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

GRAHAM'S MAGAZINE. 

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

CAPTAIN SAMUEL WALKER. 

BY FAYETTE ROBINSON. 

[WITH AN ENGRAVING. ]

Time and opportunity make men--and high talent in any profession orsphere of life is valueless unless called into action. This isstrikingly exemplified in the career of the person with whom we nowhave to do. 

Samuel Walker was born in the county of Prince George, Maryland, inthe year 1815. His family, though respectable, had neither fortune norinfluence sufficient to advance his interests; and at an early age hewas thrown on the world, dependent for success only on his ownexertions. Educated to no profession or business, the chances of hisdrawing a prize in the lottery of life seemed small indeed, yet it isprobable no man of his grade in the service has, since thecommencement of the Mexican war, attracted more attention. Of theearly career of Walker we know little except that in 1840 he was oneof the party of less than twenty men selected by Col. Harney, from thestrength of the 2d Dragoons, to penetrate the great Payhaokee oreverglades of Florida. The history of this expedition is peculiar. 

After the battle of Okeechobee the might of the Seminoles was broken, and they took refuge in the chain of lakes and immense hamacs whichextend almost from Cape Florida to the Suwannee River. Divided intosmall parties, they defied the pursuit of heavy columns, yetfrequently left their fastnesses to commit the most fearfulatrocities. During the winter of 1839 and 40 they had been peculiarlybold, and had ventured even to attack, under the guns of FortMicanopy, a party of mounted infantry which was escorting the youngand beautiful wife of an officer of the 7th Infantry to a neighboringpost. This party, with the exception of two or three persons, wasdestroyed. It became evident that no operations could lead to a goodresult unless the Indians were pursued to their own retreats, andtreated as they had themselves conducted the war. Col. Harney, who wasin command of one of the departments of Florida, immediately organizedan expedition for the purpose of entering the great everglade southof the Lake Okeechobee, in which the Seminoles were supposed to be inmuch strength. The country in which he was about to act seemed to bethe realization of the poetic chaos. It was overgrown with trees ofimmense size, of kinds almost unknown in other portions of thepeninsula, and grass of great highth and strength rose two or threefeet above the surface of the water, which not unfrequently had adepth of several feet. Notwithstanding, however, that this was thegeneral character of the country there were often _portages_, or shoaland dry places, over which it was necessary to carry their boats bymain force. In this kind of country the Indians had the manifestadvantage, being acquainted with sinuous pathways, which, it is said, enabled them to thread all the intricacies of the hamac almost withoutwetting the moccason. The party of Col. Harney, however, were pickedmen, inured to all the hardships of Indian warfare, and after severaldays of hide and seek, surprised a party of Indians, among whom was achief of distinction. As this identical party had more than oncesurrendered and broken truce, Colonel Harney ordered all the men to behung summarily, and took the women with him to the nearest post asprisoners. So important was this service that the names of all theparty were mentioned in general orders, and the enlisted men advancedin grade. The effect on the Indians was great; large parties came inand surrendered, and they remained almost quiet until their lastattempt was crushed by Gen. Worth in the brilliant affair ofPilaklakaha, April 17, 1842. 

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

The disastrous expedition commenced under the command of Gen. Somerville, and terminated at Mier by the surrender of the whole partyto Don Pedro de Ampudia, since become a person of most unenviablenotoriety, is well known. One of the most conspicuous members of thisforay, for it scarcely deserves another name, was Walker. Hedistinguished himself during the long siege the Texans maintained inthe house they had seized, until forced for want of provisions andammunition to surrender. With the rest he was marched to the castle ofPerote, suffering every indignity which Mexican cruelty and ingenuitycould invent. On this sad march, at Salado, Walker performed perhapsthe most brilliant exploit of his life. Wearied out by cruelty, theTexans resolved to escape, and on this occasion Walker was the leader. The prisoners were placed in a strong stone building, at the door ofwhich two sentinels were placed, while their escort bivoucked in frontof the building. Walker, at a concerted signal, threw open the door, seized and disarmed one of the sentinels, while a gallant fellow namedCameron, a Highlander, was equally successful with the other. Theunarmed prisoners immediately rushed through the gateway and seizedthe arms of the Mexican guard. No scheme was ever more daringlyplanned or more boldly executed. Within the course of a moment the twohundred and fourteen Texans had changed places with the numerousMexican guard. Outside of a court-yard, in which the guard hadbivoucked, was a strong cavalry force, which the Texans charged withthe bayonet and routed, and immediately resumed their march back tothe Rio Grande. 

They deserved success and liberty, but ignorant of the country, soonbecame lost in the mountains, were overpowered and taken back toSalado. They found Santa Anna there, and the Mexican Presidentdecimated the party. 

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

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

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

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

On the 1st of May Gen. Taylor broke up his camp, and what followed iswell known. On the 3d Walker was again employed in the perilousservice of ascertaining the condition of Fort Brown, which was thenbeing bombarded by all the batteries of the city of Matamoras. Hisreconnoisance was one of the boldest feats performed during the war, and though May, who had command of a hundred horse for the purpose ofcovering him, presuming he must have been captured returned to Gen. Taylor, Walker again returned on the 4th, having accomplished his dutyalone. 

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

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

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

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

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

Captain Walker had risen by his own exertions. Brought up in a goodschool, "the Light Dragoons of the U. S. , " his knowledge of tactics, acquired in Florida, was most useful to his first service as anofficer in the army of the Texan Republic. He is spoken of as havingpossessed every requisite for a cavalry officer--a quick perception, akeen eye, a strong arm, perfect control of his horse, thoroughknowledge of military combination, and the rarer and more valuablefaculty of winning the confidence of his men. Had he not been cut offso untimely in his chosen career, he could not but have become adistinguished general. 

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

LAMARTINE TO MADAME JORELLE. 

FROM THE FRENCH. 

BY VIRGINIA. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

PHANTOMS ALL. 

A PHANTASY. 

BY MRS. CAROLINE H. BUTLER. 

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

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

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

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

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

 * * * * *

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

Closing the volume which had so enchained my senses, my mind, fromdwelling upon the presence of Scott himself, as introduced throughthe unformal courtesy of our beloved Irving, naturally turned to thevaried and wonderful productions of that master mind, and to the manycharacters thereby created, seeming to hold a sacred place in ourthoughts and affections, as friends whom we had once known and loved!

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

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

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

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

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

But of this I took little note--other and "more attractive metal" metmy eye, for around me were kings and princes--peer and peasant--lordsand ladies--turbaned infidel and helmeted knight--the wild rovinggipsy and the wandering troubadour. In short, I found myself in the_world_ of the immortal master of Abbotsford, and surrounded by thoseto whose enchanting company I had oft been indebted for dispellingmany a weary hour of sickness and gloom--friends whom at my bidding Icould at any moment summon to my presence--friends never weary ofwell-doing--friends never weighing down the heart by their unkindness, or chilling by their neglect. My heart throbbed with a delight beforeunknown; and I eagerly looked about me, recognizing on every sidethose dear familiar ones with whom, for so many years, I had beenlinked in love and friendship. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Ah, ha!" thought I, "there must be a cause for all this--Brown mustbe near!" and in a moment that handsome young soldier had joined thegroup. Remembering the commands of Meg Merrillies, I was striving tocatch his eye, that I might do her bidding, when the gipsy herselfsuddenly strode into the circle and fixing her eyes upon Brown, orrather Bertram, she waved her long skinny arm, exclaiming, "Tarry not here, Harry Bertram, of Ellangowan; there's a dark deedthis night to be done amid the caverns of Derncleugh, and then

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"_Hegh_, sirs!" she cried, brandishing it above her head, "I'll gar yeto know ye're not coming flisking to an honest woman's house settingfolks by the lugs. Keep to your ain whillying hottle here, yene'er-do-weel, or I'll mak' windle-strae o' your banes--and what forno?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bless that sweet, meek face of Jeanie Deans! Many a lovelier--many afairer were in that assemblage, yet not one more winning or truthful. The honest, pure heart shone from those mild blue eyes; one might know_she_ could make any sacrifice for those she loved, and that guidedand guarded by her own innocence and steadfast truth, neither crownsnor sceptres could daunt her from her noble purpose. 

And there, too, was Effie. Not Effie, the Lily of St. Leonards, suchas she was when gayly tending her little flock on St. Leonard'sCraigs--not Effie, the poor, wretched criminal of the Tolbooth--butEffie, the rich and beautiful Lady Staunton, receiving with all theease and elegance of a high-born dame the homage of the noblessurrounding her, of whom none shone more conspicuous than his gracethe Duke of Argyle, on whose arm she was leaning. 

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

Need I say it was Rebecca, the Jewess. 

A rich turban of yellow silk, looped at the side by an aigrette ofdiamonds, and confining a beautiful ostrich plume, was folded over herpolished brow, from which her long, raven tresses floated in beautifulcurls around her superb neck and shoulders. A simarre of crimson silk, studded with jewels, and gathered to her slender waist by amagnificent girdle of fine gold, reached below the hips, where it wasmet by a flowing robe of silver tissue bordered with pearls. Inqueenly dignity she was about to pass from the saloon, when the nobleRichard of the Lion Heart stepped hastily forward, and respectfullysaluted her. He still wore his sable armor, and with his visor thrownback, had for some time been negligently reclining against one of thelofty pillars, a careless spectator of the scene around him. Thelovely Jewess paused, and with graceful ease replied to the address ofthe monarch; but at that moment the voice of Ivanhoe, speaking toRowena, fell on her ear--and with a hurried reverence to Coeur de Lion, she glided from the apartment. 

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

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

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

There was Sir Piercie Shafton, too, and the miller's black-eyeddaughter. The voice of the knight was low and apparently his wordswere tender; for poor Mysie Happer, with cheeks like a fresh-blownrose, and sparkling eyes, drank in with her whole soul the honeyedaccents of the Euphoist. 

