wreck, all theman-of-war boats but one had lowered their sails, and were pullingslowly and with great labor back toward the ship, the cutter that kepton, evidently laying her course after the yawl, instead of standing ontoward the wreck. The brig was breaking up fast, with everyprobability that nothing would be left of her in a few more minutes. As for the yawl, while clear of the white water, it got along withoutreceiving many seas aboard, though the men in its bottom were keptbailing without intermission. It appeared to Spike that so long asthey remained on the reef, and could keep clear of breakers--a mostdifficult thing, however--they should fare better than if in deeperwater, where the swell of the sea, and the combing of the waves, menaced so small and so deep-loaded a craft with serious danger. As itwas, two or three men could barely keep the boat clear, workingincessantly, and much of the time with a foot or two of water in her. Josh and Simon had taken their seats, side by side, with that sort ofdependence and submission that causes the American black to abstainfrom mingling with the whites more than might appear seemly. They weresqueezed on to one end of the thwart by a couple of robust oldsea-dogs, who were two of the very men with whom Spike had been inconsultation. Beneath that very thwart was stowed another confident, to whom communications had also been made. These men had sailed longin the Swash, and having been picked up in various ports, from time totime, as the brig had wanted hands, they were of nearly as manydifferent nations as they were persons. Spike had obtained a greatascendency over them by habit and authority, and his suggestions werenow received as a sort of law. As soon as the conference was ended, the captain returned to the helm. A minute more passed, during which the captain was anxiously surveyingthe reef ahead, and the state of things astern. Ahead was more whitewater--the last before they should get clear of the reef; and asternit was now settled that the cutter that held on through the dangers ofthe place, was in chase of the yawl. That Mulford was in her Spikemade no doubt; and the thought embittered even his present calamities. But the moment had arrived for something decided. The white waterahead was much more formidable than any they had passed; and theboldest seaman there gazed at it with dread. Spike made a sign to theboatswain, and commenced the execution of his dire project. "I say, you Josh, " called out the captain, in the authoritative tonesthat are so familiar to all on board a ship, "pull in that fender thatis dragging alongside. " Josh leaned over the gunwale, and reported that there was no fenderout. A malediction followed, also so familiar to those acquainted withships, and the black was told to look again. This time, as had beenexpected, the negro leaned with his head and body far over the side ofthe yawl, to look for that which had no existence, when two of the menbeneath the thwart shoved _his_ legs after them. Josh screamed, as hefound himself going into the water, with a sort of confusedconsciousness of the truth; and Spike called out to Simon to "catchhold of his brother-nigger. " The cook bent forward to obey, when asimilar assault on _his_ legs from beneath the thwart, sent himheadlong after Josh. One of the younger seamen, who was not in thesecret, sprang up to rescue Simon, who grasped his extended hand, whenthe too generous fellow was pitched headlong from the boat. All this occurred in less than ten seconds of time, and sounexpectedly and naturally, that not a soul beyond those who were inthe secret, had the least suspicion it was any thing but an accident. Some water was shipped, of necessity, but the boat was soon bailedfree. As for the victims of this vile conspiracy, they disappearedamid the troubled waters of the reef, struggling with each other. Eachand all met the common fate so much the sooner, from the manner inwhich they impeded their own efforts. The yawl was now relieved from about five hundred pounds of the weightit had carried--Simon weighing two hundred alone, and the youngishseaman being large and full. So intense does human selfishness get tobe, in moments of great emergency, that it is to be feared most ofthose who remained, secretly rejoiced that they were so far benefittedby the loss of their fellows. The Señor Montefalderon was seated onthe aftermost thwart, with his legs in the stern-sheets, andconsequently with his back toward the negroes, and he fully believedthat what had happened was purely accidental. "Let us lower our sail, Don Esteban, " he cried, eagerly, "and save thepoor fellows. " Something very like a sneer gleamed on the dark countenance of thecaptain, but it suddenly changed to a look of assent. "Good!" he said, hastily--"spring forward, Don Wan, and lower thesail--stand by the oars, men!" Without pausing to reflect, the generous-hearted Mexican stepped on athwart, and began to walk rapidly forward, steadying himself byplacing his hands on the heads of the men. He was suffered to get asfar as the second thwart, or past most of the conspirators, when hislegs were seized from behind. The truth now flashed on him, andgrasping two of the men in his front, who knew nothing of Spike's direscheme, he endeavored to save himself by holding to their jackets. Thus assailed, those men seized others with like intent, and an awfulstruggle filled all that part of the craft. At this dread instant theboat glanced into the white water, shipping so much of the element asnearly to swamp her, and taking so wild a sheer as nearly tobroach-to. This last circumstance probably saved her, fearful as wasthe danger for the moment. Everybody in the middle of the yawl wasrendered desperate by the amount and nature of the danger incurred, and the men from the bottom rose in their might, underneath thecombatants, when a common plunge was made by all who stood erect, onedragging overboard another, each a good deal hastened by the assaultfrom beneath, until no less than five were gone. Spike got his helmup, the boat fell off, and away from the spot it flew, clearing thebreakers, and reaching the northern wall-like margin of the reef atthe next instant. There was now a moment when those who remained couldbreathe, and dared to look behind them. The great plunge had been made in water so shoal, that the boat hadbarely escaped being dashed to pieces on the coral. Had it not been sosuddenly relieved from the pressure of near a thousand pounds inweight, it is probable that this calamity would have befallen it, thewater received on board contributing so much to weigh it down. Thestruggle between these victims ceased, however, the moment they wentover. Finding bottom for their feet, they released each other, in adesperate hope of prolonging life by wading. Two or three held outtheir arms, and shouted to Spike to return and pick them up. Thisdreadful scene lasted but a single instant, for the waves dashed oneafter another from his feet, continually forcing them all, as theyoccasionally regained their footing, toward the margin of the reef, and finally washing them off it into deep water. No human power couldenable a man to swim back to the rocks, once to leeward of them, inthe face of such seas, and so heavy a blow; and the miserable wretchesdisappeared in succession, as their strength became exhausted, in thedepths of the gulf. Not a word had been uttered while this terrific scene was in thecourse of occurrence; not a word was uttered for some time afterward. Gleams of grim satisfaction had been seen on the countenances of theboatswain, and his associates, when the success of their nefariousproject was first assured; but they soon disappeared in looks ofhorror, as they witnessed the struggles of the drowning men. Nevertheless, human selfishness was strong within them all, and nonethere was so ignorant as not to perceive how much better were thechances of the yawl now than it had been on quitting the wreck. Theweight of a large ox had been taken from it, counting that of all theeight men drowned; and as for the water shipped, it was soon bailedback again into the sea. Not only, therefore, was the yawl in a bettercondition to resist the waves, but it sailed materially faster than ithad done before. Ten persons still remained in it, however, whichbrought it down in the water below its proper load-line; and the speedof a craft so small was necessarily a good deal lessened by the leastdeviation from its best sailing, or rowing trim. But Spike's projectswere not yet completed. All this time the man-of-war's cutter had been rushing as madlythrough the breakers, in chase, as the yawl had done in the attempt toescape. Mulford was, in fact, on board it; and his now fast friend, Wallace, was in command. The latter wished to seize a traitor, theformer to save the aunt of his weeping bride. Both believed that theymight follow wherever Spike dared to lead. This reasoning was morebold than judicious notwithstanding, since the cutter was much larger, and drew twice as much water as the yawl. On it came, nevertheless, faring much better in the white water than the little craft itpursued, but necessarily running a much more considerable risk ofhitting the coral, over which it was glancing almost as swiftly as thewaves themselves; still it had thus far escaped--and little did any init think of the danger. This cutter pulled ten oars; was an excellentsea boat; had four armed marines in it, in addition to its crew, butcarried all through the breakers, receiving scarcely a drop of wateron board, on account of the height of its wash-boards, and the generalqualities of the craft. It may be well to add here, that thePoughkeepsie had shaken out her reefs, and was betraying theimpatience of Capt. Mull to make sail in chase, by firing signal gunsto his boats to bear a hand and return. These signals the three boatsunder their oars were endeavoring to obey, but Wallace had got so farto leeward as now to render the course he was pursuing the wisest. Mrs. Budd and Biddy had seen the struggle in which the SeñorMontefalderon had been lost, in a sort of stupid horror. Both hadscreamed, as was their wont, though neither probably suspected thetruth. But the fell designs of Spike extended to them, as well as tothose whom he had already destroyed. Now the boat was in deep water, running along the margin of the reef, the waves were much increased inmagnitude, and the comb of the sea was far more menacing to the boat. This would not have been the case had the rocks formed a lee; but theydid not, running too near the direction of the trades to prevent thebillows that got up a mile or so in the offing, from sending theirswell quite home to the reef. It was this swell, indeed, which causedthe line of white water along the northern margin of the coral, washing on the rocks by a sort of lateral effort, and breaking, as amatter of course. In many places no boat could have lived to passthrough it. Another consideration influenced Spike to persevere. The cutter hadbeen overhauling him, hand over hand, but since the yawl was relievedof the weight of no less than eight men, the difference in the rate ofsailing was manifestly diminished. The man-of-war's boat drew nearer, but by no means as fast as it had previously done. A point was nowreached in the trim of the yawl, when a very few hundreds in weightmight make the most important change in her favor; and this change thecaptain was determined to produce. By this time the cutter was in deepwater, as well as himself, safe through all the dangers of the reef, and she was less than a quarter of a mile astern. On the whole, shewas gaining, though so slowly as to require the most experienced eyeto ascertain the fact. "Madame Budd, " said Spike, in a hypocritical tone, "we are in greatdanger, and I shall have to ask you to change your seat. The boat istoo much by the starn, now we've got into deep water, and your weightamidships would be a great relief to us. Just give your hand to theboatswain, and he will help you to step from thwart to thwart, untilyou reach the right place, when Biddy shall follow. " Now Mrs. Budd had witnessed the tremendous struggle in which so manyhad gone overboard, but so dull was she of apprehension, and so littledisposed to suspect any thing one-half so monstrous as the truth, thatshe did not hesitate to comply. She was profoundly awed by the horrorsof the scene through which she was passing, the raging billows of thegulf, as seen from so small a craft, producing a deep impression onher; still a lingering of her most inveterate affectation was to befound in her air and language, which presented a strange medley ofbesetting weakness, and strong, natural, womanly affection. "Certainly, Capt. Spike, " she answered, rising. "A craft should nevergo astern, and I am quite willing to ballast the boat. We have seensuch terrible accidents to-day, that all should lend their aid inendeavoring to get under way, and in averting all possible hamper. Only take me to my poor, dear Rosy, Capt. Spike, and every thing shallbe forgotten that has passed between us. This is not a moment to bearmalice; and I freely pardon you all and every thing. The fate of ourunfortunate friend, Mr. Montefalderon, should teach us charity, andcause us to prepare for untimely ends. " All the time the good widow was making this speech, which she utteredin a solemn and oracular sort of manner, she was moving slowly towardthe seat the men had prepared for her, in the middle of the boat, assisted with the greatest care and attention by the boatswain andanother of Spike's confidents. When on the second thwart from aft, andabout to take her seat, the boatswain cast a look behind him, andSpike put the helm down. The boat luffed and lurched, of course, andMrs. Budd would probably have gone overboard to leeward, by so suddenand violent a change, had not the impetus thus received been aided bythe arms of the men who held her two hands. The plunge she made intothe water was deep, for she was a woman of great weight for herstature. Still, she was not immediately gotten rid of. Even at thatdread instant, it is probable that the miserable woman did not suspectthe truth, for she grasped the hand of the boatswain with the tenacityof a vice, and, thus dragged on the surface of the boiling surges, shescreamed aloud for Spike to save her. Of all who had yet beensacrificed to the captain's selfish wish to save himself, this was thefirst instance in which any had been heard to utter a sound, afterfalling into the sea. The appeal shocked even the rude beings aroundher, and Biddy chiming in with a powerful appeal to "save the missus!"added to the piteous nature of the scene. "Cast off her hand, " said Spike reproachfully, "she'll swamp the boatby her struggles--get rid of her at once! Cut her fingers off if shewont let go. " The instant these brutal orders were given, and that in a fierce, impatient tone, the voice of Biddy was heard no more. The truth forceditself on her dull imagination, and she sat a witness of the terriblescene, in mute despair. The struggle did not last long. The boatswaindrew his knife across the wrist of the hand that grasped his own, oneshriek was heard, and the boat plunged into the trough of a sea, leaving the form of poor Mrs. Budd struggling with the wave on itssummit, and amid the foam of its crest. This was the last that wasever seen of the unfortunate relict. "The boat has gained a good deal by that last discharge of cargo, "said Spike to the boatswain, a minute after they had gotten rid of thestruggling woman--"she is much more lively, and is getting nearer toher load-line. If we can bring her to _that_, I shall have no fear ofthe man-of-war's men; for this yawl is one of the fastest boats thatever floated. " "A very little _now_, sir, would bring us to our true trim. " "Ay, we must get rid of more cargo. Come, good woman, " turning toBiddy, with whom he did not think it worth his while to use muchcircumlocution, "_your_ turn is next. It's the maid's duty to followher mistress. " "I know'd it _must_ come, " said Biddy, meekly. "If there was no mercyfor the missus, little could I look for. But ye'll not take the lifeof a Christian woman widout giving her so much as one minute to sayher prayers?" "Ay, pray away, " answered Spike, his throat becoming dry and husky, for, strange to say, the submissive quiet of the Irish woman, sodifferent from the struggle he had anticipated with _her_, renderedhim more reluctant to proceed than he had hitherto been in all of thatterrible day. As Biddy kneeled in the bottom of the stern-sheets, Spike looked behind him, for the double purpose of escaping thepainful spectacle at his feet, and that of ascertaining how hispursuers came on. The last still gained, though very slowly, anddoubts began to come over the captain's mind whether he could escapesuch enemies at all. He was too deeply committed, however, to recede, and it was most desirable to get rid of poor Biddy, if it were for noother motive than to shut her mouth. Spike even fancied that some ideaof what had passed was entertained by those in the cutter. There wasevidently a stir in that boat, and two forms that he had nodifficulty, now, in recognizing as those of Wallace and Mulford, werestanding on the grating in the eyes of the cutter, or forward of theforesail. The former appeared to have a musket in his hand, and theother a glass. The last circumstance admonished him that all that wasnow done would be done before dangerous witnesses. It was too late todraw back, however, and the captain turned to look for the Irishwoman. Biddy arose from her knees, just as Spike withdrew his eyes from hispursuers. The boatswain and another confident were in readiness tocast the poor creature into the sea, the moment their leader gave thesignal. The intended victim saw and understood the arrangement, andshe spoke earnestly and piteously to her murderers. "It's not wanting will be violence, " said Biddy, in a quiet tone, butwith a saddened countenance. "I know it's my turn, and I will save yersowls from a part of the burden of this great sin. God, and His DivineSon, and the Blessed Mother of Jesus have mercy on me if it be wrong;but I would far radder jump into the saa widout having the rude handsof man on me, than have the dreadful sight of the missus done overag'in. It's a fearful thing is wather, and sometimes we have toolittle of it, and sometimes more than we want--" "Bear a hand, bear a hand, good woman, " interrupted the boatswain, impatiently. "We must clear the boat of you, and the sooner it is donethe better it will be for all of us. " "Don't grudge a poor morthal half a minute of life, at the lastmoment, " answered Biddy. "It's not long that I'll throuble ye, and sono more need be said. " The poor creature then got on the quarter of the boat, without anyone's touching her; there she placed herself with her legs outboard, while she sat on the gunwale. She gave one moment to the thought ofarranging her clothes with womanly decency, and then she paused togaze with a fixed eye, and pallid cheek, on the foaming wake thatmarked the rapid course of the boat. The troughs of the sea seemedless terrible to her than their combing crests, and she waited for theboat to descend into the next. "God forgive ye all, this deed, as I do!" said Biddy, earnestly, andbending her person forward, she fell, as it might be "without hands, "into the gulf of eternity. Though all strained their eyes, none of themen, Jack Tier excepted, ever saw more of Biddy Noon. Nor did Jack seemuch. He got a frightful glimpse of an arm, however, on the summit ofa wave, but the motion of the boat was too swift, and the surface ofthe ocean too troubled, to admit of aught else. A long pause succeeded this event. Biddy's quiet submission to herfate had produced more impression on her murderers than the desperate, but unavailing, struggles of those who had preceded her. Thus it isever with men. When opposed, the demon within blinds them toconsequences as well as to their duties; but, unresisted, the silentinfluence of the image of God makes itself felt, and a better spiritbegins to prevail. There was not one in that boat who did not, for abrief space, wish that poor Biddy had been spared. With most thatfeeling, the last of human kindness they ever knew, lingered