"Certes, O my discretion, " said he, "thou shalt arise from thynever-to-be-lamented-sufficiently-lowliness; thou shalt leave thehomely occupations of that rude boor unto whom it beseemeth thee togive the appellation of father, and shalt attain to the-all-to-be-desiredgreatness of my love, even as the resplendent sun condescends to shinedown upon the earth-crawling beetle. "

I now approached a deep embrasure elevated one step above the levelof the apartment, over which magnificent hangings of crimson and goldswept to the floor. Not for a moment could I doubt who the splendidbeing might be occupying the centre of the little group on which myeyes now rested enraptured. 

The most lovely, the most unfortunate Mary of Scotland was before me, and, as if spell-bound, I could not withdraw my gaze. How did all theportraits my fancy had drawn fade in comparison with the actualbeauty, the indescribable loveliness of this peerless woman. How wasit possible to give to fancy any thing so exquisitely graceful andbeautiful as the breathing form before me. Ask me not to depict thecolor of her eyes; ask me not to paint that wealth of splendidhair--that complexion no artist's skill could match--that mouth soeloquent in its repose--those lips--those teeth. As well attempt to_paint the strain_ of delicious music which reaches our ears atmidnight, stealing over the moonlit wave; or to _color the fragrance_of the new-blown rose, or of the lily of the vale, when first pluckedfrom its humble bed. For even thus did the unrivaled charms of Mary ofScotland blend themselves indescribably with our enraptured senses. 

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

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

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

The fawning villain, Varney, stood at a little distance behind theunconscious Amy, even then, as it seemed to me, plotting herdestruction with the old arch hypocrite, Foster, with whom he washolding low and earnest conversation. Tressilian--the brave, goodTressilian--as if sworn to protect the lovely lady, leaned on hissword at her right hand, his fine eyes bent with a look of mingledadmiration and pity on her ingenuous countenance. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This speech had the desired effect; and the trembling Triptolemushastily placed the bold front of Baby between him and the object ofdread. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Suddenly a flourish of warlike music swelled through the loftyapartment--peal on peal reverberated around--and while I listened withawe to notes so grand and solemn, the music as suddenly changed itscharacter. Now only the dulcet tones of the harp were heard, sweet asthe soft summer shower when the tinkling rain-drops merrily pelt theflowers--strains so sweetly harmonious as seemed too heavenly formortal touch. And as fainter and fainter, yet still more sweet, theravishing melody breathed around, one by one the company glided outsilently and mournfully--the tapestried walls gradually assumed theappearance of my own little parlor--the rich and tasteful decorationsvanished--_and where was I?_ Seated in my own comfortablerocking-chair, reclining in the same attitude as when so suddenlysummoned forth by the gipsy carline. Truly, "There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio. Than are dreamt of in your philosophy. "

HOMEWARD BOUND. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 * * * * *

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

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

POOR PENN--. 

A REAL REMINISCENCE. 

BY OLIVER BUCKLEY. 

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

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

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

"Oh!" I ejaculated in my disappointment, feeling assured that a weekwould not have raised Penn--to that honor, and I sat down on the greenbank and watched the steamboats as they passed up and down between meand the city. And as I gazed, many a sad reflection and strangeconjecture passed and re-passed along the silent current of my mind. How alone I felt! Even the groups of soldiers standing about were butas so many stacks of muskets. My eyes wandered listlessly from objectto object, and rested at last on a pair of boots at my side, such ashad been moving about me for the last half hour, and they, that is myeyes, not the boots, naturally, but slowly, followed up the militarystripe on the side of the pantaloons, then took a squirrel leap to theUncle Sam buttons on the breast of the coat, and passed leisurely fromone to another upward, until they lit at last full in the owner'sface! That quizzical look--that Roman nose! There was no mistakingPenn--, Sergeant Penn--, of the United States Army! My surprise mayeasily be imagined. However, a few minutes explained all. 

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

My friend in an evil hour had been led astray--had imbibed one"cobbler" too many for his leather; and like most men in similarcircumstances, grew profoundly patriotic, and in a glorious burst ofenthusiasm, enlisted! His fine figure, with a dash of the theatricalair, promoted him at once to the dignity of sergeant; and never didsoldier wear his honors "thrust upon him" with a better grace than didPoor Penn--. Whether in his sober moments he regretted the rash act, Ido not know; he was too proud to acknowledge it if he did. Taking meby the arm, he conducted the way to the barracks, and with an air ofindescribable importance, exhibited and explained the whole internalarrangements. On the first floor, which was paved with brick, therewas an immense fire-place, built in the very centre of the great room, and steaming and bubbling over the fire hung a big kettle, capable ofholding at least thirty gallons. Over it, or rather beside it, stoodthe soldier-cook, stirring the contents, which was bean-soup, with aniron ladle. In the room above were long rows of bunks, stacks ofmuskets, with other warlike implements and equipage. A number of menwere lounging on the berths, some reading, some boasting, and otherstelling long yarns. There was one stout, moon-faced gentleman layingon his broad back "spouting" Shakspeare. This individual, to whom Iwas introduced, turned out to be Sergeant Smith, another son ofThespis, who had left the boards for a more permanent engagement, notwith the enemy, for those were days of peace, but with that stern oldmanager, Uncle Sam. Sergeant Smith was, perhaps, the most importantperson in his own estimation, on the banks, not even excepting thecaptain. There can be no doubt but that the stage suffered a greatloss when he left it, for, indeed, he told us so himself. In a littlewhile the call sounded, the roll was called, and all hands turned into dinner. Penn-- had provided me a seat by his side; and, for thefirst time in my life, I sat down to soldier fare. There was a squareblock of bread at the side of each pewter plate, a tin cup of coldwater, and very soon a ladle-full of the steaming bean-soup was dealtround to each. It was a plain but a substantial dinner. Poor Penn--, as he helped me to an extra ladle of soup, observed, with the mostsolemn face imaginable, that the man who hadn't dined with soldiers"didn't know beans;" an expression more apt than elegant. During thespace of three months I made weekly visits to the barracks, and wasgratified to find that my friend Penn--, in spite of his formidablerival, Sergeant Smith, was fast rising in the confidence of thecommanding officer and the estimation of the men. Smith, too, wasjudicious enough to hide any jealousy he might have felt, and like atrue soldier, imitated his superior, and treated Penn-- with markeddistinction. 

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

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

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

"Not acq--"

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

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

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

He looked at me a moment with surprise, and after exclaiming, "How areyou, my boy?" gave the bench a salutary kick, and whistled morevigorously than ever "Nix my Dolly;" and having gone through thestave, he turned to me and exclaimed, "Look you, my boy, be chaste as snow, you shall not escapecalumny--and to this complexion you may come at last. " Again he tooksight at the blank stone wall, whistled, and beat time. 

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

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

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

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

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

"Next Sunday, " he replied, and added, "Look here, my boy, let me bidyou good-by now, for the last time"--and he pressed my handwarmly--"for the last time, I say, for it would unman me to see you onthat day, and Penn-- would fain be himself, proud and unshaken even inhis disgrace. There--there--go, my dear boy, let this be the lastvisit of your life to the barracks. God bless you!" and after givinghis hand a hearty grasp, I turned hurriedly away, to hide my feeling. In passing the door I gave a hasty glance back, and saw Penn-- sittingas before, his arms folded, his heels beating the bench, but soslowly, that their strokes seemed like the dying vibrations of apendulum; and the whistle was so low that it was scarcely audible. With a heavy heart I passed away, much preferring to acknowledge theacquaintance of a "deserter" like Poor Penn-- than to continue that ofthe unimpeachable Sergeant Smith. Another week brought around the dayof my friend's departure, and I found it impossible to resist thetemptation to take a farewell look at my old companion. Accordingly Icrossed the river, and taking my station behind a large tree on thebank of the river, so that I could see Penn--without letting him seeme, I awaited with melancholy patience the moment when the desertersshould be led out. The steamboat was puffing and groaning at thewharf, and in a few moments the heavy door of the guard-room swungopen; there was a sudden clanking of irons, and soon I saw prisonerafter prisoner emerge, dragging long heavy chains, which were attachedto their ankles. I counted them as they came out--counted a dozen--butyet no Penn--; counted eighteen--nineteen--but the twentieth, andlast, proved to be him. No language can describe the solemn majestywith which he brought up the rear of that dishonored line. No chainclanked as he stepped to tell of his disgrace; and the spectators, instead of suspecting him as being a culprit, may easily have imaginedhim to be one of the sergeants who had the rest in charge. This, tome, was a matter of much surprise, and turning to an old soldier at myside, I inquired, "What does this mean, isn't Penn-- one of them?"

"Of course he is, " was the reply. 

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

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

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

A SONG. 

BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ. 

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

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

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

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

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

THE ENCHANTED ISLE. 

BY MRS. LYDIA JANE PEIRSON. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE CONTINENTS. 

BY J. BAYARD TAYLOR. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

JEHOIAKIM JOHNSON. 

A SKETCH. 

BY MARY SPENCER PEASE. 

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

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

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

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

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

I could describe every nook of that darling old house, and every thingsurrounding it, from its old-fashioned chimneys--wherein the domesticswallows have sung their little ones to sleep each successive summer, time out of mind--to the unseemly nail that projected its Judas-pointfrom one of the crosspieces of that same little gate, and which alwayscontrived to give a triangular tear to my flying robes every time theyfluttered through that dear little gate. Just imagine the happymoments I spent under the great old willow by the well, darning thosesame triangular rents. Still has all this nothing to do with CousinJehoiakim Johnson. You have probably seen folks that were often inyour way; now, he was never any where else. Always in the way, andalways ungraceful. He was not ungraceful for lack of desire to please:bless his kind, officious heart! Oh, no! Was there a cup of coffee tobe handed, and were there a half dozen waiters ready to hand it, hewas sure to thrust forth at least ten huge digits, and if he chancedto get it in his grasp, wo to the coffee! and wo to the snow-whitedamask table-cloth! or worse, wo to one's "best Sunday-go-to-meetin'"silk dress. Nature uses strange materials in concocting some of herchildren--most uncouth was the fabric of which she constructedJehoiakim Johnson. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

How delightfully flew our days on this particular Christmas visit. Ifelt myself in a new world. A world of brighter flowers, and brightersunshine; for, although I was eighteen, never until then had I beenany thing but a wild, thoughtless, giddy child. And then?--the truthis a new star had burst upon my horoscope, bright and beautiful, thatso bewildered my eyes to look upon, I was forced to awake my heartfrom its long sleep, to supply the place of eyes. Steadfast it gazedinto that bright star's heaven-lighted depths, until I recognized itas my guiding star--my Destiny!