until theoccurrence of the dread catastrophe which, so shortly after, closedthe scene of this state of being on their eyes. "Jack Tier, " called out Spike, some five minutes after Biddy wasdrowned, but not until another observation had made it plainlyapparent to him that the man-of-war's men still continued to drawnearer, being now not more than fair musket shot astern. "Ay, ay, sir, " answered Jack, coming quietly out of his hole, fromforward of the mast, and moving aft as if indifferent to the danger, by stepping lightly from thwart to thwart, until he reached thestern-sheets. "It is your turn, little Jack, " said Spike, as if in a sort ofsorrowful submission to a necessity that knew no law, "we cannot spareyou the room. " "I have expected this, and am ready. Let me have my own way, and Iwill cause you no trouble. Poor Biddy has taught me how to die. BeforeI go, however, Stephen Spike, I must leave you this letter. It iswritten by myself, and addressed to you. When I am gone, read it, andthink well of what it contains. And now, may a merciful God pardon thesins of both, through love for his Divine Son. I forgive you, Stephen;and should you live to escape from those who are now bent on huntingyou to the death, let this day cause you no grief on my account. Giveme but a moment of time, and I will cause you no trouble. " Jack now stood upon the seat of the stern-sheets, balancing himselfwith one foot on the stern of the boat. He waited until the yawl hadrisen to the summit of a wave, when he looked eagerly for theman-of-war's cutter. At that moment she was lost to view in the troughof the sea. Instead of springing overboard, as all expected, he askedanother instant of delay. The yawl sunk into the trough itself, androse on the succeeding billow. Then he saw the cutter, and Wallace andMulford standing in its bows. He waved his hat to them, and spranghigh into the air, with the intent to make himself seen; when he camedown, the boat had shot her length away from the place, leaving him tobuffet with the waves. Jack now managed admirably, swimming lightlyand easily, but keeping his eyes on the crests of the waves, with aview to meet the cutter. Spike now saw this well planned project toavoid death, and regretted his own remissness in not making sure ofJack. Everybody in the yawl was eagerly looking after the form ofTier. "There he is on the comb of that sea, rolling over like a keg!" criedthe boatswain. "He's through it, " answered Spike, "and swimming with great strengthand coolness. " Several of the men started up involuntarily and simultaneously tolook, hitting their shoulders and bodies together. Distrust was at itsmost painful height; and bull-dogs do not spring at the ox's muzzlemore fiercely than those six men throttled each other. Oaths, curses, and appeals for help, succeeded; each man endeavoring, in his frenziedefforts, to throw all the others overboard, as the only means ofsaving himself. Plunge succeeded plunge; and when that combat ofdemons ended, no one remained of them all but the boatswain. Spike hadtaken no share in the struggle, looking on in grim satisfaction, asthe Father of Lies may be supposed to regard all human strife, hopinggood to himself, let the result be what it might to others. Of thefive men who thus went overboard, not one escaped. They drowned eachother by continuing their maddened conflict in an element unsuited totheir natures. Not so with Jack Tier. His leap had been seen, and a dozen eyes in thecutter watched for his person, as that boat came foaming down beforethe wind. A shout of "There he is!" from Mulford succeeded; and thelittle fellow was caught by the hair, secured, and then hauled intothe boat by the second lieutenant of the Poughkeepsie and our youngmate. Others in the cutter had noted the incident of the hellish fight. Thefact was communicated to Wallace, and Mulford said, "That yawl willoutsail this loaded cutter, with only two men in it. " "Then it is time to try what virtue there is in lead, " answeredWallace. "Marines, come forward, and give the rascal a volley. " The volley was fired; one ball passed through the head of theboatswain, killing him dead on the spot. Another went through thebody of Spike. The captain fell in the stern-sheets, and the boatinstantly broached to. The water that came on board apprised Spike fully of the state inwhich he was now placed, and by a desperate effort, he clutched thetiller, and got the yawl again before the wind. This could not last, however. Little by little, his hold relaxed, until his handrelinquished its grasp altogether, and the wounded man sunk into thebottom of the stern-sheets, unable to raise even his head. Again theboat broached-to. Every sea now sent its water aboard, and the yawlwould soon have filled, had not the cutter come glancing down past it, and rounding-to under its lee, secured the prize. [_To be continued. _ THE LAND OF DREAMS. BY WILLIAM C. BRYANT. A mighty realm is the Land of Dreams, With steeps that hang in the twilight sky, And weltering oceans and trailing streams That gleam where the dusky valleys lie. But over its shadowy border flow Sweet rays from the world of endless morn, And the nearer mountains catch the glow, And flowers in the nearer fields are born. The souls of the happy dead repair, From their bowers of light, to that bordering land, And walk in the fainter glory there, With the souls of the living, hand in hand. One calm sweet smile in that shadowy sphere, From eyes that open on earth no more-- One warning word from a voice once dear-- How they rise in the memory o'er and o'er! Far off from those hills that shine with day, And fields that bloom in the heavenly gales, The Land of Dreams goes stretching away To dimmer mountains and darker vales. There lie the chambers of guilty delight, There walk the spectres of guilty fear, And soft low voices that float through the night Are whispering sin in the helpless ear. Dear maids, in thy girlhood's opening flower, Scarce weaned from the love of childish play! The tears on whose cheeks are but the shower That freshens the early blooms of May! Thine eyes are closed, and over thy brow Pass thoughtful shadows and joyous gleams, And I know, by the moving lips, that now Thy spirit strays in the Land of Dreams. Light-hearted maiden, oh, heed thy feet! Oh keep where that beam of Paradise falls; And only wander where thou may'st meet The blessed ones from its shining walls. So shalt thou come from the Land of Dreams, With love and peace, to this world of strife; And the light that over that border streams Shall lie on the path of thy daily life. SONNET--TO S. D. A. BY "THE SQUIRE. " When the young Morning, like a new-drest bride, With pearls of dew fresh glistening in her hair, Walks through the east in early summer-tide. Her robe loose floating on the scented air, The laughing hours assembled at her side Or circling round her--then is she less fair Than, in my heart, the picture, sweet and rare, Thy presence left. --My books go unperused, Old friends are shunned, and time flies by unused, While I, grown idle, nothing do but dream; Gazing upon that picture till I seem _Thyself_, again, before my eyes to see, And not the ideal show: so that to me The semblance turns to sweet reality. [Illustration_Engraved by T. S. WELCH. FOR GRAHAM'S MAGAZINE__FROM AN ORIGINAL DAGUERREOTYPE_] _Entered according to act of Congress in the Year 1847 by G. R. Grahamin the Clerks Office of the District Court for the Eastern District ofP^a. _ BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF GENERAL WILLIAM O. BUTLER. BY FRANCIS P. BLAIR. In memoirs of individuals of distinction it is usual to look back totheir ancestry. The feeling is universal which prompts us to learnsomething of even an ordinary acquaintance in whom interest is felt. It will indulge, therefore, only a necessary and proper curiosity tointroduce the subject of this notice by a short account of a familywhose striking traits survive in him so remarkably. General Butler'sgrandfather, Thomas Butler, was born 6th April, 1720, in Kilkenny, Ireland. He married there in 1742. Three of his five sons who attainedmanhood, Richard, William and Thomas, were born abroad. Pierce, thefather of General William O. Butler, and Edward, the youngest son, were born in Pennsylvania. It is remarkable that all these men, andall their immediate male descendants, with a single exception, (whowas a judge, ) were engaged in the military service of this country. The eldest, Richard, was Lieut. Col. Of Morgan's celebratedrifle-regiment, and to him it owed much of the high character thatgave it a fame of its own, apart from the other corps of theRevolution. The cool, disciplined valor which gave steady and deadlydirection to the rifles of this regiment, was derived principally fromthis officer, who devoted himself to the drill of his men. He waspromoted to the full command of his regiment sometime during the war, (when Morgan's great merit and services had raised him to the rank ofgeneral, ) and in that capacity had commanded Wayne's left in theattack on Stony Point. About the year 1790, he was appointedmajor-general. On the 4th of November, 1791, he was killed in St. Clair's bloody battle with the Indians. His combat with the Indians, after he was shot, gave such a peculiar interest to his fate that arepresentation of himself and the group surrounding him was exhibitedthroughout the Union in wax figures. Notices of this accomplishedsoldier will be found in Marshall's Life of Washington, pages 290, 311, 420. In Gen. St. Clair's report, in the American Museum, volumexi. Page 44, Appendix. William Butler, the second son, was an officer throughout therevolutionary war; rose to the rank of colonel, and was in many of theseverest battles. He was the favorite of the family, and was boastedof by this race of heroes as the coolest and boldest man in battlethey had ever known. When the army was greatly reduced in rank andfile, and there were many superfluous officers, they organizedthemselves into a separate corps, and elected him to the command. General Washington declined receiving this novel corps ofcommissioned soldiers, but in a proud testimonial did honor to theirdevoted patriotism. Of Thomas Butler, the third son, we glean the following facts from theAmerican Biographical Dictionary. In the year 1776, whilst he was astudent of law in the office of the eminent Judge Wilson ofPhiladelphia, he left his pursuit and joined the army as a subaltern. He soon obtained the command of a company, in which he continued tothe close of the revolutionary war. He was in almost every actionfought in the Middle States during the war. At the battle ofBrandywine he received the thanks of Washington on the field ofbattle, through his aid-de-camp Gen. Hamilton, for his intrepidconduct in rallying a detachment of retreating troops, and giving theenemy a severe fire. At the battle of Monmouth he received the thanksof Gen. Wayne for defending a defile, in the face of a severe firefrom the enemy, while Col. Richard Butler's regiment made good itsretreat. At the close of the war he retired into private life, as afarmer, and continued in the enjoyment of rural and domestic happinessuntil the year 1791, when he again took the field to meet the savagefoe that menaced our western frontier. He commanded a battalion in thedisastrous battle of Nov. 4, 1791, in which his brother fell. Orderswere given by Gen. St. Clair to charge with the bayonet, and MajorButler, though his leg had been broken by a ball, yet on horseback, led his battalion to the charge. It was with difficulty his survivingbrother, Capt. Edward Butler, removed him from the field. In 1792 hewas continued in the establishment as major, and in 1794 he waspromoted to the rank of lieutenant-colonel commandant of the 4thsub-legion. He commanded in this year Fort Fayette, at Pittsburg, andprevented the deluded insurgents from taking it, more by his name thanby his forces, for he had but few troops. The close of his life wasembittered with trouble. In 1803 he was arrested by the commandinggeneral--Wilkinson--at Fort Adams, on the Mississippi, and sent toMaryland, where he was tried by a court-martial, and acquitted of allthe charges, save that of _wearing his hair_. He was then ordered toNew Orleans, where he arrived, to take command of the troops, October20th. He was again arrested next month; but the court did not situntil July of the next year, and their decision is not known. Col. Butler died Sept. 7, 1805. Out of the arrest and persecution of thissturdy veteran, Washington Irving (Knickerbocker) has worked up a finepiece of burlesque, in which Gen. Wilkinson's character is inimitablydelineated in that of the vain and pompous Gen. Von Poffenburg. Percival Butler, the fourth son, father of General Wm. O. Butler, wasborn at Carlisle, Pennsylvania, in 1760. He entered the army as alieutenant at the age of eighteen; was with Washington at ValleyForge; was in the battle of Monmouth, and at the taking ofYorktown--being through the whole series of struggles in the MiddleStates, with the troops under the commander-in-chief, except for ashort period when he was attached to a light corps commanded by LaFayette, who presented him a sword. Near the close of the war he wentto the South with the Pennsylvania brigade, where peace found him. Heemigrated to Kentucky in 1784. He was the last of the old stock leftwhen the war of 1812 commenced. He was made adjutant-general whenKentucky became a State, and in that capacity joined one of the armiessent out by Kentucky during the war. Edward Butler, the youngest of the five brothers, was too young toenter the army in the first stages of the Revolution, but joined itnear the close, and had risen to a captaincy when Gen. St. Clair tookthe command, and led it to that disastrous defeat in which so many ofthe best soldiers of the country perished. He there evinced thehighest courage and strongest fraternal affection, in carrying hiswounded brother out of the massacre, which was continued for milesalong the route of the retreating army, and from which so few escaped, even of those who fled unencumbered. He subsequently becameadjutant-general in Wayne's army. Of these five brothers four had sons--all of whom, with one exception, were engaged in the military or naval service of the country duringthe last war. 1st. General Richard Butler's son, William, died a lieutenant in thenavy, early in the last war. His son, Captain James Butler, was at thehead of the Pittsburg Blues, which company he commanded in thecampaigns of the Northwest, and was particularly distinguished in thebattle of Massissinnawa. 2d. Colonel William Butler, also of the revolutionary army, had twosons, one died in the navy, the other a subaltern in Wayne's army. Hewas in the battle with the Indians in 1794. 3d. Lieut. Col. Thomas Butler, of the old stock, had three sons, theeldest a judge. The second, Col. Robert Butler, was at the head ofGen. Jackson's staff throughout the last war. The third, William E. Butler, also served in the army of Gen. Jackson. 4th. Percival Butler, captain in the revolutionary war, andadjutant-general of Kentucky during the last war, had four sons:first, Thomas, who was a captain, and aid to Gen. Jackson at NewOrleans. Next, Gen. William O. Butler, the subject of this notice. Third, Richard, who was assistant adjutant-general in the campaigns ofthe war of 1812. Percival Butler, the youngest son, now adistinguished lawyer, was not of an age to bear arms in the last war. Of this second generation of the Butler's, there are nine certainly, and probably more, engaged in the present war. This glance at the family shows the character of the race. Ananecdote, derived from a letter of an old Pennsylvania friend to theparents, who transplanted it from Ireland, shows that its militaryinstinct was an inheritance. "While the five sons, " says the letter, "were absent from home in the service of the country, the old fathertook it in his head to go also. The neighbors collected to remonstrateagainst it; but his wife said, 'Let him go! I can get along withouthim, and raise something to feed the army in the bargain; and thecountry wants every man who can shoulder a musket. '" It was doubtlessthis extraordinary zeal of the Butler family which induced Gen. Washington to give the toast--"The Butlers, and their five sons, " athis own table, whilst surrounded by a large party of officers. Thisanecdote rests on the authority of the late Gen. Findlay, ofCincinnati. A similar tribute of respect was paid to this devotedhouse of soldiers by Gen. La Fayette, in a letter now extant, and inthe possession of a lady connected with them by marriage. La Fayettesays, "_When I wanted a thing well done, I ordered a Butler to doit. _" From this retrospect it will be seen that in all the wars of thecountry, in the revolutionary war, in the Indian war, in the lastBritish war, and the present Mexican war, the blood of almost everyButler able to bear arms has been freely shed in the public cause. Maj. Gen. William O. Butler is now among the highest in the militaryservice of his country; and he has attained this grade from theranks--the position of a private being the only one he ever sought. Atthe opening of the war of 1812, he had just graduated in theTransylvania University, and was looking to the law as a profession. The surrender of Detroit, and the army by Hull, aroused the patriotismand the valor of Kentucky--and young Butler, yet in his minority, wasamong the first to volunteer. He gave up his books, and the enjoymentsof the gay and polished society of Lexington, where he lived among acircle of fond and partial relations--the hope to gratify theirambition in shining at the bar, or in the political forum of thestate--to join Capt. Hart's company of infantry as a private soldier. Before the march to join the northwestern army, he was elected acorporal. In this grade he marched to the relief of Fort Wayne, whichwas invested by hostile Indians. These were driven before the Kentuckyvolunteers to their towns on the Wabash, which were destroyed, and thetroops then returned to the Miami of the lakes, where they made awinter encampment. Here an ensign's commission in the second regimentof United States infantry was tendered to the volunteer corporal, which he declined, unless permitted to remain with the northwesternarmy, which he had entered to share in the effort of the Kentuckymilitia to wipe out the disgrace of Hull's surrender by the recaptureof Detroit. His proposition was assented to, and he received anensign's appointment in the seventeenth infantry, then a part of thenorthwestern army, under the command of Gen. Winchester. Afterenduring every privation in a winter encampment, in the wildernessesand frozen marshes of the lake country, awaiting in vain the expectedsupport of additional forces, the Kentucky volunteers, led by Lewis, Allen, and Madison, with Well's regiment, (17th U. S. ) advanced toencounter the force of British and Indians which defended Detroit. Onleaving Kentucky the volunteers had pledged themselves to drive theBritish invaders from our soil. These men and their leaders were heldin such estimation at home, that the expectation formed of themexceeded their promises; and these volunteers, though disappointed inevery succor which they had reason to anticipate--wanting inprovision, clothes, cannon, in every thing--resolved, rather than losereputation, to press on to the enterprise, and to endeavor to draw onto them, by entering into action, the troops behind. It is not properhere to enter into explanations of the causes of the disaster at theRiver Raisin, the consequence of this movement, nor to give theparticulars of the battle. The incidents which signalized thecharacter of the subject of this memoir alone are proper here. There were two battles at the River Raisin, one on the 18th, the otheron the 22d of January. In the first, the whole body of Indianwarriors, drawn together from all the lake tribes, for the defence ofUpper Canada against the approaching Kentuckians, were encountered. Inmoving to the attack of this formidable force of the fiercest, andbravest, and most expert warriors on the continent, a strong party ofthem were descried from the line with which Ensign Butler advanced, running forward to reach a fence, and hold it as a cover from