Oh, Love! thou angel! thou devil! thou blissful madness, thou wisefolly! Thou that comest clad in rainbow garments, with words more fullof hope than was the first arch that spanned high heaven, stouterhearts than mine have been compelled to own thee master. Prouderhearts than mine have listened to the witcheries of thy satin-smoothtongue until they forgot their pride. More ice-cold ones than minehave been consumed in the immortal fire thou buildest--the heart thinealtar, Love, thou monarch of the universe!

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

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

Joy and hope danced in our hearts when, clear and sunny, the promisedday at length had come, the snow five and a half feet deep--thegreatest depth of snow within the memory of the "oldestinhabitant"--the mercury full ten degrees below zero. I had justchanged my dress for the fifth time, and sister Anna was offering methis consolation, "I must say, Clara, that that is the most unbecomingdress you have, you look like a perfect scare-crow, " when the sound ofsleigh-bells coming up the avenue, sent my heart up in my throat, andmyself quicker than lightning down to the "hall-door, " there towelcome--not my darling Edgar and his proud, beautiful sister, andAnna's Adonis lieutenant, and Brother Dick's pretty little Fanny--no, none of these, oh, no! who but my long-visaged, good-for-nothingcousin Jehoiakim Johnson. 

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

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

"Wall, Cousin Clarry!" exclaimed he, springing toward me with one ofhis own peculiar bear-like bounds. "How du you du? I guess you didn'texpect me this time, no how. "

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

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

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

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

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

What a pity stars should set. What a pity that eyes, once overflowingwith the light of wildest, truest love, should grow cold and dim. Apity, too, that love cannot always be love--that it should find itsgrave so often in hate, or indifference, or in sober friendship. Stillthat it does not always, let us bless Love, and think that the faultlies in us, and not in Love, that we are grown so like the clay ofwhich our bodies are made, that Love, the spirit, cannot find anabiding-place within us; and, as years come over us, we are contentmore and more to harden our hearts, and bask, like butterflies, in theexternal sunshine of this beautiful world, until the world within--theworld of thought and feeling--is a weary one, gladdened only with afew flowers of transcendent sweetness and brightness--rewards of meritfrom this work-day, lesson-learning earth. 

Meantime were those warm eyes looking love upon me; and meantime, fromout a world of buffalo-robes and furs, were our merry friendsemerging; and then a fervent pressure of a soft, warm hand sent thebright blood burning to my very temples. Then came numerous othershakes of the hand, and question sounded upon question, and laughpealed upon laugh; a gayer, merrier, madder party never met together. Sister Anna, and Brother Dick's little love of a Fanny, were a host ofmirth in themselves. The accession of so many merry faces seemed toact on the uncouth spirits of my Cousin Jehoiakim like so muchexhilarating gas; for scarcely were we housed, when he suddenly caughtme up in his windmill arms, and twirling me around as though I hadbeen a feather, exclaimed, "Bless us! Cousin Clarry, I have scarcelyhad a chance to say how du you du, and to tell you how glad I am to behere once more. Arn't you tickled to death to see me?"

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

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

With that he threw himself back in a perfect roar of ha! ha's! and he!he's! My eyes glanced around to see the effect produced on my friendsby my _gauche_ cousin. The great blue eyes of the aristocratic Janeopened themselves wider and more wide, while the merry black ones oflittle Fanny seemed to enjoy the sport. The lieutenant's moustachecurled itself a little more decidedly, as he surveyed JehoiakimJohnson; looking upon him, probably, as on some savage monster. Ithought I perceived a darker shade in Edgar's eyes. It soon passedover, and we all became quiet and chatty. The twilight deepened aroundus, meantime, and the shadows formed by the blazing hearth grew moreand more opaque, and more and more fitful, lengthening themselves overcarpet, chairs, and sofas, to the very farthest corner of the room, darting all manner of fantastic forms upon Sister Anna and herhandsome lieutenant, as they sat over by the window, in earnestconversation. Yes, Sister Anna, for once wert thou earnest. Upon ourgroup on the sofa, before the hearth, fell also those strangefire-light shadows. Sweet little Fanny! how like a little fairy didstthou look in that flickering fire-light; thy graceful form, halfreclining, thrown carelessly on the sofa; thy long, curling hairflowing in dark clouds over thy snow-white dress, and nearly hidingthy happy, child-like face, and bright eyes, that glanced out onBrother Dick, who, entranced, was devoutly bending over thee, gazingon thy sunny face--what he could see of it. Sweet little Fanny! Andthy proud, beautiful sister, Jane--sitting beside me, and near thee;well did that gleaming light reveal her noble outline of face and formcontrasting so finely with thine. Nor did those wayward shadows spareour dear mother, but daguerreotyped all manner of merry-andrews on hersober satin dress, as she sat over on a lounge, quietly talking withmy dear, sweet Edgar, who employed his leisure moments in throwingsundry loving glances over at me. Nor did these weird shadows spareour Cousin Jehoiakim Johnson in the great old-fashioned arm-chair, where he had flung himself, seemingly wrapped in meditation mostprofound. They frolicked over his broad, square shoulders like theLiliputs upon Gulliver, dancing all sorts of fantastic dances, pullingat his ears, and tweaking his substantial nose, when a snore of mostimmense magnitude broke on our quiet ears. Then another and another, each louder than the last. Ah! Cousin Jehoiakim, most profound was thymeditation. 

Now I am not going to weary your patience by telling you how just thenour "help" entered, one bearing a tray-full of tall sperm candles, another an immense waiter, crowned with the thick-gilt, untarnishedchina, that had been handed down in our family by four successivegenerations--we had begged our dear mother to let the tea, the teaonly, be handed around as it was done in Boston; she in an evil hourconsenting. Nor how Cousin Jehoiakim, aroused from his meditation bythe glare of light, starting up, cast his eyes upon Mercy, the stoutserving maiden, and bearer of that same precious porcelain--for whichmy dear mother's reverence was as great, every whit, as that ofCharles Lamb's for old China; and how the next moment the waiter wasin the hands of my six feet seven and a-half cousin, with "Du let mehelp you, young woman!" and how the next instant the six feet sevenand a-half formed a horizontal line with the floor, instead of aperpendicular one; and how the glittering fragments of gold and whiteglistened from under every chair, and from the hearth, and out fromamong the ashes, like unto so many evil eyes glaring upon him for hisstupidity and carelessness; and how little Fanny unwound from one footof the prostrate six feet seven and a-half several yards of snow-whitemuslin--the innocent cause of the disaster; and how, light as a bird, she sprung, merrily laughing, from the room, with the flutteringfragments of her cobweb dress gathered in an impromptu drapery aroundher graceful little form. 

No; I will not fatigue you with the history of that unlucky adventure;nor how, but a short time after, when we had taken tea from lesscostly China, and had fallen into a witty, merry uttering of eachother's thoughts, we were interrupted by screams the most--but nevermind what kind, seeing I have said you shall not be fatigued with adescription of what was nothing but an immense kettle of boiling lardflowing quietly and river-like over the long length of the before sospotless kitchen floor, with many a cluster of dough-nut islandsinterspersed, by way of relieving the said river of monotony. Our dearmother was famed for miles around for the profusion and superiority ofher dough-nuts, hence our soubriquet--"Dough-nut Hall. " And, seeingthat Mercy was only scalded half to death, the guilty culprit, whoinsisted that the kettle was "too heavy for a woman to lift, " escapingunhurt, that is bodily--his remorse of conscience being trulypitiable. No; none of all this, with long, ugly sentences, shall youhave; no, nor a detail of his many daily, hourly, and almost momently, misadventures; how once, when we were sitting in Miss Elliott's room, in he bolted with, "Bless my soul! what a lot of industriouswomen-folk! 'How doth the busy bee;'" that new and elegant little poemwas, word for word, recited. Little Fanny he found making a bead pursefor Brother Dick, and examining her box with every conceivable shadeof bead duly assorted, and separated from each other by innumerablepartitions. No matter what he said about them, only the beads werespilled, and the purse could not be finished; and then were MissJane's delicate brushes passed through his wondering red hair before asaving hand could arrest them; then was Miss Jane's beautiful inlaiddressing-box broken irreparably; and then--but I will tell you what Iwill relate you--all about our sleigh-ride and country ball. Yes! thatyou must know; not because it is worth telling, but because I shouldlike you to hear it--all about how I nearly lost my darling. But tocommence. 

Rumors were afloat of this said ball, the countriest kind of a countryball, to take place in Squire Brown's barn, the largest, best builtbarn for miles around. Our city friends entered into the spiritexactly, and determined on going. "Cousin Jehoiakim? Oh, he need knownothing about it, " said Sister Anna; "or we can easily deceive him asto the day, without telling him very much of a lie. " Ah! Sister Anna. The important day arrived. In one great bandbox reposed varioussatins, laces, and ribbons too numerous to mention; the owners thereofwere standing cloaked, hooded, and muffed, ready to start. Thedistance was ten miles. We had cast lots for the sleighs, and hadagreed on exclusiveness, though not exactly the exclusiveness thatSister Anna wickedly proposed, viz. , that each brother should take hisrespective sisters in due decorum. The new "cutter" of my brother'swas drawn by himself; and he had already started with his little Fannyby his side. The proud, beautiful Jane--I really believe I hadforgotten to mention that, while Cousin Jehoiakim was upsettingchairs, and spilling pitchers of water, and breaking glasses, andtreading on people's toes, and the cat's tail, a distant cousin ofours arrived--rather a guess cousin than Cousin Jehoiakim; tall asthe last named, to be sure, but bearing about the same resemblance tohim as a vigorous, graceful young willow does to an overgrown mullenstalk. This new cousin--by cognomen Clarence Spencer--the family nameour own, by the way--proud and beautiful as the haughty Janeherself--had seen fit to fall most gracefully in love with her. Thesetwo, therefore, were just started on their way to the ball, inClarence's own incomparable turn-out. Lieutenant Allen had drawn theElliott's beautiful gold and brown sleigh. He was holding theimpatient ponies, and Sister Anna was arranging the cushions whenCousin Jehoiakim hove in sight. Sister Anna sprung like a doe to thefront seat, threw the heavy buffalo-robes about, making them and thegreat bandbox fill up the back seat, and seating herself by thelieutenant--all this quicker than lightning--and giving the ponies atouch of the whip, on they dashed to the imminent peril of their necksas well as her own. A saucy toss of the head was all she vouchsafedme. All, then, were on their way save Edgar and myself, who wereexpecting a quiet, loving talk in the comfortable old-fashioned"pung, " with a gig top, that papa used in his frequent drives toBoston. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"By gracious! so I am. "

I brushed the snow from his shoulders and hair, and assisted his longneck from its cumbrous stock, and pinning on the crown-piece, the hatwas quite wearable again. 