which toply their rifles. Butler instantly proposed, and was permitted, toanticipate them. Calling upon some of the most alert and active men ofthe company, he ran directly to meet the Indians at the fence. He andhis comrades out-stripped the enemy, and getting possession of thefence, kept the advantage of the position for their advancing friends. This incident, of however little importance as to results, is worthremembrance in giving the traits of a young soldier's character. It issaid that the hardiest veteran, at the opening of the fire in battle, feels, for the moment, somewhat appalled. And Gen. Wolfe, one of thebravest of men, declared that the "horrid yell of the Indian strikesthe boldest heart with affright. " The strippling student, who, for thefirst time, beheld a field of battle on the snows of the River Raisin, presenting in bold relief long files of those terrible enemies, whosemassacres had filled his native State with tales of horror, must havefelt some stirring sensations. But the crack of the Indian rifle, andhis savage yell, awoke in him the chivalric instincts of his nature;and the promptitude with which he communicated his enthusiasm to a fewcomrades around, and rushed forward to meet danger in its mostappalling form, risking himself to save others, and secure a triumphwhich he could scarcely hope to share, gave earnest of the militarytalent, the self-sacrificing courage, and the soldierly sympathieswhich have drawn to him the nation's esteem. The close of the battleof the 18th gave another instance in which these latter traits of Gen. Butler's character were still more strikingly illustrated. TheIndians, driven from the defences around the town on the River Raisin, retired fighting into the thick woods beyond it. The contest ofsharp-shooting from tree to tree was here continued--the Kentuckianspressing forward, and the Indians retreating, until night closed in, when the Kentuckians were recalled to the encampment in the village. The Indians advanced as their opposers withdrew, and kept up the fireuntil the Kentuckians emerged from the woods into the open ground. Just as the column to which Ensign Butler belonged reached the vergeof the dark forest, the voice of a wounded man, who had been left somedistance behind, was heard calling out most piteously for help. Butlerinduced three of his company to go back in the woods with him to bringhim off. He was found, and they fought their way back--one of the men, Jeremiah Walker, receiving a shot, of which he subsequently died. In the second sanguinary battle of the River Raisin, on the 22d ofJanuary, with the British and Indians, another act of self-devotionwas performed by Butler. After the rout and massacre of the rightwing, belonging to Wells' command, the whole force of the British andIndians was concentrated against the small body of troops under MajorMadison, that maintained their ground within the picketed gardens. Adouble barn, commanding the plot of ground on which the Kentuckiansstood, was approached on one side by the Indians, under the cover ofan orchard and fence; the British, on the other side, being so postedas to command the space between it and the pickets. A party in therear of the barn were discovered advancing to take possession of it. All saw the fatal consequences of the secure lodgment of the enemy ata place which would present every man within the pickets at closerifle-shot to the aim of their marksmen. Major Madison inquired ifthere was no one who would volunteer to run the gauntlet of the fireof the British and Indian lines, and put a torch to the combustibleswithin the barn, to save the remnant of the little army fromsacrifice. Butler, without a moment's delay, took some blazing slicksfrom a fire at hand, leaped the pickets, and running at his utmostspeed, thrust the fire into the straw within the barn. One who was ananxious spectator of the event we narrate, says, "that although volleyupon volley was fired at him, Butler, after making some steps on hisway back, turned to see if the fire had taken, and not beingsatisfied, returned to the barn and set it in a blaze. As theconflagration grew, the enemy was seen retreating from the rear of thebuilding, which they had entered at one end, as the flame ascended inthe other. Soon after reaching the pickets in safety, amid the shoutsof his friends, he was struck by a ball in his breast. Believing fromthe pain he felt that it had penetrated his chest, turning to Adjutant(now Gen. ) McCalla, one of his Lexington comrades, and pressing hishand to the spot, he said, "I fear this shot is mortal, but while I amable to move, I will do my duty. " To the anxious inquiries of thisfriend, who met him soon afterward, he opened his vest, with a smile, and showed him that the ball had spent itself on the thick wadding ofhis coat and on his breast bone. He suffered, however, for manyweeks. The little band within the pickets, which Winchester had surrendered, after being carried himself a prisoner into Proctor's camp, denied hispowers. They continued to hold the enemy at bay until they wereenabled to capitulate on honorable terms, which, nevertheless, Proctorshamefully violated, by leaving the sick and wounded who were unableto walk to the tomahawk of his allies. Butler, who was among the fewof the wounded who escaped the massacre, was marched through Canada toFort Niagara--suffering under his wound, and every privation--oppressedwith grief, hunger, fatigue, and the inclement cold of that desolateregion. Even here he forgot himself, and his mind wandered back to thelast night scene which he surveyed on the bloody shores of the RiverRaisin. He gave up the heroic part and became the schoolboy again, andcommemorated his sorrows for his lost friends in verse, like somepassionate, heart-broken lover. These elegiac strains were neverintended for any but the eye of mutual friends, whose sympathies, likehis own, poured out tears with their plaints over the dead. We givesome of these lines of his boyhood, to show that the heroic youth hada bosom not less kind than brave. THE FIELD OF RAISIN. The battle's o'er! the din is past, Night's mantle on the field is cast; The Indian yell is heard no more, An silence broods o'er Erie's shore. At this lone hour I go to tread The field where valor vainly bled-- To raise the wounded warrior's crest, Or warm with tears his icy breast; To treasure up his last command, And bear it to his native land. It may one pulse of joy impart To a fond mother's bleeding heart; Or for a moment it may dry The tear-drop in the widow's eye. Vain hope, away! The widow ne'er Her warrior's dying wish shall hear. The passing zephyr bears no sigh, No wounded warrior meets the eye-- Death is his sleep by Erie's wave, Of Raisin's snow we heap his grave! How many hopes lie murdered here-- The mother's joy, the father's pride, The country's boast, the foeman's fear, In wilder'd havoc, side by side. Lend me, thou silent queen of night, Lend me awhile thy waning light, That I may see each well-loved form, That sunk beneath the morning storm. These lines are introductory to what may be considered a succession ofepitaphs on the personal friends whose bodies he found upon the field. It would extend the extract too far to insert them. We can only addthe close of the poem, where he takes leave of a group of his youngcomrades in Hart's company, who had fallen together. And here I see that youthful band, That loved to move at Hart's command; I saw them for the battle dressed, And still where danger thickest pressed, I marked their crimson plumage wave. How many filled this bloody grave! Their pillow and their winding-sheet The virgin snow--a shroud most meet! But wherefore do I linger here? Why drop the unavailing tear? Where'er I turn, some youthful form, Like floweret broken by the storm, Appeals to me in sad array, And bids me yet a moment stay. Till I could fondly lay me down And sleep with him on the cold, cold ground. For thee, thou dread and solemn plain, I ne'er shall look on thee again; And Spring, with her effacing showers, Shall come, and Summer's mantling flowers; And each succeeding Winter throw On thy red breast new robes of snow; Yet I will wear thee in my heart, All dark and gory as thou art. Shortly after his return from Canada. Ensign Butler was promoted to acaptaincy in the regiment to which he belonged. But as this promotionwas irregular, being made over the heads of senior officers in thatregiment, a captaincy was given him in the 44th, a new raisedregiment. When free from parole, by exchange, in 1814, he instantlyentered on active duty, with a company which he had recruited atNashville, Tennessee. His regiment was ordered to join General Jacksonin the South, but Captain Butler finding its movements too tardy, pushed on, and effected that junction with his company alone. Gen. Call, at that time an officer in Capt. Butler's company, (since Gov. Of Florida, ) in a letter addressed to Mr. Tanner of Kentucky, presents, as an eye-witness, so graphically, the share which Capt. Butler had in the campaign which followed, that it may well supersedeany narrative at second hand. "_Tallehasse, April_ 3, 1844. "SIR, --I avail myself of the earliest leisure I have had since the receipt of your letter of the 18th of February, to give you a reply. "A difference of political sentiments will not induce me to withhold the narrative you have requested, of the military services of Col. Wm. O. Butler, during the late war with Great Britain, while attached to the army of the South. My intimate association with him, in camp, on the march, and in the field, has perhaps made me as well acquainted with his merits, as a gentleman and a soldier, as any other man living. And although we are now standing in opposite ranks, I cannot forget the days and nights we have stood side by side, facing the common enemy of our country, sharing the same fatigues, dangers, and privations, and participating in the same pleasures and enjoyments. The feelings and sympathies springing from such associations in the days of our youth can never be removed or impaired by a difference of opinion with regard to men or measures, when each may well believe the other equally sincere as himself, and where the most ardent desire of both is to sustain the honor, the happiness and prosperity of our country. "Soon after my appointment in the army of the United States, as a lieutenant, in the fall of 1814, I was ordered to join the company of Capt. Butler, of the 44th regiment of infantry, then at Nashville, Tennessee. When I arrived, and reported myself, I found the company under orders to join our regiment in the South. The march, mostly through an unsettled wilderness, was conducted by Capt. Butler with his usual promptitude and energy, and by forced and rapid movements we arrived at Fort Montgomery, the headquarters of Gen. Jackson, a short distance above the Florida line, just in time to follow our beloved general in his bold enterprise to drive the enemy from his strong position in a neutral territory. The van-guard of the army destined for the invasion of Louisiana had made Pensacola its headquarters, and the British navy in the Gulf of Mexico had rendezvoused in that beautiful bay. "The penetrating sagacity of Gen. Jackson discovered the advantage of the position assumed by the British forces, and with a decision and energy which never faltered, he resolved to find his enemy, even under the flag of a neutral power. This was done by a prompt and rapid march, surprising and cutting off all the advanced pickets, until we arrived within gun-shot of the fort at Pensacola. The army of Gen. Jackson was then so inconsiderable as to render a reinforcement of a single company, commanded by such an officer as Capt. Butler, an important acquisition. And although there were several companies of regular troops ordered to march from Tennessee at the same time, Capt. Butler's, by his extraordinary energy and promptitude, was the only one which arrived in time to join this expedition. His company formed a part of the centre column of attack at Pensacola. The street we entered was defended by a battery in front, which fired on us incessantly, while several strong block-houses, on our flanks, discharged upon us small arms and artillery. But a gallant and rapid charge soon carried the guns in front, and the town immediately surrendered. "In this fight Capt. Butler led on his company with his usual intrepidity. He had one officer, Lieut. Flournoy, severely wounded, and several non-commissioned officers and privates killed and wounded. "From Pensacola, after the object of the expedition was completed, by another prompt and rapid movement, we arrived at New Orleans a few weeks before the appearance of the enemy. "On the 23d of December the signal-gun announced the approach of the enemy. The previous night they had surprised and captured one of our pickets; had ascended a bayou, disembarked, and had taken possession of the left bank of the Mississippi, within six miles of New Orleans. The energy of every officer was put in requisition, to concentrate our forces in time to meet the enemy. Capt. Butler was one of the first to arrive at the general's quarters, and ask instructions; they were received and promptly executed. Our regiment, stationed on the opposite side, was transported across the river. All the available forces of our army, not much exceeding fifteen hundred men, were concentrated in the city; and while the sun went down the line of battle was formed; and every officer took the station assigned him in the fight. The infantry formed on the open square, in front of the Cathedral, waiting in anxious expectation for the order to move. During this momentary pause, while the enemy was expected to enter the city, a scene of deep and thrilling interest was presented. Every gallery, porch and window around the square were filled with the fair forms of beauty, in silent anxiety and alarm, waving their handkerchiefs to the gallant and devoted band which stood before them, prepared to die, or defend them from the rude intrusion of a foreign soldiery. It was a scene calculated to awaken emotions never to be forgotten. It appealed to the chivalry and patriotism of every officer and soldier--it inspired every heart, and nerved every arm for battle. From this impressive scene the army marched to meet the enemy, and about eight o'clock at night they were surprised in their encampment, immediately on the banks of the Mississippi. Undiscovered, our line was formed in silence within a short distance of the enemy; a rapid charge was made into their camp, and a desperate conflict ensued. After a determined resistance the enemy gave way, but disputing every inch of ground we gained. In advancing over ditches and fences in the night, rendered still more dark by the smoke of the battle, much confusion necessarily ensued, and many officers became separated from their commands. It more than once occurred during the fight that some of our officers, through mistake, entered the enemy's lines; and the British officers in like manner entered ours. The meritorious officer in command of our regiment, at the commencement of the battle, lost his position in the darkness and confusion, and was unable to regain it until the action was over. In this manner, for a short time, the regiment was without a commander, and its movements were regulated by the platoon officers, which increased the confusion and irregularity of the advance. In this critical situation, and in the heat of the battle, Capt. Butler, as the senior officer present, assumed command of the regiment, and led it on most gallantly to repeated and successful charges, until the fight ended in the complete rout of the enemy. We were still pressing on their rear, when an officer of the general's staff rode up and ordered the pursuit discontinued. Captain Butler urged its continuance, and expressed the confident belief of his ability to take many prisoners, if permitted to advance. But the order was promptly repeated, under the well-founded apprehension that our troops might come in collision with each other, an event which had unhappily occurred at a previous hour of the fight. No corps on that field was more bravely led to battle than the regiment commanded by Capt. Butler, and no officer of any rank, save the commander-in-chief, was entitled to higher credit for the achievement of that glorious night. "A short time before the battle of the 8th of January, Capt. Butler was detailed to command the guard in front of the encampment. A house standing near the bridge, in advance of his position, had been taken possession of by the light troops of the enemy, from whence they annoyed our guard. Capt. Butler determined to dislodge them and burn the house. He accordingly marched to the attack at the head of his command, but the enemy retired before him. Seeing them retreat, he halted his guard, and advanced himself, accompanied by two or three men only, for the purpose of burning the house. It was an old frame building, weather-boarded, without ceiling or plaster in the inside, with a single door opening to the British camp. On entering the house he found a soldier of the enemy concealed in one corner, whom he captured, and sent to the rear with his men, remaining alone in the house. While he was in the act of kindling a fire, a detachment of the enemy, unperceived, occupied the only door. The first impulse was to force, with his single arm, a passage through them, but he was instantly seized in a violent manner by two or three stout fellows, who pushed him back against the wall with such force as to burst off the weather-boarding from the wall, and he fell through the opening thus made. In an instant he recovered himself, and under a heavy fire from the enemy, he retreated until supported by the guard, which he immediately led on to the attack, drove the British light troops from their strong position, and burnt the house in the presence of the two armies. "I witnessed on that field many deeds of daring courage, but none of which more excited my admiration than this. "Capt. Butler was soon after in the battle of the 8th of January, where he sustained his previously high and well earned reputation for bravery and usefulness. But that battle, which, from its important results, has eclipsed those which preceded it, was but a slaughter of the enemy, with trivial loss on our part, and presenting few instances of individual distinction. "Capt. Butler received the brevet rank of major for his gallant services during that eventful campaign, and the reward of merit was never more worthily bestowed. Soon after the close of the war, he was appointed aid-de-camp to Gen. Jackson, in which station he remained until he retired from the army. Since that period I have seldom had the pleasure of meeting with my valued friend and companion in arms, and I know but little of his career in civil life. But in camp, his elevated principles, his intelligence and generous feelings, won for him the respect and confidence of all who knew him; and where he is best known, I will venture to say, he is still most highly appreciated for every attribute which constitutes the gentleman and the soldier. "I am, sir, very respectfully, "R. K. CALL. ""MR. WILLIAM TANNER. " General Jackson's sense of the services of Butler, in this memorablecampaign, was strongly expressed in the following letter to a memberof the Kentucky Legislature: "_Hermitage, Feb. _ 20, 1844. "MY DEAR SIR, --You ask me to give you my opinion of the military services of the then Captain, now Colonel, Wm. O. Butler, of Kentucky, during the investment of New Orleans by the British forces in 1814 and 1815. I wish I had sufficient strength to speak fully of the merit of the services of Col. Butler on that occasion; this strength I have not: Suffice it to say, that on all occasions he displayed that heroic chivalry, and calmness of judgment in the midst of danger, which distinguish the valuable officer in the hour of battle. In a conspicuous manner were those noble qualities displayed by him on the night of the 23d December, 1814, and on the 8th of January, 1815, as well as at all times during the presence of the British army at New Orleans. In short, he was to be found at all points where duty called. I hazard nothing in saying that should our