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

"Most certainly, Mr. Elliott, " replied Cousin Jehoiakim, "you know Ibegged you to let me out the first sleigh we met. I reckon you _did_let me out to some purpose at last. By jimminy! but that was a cooldip. Wall, Cousin Anny, what do you say to my riding along with you, though I had a leetle rather sit alongside of Clarry, yet if you've noobjections I havn't none. "

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

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

When we entered the ball-room we found Cousin Jehoiakim alreadydancing with a red-haired young lady, in a blue gauze dress. Seeingus, and wishing to astonish us, he attempted a quadruple pigeon-wing, which unfortunately entangled his great feet in the blue gauze dress, and ended in his own subversion and the dismemberment of the thingauze. The young lady was obliged to retire for the night, whileCousin Jehoiakim slowly picked himself up. He was so much abashed Ihad to console him by asking him to dance with me. I really pitied thepoor fellow, he could get no one but me to dance with him, still hetried so hard to make himself agreeable, and was so determinedlygood-natured that it was not his fault that he could not be a secondApollo. 

I was Edgar's partner for a reel. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Just as you please. "

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

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

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

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

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

"Edgar!"--but he was gone. 

You may depend I did _not_ ride home with _Mr. Johnson_, but begged aseat with my sister, leaving my cousin the "pung" with the gig-top allto himself. Whether he encountered any more stumps or pit-falls Icannot say. He and the pung came safely home, as did the rest of us. 

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

"Mamma, " chimed in Anna, while a smile twinkled in the corner of hereye, "Cousin Jehoiakim has ruined my beautiful French wreath, and hasbroken my Chinese pagoda, and my exquisite Chinese mandarins, andsoiled my Book of Beauty, and has broken my new set of chess-men thatUncle Eb. Brought from the East Indies, and has--dear mother, can younot think of some means of sending him to Uncle Abiram's, or toHalifax?"

"Yes, mother, " said Brother Dick, with a laugh, "Hoiky has been heremischiefizing long enough; do invent some means of packing him off. Wehave been victimized long enough. He has broken every fishing-rod Ihave, and has lost my hooks, and he has lamed my beautiful pony Cæsar, and ruined my gun, and yesterday, in shooting game, he shot my dogNeptune, that I have been offered fifty dollars for, and would nothave taken one hundred. "

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

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

"He left the bars down that led into my largest, best field of wheat, and half the cattle in the country have been devouring it. They haveruined at least a couple of hundred dollars worth. The money is notwhat I care so much for, but it was the best wheat-field for milesaround, and I had a pride in having it yield more than any field of myneighbors. I have borne with him day after day, hoping he might dobetter. Poor fellow! he is sorry enough always for his mistakes. Theother day he left the garden-gate open, and the cows got in and eatall my cabbages and other vegetables; then he leaves the barn-dooropen, and the hogs go in and the calves come out. "

"We will see, " said our dear mamma. 

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

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

Cousin Jehoiakim opened wide his eyes, inquiringly. 

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

Still wider opened my cousin's eyes. 

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

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

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

Still wider opened Cousin Jehoiakim's eyes. 

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

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

The stage came and Cousin Jehoiakim went. 

And the way I lured back my flown bird would make quite an interestingsentimental little story of itself. Bless his bright eyes! they areshining on me now, full of mischief at this sketch I am giving you, beloved reader. But _didn't_ we have a nice wedding time? There wasAnna and her brave lieutenant, Brother Dick and his bright littleFanny, the beautiful, majestic Jane, and my beautiful, majestic CousinClarence, and my darling, good Edgar, and, dear reader, your veryhumble servant. 

CORIOLANUS. 

BY HENRY B. HIRST. 

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

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

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

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

 Thou, who hadst stood where death reigned like a king, First in Corioli--thy wounds in front-- Preferring neigh of steed and clash of arms, The battle's deadly brunt, To silken ease, and mirth, and song, and dance, And festal follies in Etruscan halls-- Bacchantic revels, when the sun went down, Beyond the city walls, Couldst well gaze on the mass with eagle eye, Demanding as a right their voice, and blush To bare thy scars, while thy patrician scorn Made cheek and forehead flush. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 But when Volumnia came--thy mother--she Who bore thee 'neath her heart, and, at her side The one who, in thy softer hours, with love Thy trembling lip called bride, Leading thy child--thy boy--the old hours came Like south wind over thee; thy icy soul Dissolved in tears; thy hard--thy iron heart Acknowledged love's control, And Rome was saved--Rome, who had wronged, was free! --Thou lost!--O, never from the depths of Time Came sweeter record of the power of love Than this, in my poor rhyme. 

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

LENNARD. 

A TALE OF MARION'S MEN. 

BY MRS. MARY G. HORSFORD. 

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

I. 

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

II. 

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

III. 

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

IV. 

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

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

V. 

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

VI. 

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

VII. 

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

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

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

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

VIII. 

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

IX. 

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

X. 

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

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

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

XI. 

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

XII. 

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

XIII. 

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

XIV. 

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

XV. 

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

XVI. 

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

XVII. 

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

XVIII. 

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

XIX. 

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

XX. 

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

NOTE. 

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

THE POLE'S FAREWELL. 

BY WM. H. C. HOSMER. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE FORTUNES OF A SOUTHERN FAMILY. 

A TALE FOUNDED ON FACT. 

BY A NEW CONTRIBUTOR. 

PART I. 

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

Now, would that I could wield as magic a pencil as did Benjamin West, that mighty paint-king, how quickly would glow upon canvas one of themost beautiful and magnificent landscapes that ever entranced the eyeof a scenery-loving traveler--a landscape upon which you might gazeenraptured every day for years, as I have done, and yet never tire norgrow less fond of beholding it. I would paint for your especialgratification, a living, a breathing picture of my old homestead, endeared by so many joy-fraught hours, and the surrounding scenery, through which I roved until I knew its every nook and corner as wellas my dog-leaved spelling-book, by the venerable Dilworth. But, as itis, dear reader, I must be content to offer you a rude "_pen and inksketch_, " excavated from the ruins of my childhood recollections of asexquisitely beautiful and picturesque a spot as ever riveted the humangaze. 

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

We are leaning against a rugged mass of the gray ledge--your head isresting upon your right hand, and you are gazing intently down at thecircle and whirl of the romping waters. Only a few yards above, a coolspring gushes up, quick and bright, dimpling and laughing in thearrowy sunshine, then flashing and foaming over the dark rocks, andtwisting in and out among the bare roots of the majestic oak thatcools us with its shadows, falls in a golden shower to the mossy basinat your feet, and leaping over the steep precipice, mingles in foamwith the seething river below. We are turned toward the west, and asyou raise your eyes to a level with the horizon, one of the moststupendous views of the Blue Mountains that ever caused man to stop inbreathless awe, now presents itself to your astonished gaze. Mountaintowers behind mountain, and peak behind peak in wild sublimity, likegiant waves heaved along the blue sky, almost seeming as if they werethe ramparts of the world. Their sloping sides are dark with forests, save here and there, where the axe has penetrated their recesses, andblocked out spaces which, having been touched with the magic of theplough, now smile with fertility. And yonder, a little to your right, lifting his narrow pinnance above all the rest, stands time-honoredCurrahee, with his red cap on--for thus we are accustomed to designatethe barren soil which crowns his lofty summit. 

Now, for a moment, permit me to call your attention farther up theriver. Did you ever see a more entrancing and exquisitely beautifulcascade, steeped as it is in the softness, and glowing with thebrightness of a cloudless spring morning? See how the wreathes of foamcome bounding along, like a pack of ravenous wolves chasing eachother, and stop suddenly in their mad career, for an instantequipoising upon the very brink, as if they had shrunk back and fearedto take the awful leap, then, pushed on by the rush of the watersbehind, descend like a shower of diamonds, and come whirling anddashing through the narrow gorge at our feet. And is not that deepbasin at the base of the falls glorious? What an angry aspect itssurface puts on, plunging and surging like a mass of living snow, while the flashing sunlight is perpetually endeavoring to paint arainbow in the ever-mounting spray, and yet never quite succeeds. Andthose massive rocks, too, piling themselves up so quaintly on eitherside of the falls, just where they take the final plunge--are they notmagnificent? How verdant and mossy, and superb in their ruggedness!Oh! if we were only upon one of those ledges--that one that seemsready to bow itself into the foaming torrent; if we only stood there, by that wide-spreading, gnarled old oak, twisting its dark roots inand out amongst the deep crevices like a knot of huge serpents, what aglorious prospect would burst upon your sight! There are _so_ manyentrancing scenes about my birth-place, but, among them all, none asmagnificent as the one you behold from that mossy ledge. But thebridge--did you look at the old bridge? See where it stands festoonedwith shadows. That is a dear spot to me, for with it are associatedsome of the most treasured recollections of my boyhood. One end ofthis time-worn fabric opens into a sandy lane, with broad, greenmargins on both sides next the zig-zag fences, where I have so oftengathered a bunch of flowers for my instructress, as I passed throughit on my way to the school-house; the other is embowered by a clump ofoak and beech trees, which, together with a few hemlocks andchestnuts, out-skirt a superb grove of evergreens, in the midst ofwhich towers the little white cottage of Farmer Daniels. There wasalways a dream-like stillness about the old bridge that pleased me;and I have spent whole hours in peeping through the crevices of thosetime-worn and trampled planks, at the dark, deep waters creeping anddimpling beneath the massive and sodden arches with a low gurgle, receiving a sheet of silver sheen as they stole away into the richsunshine; and, in gazing over the rude balustrade where the gaudybutterflies flitted around, or rested by the river's brink, openingand shutting their unruffled fans; or in flinging pebbles into theplacid waters, and then watching the widening circles as they sweptdown with the current. But there is yet another thing about the oldbridge for which I have cherished memories; that venerable buttonwoodtree, gnarled and twisted into the quaintest and most comicaldeformity, that looms up from that high bank at the end of the lane. That bough which projects so far over the rippling surface, making ahorizontal bend, like that of a man's arm, and then shooting upseveral yards at an obtuse angle, terminating in a mass of luxuriantfoliage, was my favorite seat, when fishing, through many a longsummer. 