country again be engaged in war during the active age of Col. Butler, he would be one of the very best selections that could be made to command our army, and lead the Eagles of our country on to victory and renown. He has sufficient energy to assume all responsibility necessary to success, and for his country's good. "ANDREW JACKSON. " Gen. Jackson gave earlier proof of the high estimation in which heheld the young soldier who had identified himself with his own gloryat New Orleans. He made him his aid-de-camp in 1816--which station heretained on the peace establishment, with the rank of colonel. But, like his illustrious patron, he soon felt that military station anddistinction had no charms for him when unattended with the dangers, duties, and patriotic achievements of war. He resigned, therefore, even the association with his veteran chief, of which he was so proud, and retired in 1817 to private life. He resumed his study of theprofession that was interrupted by the war, married, and settled downon his patrimonial possession at the confluence of the Kentucky andOhio rivers, in the noiseless but arduous vocations of civil life. Theabode which he had chosen made it peculiarly so with him. The regionaround him was wild and romantic, sparsely settled, and by pastoralpeople. There are no populous towns. The high, rolling, and yet richlands--the precipitous cliffs of the Kentucky, of Eagle, Tavern andother tributaries which pour into it near the mouth--make this sectionof the State still, to some extent a wilderness of thickets--and thetangled pea-vine, the grape-vine and nut-bearing trees, which renderedall Kentucky, until the intrusion of the whites, one great Indianpark. The whole luxuriant domain was preserved by the Indians as apasture for buffalo, deer, elk, and other animals--their enjoymentalike as a chase and a subsistence--by excluding every tribe fromfixing a habitation in it. Its name consecrated it as the dark andbloody ground; and war pursued every foot that trod it. In the midstof this region, in April, 1791, Wm. O. Butler was born, in Jessaminecounty, on the Kentucky River. His father had married, in Lexington, soon after his arrival in Kentucky, 1782, Miss Howkins, asister-in-law of Col. Todd, who commanded and perished in the battleof the Blue-Licks. Following the instincts of his family, which seemedever to court danger, Gen. Pierce Butler, as neighborhood encroachedaround him, removed, not long after the birth of his son William, tothe mouth of the Kentucky River. Through this section the Indianwarpath into the heart of Kentucky passed. Until the peace of 1794, there was scarcely a day that some hostile Savage did not prowlthrough the tangled forests, and the labyrinths of hills, streams andcliffs, which adapted this region to their lurking warfare. From itthey emerged when they made their last formidable incursion, andpushed their foray to the environs of Frankfort, the capital of theState. General Pierce Butler had on one side of him the Ohio, on thefarther shore of which the savage hordes still held the mastery, andon the other the romantic region through which they hunted and pressedtheir war enterprises. And here, amid the scenes of border warfare, his son William had that spirit, which has animated him through life, educated by the legends of the Indian-fighting hunters of Kentucky. To the feelings and taste inspired by the peculiarities of the placeand circumstances adverted to, must be attributed the return of Col. Butler to his father's home, to enter on his profession as a lawyer. There were no great causes or rich clients to attract him--no densepopulation to lift him to the political honors of the State. Theeloquence and learning, the industry and integrity which he gave toadjust the controversies of Gallatin and the surrounding counties, would have crowned him with wealth and professional distinction, ifexhibited at Louisville or Lexington. But he coveted neither. Independence, the affections of his early associates, the love of afamily circle, and the charm which the recollection of a happy boyhoodgave to the scenes in which he was reared, were all he sought. And hefound them all in the romantic dells and woodland heights of Kentucky, and on the sides of the far spreading, gently flowing, beautiful Ohio. The feeling which his sincere and sensitive nature had imbibed herewas as strong as that of the Switzer for his bright lakes, loftymountains, and deep valleys. The wild airs of the boat horn, whichhave resounded for so many years from arks descending the Ohio andKentucky, floating along the current and recurring in echoes from thehollows of the hills, like its eddies, became as dear to him as thefamous Rans de Vache to the native of Switzerland. We insert, ascharacteristic alike of the poetical talent and temperament of Butler, some verses which the sound of this rude instrument evoked when hereturned home, resigning with rapture "the ear piercing fife andspirit stirring drum" for the wooden horn, which can only compass inits simple melody such airs as that to which Burns has set hisbeautiful words-- When wild war's deadly blast was blawn, And gentle peace returning, Wi' mony a sweet babe fatherless, And many a widow mourning; I left the lines and tented field. The music of this song made the burden of the "Boatman's Horn, " andalways announced the approaching ark to the river villages. The sentiments of the poet, as well as the sweet and deep tones whichwafted the plaintive air over the wide expanse of the Ohio, may havecontributed to awaken the feeling which pervade these lines. THE BOAT HORN. O, boatman! wind that horn again, For never did the list'ning air Upon its lambent bosom bear So wild, so soft, so sweet a strain-- What though thy notes are sad, and few, By every simple boatman blown, Yet is each pulse to nature true, And melody in every tone. How oft in boyhood's joyous day, Unmindful of the lapsing hours, I've loitered on my homeward way By wild Ohio's brink of flowers, While some lone boatman, from the deck, Poured his soft numbers to that tide, As if to charm from storm and wreck The boat where all his fortunes ride! Delighted Nature drank the sound, Enchanted--Echo bore it round In whispers soft, and softer still, From hill to plain, and plain to hill, Till e'en the thoughtless, frolick boy, Elate with hope, and wild with joy, Who gamboled by the river's side, And sported with the fretting tide, Feels something new pervade his breast, Chain his light step, repress his jest, Bends o'er the flood his eager ear To catch the sounds far off yet dear-- Drinks the sweet draught, but knows not why The tear of rapture fills his eye And can he now, to manhood grown, Tell why those notes, simple and lone, As on the ravished ear they fall, Bind every sense in magic spell? There is a tide of feeling given To all on earth, its fountain Heaven. Beginning with the dewy flower, Just oped in Flora's vernal bower-- Rising creation's orders through With louder murmur, brighter hue-- That _tide_ is sympathy! its ebb and flow Give life its hues of joy and wo. Music, the master-spirit that can move Its waves to war, or lull them into love-- Can cheer the sinking sailor mid the wave, And bid the soldier on! nor fear the grave-- Inspire the fainting pilgrim on his road, And elevate his soul to claim his God. Then, boatman! wind that horn again! Though much of sorrow mark its strain, Yet are its notes to sorrow dear; What though they wake fond memory's tear! Tears are sad memory's sacred feast, And rapture oft her chosen guest. This retirement, which may almost be considered seclusion, was enjoyedby Col. Butler nearly twenty-five years, when he was called out by theDemocratic party to redeem by his personal popularity thecongressional district in which he lived. It was supposed that no oneelse could save it from the Whigs. Like all the rest of his family, none of whom had made their military service a passport to the honorsand emoluments of civil stations, he was averse to relinquish theattitude he occupied to enter on a party struggle. The importunity offriends prevailed; and he was elected to two successive terms inCongress, absolutely refusing to be a candidate a third time. He spokeseldom in Congress, but in two or three fine speeches which appear inthe debates, a power will readily be detected which could not havefailed to conduct to the highest distinction in that body. Taste, judgment, and eloquence, characterized all his efforts in Congress. Afine manner, an agreeable voice, and the high consideration accordedto him by the members of all parties, gave him, what it is the goodfortune of few to obtain, an attentive and gratified audience. In 1844 the same experiment was made with Butler's popularity to carrythe state for the Democracy, as had succeeded in his congressionaldistrict. He was nominated as the Democratic candidate for governor bythe 8th of January Convention; and there is good ground to believethat he would have been chosen over his estimable Whig competitor, Governor Owsley, but for the universal conviction throughout the statethat the defeat of Mr. Clay's party, by the choice of a Democraticgovernor in August, would have operated to injure Mr. Clay's prospectsthroughout the Union, in the presidential election which followedimmediately after in November. With Mr. Clay's popularity, and theactivity of all his friends--with the state pride so long exalted bythe aspiration of giving a President to the Union--more eagerly thanever enlisted against the Democracy, Col. Butler diminished the Whigmajority from twenty thousand to less than five thousand. The late military events with which Maj. Gen. Butler has beenconnected--in consequence of his elevation to that grade in 1846, withthe view to the command of the volunteers raised to support Gen. Taylor in his invasion of Mexico--are so well known to the countrythat minute recital is not necessary. He acted a very conspicuous partin the severe conflict at Monterey, and had, as second in commandunder Gen. Taylor, his full share in the arduous duties andresponsibilities incurred in that important movement. The narrative ofMajor Thomas, senior assistant adjutant-general of the army in Mexico, and hence assigned by Gen. Taylor to the staff of Gen. Butler, reportsso plainly and modestly the part which Gen. Butler performed insubjecting the city, that it may well stand for history. This passageis taken from it. "The army arrived at their camp in the vicinity of Monterey about noon September 19th. That afternoon the general endeavored by personal observation to get information of the enemy's position. He, like Gen. Taylor, saw the importance of gaining the road to Saltillo, and fully favored the movement of Gen. Worth's division to turn their left, &c. Worth marched Sunday, September 20th, for this purpose, thus leaving Twiggs' and Butler's divisions with Gen. Taylor. Gen. Butler was also in favor of throwing his division across the St. John's river, and approaching the town from the east, which was at first determined upon. This was changed, as it would leave but one, and perhaps the smallest division, to guard the camp, and attack in front. The 20th the general also reconnoitered the enemy's position. Early the morning of the 21st the force was ordered out to create a diversion in favor of Worth, that he might gain his position; and before our division came within long range of the enemy's principal battery, the foot of Twiggs' division had been ordered down to the northeast side of the town, to make an armed reconnoisance of the advanced battery, and to take it if it could be done without great loss. The volunteer division was scarcely formed in rear of our howitzer and mortar battery, established the night previous under cover of a rise of ground, before the infantry sent down to the northeast side of the town became closely and hotly engaged, the batteries of that division were sent down, _and we were then ordered to support the attack. _ Leaving the Kentucky regiment to support the mortar and howitzer battery, the general rapidly put in march, by a flank movement, the other three regiments, moving for some one and a half or two miles under a heavy fire of round shot. As further ordered, the Ohio regiment was detached from Quitman's brigade, and led by the general (at this time accompanied by Gen. Taylor) into the town. Quitman carried his brigade directly on the battery first attacked, and gallantly carried it. Before this, however, as we entered the suburbs, the chief engineer came up and advised us to withdraw, as the object of the attack had failed, and if we moved on we must meet with great loss. The general was loath to fall back without consulting with Gen. Taylor, which he did do--the general being but a short distance off. As we were withdrawing, news came that Quitman had carried the battery, and Gen. Butler led the Ohio regiment back to the town at a different point. In the street we became exposed to a line of batteries on the opposite side of a small stream, and also from a _tête de pont_ (bridge-head) which enfiladed us. Our men fell rapidly as we moved up the street to get a position to charge the battery across the stream. Coming to a cross-street, the general reconnoitered the position, and determining to charge from that point, sent me back a short distance to stop the firing, and advance the regiment with the bayonet. I had just left him, when he was struck in the leg, being on foot, and was obliged to leave the field. " "On entering the town, the general and his troops became at once hotly engaged at short musket range. He had to make his reconnoisances under heavy fire. This he did unflinchingly, and by exposing his person--on one occasion passing through a large gateway into a yard which was entirely open to the enemy. When he was wounded, at the intersection of the two streets, he was exposed to a cross-fire of musketry and grape. " "In battle the general's bearing was truly that of a soldier; and those under him felt the influence of his presence. He had the entire confidence of his men. " The narrative of Major Thomas continues: "When Gen. Taylor went on his expedition to Victoria, in December, he placed Gen. Butler in command of the troops left on the Rio Grande, and at the stations from the river on to Saltillo--Worth's small division of regulars being at the latter place. Gen. Wool's column had by this time reached Parras, one hundred or more miles west of Saltillo. General Butler had so far recovered from his wound as to walk a little and take exercise on horseback, though with pain to his limb. One night, (about the 19th December, ) an express came from Gen. Worth at Saltillo, stating that the Mexican forces were advancing in large numbers from San Luis de Potosi, and that he expected to be attacked in two days. His division, all told, did not exceed 1500 men, if so many, and he asked reinforcements. The general remained up during the balance of the night, sent off the necessary couriers to the rear for reinforcements, and had the 1st Kentuckey, and the 1st Ohio foot, then encamped three miles from town, in the place by daylight; and these two regiments, with Webster's battery, were encamped that night ten miles on the road to Saltillo. This promptness enabled the general to make his second day's march of twenty-two miles in good season, and to hold the celebrated pass of Los Muertos, and check the enemy should he have attacked Gen. Worth on that day, and obliged him to evacuate the town. Whilst on the next, and last day's march, the general received notice that the reported advance of the enemy was untrue. Arriving at the camp-ground, the general suffered intense pain from his wound, and slept not during the night. This journey, over a rugged, mountainous road, and the exercise he took in examining the country for twenty miles in advance of Saltillo, caused the great increase of pain now experienced. " The major's account then goes on to relate Gen. Butler's proceedingswhile in command of all the forces after the junction of GeneralsWorth and Wool--his dispositions to meet the threatened attack ofSanta Anna--the defences created by him at Saltillo, and used duringthe attack at Buena Vista in dispersing Miñon's forces--his justtreatment of the people of Saltillo, with the prudent and effectualprecautions taken to make them passive in the event of Santa Anna'sapproach. It concludes by stating that all apprehensions of SantaAnna's advance subsiding, Gen. Butler returned to meet Gen. Taylor atMonterey, to report the condition of affairs; and the latter, havingtaken the command at Saltillo, transmitted a leave of absence to Gen. Butler, to afford opportunity for the cure of his wound. This paper affords evidence of the kind feeling which subsistedbetween the two generals during the campaign, and this sentiment wasstrongly evinced by Gen. Butler, on his arrival in Washington, wherehe spoke in the most exalted terms of the leader under whom he served. In person Gen. Butler is tall, straight, and handsomely formed, exceedingly active and alert--his mien is inviting--his mannersgraceful--his gait and air military--his countenance frank andpleasing--the outline of his features of the aquiline cast, thin andpointed in expression--the general contour of his head is Roman. The character of Gen. Butler in private life is in fine keeping withthat exhibited in his public career. In the domestic circle, care, kindness, assiduous activity in anticipating the wants of all aroundhim--readiness to forego his own gratifications to gratify others, have become habits growing out of his affections. His love makesperpetual sunshine at his home. Among his neighbors, liberality, affability, and active sympathy mark his social intercourse, andunbending integrity and justice all his dealings. His home is one ofunpretending simplicity. It is too much the habit in Kentucky, withstern and fierce men, to carry their personal and political ends witha high hand. Gen. Butler, with all the masculine strength, courage, and reputation to give success to attempts of this sort, never evincedthe slightest disposition to indulge the power, whilst his well-knownfirmness always forbade such attempts on him. His life has been one ofpeace with all men, except the enemies of his country. MATHEW MIZZLE, OF THE INQUIRING MIND. BY THE LATE JOSEPH C. NEAL. [Illustration] How could he help it? Born with an inquiring turn of mind, and giftedfrom the first with a disposition toward experimental philosophy, bywhat processes would you undertake to change the current of MathewMizzle's mind? He is one of those who take nothing for granted. Aweight of authority is little in his mind when compared to thepersonal investigation of the fact--facts for the people, and forhimself as one of the people--that's the pivot on which Mathew Mizzleturns and returns, one fact being to his mind worth whole volumes ofspeculative assumption; and to Mizzle all facts, let them relate towhat they may, are of peculiar interest. It is useless to tell him so. He must go, see and examine for himself. Often, for instance, as hehad been told that Gruffenhoff's big dog would bite at the aspect ofstrange visitations, do you think that this species of informationwould content the youthful Mizzle? No--he must see into the matter forhimself, and ascertain it beyond the possibility of a doubt, bytouching up Gruffenhoff's big dog with a stick, as the aforesaid bigdog lay asleep in the sun, whereby the demonstration was immediatelyafforded. The big dog would bite--he did bite severely; and thus thelittle Mizzle added another fact to his magazine of knowledge, as wellas an enduring scar to his person, which placed the result uponrecord, and kept memory fresh on the subject. One dog, at least, willbite; and thenceforth, Mathew Mizzle admitted the inference that dogsare apt to bite, under circumstances congenial to such dentalperformances. If you doubt it, there's the mark. "Burnee--burnee, baby, " are the notes of warning often heard in thenursery, when heated stoves become an object of interest to littlehuman specimens just learning to creep. But "burnee, burnee, " conveyedno precise idea to the infantile Mizzle during his preliminarylocomotive operations; and in consonance with the impulses of hisnature, he soon tried the stove in its most intense displays ofcaloric, and in this way determined that "burnee, burnee, " wasunpleasant to the person, and injurious to the costume and raiment ofthat person, to say nothing of its threatening dispositions toward thewhole establishment. "Burnee, burnee, " to the house, as well as"burnee, burnee, " to the baby. And so also as to lamps andcandles--that they would "burnee" too, was placed, painfully, beyondthe impertinent reach of a doubt in minds of the most sceptic order. Mathew Mizzle can show you the evidences to this day, scored, as itwere, upon the living parchment, and engrossed in characters not to bemisunderstood upon the cuticular binding of his physical identity. It was useless, also, to place the little Mathew at the head ofstairs, with information that any further advance on his part wouldprove matter of injury. How could he know until he had tried? Indeed, it required several clear tumbles down an entire flight to satisfy hisjudgment on this point, and to imprint it on his mind, through themedium of his bumpology, that the swiftest transition from one placeto another, especially when effected by the downward movement, is notalways the safest and the most agreeable. But afterward, none knewbetter than he what is meant by the word "landing, " as applied to thestaircase. "The Landing of Columbus" may be celebrated in pictures;but Mathew Mizzle accomplished landings that made very nearly as muchnoise as that effected by "the world-seeking Genoese, " and the voyagesof both were accompanied by squalls. But it was not by the touch alone that Mathew Mizzle sought afterinformation in his earlier career. His taste was equally curious. Strange bottles were subjects of the most intense interest, so thatlike Mithridates, he almost became proof against injury by thefrequent imbibings of poison. He knew that pleasant draughts came frombottles, but had to learn that because a bottle has contents, it doesnot necessarily follow that these contents are either safe oragreeable. Ink, for instance--a copious mouthful of ink--howeverliterary one may be, ink thus administered is not a matter over whichthe recipient is inclined greatly to rejoice. It did not appear so, atleast, when Mathew Mizzle, in frock and trowsers, astonished, afterthis fashion, his mouth, his clothing and the carpet--so astonishedhimself that he forgot to reverse the bottle, but permitted it to pourin a steady stream right into the aperture of his lovely countenance. No one probably in the wide world ever acquired a greater variety ofknowledge, as to the effect of substances of all kinds upon the humanpalate, than was obtained by Mathew Mizzle in the course of hisearlier investigations into the relative qualities of solids andliquids. A spoonful of Cayenne pepper probably afforded him as much ofsurprise as any thing of the same portable compass. The variedexpressions of his countenance would have been a study to a Lavater. The opera-house never witnessed a dance more remarkable for force andfor expression; and if ever Mathew Mizzle was wide awake--wider thanon any previous occasion, it was when he had seasoned himself highlywith Cayenne. It made Mathew piquant to a degree; and something of thesame kind might have been said of him when under the influence ofmustard. He was then the warmest boy anywhere about; and fullyappreciated the cheering influence of "the castors"--he did not goupon castors for a long time afterward, and never again to the sameextent. There was another source of trouble to Mathew Mizzle. His eyes properwere sharp enough; but the knowledge they acquired was not sufficientto satisfy his devouring thirst for information, and therefore much ofhis seeing was done with the tips of his fingers, or the grasp of hishands. He must touch every thing, and of course spoilt many things. Leave him alone in the room for a moment, and he would open all theletters, peep into every drawer, smell at every unknown substance, displace your china, spoil your musical-box, climb up the piano-forte, and pull over the vases of flowers. If you did not hear a crash thistime, do not flatter yourself. Some secret, but equally importantmischief has been accomplished, though it may not be apparent fordays. The Mathew Mizzles always leave their mark; and when a gun wentoff in his hands, the shot that fractured the mirror rendered itfortunate that the mark was only a mirror, as Mathew Mizzle roaredwith terror at "the sound himself had made. " Mathew Mizzle, grown as he is now to man's estate, has perchancechanged the objects of his pursuit, but the activity both of his mindand of his body remains undiminished. Curious as ever to ascertainfacts. He is one of those who have ever an eye upon their neighbors. He follows people to ascertain whither they are going. It is afavorite amusement of his to peep through the blinds of an evening, toascertain what you and your family are about. He listens at doors, andhe peers through cracks and patronizes knot-holes. If he can learnnothing else, it is a satisfaction for him to ascertain what you areabout to have for dinner, and who stopped in to tea. Speak over loudin the street, and Mathew Mizzle saunters close at your elbow, butwith such an unconscious look, that you would never dream that he hadcome merely for information. No one knows better than he all about the domestic difficulties offamilies. His sources of intelligence are innumerable. Sometimes youmay find him on the back fence, taking observations of the domesticcircle; and he has been seen of an evening up the linden-tree in frontof domiciles, for similar purposes. The servants of the vicinage areall on confidential terms with Mathew Mizzle; and--have you not notedthe fact?--when you would have secret discourse with a friend, Mizzlecomes upon you, as the birds of prey scent a battle-field. All secretsappear to hold a species of telegraphic communication with our friendMathew Mizzle, as to the fact at least, that there is a secret inexistence, as well as a regard to its local habitation. Ubiquitous Mathew Mizzle, yet invariably out of place. Open the doorsuddenly, and Mathew Mizzle is almost knocked down. Throw out a bucketof water at night, and Mathew Mizzle is there to receive its contents. Pass a stick through the key-hole, and it's Mizzle's eye that suffersthe detriment. You stumble over him in dark entries--you find himlying perdu in the closet. Go where you will, there is Mizzle, if itbe in the wrong place for Mizzle's presence. Behold him prowling round the scenes to investigate the mysteries of atheatrical performance. There he is, just where he was told not to be, and William Tell was not in fault that his arrow has stricken MathewMizzle breathless. What business had Mizzle there in Switzerland, lurking near the walls of Altorf? Mizzle's last catastrophe, like the last catastrophe of many otherdistinguished citizens, was effected by means of a ladder, which hehad ascended cautiously by night, after the painters had left theirwork, to see what was going on in the chamber of a second story. Suddenly, there was a dog at the bottom of the aforesaid ladder, and acudgel at the top, presenting the alternatives of a dilemma. Switchesabove and bark below, what could the unfortunate Mathew Mizzle do butsurrender himself a prisoner of war? Poor Mizzle! They put him underthe pump, and made him acquainted with the nature of ducks. Is it not a pity that the system of "espionage" does not obtain inAmerica, that Mathew Mizzle might have a field for the exercise of thequalities which are so remarkably developed in his constitution? Itwould be a perfect union of duty and of pleasure, if he could beemployed to find out every thing that goes on in town and about, andit is a great pity that means could not be devised to save so fine ayoung man from the waste of his genius. "People are so fussy about their secrets, " says he, "as if there wereany use of having secrets, if it were not for the fun of finding themout and talking about them. It's mean and selfish to abridgeintelligence in that sort of way, and if I knew of any country wherethey manage matters on a different system, I'd emigrate right away, Iwould. A pretty piece of business, to put a man under the pump, because he seeks after knowledge. " SHAWANGUNK MOUNTAIN. BY ALFRED B. STREET. Before the plough had scattered fields of grain And grassy orchards midst the oaken woods Of Shawangunk, upon the mountain's top Stood a wood-cutter's hut. Himself and wife Shared it alone. The spot was green and sweet. The earth was covered with a velvet sward, Grouped with low thickets, here and there a tree Rearing its dark rich foliage in the heavens. Pleasant the echoes of his fast plied axe, Merrily rattling through the mountain-woods, To those who sought the old surveyor's road For shade and coolness; and amidst the sounds Would boom deep heavy shocks of falling trees, Like growls of thunder in the noontide-hush, So that the eye would glance impulsively Up to the tree-tops, to discern the peak Of the ascending cloud. His forest-life, Though rude, was joyous. When the mellow charm Of sunset on the smiling mountains lay, The creaking of his high-piled cart would blend With song or whistle blithe, as, dipping down The road, he sought the village in the midst Of the green hollow. This slight mountain-road Went slanting to the summit, with blazed trunks On either side, and soft delicious grass Spreading its carpet; one faint track alone Telling that wheel had e'er its beauty scarred. Close to the hut it passed, then downward plunged, And sought the level of the opposite side. 'T was at the close of one cold winter day That down this road I trod. My weary steps, With efforts vain, had tracked, for hours, the deer, And now, with empty flask and rifle, swift, I journeyed homeward. Nature's great bright eye Low beaming in the west, still poured sweet light Upon the mountain. The pure snow, all round, In delicate rose-tints glowed. The hemlocks smiled, Speckled with gold. The oak's sear foliage, still Tight clinging to the boughs, was kindled up To warm rich brown. The myriad trunks and sprays Traced their black lines upon the soft snow-blush Beneath, until it seemed a tangled maze. Upon the mountain's top, a thread of smoke From the low cabin rose, as though a streak Of violet had been painted on the air. I heard the ring of the wood-cutter's axe, And, through an opening, saw his instrument Flashing into a walnut's giant stem, Whose upborne mass, in the fast lowering light, Seemed cut in copper. A broad wind-fall near Let down my eyes upon the hollow. White In snow it lay, with long and dusky lines Of fences crossing--groups of orchard-trees-- Hay-barracks--barns and long low dwelling-roofs. Straight as an arrow ran the streak of road Athwart the hollow. As I looked, the eye In the red west sank lower, till half quenched Behind the upland, then a shred of light Glittered and vanished, and the sky was bare. Whilst gazing on this splendor, suddenly I heard a shriek. Shrill, ringing midst the woods In piercing clearness, through my ears it cut, And left a sense of deafness. Startled, round I gazed. Again the horrid sound thrilled past. I knew it then as the terrific cry Of the fierce, bloody panther. In our woods Naught fiercer, bloodier dwells, when roused by rage Or hunger. Oft our hunters had of late Marked the huge foot-prints of the ravenous beast, And heard his scream at midnight, but no eye As yet had seen him. With a nervous grasp Upon my useless weapon, and a weight Of helplessness, like lead, upon my soul, I started on my path. At every step I thought his tawny form and fierce green eye Would meet my sight, upon some limb o'erhead. But naught was seen. The village soon I reached, And gladly crossed the threshold of my home. The long, cold, breathless night came swiftly down. The clear, magnificent moon seemed not inlaid In the bright blue, but stood out bold, distinct, As though impending from the cloudless skies Glittering with frost. Upon the sparkling snow The rich light slept in such sweet purity As naught on earth can match. The hours sped on, The silver day still shone serene and clear, And twinkled on the crystals shooting round. Gazing once more upon the splendid scene, Before I sought the couch, my wandering eye Glanced at the mountain. There it grandly stood A giant mass of ivory. On the spot Where the steep slanting road the hollow joined, My sight a moment dwelt, for there I last Had swept around a quick and piercing gaze, In search of the gaunt monster whose keen cry Still echoed in my ears. Is that a spot Of shadow flickering in some transient breeze? No. O'er the hollow, gliding swift, it comes. Is it the ravenous panther, fierce for blood, Seeking the village? Closer as it speeds A clearer shape it shows--a human form-- 'T is the wood-cutter's wife! She loudly shrieks, "My husband--lost--wake, wake!" the moonlight falls Upon her features swollen with tears. A band Of villagers was soon aroused, and forth We sallied toward the mountain. So intense The cold, the snow creaked shrilly at our tread, And the strewed diamonds on its surface flashed Back the keen moonlight. As we trod along, The wife in breathless haste, her story told, How, when the sunset fell, she watched to see Her husband's form swift speeding up the road, From the side-clearing, at that wonted hour, Toward his low roof. The sunset died, and night Sprang on the earth; the absent one came not. The moon moved up; the latch-string was not pulled For entrance in the cabin. Hours sped on. And still, upon the silvered snow, no form Her gaze rewarded. Once she heard afar A panther's shriek. Her fear to frenzy rose. To the side-clearing sped she; naught was there But solitude and moonlight. As she told Her tale I shuddered. In my ear again Rang the fierce shriek I heard as sunset glowed, And my flesh crept with horror. Up we trod Our mountain snow-path speedily. At length, To where the narrow opening in the woods Led from the road, we came. 'T was at this spot I stood, and watched the form and flashing axe Of him, the lost. We passed within. The moon Threw on the little clearing a full flood Of radiance. There the crusted wood-pile stood; There was the walnut with a ghastly notch Deep in its heart. A ledge of rock rose up Beside the wounded tree, and at its base A space of blackest hue proclaimed a chasm. No life was stirring on the brilliant waste; The trees rose like a wall on every side But where the ledge frowned darkly. As I checked My footsteps at the half-hewn walnut, drops Thick sprinkled round--the snow stamped down--an axe Lying upon the high wreathed roots, my gaze, As with a charm, arrested. From this spot Large prints and a broad furrow stretched along To the black chasm within the rocky ledge. We clustered round the mouth. A low, deep growl Came from the depths. Two orbs of flashing fire Glared in the darkness. Brace, the hunter, aimed His rifle just between the flaming spots, And fired. Fierce growls and gnashings loud of teeth Blent with the echoes, and then all was still. The spots were seen no more. A few had brought Splinters of pine for torches, and the flint Supplied the flame. With one hand grasping tight A hatchet keen, the other a bright torch, The dauntless hunter ventured, with slow steps, Within the cavern. Soon a shout we heard, And Brace appeared, with all his giant strength Dragging a lifeless panther. In again He passed, and then brought out a human form, Mangled and crushed. A shriek pealed wild and high, And, swooning, sank the wife upon the snow, Beside the dead. With silent, deep-felt awe We bore both to the hut. A sudden cloud Rose frowning from the north, and deep and fierce Howled the loosed tempest. From her death-like swoon, Roused by our care, the hapless wife poured out Her cries and wailings. Through the livelong night We heard her moans and screams and ravings wild, Blending with all those stern and awful tones That the scourged forest yields. But morning dawned, And brought the widowed and the broken heart The peace of death. Beside the lonely hut, Two graves were opened in the frozen snow, And silence then fell deeply on the spot. No more the smoke curled up. No more the axe Rang in the mountain; and a few short years Leveled the cabin with the forest-earth, Midst spreading bushes, fern and waving grass. INNOCENCE. Let me, lamb-like, share caresses, From thy hand that knows not stain; Flowers that woo, the smile that blesses, Hours that pass and leave no pain! Be with me in sleeping, waking; Be with me in toil and rest; Living, thine; and, life forsaking, Let me slumber on thy breast! [Illustration: INNOCENCE] A DRAMA OF REAL LIFE. (IN A LETTER FROM N. P. WILLIS TO THE EDITOR OF GRAHAM'S MAGAZINE. ) TO GEO. R. GRAHAM, ESQ. _New York, December_ 1, 1847. DEAR SIR, --By to-night's mail should go to you a piece of mental statuary, which is yet in a marble block of the reluctant quarry of my brain--due to you by agreement on the first of December, one unconceived tale! But though we do so strangely bargain the invisible wares of the imagination, deliverable, like merchandize, on a certain day, the contractor is still liable to the caprices of the world he trades from, and your order on me for fancy yet undug, must, I fear, be protested. You would not believe me if I were to tell you literally why. But the truth is that I, and a certain cave (mentioned by Humboldt, on the banks of the Oronookoo, which he calls a "subterranean organ, ") can only give out music in certain states of the weather. With the dry, sharp, icy north wind of the last few days, I could no more write than I could supply electricity to Morse's wire. But--no failure is _quite_ twenty shillings in the pound. What say you to the assets? The statue will not be forth coming--but will you have the model, after which the undug block was to have been chiseled? Shall I send you the literal truth which I had intended to drape with imagination--tell the facts of real life which I had designed to weave into a story. I shall thus, at least, clear _yourself_ of the non-fulfillment of the promise of your pre-advertised contents, and (engaging to send you a story properly completed for the next number) shall effect, perhaps, a compromise for my delinquent punctuality. This, then, is the thread of literal truth which was to have run through the fancy-woof of my story. Some years ago, after a year or two of residence in different cities of Italy, I found myself very much at home in Naples. It was an unusually gay season--the concentration of the rank and fashion of the floating society of travelers varying between Rome, Florence, and Naples, very much as it does, in our country, between the different watering-places--by caprices that no one can foresee. The English people of rank, more particularly, were in very great force; and the blonde moustaches, so much admired in the dark-haired South, and the skins of alabaster and rose, so envied by the brunettes of Italy, abounded at the balls and in the public places. The king kept very gay court, the royal entertainments accessible to all strangers properly introduced, and the ambassadors and bankers, nobles and wealthy strangers, seemed to want twice as many nights and mornings in the week, so conflicting were the balls and breakfasts, driving-parties and dinners. As, of course, an unobserved looker-on in scenes of such brilliant rivalry and display, I had more attention to spare than most whom I met; and I soon found myself--eyes, mind, fancy, and interest, absorbed in one study--a new revelation of a type of woman. We are accustomed to see the sex in classes--hundreds of a kind--and find them sufficiently absorbing as nouns of multitude. It is probably one of Heaven's principles of human safety, that women are made in "lots" so like, that a transfer of a slighted heart, from an unwilling beauty to some willing likeness of her, safely vents the volcano. Proportionately dangerous, however, are those rare women--of whom a man sees, perhaps, one or two in his life--who are the only ones of their type and kind; for, out of love for them, their is no exit but through their hearts. You are going too fast if you fancy I am about to record a fruitless passion of my own. Though of "easy wax, " I am not stamped, except by will of the imprintress; and my only cobweb