Now, look still farther down the river. Follow the grass-fringed banksin their graceful curve around yonder dark, gray promontory, untilyour eye rests upon a long ridge of snowy foam, where a stream ofconsiderable magnitude mingles its waters with those of the river. Glancing a little way up this stream, a huge old mill presents itselfto view, blackened with exposure, and grown picturesque by the lapseof years. Here and there the green moss adorns its roof, and slumbersalong the walls with a quaint richness, especially where the heavywater-wheel, revolving in a sea of foam, keeps it shadowy and moist. Ashort distance above stands the pond--a broad, beautiful expanse ofwater, glittering like a sheet of untarnished silver; and, in a shadynook, close by the dam, where the large weeping-willow sways its long, drooping branches to and fro wearily, floats a little boat, endearedby many a fond remembrance. 

Turn once more, and mark how the river, increased in size by theaddition of the mill-stream, having swept around Castle-Hill, (sonamed from its rugged front and frowning aspect, ) comes resplendentlyinto view again, glowing like a sheet of burnished white, in strangeand singular contrast with the many and dense shadows which alwaysfringe its banks like heaps of black drapery. See where it takes asudden bend, flowing back toward the falls, and then curvinggracefully to the west, dividing against a jutting rock, and sweepingaround it and the adjacent woodland, forming an island about a mile incircumference. That large white building, which crowns the summit ofthat gentle declivity on the nearest side of the island, with a neatporch in front, half embowered by vines and fruit trees--that is mybirth-place. There never was a spot at once so tranquil andpicturesque as that where stands my dear old homestead. Is it not abeautiful mansion-house? How sequestered and deliciously cool? Theslope down to the river's brink is covered with a wilderness ofshrubbery; while to the right of the garden-fence spreads amagnificent grove of white pines, once making a famous play-ground forus children. Down yonder, in that old field waving with long grass, beyond the grove, is a patch of splendid blackberry bushes; and nearthat old ivy-bound oak on the bank, leaning so gracefully over theplacid waters, as if to greet his image reflected in its vast mirror, is a fine place to hunt summer grapes. At the building, that littleright-hand window with a shutter, around which are trailed pea-vinesand purple morning-glories, and just above the roof of the porch, opens into a small chamber--my sleeping-room. At night you can beholda most magnificent prospect from that little window. It looks directlydown upon the river, which, when there is a full moon and cloudlesssky, seems like one broad belt of molten silver, weaving its way inand out among the gnarled old trees, at intervals, sparkling throughopenings in the thrifty foliage with exceeding beauty; and again, entangled in the black shadows flung upon it by the beetling cragsabove. Then all is so silent, too, save the snowy water-fall sendingup its eternal anthem to the skies, yet coming to your ears with sucha pleasant sound that you never tire in listening. Sometimes the skyis full of golden stars, and then the scene is so beautiful--oh! sovery beautiful! Many a time have I stolen from my bed, far away in thenight, while all the rest were in deep repose, to gaze upon the softmoonlight flashing over the meadows until they looked like acres ofgreen velvet, and gathering upon the dark foliage until it almostseemed as if it were sprinkled with umber dust, or to gaze at the deepblue cerulean, studded with innumerable burning orbs. 

There is another object to which I must direct your particularattention, since it assumes an important place in the relation of mystory. Trace the road from where it leaves the east end of the bridgewith an abrupt curve, sweeping around that magnificent grove ofevergreens, passes the old mill, and turning to the east again for ashort distance, threads its way along a grassy lane, and you arrivebefore a neat, commodious frame building, prettily white-washed infront, and hedged in by a rustic fence, with a little gate openingnext the road. This was the dwelling of our schoolmistress, theremembrance of whom will ever be an oasis upon the deserts ofmemory--for to her I owe some of the most pleasurable moments of myboyhood existence. A more Christian-like spirit, a soul fraught withgreater or intenser sympathies, and a mind less selfish in itsmanifestations, or imbued with more genial influences than hers, neverexisted within the compass of human being. As a teacher, she was firm, yet mild; as a neighbor, kind and obliging--in a word, her wholedemeanor was such that the heart unconsciously awakened toaffectionate regard. The dwelling of our schoolmistress was originallybuilt, at her request, by a benevolent farmer, with the understandingbetween them that some future day should witness a transfer ofownership, and contains but three apartments--a large room, which, inthe words of the old song, serves for "parlor, for kitchen, and hall, "and two small chambers, but all as neat as hands can make them. Itswhite front, and massive stone chimnies, were completely embowered bya clump of superb maples, whose heavy branches twining their darkfoliage, form a delightful arbor over the very entrance, from thefirst bursting forth of the tiny buds into perfect life and beauty, until autumn comes with its garment of mourning, and the sere andyellow leaves slowly forsake the limbs which have been theirbirth-place. A thicket of damask and white roses, lilac trees, andclusters of pale-blue clematis, with a wealth of other flowers, luxuriate beneath, where they receive just enough of the warm and richsunshine that flashed through the woven shades upon them in themorning, and of the scented dew-drops which the wind shakes from theleaves above at nightfall, to make them the most beautiful flower-plotin all the neighborhood. At the back, a low shed, extending the wholelength of the house, one corner projecting further than the rest, andcovering a cool spring that gushes up, quick and bright, with a sweetimpetuosity, and goes dancing merrily across the green meadow, brightand glorious in the sunlight, but sullen in the shade. The sceneryaround, too, is magnificent. Here spreads a vast and unbroken forest, whose mighty solitudes once echoed to the whar-whoop of the savage, and looked upon his horrid rites beneath a midnight moon, or scowlingsky; and, in the dim distance loom the granite-based mountains, likegiant pillars to the vault of heaven, from whose tempest-beatensummits fifty centuries have looked down, unnoted and unknown. 

Our schoolmistress was a widow, the Widow White, as she was usuallydesignated. A woman of middle-age at the commencement of my story, shehad devoted many years to securing a decent competence for herdeclining years, and for her only child such an education as wouldprepare him for an honorable station in society. Early wedded to ayoung clergyman of promising expectations, she was left a widowshortly after the birth of a son, and only a few days after herhusband had assumed his duties as pastor of the little flock amidstwhich she had scarcely taken her abode. Thus left alone at the veryperiod when most she needed a protector, she began her course with theunfaltering energy which ever characterized her undertakings. Yieldingto conscientious scruples, she refused the assistance kindly offeredby the surrounding community, and having chosen a vocation, assiduously applied herself to the accomplishment of her cherishedpurpose. Ere long, she had heaped together an amount of moneysufficiently large to purchase the comfortable homestead I havepointed out. 

There it is that the opening scene of my story commences. The sun wassetting leisurely behind the western mountains in a mass of luridclouds, and drowsy twilight had already begun to blur the fine sceneryin the east, when Widow White sat down to her evening repast. A fireof hickory reflected a ruddy glare upon the hearth, before whichreclined innocent pussy, with eyes half-closed, gazing intently at theflames as they crept slowly around the logs, and uniting, dartedsuddenly up the wide-mouthed chimney. The pine floor and splint chairswere scoured with scrupulous exactness; a small, oblong looking-glass, crowned with shrubs of evergreen, rested upon the high mantle-piece;the two windows were adorned with curtains of coarse, but milk-whitelinen, and, in one corner, stood a quaint bedstead of curled maple, covered with a counterpane of old-fashioned dimity, which lay upon itlike a sheet of snow. In the centre of the room was placed a smalltable, covered with a cloth of freshly ironed linen, which fairlyrivaled the ermine in whiteness, upon which sat a garniture of glossyporcelain. A plate of venison and nut-brown sausages, surrounded bypearly and yellow eggs, sent up its savory odors to tempt the palate, while a pitcher of rye-coffee, on which the heavy cream was mountinglike a foam, stood at its side; and, near by, a loaf of warmwheat-bread, a saucer of wild-honey, and another of goldenbutter--these constituting the wholesome repast of which Widow Whitewas partaking. 

"Heaven be praised for a comfortable house and bountiful meal!" shepiously ejaculated, rising from her seat with the expression ofgratitude warm from her heart. "If we always have as good, we shallnever have cause to complain. "

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

"David, " again spoke Widow White in a subdued tone of voice, raisingher eyes to the face of her son, "for the last few days I have beenthinking deeply of the past--thinking what a mighty change fourteenshort, rapid years have wrought in every thing around me. You were ababe in the cradle then, and the grave of your father was fresh in thelonely church-yard. The sky of my life was black with the storms ofadversity, and I was very unhappy, for it almost seemed as if the daywhich had departed from it never would dawn again. But amidst all thisgloominess and desolation, one star beamed with a constant and steadyradiance, and that star was yourself. I loved you as my life, andmany, many a time, as I rocked you to repose, have I pictured out abright and glorious future for you, while my mind thrilled with thepleasure of its own creations. But a blight has come upon it all. Iloved you _too_ well--too well for either mine or your own good. Yielding to the fondness of a mother's love, I indulged almost yourevery wish, until now, turbulent and self-willed, you spurn my bestand holiest affections as a mockery, and I find, almost too late, thatI have greatly erred. I speak this in no spirit of unkindness, David. I feel it to be my duty as a Christian--my duty as a mother, to talkwith you as I am now doing. God knows bow fearful was the strugglewithin my mind before I could bring myself to the determination Ihave. But I am resolved now; the scales have fallen from my eyes, andI can plainly see both your danger and my own. You are trembling uponthe very brink of destruction, and I would ever feel as if there werea curse upon my soul, were I to see it all, and yet not endeavor tosave you. I have come to an unshaken determination. There must be areformation. "

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

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

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

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

Widow White gazed intently into the fire for several minutes after shehad ceased speaking, and then taking her bonnet from the bed, advancedto the door, but stopped a moment on its threshold, and turning to herson, said, "Should you become drowsy before I return, carefully coverup the fire ere retiring to bed. " She closed it after her, and Davidwas alone. 

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

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

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

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

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

It has been said that there are times when the stoniest hearts aresoftened; when the sternest natures are made mild, and when the mostabandoned are like little children. That moment had now come for DavidWhite. It was strange, passing strange. He had committed crime uponcrime, yet scarcely felt a moment's remorse; for years he had actedtoward his mother as if his whole soul were naught but selfishness;but when he came to leave that mother, that old homestead, and all thebright and beautiful objects around it, a softness breathed over hisiron-nature, and the fount of tears sent up its gushing libations. Ihave often thought that such feelings must be akin to thosemysterious, indefinable, and gloomy forebodings--those dim andindescribable fears and shrinkings within self, that sometimes comeover our spirits like a creeping, icy thrill--in the midst of a giddyround of pleasure, or, as we stand by the grave's brink to see ourfriends entombed, and yet which no earthly or human cause is able toexplain. 

He was beholding everything for the last time, and he looked aroundhim as the dying man upon his nearest friends, when he feels the coldhand of death pressed heavily upon his brow, and the silver chords ofhis spirit's harp gathering to their utmost tension, and snapping, oneby one, like reeds before the blast. There was the home which hadsheltered him in his helplessness, glowing in a shower of softmoonlight, and seeming more beautiful than he ever saw it before. There the only true love this wide world of cold and bitterheartlessness can know, beamed on his infant eyes; and there he hadspent the only happy moments in all his boyhood existence. In thatlittle room he had first learned to pray, and there, first forgottenthe duty. There his mother had watched over him night after night, when he had a burning fever, and the grave had half-opened itsterrible portals for his entrance. And now he was going to abandonthat mother who had loved and cherished him so fondly--leave her allalone, a joyless, childless widow, and for what cause? He choked downthe emotion that rose to his mind, and turned hurriedly in anotherdirection. Not more than twenty paces from him, a stream went dancingand bubbling across the road like a track of liquid silver--the streamthat was fed by the cool spring at home; and he remembered how he hadgazed in transport, many years agone, at the bright-hued insectsfloating in the meek, golden-colored sunshine, now sinking theirvelvet feet into the moist sand upon the water's brink, and sippingtiny draughts; or, resting upon the edges of the blue and crimsonflowers that looked up like gems from the verdant grass, opening andshutting their unruffled fans, woven of gold and sunlight. He turnedaway from the scene sick at heart, but still another object presenteditself to view, awakening old memories. A little farther on yonder inthe green meadow, through which murmured the mill-stream, and by thedrooping-willow whose long branches rippled in the current, was a deepplace, in the midst of which loomed up a dark-gray rock, like a lonesentinel to the rapid waters, and the scene made his heart boundagain. There he had angled for trout for many a summer, and lookeddown delighted into the music-breathing waters, watching the silverand mottled fishes as they went trooping swiftly past, like guests toa fairy wedding. The tears gushed into his eyes as old recollectionscame thronging to his mind, and he faltered in his determination. Heturned, and took one step toward home, but vicious impulses triumphed, and the rainbow that had begun to arch his heart faded in darkness. Hedisappeared down the slope toward the old bridge, and David White wasruined forever. 

Meanwhile Widow White had almost reached her destination. A few stepsfarther on rose a little white-washed cottage, with sloping roof, andtwo large china-trees embowering it in front. As she arrived at thesmall trellis-work gate, a light met her eye, faintly twinklingthrough the dark foliage of an intervening bough, and reflecting aruddy glare upon the side-walk that lay entombed in shadow. She openedthe gate, followed the narrow foot-path leading to the front door, andfound herself in a dark entry, with a few rays of light shimmeringthrough the key-hole of a door immediately before her. As she put herhand to the latch, a stifled sob broke upon her ear, and noiselesslyopening the door, she glided into the apartment. It was indeed thechamber of death. On a little table by the fire-place, amidst a numberof glasses and vials, burned a solitary candle over a long andlengthening wick, shedding a dim radiance throughout the room. By theside of an old-fashioned bedstead, hung with snow-white valance, kneltthe old gray-headed minister, and his low voice, broken andthrillingly solemn, went up in earnest prayer for a departing soul. Upon the bed itself, propped up with pillows, lay the invalid. Threedays ago the flush of health had mantled her cheek, and brightened inher eye, and now, how ghastly and changed she was! The sunken andmist-covered eye; the pallid cheek; the hueless lips, and painfulbreath, too truly testified that the dark angel Azrael was watching bythe couch-side. At the head of the bed sat the daughter, a little girlapparently five years of age, with her head bent upon her knees, andher hands clasped beneath her face, weeping bitterly. The supplicatingaccents of the gray-haired minister ceased, and he arose from hiskneeling posture, his eyes streaming with tears, and clasping in bothof his the thin white hand that rested upon the snowy counterpane, leaned gently over, and placed his lips close to the ear of the dyingwoman. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Mrs. Williams, " began Widow White in reply, in a tone of voicethrillingly solemn, her eyes dimmed with tears, and her whole frametrembling with emotion, "Mrs. Williams, you know how endeared you areto me--that I love you as if you were my own daughter, and that if Icould comply with any thing that would give you pleasure in a dyingmoment, I would most willingly do so. "

"Thank God!--thank God!" exclaimed she fervently, clasping her handsas if in prayer. "I have prayed for this, again and again, and now ithas come to pass--when the grave closes over my mouldering remains, mychild will have a home and a mother still! Widow White, cherish her asyour own. Educate her for heaven, and if we mortals, after death, aresent as ministering angels to the living, then will I be your guardianspirit. Our kind minister, into whose hands I have committed them, will inform you of my little worldly concerns after I am gone, for mystrength is fast failing me, and I feel that I have little time leftfor words. Mary, dear, come to my bedside. A little nearer for I amquite weak and exhausted. I am dying, Mary. I am going far away--awayto heaven. In a short time, my body will be cold and motionless, andthen I cannot hear you, or speak to you any more. Then you will haveno mother; she will be dead. In a few days I will be laid in the coldand dark ground, and you will never see me again in this world. When Iam dead, this lady will be your mother. She will take care of you, andbe kind to you, just as I am; and you must obey her, and try not to benaughty. If bad feelings come into your mind, think of your deadmother, and how she talked to you and advised you when she was dying. If you do what is right, God will love you, and bless you, and takecare of you, and when death comes, you will go to live with Jesus, where there is nothing but happiness; but if you are wicked, God willhate you, and when you die, you will go down to hell, where all thebad people dwell, and where there is nothing but misery and anguish. Now kiss me, for I am too weak to talk to you any longer, " and thedying woman drew the child to herself, and imprinted a lingering, burning kiss upon her forehead. 

She sunk back exhausted to the pillow, and her breath came in painfulgasps from her parted lips, while her hands moved about spasmodicallyon the white counterpane--the excitement of the last hour had been toomuch for her weakened condition. She lay thus for several moments, andthen suddenly started from her recumbent position, and sat upright inthe bed. A glorious lustre broke through the mist that whelmed hereyes, and a faint color sprung to her pallid cheek. She clasped herdaughter in her arms with an hysterical sob; looked wildly into herface; pressed a burning, quivering kiss upon her forehead, and thenher lips gave forth fragments of speech, broken, but beautiful. Butthis did not last long; a weakness came over her almost preternaturalstrength; she loosened the embrace that circled her child; the colorfled her cheek, the brightness her eye; the death-rattle rung outshrilly upon the air, and she fell back motionless to the bed. Theylooked upon her countenance--a single glance was sufficient--it wascold, calm, passionless--the seal of the grave was upon it. 

 * * * * *

The gloom of death had shadowed that cottage for two days, and now itwas desolate indeed. The stealthy tread of those who came to gaze uponthe dead and prepare its burial, no longer broke the solemn hush thatbrooded over the dwelling. The departed was in truth thedeparted--they had borne her over the threshold of her home, and laidher remains in the narrow house where all must one day repose--a plainhead-board alone marking the grave in which slumbered what was onceEliza Williams. Like others, she had died sincerely mourned bymany--like others, futurity would leave no memorial to tell that shehad ever existed. Decay, and rude hands, and careless feet, after thelapse of years, would mar her last resting-place, as many in thegrave-yard had already been marred, but the form below could neverknow nor feel the injury--she slept, and would sleep, as sleep thedead, until the trump of Gabriel awakens and clothes the dry bones inthe habiliments of another world. 

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

Ere long, the necessary preparations were completed, and the two badea final adieu to the lonely dwelling, and passed slowly along the roadtoward the mansion of Widow White. 

PART II. 

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

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

Ten years--ten short, rapid years had lapsed away into the infinitudeof the past, and mighty changes had marked their progress. The wave ofpopulation, like the ocean at its flood, had gradually advanced overthe land, and many new habitations sent up their curling smoke withinsight of the old homestead of Widow White. The mansion-house itselfhad changed but little, though one of the tall maples had been cutaway from the massive stone chimney at the south end of the building, and the moss had crept over the sloping roof in spots, giving a quaintrichness of appearance to the time-honored shingles. The huge old millbelow the dam had grown a little more picturesque with the lapse ofyears; but it was fast going to decay, for its owner was long sincedead, and there being some still pending lawsuit between the heirsconcerning this piece of property, no repairs had been made, or evenany attention paid to its mouldering condition; and for severaltwelvemonths it had ceased to send up its daily medley of pleasantsounds. The old wooden bridge that spanned the river where it sweptacross the mouth of the valley, seemed as it ever did, save that rudehands had leveled the magnificent clump of trees that had emboweredone end, and enveloped it, during half the day, in a mass of denseshadows, which always slept about this old fabric, and darkened thewaters like heaps of black drapery. The scenery around was still asmagnificent and entrancing as ever, though, immediately surroundingthe dwelling of Widow White, it had undergone a very material change. The adjacent hills that gradually sloped down to the river's brink, were still dark with forests, though here and there the settler's axehad penetrated their sun-hidden recesses, and blocked out spaces, inthe midst of which arose many a comfortable farm-house. But, at thetime of which I speak, stern-browed winter had breathed over thescene, and the gnarled oak forest stood out like an army of skeletonsagainst the stormy sky. 