thread of personal remembrance is a horseback excursion to Camaldoli, in which I played the propriety-third to the best of my discretion. It is necessary to define thus much, to redeem my estimate of the lady from the imputation of mere fancy. Had I known her intimately, or not known her at all, my judgment of her would be less reliable. In just the position for untroubled and most favorable observation, I studied her in silence through that brilliant season, and laid away her image (as one does without more than one or two choked-down aspirations) to people castles in the air, and fill niches in the temple of dreams. The foregoing prepares you for a portrait of the proposed heroine of my story--but that you would have had, had the story been written. I never could draw a picture of a woman but from the life, and to that fictitious tale I should have transferred, with studied and careful truthfulness, the enamel portrait burnt in upon my memory, and which you would have admired my fancy for conceiving. Oh! the mistake of supposing that we can imagine things brighter than we have seen with our eyes--that there is any kingdom of air, visitable by poets, which is comparable to the glorious world we live in, with its _some_ women, _some_ sunsets, _some_ strains of music, and _some_ fore-tasted heaven-thrills of emotion. The heir to one of the oldest titles of England was the husband of this lady. The fortunes of his family had been wasted; and they had lived for a generation or two in comparative obscurity, when the present Lord ---- came of age. He had been educated carefully, but was of great personal beauty, and I thought when I first saw him, was as fine a model as I had ever seen of the quiet, reserved, self-intrenched school of modern English manners. With his beauty and his title, though with little or no estate, he had easily married a lady of fortune--the only daughter of a retired banker. And this heiress, Lady ----, is the one whose story I would have told through a veil of fiction. The Countess of ---- was an unsurpassed horsewoman, and rode constantly. Her blood-horses had been sent round by ship from England; and she was always mounted on an animal whose every fibre seemed obedient to her thought, and with whose motion every line of her own tall and slenderly-rounded person, and every ringlet of her flowing, golden curls seemed in a correspondence governed by the very spirit of beauty. She rode with her rein loose, and her mind apparently absorbed with any thing but her horse. A turn of her head, or the pressure of her foot upon his shoulder, was probably the animal's guidance. But, of an excessively impassioned nature, she conversed in the saddle with the expression and gesture of the most earnest untrammeling of mind, and, in full speed, as in the repose upon a lounge in a saloon, she carried away the listener with her uncalculating and passionate absorption--no self-possession, however on its guard it might be, able, apparently, to withstand the enveloping and resistless influence which she herself was a slave to. Unconsciousness of every thing in the world, except the feeling she was pouring from her soul, seemed the only and every-day condition and law of her nature; and supreme as she was in fashion of dress, and style of manner, these seemed matters learned and lost thought of--she having returned to nature, leaving her triumphs as a belle to be cared for by infallible habit. A separate spirit of light, speaking from the lips of the most accomplished and best perfected of women--the spirit, and the form possessed, being each in full exercise of their best faculties--could scarcely have conveyed more complete impressions of wondrous mind, in perfect body, or have blended more ravishingly, the entireness of heavenly with the most winning earthly development. She was an earnest angel, in the person of a self-possessed and unerringly graceful woman. I chanced to be looking on, when Prince ----, one of the brothers of a royal family of central Europe, was presented to the Countess ----. It was at a crowded ball; and I observed that, after a few minutes of conversation with her, he suddenly assumed a ceremonious indifference of manner, and went into another room. I saw at once that the slightness of the attention was an "anchor to windward, " and that, in even those few minutes the prince had recognized a rare gem, and foreseen that, in the pursuit of it, he might need to be without any remembered particularity of attention. Lady ----- conversed with him with her usual earnest openness, but started a little, once or twice, at words which were certainly unaccompanied by their corresponding expression of countenance; and this, too, I put down for an assumption of disguise on the part of the prince. It was natural enough; with his conspicuous rank, he could only venture to be unguarded in his attentions to those for whom he had no presentiment of future intimacy. That the progress of this acquaintance should assume for me the interest of a drama--a scene of it played every night, with interludes every day, in public drives and excursions--would not be wonderful to you, could I have drawn the portrait of the principal performer in it, so that you would understand its novelty. I had never seen such a woman, and I was intensely interested to know how she would bear temptation. The peculiar character of the prince I easily understood; and I felt at once, that of all stages of an accomplished man's progress, he was at the one most dangerous to her, while, perhaps, no other kind of woman in the world would have called upon any but very practiced feelings of his own. He was of middle age, and had intellect enough to have long anticipated the ebb of pleasure. With his faculties and perceptions in full force, he was most fastidious in permitting himself to enjoy an enthusiasm, to admire, to yield to, or to embark upon with risk. The admiration of mere beauty, mere style, mere wit, mere superiority of intellect in woman, or of any of these combined, was but a recurrent phase of artificial life. He had been to the terminus, the farthest human capability of enjoyment of this, and was now back again to nature, with his keenest relish in reserve, looking for such outdoings of art as nature sometimes shows in her caprices. In the Countess ---- he recognized at once a rare miracle of this--a woman whose beauty, whose style, whose intellect, whose pride, were all abundant, but, abundant as they were, still all subservient to electric and tumultuous _sensation_. Her life, her impulse--the consciousness with which she breathed--was the one gift given her by Heaven in tenfold measure, and her impression on those she expanded to, was like the magnetizing presence of ten full existences poured into one. The heart acknowledged it before her--though the reason knew not always why. Lord ---- would scarce have been human had he not loved such a woman, and she his wife. He did love her--and doubtless loves her at this hour with all the tenderness of which he could ever be capable. If they had lived only on their estates in England, where seclusion would have put up no wall of concealment to his feelings, she might have drawn from the open well of his heart, the water for which her ardent being was athirst. But with the usage of fashionable life, he followed his own amusements during the day, leaving the countess to hers; and in scenes of gayety they were, of course, still separated by custom; and all she enjoyed of nature in her rides, or of excitement in society, was, of course, with others than her husband. Naples is in the midst of palace-gardens, and of wonders of scenery--in seeing which love is engendered in the bosom and brain with tropical fruitfulness--and Lady ---- could no more have lived that year in Italy without passionate loving, than she could have stayed from breathing the fragrance of the orange blossoms, when galloping between the terraced gardens of Sorrento. * * * * * When abroad, a little more than a year ago, I made a visit to a friend, whose estate is in the same county with that of the father of Lady ----, and between whose park-gates and his extends the distance of a morning's drive through one of the loveliest hedged winding-roads of lovely England. A very natural inquiry was of the whereabout and happiness of the Countess of ----, whom I had left at Naples ten years before, and had not been in the way of hearing of since; and I named her in the gay tone with which one speaks of the brilliant and happy. We were sitting at the dinner-table, and I observed that I had mis-struck a chord of feeling in the company present, and with well-bred tact, the master of the house informed me that misfortunes had befallen the family since the period I spoke of, and turned the conversation to another topic. After dinner, I heard from him the following outline of the story, and its affecting sequel. Near the close of the season when Lord ---- was at Naples, he suddenly left that city and returned with his wife and their one child to England. To the surprise of the wondering world, Lady ---- went to her father's, and Lord ---- to the small estate of his widowed mother, where they remained for a while in unexplained seclusion. It was not long before rumors arrived from Italy, of a nature breathing upon the reputation of the lady; and soon after a formal separation took place, Mr. ----, her father, engaging to leave his whole fortune to the son of Lord ----, if that nobleman would consent to give him to the exclusive keeping of his mother. With these facts ended the world's knowledge of the parties, the separated pair remaining, year after year, in absolute seclusion; and Lady ---- never having been known to put foot beyond the extending forest in which her home was hidden from view, and the gates to which were guarded from all entrance, even of family friends. It was but a few days before this sequel was narrated to me, that the first communication had been made from the Countess of ---- to her husband. It was a summons to attend, if he wished, the burial of his only child--the heir of his name, and the bringer-back, had he lived, of wealth to the broken fortunes of his title. A severer blow could hardly have followed the first--for it struck down heart, pride, and all that could brighten this world's future. Lord ----came. The grave was made in a deep grove of firs on the estate of the boy's mother. There were but three mourners present--herself, her father, and her husband. The boy was ten or eleven years old when he died, and one of the most gifted and noble lads, in mind and person, that had ever been seen by those who knew him. On his horse, with his servant behind him, the young boy-lord was a constant sight of pride and beauty to the inhabitants of the county, and was admired and beloved every where he rode in his daily excursions. The service was read; the two parents stood side by side at the grave, while the body was laid in it--the first time they had met since their separation, and both in the prime of life, and with hearts yearning--both hearts, beyond a doubt--with love, and longing for forgiveness; and when the earth rang on the coffin, they _parted without exchanging a word_. The carriage of Lord ---- waited for him in the avenue; and with the expiring echo of his wheels through that grove of fir-trees, died all hope and prospect, if any had been conceived, of a re-union, in grief, of these proud broken-hearted. I have told you thus, with literal truth, all that I could know of this drama of real life; but, of course, its sketchy outline could be easily filled out by fancy. Your readers, perhaps, will like to do this for themselves. Yours truly, N. P. WILLIS. LINES TO ----. BY CAROLINE F. ORNE. Like a cloud of the summer sunset Gleaming across the blue, Like a star of the golden twilight Through the misty evening dew, Like a strain of heavenly music Breathed mournfully and low, Charming the heart to sadness By its bewildering flow-- Thou camest to my presence In the far off long-ago. Thou camest for a moment, Then fleeted swift away, As the rosy cloud of sunset Fades at the close of day, As the beaming star of twilight Withdraws its golden ray. Thou hast past from out my presence As the songs low cadence dies, Which the heart seeketh ever, And evermore it flies. Oh, in my weary journeying Come to me yet once more, While still my footsteps wander On Time's uncertain shore. Come to me, oh, sweet vision Of what my soul has sought, And with mine once more mingle Thy far, sky-piercing thought. Call I in vain thy spirit? Do I seek thee all in vain? Shall I never hear thy accent In music fall again? Why didst thou cross my pathway, Oh soul so pure and true? To fade like the clouds of sunset. Like the star from the misty blue? AUTUMNAL SCENERY. WHAT IS NECESSARY TO THE ENJOYMENT OF NATURE'S BEAUTIES. BY JOSEPH R. CHANDLER. I am not of those who think that a true enjoyment of the beauties ofnature, of natural scenery, and natural objects, generally, is a testof the purity of principle or the delicacy of sentiment, any more thanI hold that a love of music is essential to domestic, social orpolitical virtue. The cultivation of the eye and the ear--or thecapabilities in those organs for cultivation--have more to do with allthis than many seem to allow; and men and women of the purestprinciples, and the highest benevolence, may stand within theloveliest scenes that nature has ever spread out, or may listen to themost delicious music that art has ever prepared and performed, withoutcomprehending the beauties or the excellence of either, or imaginingthat there is a moral test applied to them in these attractions. Nevertheless, there is an enjoyment in such scenes and such sounds, and those who are permitted to share therein have another life--orsuch an additional enjoyment added to _that_ of ordinary minds, thatthey seem to live more, if not longer, in such pleasures than thecommon allotment; and none, I suspect, will doubt that the indulgenceof a taste for natural beauties tends to soften the mind, soothe thepassions, and thus elevate the feelings and aspirations. If I have less of the power of appreciating and enjoying rural sightsand rural sounds, if there is vouchsafed to me a _limited_ capabilityof understanding and delighting in the beauties of the field and wood, of gathering pleasure from the outstretched loveliness of land andstream, still I thank God; and I speak with reverence, I thank Godthat I have _some_ pleasure in these things; and more than that, Ihave a certain fixed delight in noticing the enjoyment which thebetter formed and higher cultivated mind derives from what a goodProvidence has poured out for the decoration of the earth. Humble asthis faculty may be, which is partly exercised through intermediateobjects, I find it useful to me, and, still better, I find that itministers to other pleasures--to enjoy what is lovely is a high and acultivated talent--the enjoyment of that loveliness with anotherkindred or more elevated mind is a yet higher attainment, as theperformance of _concerted_ music is more difficult and more gratifyingthan a simple solo. Rarely within my recollection, and that is as inclusive as theremembrance of almost any around me, rarely has an autumn been moredelightful than that which has just closed, in its clear, shiningsunlight, or more attractive for its bland and healthful temperature. Not leisure--for that I have little to boast of, or to _fear_. Let myyoung readers mark that word, _fear_. I am not about to write ahomily upon the uses of time and talents, but let me parentheticallynote that the gift of enjoying leisure is so rare in the young, that alack of constant occupation should be rather feared than courted. I donot speak of the danger of flagrant vice, but of a growing propensityto disregard portions of time, because only _portions_ may benecessary to the discharge of admitted duties--the danger isimminent--but not to the young alone. In youth, love of action _may_employ the leisure to the promotion of vice in age, a tendency toinertness may induce the abuse of the leisure to total inaction. I canhardly imagine any object more unsightly than an idle old man--thedead trunk of a decayed tree, marring the landscape and injuringculture. But I must return. Not leisure, for I have little of that toboast of or fear; not leisure, but a love, a growing love for thepartial solitude of the field, and something of an enjoyment of theelevating communion which it leaves, sent me more than once inNovember last strolling beyond the dusty roads and noisy turnpike inthe vicinity of our city. It was, as I have reason to recollect, onthe eighteenth of November, that I was wandering observantly, but indeep contemplation, across some of the fields that lie near the roadleading from the city to Frankford. It was a lovely day, and everyfeeling of my heart was consonant to the scene. Ascending a littleeminence, I obtained an extensive view. The forest trees had losttheir rich garb of mottled beauties, and their denuded limbs stretchedout with attenuated delicacy, seemed to streak the distant horizonwith darkened lines. On my right the winding Delaware lay stretchedout in glassy beauty, and near me, glittering in the sunlight beyond, were a thousand gossamer webs that had survived a recent storm. Thefields were unusually green, for the season, as if the year wereclothing itself, like an expiring prelate, with its richesthabiliments, that its departure might leave the impress of that beautywhich comes from its usefulness. I had yielded to the influences ofthe scene, had allowed my feeling to predominate, and was in the midstof an unwonted abstraction from all ordinary cares and relations, catching something of that state with which the more gifted areindulged, when I was startled by the sound of footsteps upon thecarpet-like grass around me. "Hardly looking for game here?" said the person inquiringly. "And without dog and gun?" said I. "There's not much game in these parts, " said he. "And yet I was hunting!" said I. "Hunting pleasure from the prospect. " "I do not derive much pleasure, " said my companion, "from suchthings. Almost all fields are alike to me. Generally they are placesfor labor, or they lie between my residence and labor, and thus make atoilsome distance. " "But do you not enjoy the pleasure of this scene? Do you not, whilelooking abroad from some eminence, feel a sensation different fromwhat you experience while walking on the turnpike?" "Most generally. I think there was once or twice a feeling came overme here which I did not exactly understand. " "And when was that?" "Always on Sunday morning, as I have been crossing the field to attendservice at the church yonder. I could not tell whether it was a senseof relief from ordinary labor, or something connected with the servicein which I was about to join; but, certainly, the fields, and woods, and water beyond, had a different appearance, and seemed to affect medifferently from their ordinary influence. Perhaps as these feelingsare recent, they may have sprung from another cause. " "If the beauties of nature, and the influence of religious aspirationscould not account for those feelings which you experienced, I canscarcely tell whence you derived the sensation. " "I suppose that all beauties are not discernable at once, and oursympathies are not all awakened by a single exhibition of what may beproductive of delight or sorrow. Whatever of pleasure I have derivedfrom the beauties observable from such places as this, are notprimarily referable to my own powers of application, but rather fromthe lessons of another--lessons derived from a few words, and fromconstant example. " "And, pray, what _example_ could open to you new beauties in alandscape, or develop attractions in a scene which you had been in thehabit of seeing for many years?" "I do not know that any one has taught me by word and example to seefrom any point of observation, aught that I had not discerned before, but it is certain that what was unnoticeable became an object ofcontemplation, and points of the scenery have been made to harmonizeby association, when viewed separately, they had little that wasattractive. "A few years since, a young lady, I think of European birth, wasbrought to live in the house