But ten years had not thus glided away without leaving their sternimpress upon Widow White. She had become thinner and paler; many whitehairs had crept in amongst the auburn that once adorned her head; andher hazel eye had assumed a milder, more subdued expression. Thesudden departure of her self-willed son, and the manner of it, hadcaused her many a heart-pang; yet for months after it occurred sheentertained serious hopes of his becoming repentant and returning; andthis, for a time, had served to buoy up her depressed spirits; butwhen years had gone by, and no intelligence reached her concerninghim, hope fell to the ground, and her ardent expectancy settled downinto a stern grief. Mary, the adopted daughter, stood upon thethreshold of woman-hood, in all the flush and spring-time of life andenjoyment. Widow White seemed to love her as if she were her ownchild, and watched over her with the tenderest care and solicitude. Atthis period Mary was near sixteen years of age, and rather striking inher appearance, though by no means what would be strictly termedbeautiful. Indeed, the contour of her features, as a whole, was rathercommonplace than otherwise; but a soul beamed out through her flashingblack eye, and lit up her countenance with a sweetness, a loveliness, which was strange, and sometimes startling, from the brilliancy of itsexpression. A ruddy glow, like the blush of a summer sunset, dwelt ineither cheek, and a slight contraction at both corners of the mouthgave her face a half-mirthful look; but her forehead, full in theupper and lateral portions, seemed almost too severely intellectualfor the other features. She possessed a wealth of luxuriant blackhair, which she had a quaint method of coiling around her head in asingle massive braid, singularly contrasting with the alabasterwhiteness of the delicate temples upon which it rested. She was veryhappy at the home she occupied, which was often enlivened by thejoyous snatches of music that broke from her ruby lips as from a bird;but she had but a faint, a dream-like remembrance of the scenesconnected with her early childhood. 

It was a cold afternoon in December--cold even for that ice-cladmonth. Dark, gloomy, stern-browed winter had spread his varieddesolations around. The first snow of the season had fallen during thenight previous, and lay upon the ground to the depth of severalinches, in some places, drifted into the ravines, leaving thedeclivities almost entirely uncovered, and at others, overspreadingthe soil with an unruffled sheet of stainless white. The winds hadawakened from their August slumbers, and blustered and shriekeddismally through the leafless forests, then sweeping out among thehouses, sought entrance, but finding none, flung themselvesdespairingly against the doors, and mocked at the clattering windows, which every now and then threatened to burst from their casements;anon, swept moaning around the corners, now muttering, and nowwhispering at the crevices, then passing up toward the eaves, diedaway in sobbings and wailings. Even the dark blue cerulean wore achilly aspect; and the huge masses of heavy, leaden-colored cloudsthat piled themselves up so quaintly over by the lofty-peaked, snow-capt mountains, drifted wildly before every impulse of theice-winged lord of the storm. 

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

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

David White had been a wanderer in foreign lands. More than once hadhe stood amidst a field of the ghastly dead and shrieking wounded, when the tide of a great battle raged fiercest and strongest, hisfoothold bathed in the life-blood of his comrades. Such scenes evertend to pervert the kinder tendencies of our nature, and to render themind adamantine in its manifestations; nor were his less susceptibleto these influences than others. When first he entered the ranks ofthe army, and joined in the death-dealing battle, he saw the dailycommission of crimes which made his soul shrink even to contemplate;but, by degrees, he learned to look upon them merely as the amusementsof a passing hour, and finally, to lend a ready hand to theiraccomplishment. Then his heart grew still colder and more feelingless. He thirsted for excitement, lawful or unlawful. He longed for thebloody onset to come; the deafening roar of the cannon was a music inhis ears, and the murderous combat brought a restlessness that pleasedhim. But human nature is strange--passing strange. At intervals he wasmild and gentle. Standing upon the battlefield, when night had drawnher silvery curtain over the ghastly and hideous spectacle, when thebooming shot and frightful discord--the shriek, the groan, the shout, and ceaseless rush of angered men were passed away, he had lookedround upon the cold and bloody scene, and wept--his sternnesssoftened, and he became as other men. He brought water to the woundedand dying soldier; staunched the flowing blood; pillowed his head uponhis knee, and as the body shuddered in the last fierce agony, and theenfranchised spirit went trembling up to God, tears fell like jewelson the pallid face of the dying, and thoughts, of which the good mighthave been proud, flashed through his mind. Who, at such moments, wouldrecognize David White, the bold, dark, dangerous man? But thus it is;mirthful feelings will sometimes obtrude when the heavy clod isfalling upon the coffin of a friend, and the grave closing over himforever; thoughts of the last agony, the bourne of death, and thecurtained futurity, will sometimes come like a pall over our minds, when the dance is at its flush, and pleasure in its spring-time; andmoments will sometimes roll round when a softness breathes upon thehearts of hardened men. 

David White was again amongst the scenes of his boyhood; but he lookedupon them merely as the passing traveler--with an idle curiosity. Change had been more busy than he expected, yet nothing around himserved to awaken emotion. Not even when he stood upon the littleeminence, and on almost the very spot where he had stood ten yearsagone, to bid a final adieu to home, and then to pass on to ruin, didhe seem to remember, save by a faint and sickly smile, half-sneeringin its expression. Yet, had he seen it when environed by othercircumstances, perhaps his heart might have been touched--but now itwas feelingless. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Tut-tut, mother--what's the use of carrying on so? To be sure I amyour son, in flesh and blood, and just the same as ever, only changeda little for the better. But where's the use in crying? I reckon I amnot going to die, that you should take on after this fashion. "

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"In debt, David! to whom?"

"To the boat for my passage. But it is getting late, and I have notime to ask or answer questions; so, once for all, will you let mehave it or not?"

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

He received the money, bade her farewell in blander tones than hisprevious conversation, and hastened from the dwelling. When he arrivedat the spot where was fastened his horse, his mind was fired to a highdegree of excitement by the dark thoughts rankling within. His facewas pale with anger; his heavy brows worked and knit themselves overeyes that flashed like fire, and he was muttering slowly to himself inbroken expressions, while his fingers played unconsciously about thehandle of the bowie-knife which slightly protruded from beneath hisvest. Having taken a sudden turn in the undergrowth, he unexpectedlystood immediately before the horse, which, seeing him indistinctly, became affirighted, and ran back with an impetuosity that almost toreup the sapling by its roots. 

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

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

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

At first, the moon looked down brightly from the starry sky, sheddingaround a shower of flashing beams, which rested upon the sheeted snowuntil it became dazzling in its whiteness. Soon, however, the heavymasses of clouds in the northeast, that drove wildly before everyice-winged impulse of the storm-king, overwhelmed and shrouded thesilver disc from sight, and gave forth the tempest they had so longthreatened. Still, now and then, as the wrathful clouds would separatefor a moment, a faint lustre would dart forth, sprinkling, as withthe purple glories of the orient morn, the torn and ragged opening, and illuminating the landscape with a quaint beauty--half light andhalf shadow--then all would become dark again. But soon, even thisceased, and the heavens were hung with black. Still his horse plungedon amid sheets of driving and whirling snow, never stopping his speedfor an instant. 

Ere long the impetuous rider drew up before a dark, weather-beaten, dilapidated building, at the north end of the village, and dismounted. The old chestnut by the fence creaked dismally as the winds sweptfiercely up from the valley below, and through one of the swayingboughs came a faintly twinkling light, which seemed forcing itselfthrough the folds of a window-curtain. Knocking loudly at the frontdoor, it was presently opened, and giving some hasty directionsconcerning his horse, he hurried through a dark, narrow entry, andguiding his way up a creaking staircase by the aid of a balustradewhich ran along either side, at length stood before a small door, through whose key-hole issued a narrow stream of light, slightlyilluminating the thick gloom around him. Here he paused for a shorttime to recuperate his exhausted energies, and to subdue the passionthat still somewhat agitated him. Then pushing open the door, heentered the apartment. 

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

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

"There! now you have it all, and I am ruined! Do you hear?" exclaimedthe frenzied man, his lips quivering with emotion as his voice becameelevated with excitement. "And who is the dastardly craven that mademe so? Who was it found me pure, and innocent, and stainless as thebabe unborn, and lured me from happiness to scenes of madness anddebauchery--of crime and wretchedness? Say! who was it did all this?Who was it first placed the cards in my hands, and trained my youthfulmind to the cheateries of the gaming-table? And who, when I becameolder, taught me to revel in human gore, and to delight in carnage anddistress, making me the heartless villain that I am? Who was it didall this, I say? Was it not you, Wilson Hurst--was it not you that didit?" and the frantic man struck the table a tremendous blow with hisclenched fist as this last question trembled on his white lips, whilehe glared fiercely upon the listener. 

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

Left to himself, he gradually became calm and collected, and thenother and gentler thoughts grew busy. He stood there in the stillmoonlight, the cool breezes of morning fanning his feverish brow, fromwhich distilled great drops of moisture in the anguish of his spirit. 

"What a change! what a change!" exclaimed he wildly, smiting hisbreast with his hands. He was thinking of childhood, of those hours ofinnocence forever gone, and he buried his face in his hands, andsobbed aloud. The strong man was bowed--yes! he who, undaunted, hadstood amidst the angered rush of battle; he who, fearless, had seenhis comrades falling around him like trees before the hurricane; hewho, unappalled, had heard the shrieks of the wounded and dying, weptat the recollection of childhood. What a scene for God and the angelsto look down upon!