which stands near yonder clump of trees;her situation seemed that of an humble companion to the lady--but herservices and her influence made her more than loved. I never saw moreaffection exhibited than all of the household manifested toward her. Icannot tell you what means she used to acquire such a mastery over thelove of all around her, but, though less within the influence of herattractive manners than some others, I yet shared in the generalfeeling of regard. She was a frequent visiter to a small eminence inthis immediate neighborhood, and I often followed her thither, thoughI was careful not to reach the place until her departure; and then Ihave gone around as she did, looking at the various points of thescenery, to try to have the enjoyment which was imparted to her fromthe visits. Once I came when she was here, and met a condescensionentirely hidden in kindness; she called my attention to what shedesignated the numerous beauties of the place, and subsequently I wentfrequently to the spot to look at what she had pointed out, and Ithink I occasionally derived some new pleasure from the scene. I amnot able now to say whether that pleasure was the result of newcapacities to behold beauties, or whether it was consequent upon myrespect for her who had imparted the lesson. Perhaps both. "There was a young man, a relative of Mrs. ----, with whom this ladyresided, that came frequently to the house. I never saw a personapparently more winning in his manner, or more delicate in hisattentions; and, as all expected, he proposed for marriage to theyoung woman. It was thought that there would be objections on the partof _his_ relations--and there were; but they came from the gentlemanof the house, who plainly declared that the young man was not worthyof the woman he sought. Her heart, it was evident, was concerned; itwas whispered, I know not how truly, that the youth had associationsin the city unworthy his relations at home. But when do the young andconfiding ever regard monitions of this kind. She, whose good sensehad restored order to a family that needed direction, and hadsustained her against all adverse circumstances among strangers, couldnot influence her against the pleadings of her own heart. The youngman, more than a year since, received a commission, and joined thearmy at Mexico. He left with her a sealed paper, and his favorite dog. The animal was already most affectionately attached to her, and nowbecame her constant companion. Never did I see an animal so completelydevoted to a human being; never was kindness more reciprocated thanwas that of the companion of her walks; he patiently awaited at thedoor of the church for the conclusion of the services, and at nightheld vigils beneath her window. I think the dog, too, must haveunderstood something of the beauty of this scenery; for I have seenhim for an hour together standing wistfully beside his mistress, andgazing up into her face, and then not meeting with an encouraginglook, stretching his sight far away in the direction of her eyes, asif determined to share with her whatever contributed to her pleasureor her pain. "Less than four months ago news reached the family of the death of theyoung man--I do not remember the exact time, or the place of theengagement in which he fell--but his death produced deep sensation inthe family generally, but it went to the heart of the young lady. Isaw her once or twice on her favorite place in the field, but I darednot approach her--she had no companion but the faithful dog. In twoweeks she was confined to her bed--and shortly afterward the familywas plunged in new afflictions by her death. I was inquiring of one ofthe family relative to the particular disease of which she died, andheard it suggested that it might have been a rapid consumption. " "I think not, " said a very little girl, who had shared in theaffectionate instruction of the deceased. "And why?" "Can the heart of a person break to pieces?" asked the child. "The heart may be broken, " I said. "Then that is it--for I heard mamma tell sister that Miss Mary's heartwas broken. " "I have noticed that the death of an affianced one is more severelyfelt by a woman, as a severe disturbance of affection, than is thedeath of a husband. And I suppose this comes from the delicacy of amaiden that shrinks from the utterance of a grief which finds vent andsympathy with a widow. I never hear of such a bereavement withoutdeeper sorrow for the survivor's sufferings, than I have for themourning wife. God help her who's crushed by a grief that she may notopenly indulge; who must hide in her bosom the fire that is consumingher life. " The sealed paper was reopened; it contained a rich bequest to theyoung woman, and with it was a small piece of paper, containing _her_request to be buried beyond us, whence she had so often contemplatedthe scene around us. The field was her own property, by the will ofthe young man. She relinquished all else of his gift. "We buried her_there_. I say _we_--for though my position was far below hers, yetnone felt more deeply her loss than those who looked up to admire her. The little paling that surrounds the eminence was erected to keep awaythe foot of the thoughtless. Shall we go to see the grave?" I followed the man into the enclosure. The sods which covered thegrave of Mary had not yet united; and one or two seemed to be worn, asif they had been treated with some rudeness. I drew the attention ofmy guide to the abrasion. "Ah, yes! that is poor Lara's doings, " said he. "Poor dog! I lookedaround for him at the funeral, expecting to see him at the grave, butwas disappointed. Every evening since the funeral, just before the sungoes down, and often in the morning--the hours in which Miss Mary waswont to come hither to enjoy the scenery--poor Lara has been seenstretched out upon the grave, uttering his grief in a low wail. Iscarcely believe that he will recover from the loss he has sustained;and others might be equally unconsolable, if they did not feel that itis better with Mary now than when she lived. " When I had looked downward to the grave for a time, and almost intoit, that I might the better contemplate the character and end of herwho rested there, my companion drew my attention to the beauty of whatwas around us. "Miss Mary loved to stand here, " said he, "and enjoy the rich sunset. Mark, now, how richly its beams are thrown from the windows of yonderGothic house beyond the turnpike, and on the new dwelling a littlethis side. A mellowness is in that light, to soothe where it falls;and the whispering of the southern wind that we now hear, is like thecries of spirits communing with their good sister below us. " "You seem now to enjoy the scenery, my friend, " said I, "as much asalmost any other person. " "Sir, I have felt, of late, a growing fondness for this place and thisscene; and last Sunday, when returning from the afternoon service, Istood here almost wrapt in the pleasure which the place afforded tothe departed one, and I have since come to believe that there issomething more than book-knowledge necessary to the relish of naturalscenery. " "May I ask what that _something_ is, which you think assists us toappreciate the beauty of a landscape?" "Why, sir--perhaps I am wrong, you certainly know better than I--but, it appears to me, my growing sense of enjoyment in this scene is dueto the memory of the virtues of her whom I constantly connect withthis place, and that enjoyment is fixed and augmented by the frame ofmind in which I go to, or come from the place of worship. " "If I understand you correctly, you have come to the conclusion thatto enjoy nature, our hearts must be touched, and our affectionsmellowed by earthly sympathies, and our views expanded and elevated bya sense of religious duties. " "Something like that, sir. " "And is not that what is understood by 'LOVE TO GOD, AND LOVE TO MAN?'" POETRY. --A SONG. BY GEORGE P. MORRIS. To me the world's an open book Of sweet and pleasant poetry; I read it in the running brook That sings its way toward the sea: It whispers in the leaves of trees, The swelling grain, the waving grass. And in the cool fresh evening breeze That crisps the wavelets as they pass. The flowers below--the stars above-- In all their bloom and brightness given, Are, like the attributes of love, The poetry of earth and heaven. Thus Nature's volume, read aright, Attunes the soul to minstrelsy, Tinging life's clouds with rosy light, And all the world with poetry. THE MOURNER. BY THE LATE DR. JOHN D. GODMAN. Why is thy visage o'ershadowed by gloom, Are Nature's enchantments not scattered around, Has the rose lost her fragrance, the tulip her bloom, Has the streamlet no longer its mild, soothing sound? Say what are thy pleasures--or whence is thy bliss, In thy breast can no movements of sympathy rise? Canst thou glance o'er a region so lovely as this, And no bright ray of pleasure enliven thine eyes? Where are there fields more delightfully drest, In a verdure still fresh'ning with every shower? Here are oak-covered mountains, with valleys of rest, Richly clothed in the blossoming sweet scented flower. Why lingerest thou ever to gaze on that star, Sinking low in the west e'er the twilight is o'er? While the shadows of evening extending afar Bid the warbler's blithe carol be poured forth no more, Oh why when the Sabbath bell's pleasantest tone Wakes the soul of devotion in song to rejoice, Are thy features with sorrow o'erclouded alone, While no sounds but of sadness are heard from thy voice? Listen, while I tell thee, stranger! In a brief and hurried measure: Though my soul drink not of pleasure, Though mine eyes be sunk in gloom; Tis not from fear of coming danger, Nor yet from dread of doom. The youngest leaves must fall, When summer beams have ceased to play; And may not sorrow spread her pall, When joy, and hope, and love decay? Earth's loveliest scenes; The boons of heaven most cherished; Fields dressed in gladdening greens, Are drear, when hope has perished: Spring's beauteousness, Followed by summer's glory, May fade without the power to bless, As doth a dreaméd story. It gives me peace to gaze at even, Watching the latest, faintest gleam Of yon bright traveler of heaven, Reflected in the silver stream; For she I love has gently leaned-- While my fond heart with bliss was swelling-- Upon my arm, to see descend That brilliant star in light excelling. The chiming bells give joy no more, Long since the tones have lost their sweetness; They now but wake me to deplore The bliss that fled with air-like fleetness. Blame not my sorrow: chilling pride Nor clouds my brow nor kills the smile; For loss of wealth I never sighed, But all for her I mourn the while. She was my all, my fairest, dearest, best; I loved--I lost her--tears may speak the rest. ELSIE. BY KATE DASHWOOD. A young white rose-bud--with its leaves Just blown apart, and wet with dew-- A fair child in a garland weaves 'Mid glowing flowers of every hue. She sitteth by the rushing river, While the soft and balmy air Scarce stirs the starry flowers that quiver Amid her sunny hair-- Thou of the laughing eyes! 'mid all The roses of thy coronal-- Thou'rt fairest of the fair. Ah, bright young dreamer! may thy heart In its early freshness ever be Pure as the leaves--just blown apart-- Of the rose thou'rt wreathing in childish glee. Ah, well I know those flowers thou'rt twining For thy fair pale mother dear-- For the love-light in those blue eyes shining Is shadowed by a tear; And thy thoughts are now in that dim, hushed room-- With the sad, sweet smile, and the fading bloom-- _Thou'rt all too young to fear. _ SONNET TO ----. The crimson clouds had gathered round the sun, Sinking full slowly to his nightly rest, And gilding with a glory all his own The bannered splendor of the glowing west, Entranced I gazed upon the gorgeous scene That thus so fair before my vision lay; The calm, serene, blue heavens looked out between, And softly smiled upon retiring day. All was so beautiful, I could but feel A shade of sadness that thou wert not nigh, The radiant glory to behold with me; And still the thought would o'er my spirit steal, That all the clouds and mists in my dark sky Would gather rays of glory, my life's sun, from thee! C. O. GAME-BIRDS OF AMERICA. --NO. VIII. AMERICAN STARLING OR MEADOW-LARK. This well-known inhabitant of our meadows like the Partridge, issociable, somewhat gregarious, and partially migratory. The change ofcountry, however, appears to be occasioned only by scarcity of food, and many of them pass the whole winter with us. They may be bought inour markets when snow is on the ground; and in the month of February, Wilson found them picking up a scanty subsistence in the company ofthe snow-birds, on a road over the heights of the Alleghanies. Itsflight, like that of the Partridge, is laborious and steady. Thoughthey collect their food from the ground, they are frequently shot ontrees, their perch being either the main branches, or the topmosttwigs. At the time of pairing, they exhibit a little of the jealousdisposition of the tribe, but his character vindicated by his bravery, and the victory achieved, he retires from his fraternity to assist hismate in the formation of her nest. The flesh of the Meadow-Lark iswhite, and for size and delicacy, it is considered little inferior tothe Partridge. In length, he measures ten and a half inches, in alarextent, nearly seventeen. Above, his plumage, as described by Nuttall, is variegated with black, bright bay, and ochreous. Tail, wedged, thefeathers pointed, the four outer nearly all white; sides, thighs, andvent, pale ochreous, spotted with black; upper mandible brown, thelower bluish-white; iris, hazel; legs and feet, large, paleflesh-colour. In the young bird the color is much fainter than in theadult. [Illustration: RICE BUNTING. (_Emberiza Oryzivora. _ WILSON. )] This is the Rice and Reed-Bird of Pennsylvania and the SouthernStates, and the Boblink of New York and New England. He is of littlesize, but of great consequence, hailed with pleasure by the sportsmanand the epicure, and dreaded as worse than a locust by the carefulplanter. Wilson has treated of him fully, and from his eloquentaccount we shall endeavor to select a few points in his history worthyof notice. According to his best biographer, then, three goodqualities recommend him, particularly as these three are rarely foundin the same individual--his plumage is beautiful, his song highlymusical, and his flesh excellent. To these he added the immense rangeof his migrations, and the havoc he commits. The winter residence ofthis species is from Mexico to the Amazon, from whence they issue ingreat hosts every spring. In the whole United States, north ofPennsylvania, they remain during the summer, raising their progeny;and as soon as the young are able to fly they collect together ingreat multitudes, and pour down on the oat-fields of New England. During the breeding season, they are dispersed over the country; butas soon as the young are able to fly, they collect together in greatmultitudes, like a torrent, depriving the proprietors of a good titheof their harvest, but in return often supply his table with a verydelicious dish. From all parts of the north and western regions theydirect their course toward the south, and about the middle of August, revisit Pennsylvania, on their route to winter quarters. For severaldays they seem to confine themselves to the fields and uplands; but assoon as the seeds of the reed are ripe, they resort to the shores ofthe Delaware and Schuylkill in multitudes; and these places, duringthe remainder of their stay, appear to be their grand rendezvous. Thereeds, or wild oats, furnish them with such abundance of nutritiousfood, that in a short time they become extremely fat, and are supposedby some of our epicures to be equal to the famous Ortolans of Europe. Their note at this season is a single chuck, and is heard overhead, with little intermission from morning till night. These are halcyondays for our gunners of all descriptions, and many a lame and rustygun-barrel is put in requisition for the sport. The report of musketryalong the reedy shores of the Delaware and Schuylkill is almostincessant, resembling a running fire. The markets of Philadelphia, atthis season, exhibit proofs of the prodigious havoc made among thesebirds, for almost every stall is ornamented with some hundreds ofReed Birds. The Rice Bunting is seven inches and a half long, and eleven and ahalf in extent. His spring dress is as follows: upper part of thehead, wings, tail, and sides of the neck, and whole lower parts, black; the feathers frequently skirted with brownish-yellow, as hepasses into the color of the female; back of the head, a cream color;back, black, seamed with brownish-yellow; scapulars, pure white; rumpand tail coverts the same; lower part of the back, bluish-white; tail, formed like those of the Woodpecker genus, and often used in the samemanner, being thrown in to support it while ascending the stalks ofthe reed; this habit of throwing in the tail it retains even in thecage; legs, a brownish flesh color; hind heel, very long; bill, abluish-horn color; eye, hazel. In the month of June this plumagegradually changes to a brownish-yellow, like that of the female, whichhas the back streaked with brownish-black; whole lower parts, dull-yellow; bill, reddish-flesh color; legs and eyes as in the male. The young birds retain the dress of the female until early in thesucceeding spring. The plumage of the female undergoes no materialchange of color. [Illustration: CEDAR BIRD. (_Ampelis Americana. _)] The Cedar-Bird, (_Ampelis Americana_, ) is very frequently shot at thesame time with the Robin. The plumage of this bird is of anexquisitely fine and silky texture, lying extremely smooth and glossy. The name Chatterers has been given to them, but they make only afeeble, lisping sound, chiefly as they rise or alight. On the BlueMountains, and other ridges of the Alleghanies, they spend the monthsof August and September, feeding on the abundant whortleberries; thenthey descend to the lower cultivated parts of the country to feed onthe berries of the sour gum and red cedar. In the fall and beginningof summer, when fat, they are in high esteem for the table, and greatnumbers find purchasers in the market of Philadelphia. They havederived their name from one kind of their favorite food; from othersorts they have also been called Cherry Birds, and to some they areknown by the name of Crown Birds. REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS. _The Poetical Works of Fitz-Greene Halleck. Now first collected. Illustrated with Steel Engravings, from drawings by American Artists. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 8vo. _ This volume is a perfect luxury to the eye, in its typography andembellishments. The fact of an author's appearance in so rich a dress, is itself an evidence of his popularity. We have here, for the firsttime, a complete edition of the author's poems, tender and humorous, serious and satirical, in a beautiful form. It contains AlnwickCastle, Burns, Marco Bozzarris, Red Jacket, A Poet's Daughter, Connecticut, Wyoming, and other pieces which have passed into thememory of the nation, together with the delicious poem of Fanny, andthe celebrated Croaker Epistles. The illustrations are all by Americanartists, and really embellish the volume. The portrait of Halleck isexceedingly characteristic of the man, expressing that union ofintellect and fancy, sound sense, and poetic power, which hisproductions are so calculated to suggest. His great popularity--apopularity which has always made the supply of his poems inferior tothe demand--will doubtless send the present magnificent volume throughmany editions. The poems of Halleck are not only good in themselves, but they give animpression of greater powers than they embody. They seem to indicate alarge, broad, vigorous mind, of which poetry has been the recreationrather than the vocation. A brilliant mischievousness, in which theserious and the ludicrous, the tender and the comic, the practical andthe ideal, are brought rapidly together, is the leading characteristicof his muse. In almost every poem in his volume, serious, orsemi-serious, the object appears to be the production of strikingeffects by violent contrasts. The poet himself rarely seems thoroughlyin earnest, though at the same time he never lacks heartiness. Thereare two splendid exceptions to this remark--Burns, and MarcoBozzarris--poems in which the delicacy and energy of the author's mindfind free expression. They show that if the poet commonly plays withhis subject, it is not from an incapacity to feel and conceive itvividly, but from a beautiful willfulness of nature, which isimpatient of the control of one idea or emotion. Halleck's perceptionsof the ideal and practical appears equally clear and vivid. His fancycannot suggest a poetical view of life, without his wit at the sametime suggesting its prosaic counterpart in society. A mind thusexquisitely sensitive both to the beautiful and laughable sides of asubject--looking at life at once with the eye of the poet and the manof the world--naturally finds delight in a fine mockery of its ownidealisms, and loves to sport with its own high-raised feelings. Hispoetry is not, therefore, so much an exhibition of the real nature andcapacity of the man, as of the play and inter-penetration of hisvarious mental powers, in periods of pleasant relaxation from thebusiness of life. In a few instances, we think, his humorous insighthas been deceived from the unconscious influence upon his mind of thesentiment of Byron and Moore. Thus he occasionally falls into theexaggerations of misanthropy and sentimentality. In his poem entitledWoman, we are informed that man has no constancy of affection, -- His vows are broke, Even while his parting kiss is warm; But woman's love all change will mock, And, like the ivy round the oak, Cling closest in the storm. Here, for the purpose of a vivid contrast, there is a sacrifice ofpoetic truth. The same piece closes with asserting that the smiles andtears of woman, Alone keep bright, through Time's long hour, That frailer thing than leaf or flower, A poet's immortality. Here the thought, redeemed as it is by beautiful expression, is worthyonly of a sentimental poetaster of the Della Cruscan school; and wecan easily imagine what a mocking twinkle would light the eye of itsauthor, if some one should tell him that Homer, Dante, Shakspeare, andMilton were "kept bright" by the smiles and tears of woman. These, andone or two other passages in Halleck, are unworthy of his manly andcant-hating mind; and it is wonderful how they could have escaped hisbrilliant good sense. Fanny, and the Croaker Epistles are the most brilliant things of theirkind in American literature, full of wit, fancy, and feeling, and inall their rapid transitions, characterized by an ethereal lightness ofmovement, a glancing felicity of expression, which betray a poet'splastic touch equally in the sentiment and the merriment. No Americanpoems have been more eagerly sought after, and more provokinglyconcealed, than these. Three editions of Fanny have been published, but the difficulty of obtaining a copy has always been great. Many whowere smitten with a love for it have been compelled to transcribe itfrom the copy of a more fortunate collector. The Croaker Epistles havebeen even more cunningly suppressed. Now we have both in a form whichwill endure with the stereotype plates. They evince the most brilliantcharacteristics of Halleck's genius, and continually suggest thethought, that if the mind of the author be so powerful and various inits almost extempore sport and play, it must have still greatercapacity in itself. Fanny, and the Croaker Epistles swarm with local and personalallusions which a New-Yorker alone can fully appreciate. Van Buren, Webster, Clinton, the politicians and authors generally of the periodwhen the poems were written, are all touched with a light and gracefulpencil. Fanny is conceived and executed after the manner of Byron'sBeppo and Don Juan. It is full of brilliant rogueries, produced bybringing sentiment and satire together with a shock. For instance, Dear to the exile is his native land, In memory's twilight beauty seen afar: Dear to the broker is a note of hand Collaterally secured--the polar star Is dear at midnight to the sailor's eyes, _And dear are Bristed's volumes at half price. _ The sun is loveliest as he sinks to rest; The leaves of Autumn smile when fading fast; The swan's last song is sweetest--and the best Of Meigs's speeches, doubtless, was his last. In a mocking attempt to prove that New York exceeded Greece in theFine Arts, we have the following convincing arguments: In sculpture we've a grace the Grecian master, Blushing, had owned his purest model lacks; We've Mr. Bogart in the best of plaster, The Witch of Endor in the best of wax, Beside the head of Franklin on the roof Of Mr. Lang, both jest and weather-proof. * * * * * In painting we have Trumbull's proud _chef d'oeuvre_, Blending in onethe funny and the fine; His independence will endure forever-- And so will Mr. Allen's lottery sign; And all that grace the Academy of Arts, From Dr. Hosack's face to Bonaparte's. In physic, we have Francis and McNeven, Famed for long heads, short lectures, and long bills; And Quackenboss, and others, who from heaven _Were rained upon us in a shower of pills. _ It would be impossible to give a notion of the genial satire of theCroakers by extracts. The following, from the epistle to the Recorder, is unmatched for felicity and exquisite contrast: The Cæsar passed the Rubicon With helm, and shield, and breast-plate on, Dashing his war-horse through the waters; The R*d*r would have built a barge, Or steamboat, at the city's charge, And passed it with his wife and daughters. In the same piece occurs the following fine tribute to Bryant: Bryant, whose songs are thoughts that bless The heart, its teachers, and its joy, As mothers blend with their caress Lessons of truth and gentleness, And virtue for the listening boy. Spring's lovelier flowers for many a day Have blossomed on his wandering way, Beings of beauty and decay, They slumber in their autumn tomb; But those that graced his own Green River, And wreathed the lattice of his home, Charmed by his song from mortal doom, Bloom on, and will bloom on forever. Pope has become famous for his divine compliments, but certainly nopoet ever celebrated the genius of another with more felicity andsweetness than in the above beautiful passage. It would be impossible to notice all the striking poems in thisvolume--and they are too favorably known to need it. There is onepiece, however, which deserves especial commendation, and its meritsdo not appear to have called forth the eulogy which has beenbountifully lavished on many others. We allude to his exquisitetranslation from Goethe, on the eighty-third page--the invocation tothe ideal world, which precedes Faust. It is one of the gems of thevolume. _The Poetical Works of Lord Byron. Complete in one Volume. Collected and Arranged, with Illustrative Notes. Illustrated by Elegant Steel Engravings. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 8vo. _ This edition of Byron might bear the palm from all other Americaneditions, in respect to its combination of cheapness with elegance, ifit were not the most valuable in point of completeness andillustrative notes. It is a reprint of Murray's Library edition, andwhile executed in a similar style of typography, excells it, if we arenot mistaken, in the number of its embellishments. It contains anadmirable portrait of Byron, a view of Newstead Abbey, and also sixfine steel engravings, executed with great beauty and finish. It isuniform with the same publisher's library edition of Southey andMoore, contains eight hundred pages of closely printed matter, andincludes every thing that Byron wrote in verse. It does honor to theenterprise and taste of the publishers, and will doubtless have acirculation commensurate with its merits. As long as our Americanbooksellers evince a disposition to publish classical works in sobeautiful a form, it is a pleasant duty of the press to commend theireditions. We cordially wish success to all speculations which imply aconfidence in the public taste. It would be needless here to express any opinion of the intellectualor moral character of Byron's poems. Everybody's mind is made up onthose points. The present edition is admirably adapted to convey tothe reader Byron's idea of himself, the opinions formed of him by hiscontemporaries, and the effect of his several works on the public mindas they appeared. It contains an immense number of notes by Moore, Scott, Jeffrey, Campbell, Wilson, Rogers, Heber, Milman, Gifford, Ellis, Bridges, and others, which will be found extremely useful andentertaining. Extracts are taken from Byron's own diary, and from therecorders of his conversations, giving an accurate impression of eachpoem, as regards its time and manner of composition, the feelings fromwhich it sprung, and the opinion he entertained of its reception bythe public. Profuse quotations are made from the first draught of eachpoem, showing how some of the most striking ideas were originallywritten, and the improvements introduced in their expression by theauthor's "sober second thoughts. " The opinions expressed of thevarious poems by the leading reviews of the time, including thecriticisms of Scott, Jeffrey, Gifford, Heber, and others, are largelyquoted. Added to these are numerous notes, explaining allusions, orillustrating images which the common reader might be supposed not tounderstand. Taken altogether, the edition will enable almost anyperson to obtain a clear understanding of Byron and his works, withoutany trouble or inconvenience. There is no other edition which cancompare with it in this respect. Many of the notes are exceedingly curious, and if not absolutely new, have been gathered from such a wide variety of sources, as to be novelto a majority of readers. We have been struck with the impressionwhich Byron's energy made upon Dr. Parr, the veteran linguist. Afterreading the Island, he exclaims--"Byron! the sorcerer! He can do withme according to his will. If it is to throw me headlong upon a desertisland; if it is to place me on the summit of a dizzy cliff--his poweris the same. I wish he had a friend, or a servant, appointed to theoffice of the slave, who was to knock every morning at thechamber-door of Philip of Macedon, and remind him he was mortal. " FromParr's life we learn that Sardanapalus affected him even morestrongly. "In the course of the evening the doctor cried out, 'Haveyou read Sardanapalus?' 'Yes, sir. ' 'Right; and you couldn't sleep awink after it?' 'No. ' 'Right, right--now don't say a word more aboutit to-night. ' The memory of that fine poem seemed to act like a spellof horrible fascination upon him. " Perhaps from a few anecdotes likethis, we gain a much more vivid impression of the sensation whichByron's poems excited on their first appearance, and their strong holdupon the imagination and passions of the public, than we could obtainfrom the most elaborate description of their effects. If such wastheir power upon an old scholar like Parr, what must have been theirinfluence upon younger and more inflammable minds? The editor's preface to Don Juan is no less valuable thanentertaining. It contains not merely the opinions expressed of thepoem by the reviews and magazines, but those of the newspapers, andenables us to gather the judgment of the English people upon thatstrange combination of sublimity and ribaldry, sentiment and wit, tenderness and mockery, at the time it first blazed forth from thepress. The suppressed dedication of the poem to Southey is also givenin full, with all its brutal blackguardism and drunken brilliancy. Intruth, the volume conveys an accurate impression of all the sides ofByron's versatile nature, and from its very completeness is the lesslikely to be injurious. There is no edition of his poems which wecould more safely commend to the reader, as it exhibits Byron thepoet, Byron the scoffer, Byron the roué, in his true colors and realdimensions; and if, after reading it, a person should adopt the oldcant about his brilliant rascalities, and the old drivel about hissentimental misanthropy, the fault is in the reader rather than thevolume. For our own part we are acquainted with no edition of anycelebrated author, equaling this in the remorselessness with which theman is stripped of all the factitious coverings of the poet, andstands out more clearly in his true nature and character. _The Life of Henry the Fourth, King of France and Navarre. By G. P. R. James. New York: Harper & Brothers. 2 vols. 12mo. _ Few kings have been so fortunate as Henry the Fourth in the reputationand good will they have obtained from the people. By democrats as wellas monarchists his name is held in a kind of loving veneration. Muchof this popularity is doubtless owing to his superiority, indisposition as well as mind, to the ferocious bigotry of his age, andto his great edict of toleration which healed for a time the horriblereligious dissensions of France. Apart from his ability, however, hisvirtues as a king sprung rather from good-nature and benevolence, thanfrom moral or religious principle. His toleration was the result ofhis indifference as much as his good sense; and he was not apersecutor, because to him neither Catholicism nor Protestantism wasof sufficient importance to justify persecution. He was a fanatic onlyin sensuality; and if he committed crime, it would be rather for amistress than a doctrine. The last act of his reign, growing out ofhis impatience in having his designs on the Princess of Condé baffled, showed that lust could urge him into an unjust and unprincipled war, where religious superstition would have been totally ineffective. Mr. James's Life of Henry is a careful compilation from the mostreliable sources of information, and embodies a large amount ofimportant knowledge. Though far from realizing the higher conditionsof historical art, it is more accurate and spirited than the generalrun of historical works. Mr. James's conscience in the matter of thepresent book, seems to have been much greater than we might haveexpected from the king of book-makers. When his history was ready forthe press, the French Government commenced publishing the "LettresMissives" of Henry IV. , and Mr. James delayed his book four years, inorder that its facts might be verified or increased by comparison withthat important publication. His work, therefore, is probably thefullest and most accurate one we possess on the age of which ittreats. It is well worthy of an attentive perusal. It abounds inincidents and characters which would make the fortune of a novel, andis an illustration of that kind of truth which is stranger thanfiction. The Harpers have issued the work in a tasteful form. _Artist Life. By H. T. Tuckerman. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 12mo. _ Mr. Tuckerman is an author whose productions we have repeatedly hadoccasion to notice and to praise. They have always a finished air, which favorably distinguishes them from many American publications, the products of mingled talent and haste. Mr Tuckerman does not appearto rush into print, with unformed ideas hastily clad in a looseundress of language--as if the palm of excellence were due to theswiftest runner in the race of expression. His style is clear, polished, graceful, and harmonious, combining a flowing movement withcondensation, and free from the tricks and charlatanries of diction. He is not so popular as he would be if he made more noise about hiswords and thoughts, and called the attention of the public to everyfelicity of his style or reflection by a pugnacious manner, and astrained expression. Though possessing a singularly rich andsuggestive fancy, and a wide variety of information, his use ofornament and allusion is characterized by a taste, an appropriateness, a reserve, which men of smaller stores rarely practice. As a critic, he is calm, clear, judicious, sympathetic, and making the applicationof a principle all the more stringent, from his vivid perception ofthe object of his criticism. The present volume is worthy of itssubject, and is more calculated to convey accurate information of thelives, character, and works of American artists, than any other wehave seen. It is also exceedingly interesting, being full of anecdotesand biographical memoranda of artists who are commonly known only aspainters, not as men. In this respect the volume contains muchoriginal information, which will be valuable to the future historianof American art. In his criticism, Mr. Tuckerman evinces knowledge aswell as taste; and by avoiding technical terms, he contrives to renderagreeable and clear what is generally unintelligible to theuninitiated reader of _critiques_ on paintings. The volume contains, among other sketches and biographies, very interesting notices of thelives and works of West, Copley, Stuart, Allston, Morse, Durand, W. E. West, Sully, Inman, Cole, Weir, Leutze, and Brown. _Appleton's Library Manuel: Containing a Catalogue Raisonne of upwards of Twelve Thousand of the most Important Works in Every Department of Knowledge, in all Modern Languages, New York; D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 8vo. _ This is one of the most available and valuable bibliographical worksextant. Its object is indicated by its title. Such a book should be inthe possession of every student, scholar, book-collector, andlibrarian. There is hardly a subject which can attract the attentionof an inquisitive mind, which is not included in this collection, andthe titles of the best books, in different languages, which relate toit given in full, with the various editions, and their price. It wouldbe needless to dilate upon the value of such a work. The compilersdeserve the highest credit for the labor, intelligence, and expensethey have devoted to it. The cost is but one dollar. _Sybil Lennard, a Record of Woman's Life. _ Mrs. Grey is one of the most popular novel writers of the present day, and Sybil Lennard is unquestionably the best of her works. It ispublished by Mr. T. B. Peterson, by whom the advance sheets wereprocured from England. _Chambers' Miscellany. _ Part No. 5, of Chamber's interesting Miscellany has been published, and the articles it contains are of the highest order of excellence. Messrs. Zieber & Co. Are the Philadelphia publishers. * * * * * POSTHUMOUS WRITINGS OF JOSEPH C. NEAL, ESQ. --We have several admirableCharcoal Sketches by Mr. Neal--a rich legacy bequeathed expressly tous by our gifted and lamented friend. Now that the fountain, whoseoutpourings have so often enriched our pages, is forever closed, thesegems of genius will have a new and peculiar value. We commence theirpublication in our present number. * * * * * THE NEW YORK MIRROR. --This journal is edited with surpassing ability;and its continued and advancing popularity is creditable to the tasteof the community in which it is published. Spirited, independent, andliberal, it not merely, as its name indicates, reflects the light ofthe age, but shines with a lustre of its own. It is well worthy itsgood fortune. Transcriber's Note: Some likely incorrect spellings and probable dialect have been left asprinted, but the following corrections have been made: 1. Page 2--removed extra word 'the' after '... Before the windows lounged... ' 2. Page 6--typo 'Jenning' corrected to 'Jennings' 3. Page 9--added missing double quotation mark at start of sentence 'What do I see! My dearest... ' 4. Page 10--added double quotation mark after 'Nonsense--what payment, ' 5. Page 10--added double quotation mark at end of paragraph '... And proceedings commence directly. ' 6. Page 18--added double quotation mark missing at start of paragraph 'Oh I'll soon show you, ' 7. Page 23--added missing period in sentence 'our prosodies call anapoests' 8. Page 28--removed extra 'a' in second line of stanza beginning 'Did he answer guiltless, lo!' 9. Page 28--typo 'stife' corrected to 'strife' 10. Page 32--added period to sentence '... Whither he was going' 11. Page 43--likely missing word 'for' inserted in sentence '... Off the dangers ahead for a single instant. ' 12. Page 45--typo 'exhaused' corrected to 'exhausted' 13. Page 46--typo 'minuute' corrected to 'minute' 14. Page 58--typo 'observatious' corrected to 'observations' 15. Page 66--inserted opening quotation mark at assumed start of speech "We buried her _there_. I say... "