David White sedulously strove to renew the acquaintanceships of hisboyhood, but amongst none, either of those who remembered him, orothers to whom he was a perfect stranger, did he contrive to make afriend. His company, however, was not avoided, for his conversationabounded with strange and interesting adventures in various foreignlands, often instructive; but there were too many demands for thepossessor of an able body, and too extensive a prevalence of soundmorality, for him to find a spirit any way congenial to his own in thevicinity of his home. He therefore took up his residence at the Bend, which was a kind of stopping-place for boats passing up and down theriver, and where congregated all grades of society. His pursuits werenow undisguisedly those of a gambler--and still further, thoughunknown--those of a smuggler. His mother received frequent, thoughindirect communications concerning her son's course of conduct at theneighboring village--indeed, few days passed in which she did notincidentally obtain such intelligence. He appeared occasionally at theold homestead, but his stay was seldom prolonged beyond a few hours. His conduct cost his mother many a heart-pang, but the day when shecould influence his mind had long since gone by, and she entertainedno hope of a reformation--indeed, such an occurrence would haveappeared almost a miracle in the eyes of those acquainted with hischaracter and mode of action. Thus months lapsed away into theinfinitude of the past; summer came round, and soon an eventful andcrime-stained night rolled into its place. 

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

Meantime the aspect of the heavens had materially changed. The black, opaque mass of vapors had extended its dark and jagged front a thirdof the way around the horizon, piling its frowning steeps high uptoward the zenith. Here and there overhead, the sky was blotted withisolated black clouds, which were fast increasing in size and joininginto one. The thunder, which had been occasionally muttering on high, now rattled incessantly, and the forked lightning rushed down insheets of lurid flame. Ere long, the huge mass of sweeping clouds hadreached the zenith, and were rolling darkly onward toward the oppositehorizon. Directly the wild uproar died nearly altogether away, andintense darkness shrouded the skies and earth in its folds. The airgrew heavy, and seemed to be forcibly pressed toward the ground. Thiswas that strange pause in the strife of the elements, apparently as ifthe combatants were gathering all their strength for the fearfulcontest that was to follow. But this pause was only momentary, andsoon was at an end. Then a distant, sullen, bellowing murmur camesurging up from the depths of the forest, followed by the sorrowfulmoaning of the trees along the road-side. David White grew pale, andcould almost hear the beating of his own heart as he bent forward inthe saddle, and listened to the approaching rush and roar of thelashed winds. He had not expected such a wild fierceness in the storm, but now he had gone too far to recede; he was in the very midst of theforest, and the danger was the same either way, so he spurred on theplunging animal beneath him with a desperate energy. At that instant ablinding flash shot down from a cloud almost directly overhead, drankup the thick darkness, and wrapped the air in sheets of lurid flame, while the tall trees stood out like a spectral throng in itssupernatural glare. Before a clock could tick, the report followedwith a roar, deafening and tremendous, rattling and echoing along thesky like the simultaneous discharge of a thousand deeply freightedcannon. Terrified at the unearthly glare and stunning thunder-bolt, the horse plunged aside with a fierce impetuosity, that would haveflung the rider to the earth had he not clung to the mane with hisutmost strength; and even for minutes after "the jaws of darkness" haddevoured up the scene, and the fearful report had died away in thedistance, his eyes still ached with the intense light, and his earsrung with the deafening bolt that had followed. 

Now came the arrowy flight and form of the hurricane itself. Itcrushed the tall and sturdy trees to the ground as if they had been aforest of reeds. On it came, darker, fiercer, and more impetuous, asif under the influence of some angry fiend enjoying a triumph. Theshrieking of the lashed winds; the crashing thunder; the noise of thegiant monarchs of the forest upheaving from their deep-setfoundations, and toppling to the ground; the rush and howling of thetempest--all mingled in one swelling uproar, and deafened the veryheavens. Now the whole malignity and embodied power of the hurricanewas upon them. The shivering horse sprang forward into the shelter ofa huge rock that frowned upon the road like some stern sentinelguarding the passage, and David White leaped from the saddle, andcrouched in terror against the dark mass that towered above andafforded protection. 

On it came, winding its tortuous pathway from right to left and fromleft to right, crushing and twisting the Titans of the woods fromtheir trunks in its awful rush of destruction. The wheeling clouds andtumultuous atmosphere were lashed through and through with the fierylightning, and masses of loose leaves, and branches, with all theirwealth of mangled foliage--saplings twisted up by the roots, andbunches of shrubs tossed themselves impetuously into the air, flunginto the wildest and most rapid agitation--now rushing together as ifconsolidating into masses--now scattered abroad in the deepestconfusion, while a stubborn oak, disdaining to bend, was dashedheadlong across the road, where the horse and his rider had stood onlya few moments previous, and hurling the soil to their very feet. 

Rush after rush of the trooping winds went by--each succeeding onsetwilder and more impetuous than the last, until at length the sullendistant roar--and then the low, surging murmurs announced that thegreatest danger had overblown, and that the hurricane was winding itstortuous pathway through the forests many miles away to the right. 

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

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

Awe-stricken and bewildered, David White remounted his quiveringsteed, and slowly wound his way along the ruin-covered road. One byone the appearances which told a near approach to his destination cameinto view; and finally he stood before the home of his childhood, which was now to be the scene of a great and heinous crime. Carefullyhitching his horse in the dark shadows of some ancient oaks at thehead of the lane, he softly opened the gate, and glided round thehouse until he stood at a little window which looked out from hismother's chamber, and next the old stone chimney. For the night, shewas absent at a distant neighbor's, which circumstance, together withthat of her having withdrawn a large amount of funds from thepossession of the village minister, had induced the present visit. But when he saw the shutter open, a thing wholly unexpected, itflashed through his mind that he was watched--that this was anallurement to ensnare him; so he shrunk back into the dense shadows ofthe maples, and glanced hurriedly around him. Satisfied with hisinvestigation, he ventured to the window, and peered cautiously intothe chamber, but seeing nothing to excite his fears, gently raised thesash, and leaped into the apartment. The moon shone so brightly thathe had no occasion to strike a light, but its silver disc was fastverging toward the horizon, and warned him to haste, else be left toreturn in darkness. Fumbling in his coat-pocket, he at length produceda large bunch of keys, and stooping down, applied one to the heavyoaken chest beneath the window-sill. Fortunately it suited the lock;the bolt turned without difficulty, and he lifted the massive lid, which he upheld with one hand, while he rummaged the till with theother. At this moment a slight rustling reached his ears from thefurthest corner of the apartment from the window. 

"What the deuce is that?" exclaimed he, starling up from his kneelingposture, and turning anxiously in the direction whence the disturbancehad proceeded, at the same time thoughtlessly relinquishing his graspof the lid, which fell with a heavy crash upon the arm still restingbeneath. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He then crossed over to the chest, and cursing his carelessness, abstracted the money from its careful hiding-place, and quitted thescene of his exploit with hurried steps, passing out the front way, and flinging the door wide open as he departed. Within an hour and ahalf more he was at home. There all was silent and dreary, but he hadno observation to fear. Striking a light, he carefully washed theblood from his hands, and disarraying himself of the cast-off clothingwhich he had assumed for the occasion, thrust them into the fire, andwatched until the whole was entirely consumed. Having thus guardedagainst direct evidence, he made some artful dispositions of negativedisproof, that he might be provided with full armor against allsuspicions; and then retiring to his homely bed with a feelinglessheart, and unmurmuring conscience, he slept soon and deeply. 

PART III. 

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

Time glided on--days dawned and waned--weeks came and went--soonmonths were numbered with the ruins of the past, and when the oldyear, with sober meekness, took up his bright inheritance of lusciousfruits, a pomp and pageant filled the splendid scene. The yellow maizeand golden sheaves stood up in the fields, and the fading meadow, likea crushed flower, gave out a dying fragrance to the fresh, cool winds, that, sporting playfully amongst the tree-tops, swept downward fromtheir high communion, and stooped to dally with its sweet decay. Thenthe apple-boughs were heavily laden with crimson fruit, peeping likeroses from their garniture of woven foliage; the purple grape-clustersdotted the creeping vine, half transparent in their temptinglusciousness; the red cherries seemed, in the distance, like theburning brilliancy of a summer sunset struggling through the branchesand tangled leaves that intervened; and the downy peach peeredprovokingly from amongst the sheltering green, where, all the summerlong, it had stolen the first blush of saffron-vested Aurora, whenseraph hands unbar the gates of morning, and the last ray of goldenlight that paused at the flame-wrought portals of expiring day to lookreluctant back. Another change came over the face of nature, anddelicate-footed spring seemed to have come again with her lap full ofleaves and blossoms. The trees cast aside their long-worn garniture ofgreen, and flaunted proudly in gorgeous robes of gold and crimson. Theblushing rose once more sought the thorny stem that had slept so longdesolate; and the changeful-hued touch-me-not looked up smilingly fromthe pallid grass, where nestled thousands of purple violets peepingout timidly from their shady nooks; and the waning year smiled--smiledas smiles the dying man, when the life-blood quickens in his veins, for almost the last time to linger on the cheek and lip, brighten inthe eye, and give a joyous swell to the heart that lies in ruins. Thegorgeous pageant went by, and the trees put on their robes ofmourning--anon, tossed their huge branches to the sky, leafless anddesolate, save where the ivy, creeping gracefully up the twistedtrunk, or the sacred mistletoe, luxuriant on the dying bough, wore afadeless green amidst the desolations that surrounded them. The clear, unsullied sky assumed a deeper, peculiar blue; the night reigned witha clearer, intenser brilliancy, and the thronging stars beamed with analmost unnatural brightness; the cold, hurrying winds awoke from theirsluggishness, and took their way over hill and meadow with a dismaltone, like the midnight howl that comes to the ear of the dying withhideous tales of the noisome grave; and the fleecy mass of troopingclouds, driving wildly before every ice-winged impulse of the wintrystorm, seemed like sheets of floating snow dotting the vast cerulean. Still another change--the earth was clad in a robe of spotless ermine, and the gray dawn opened her pale eye on iciness and desolation; menhurried to and fro as nature were a plague, and they its victims; thesparkling, tripping, garrulous brooks, whose sweet voices had so longgone up like a spirit's on the air, now sped their way with a faintand death-like gurgle; the laurel, pine, and cedar, disdaining to bepoor pensioners on the bounties of a gushing sunshine, or, with acringing obsequiousness, to yield conformity to the golden mutationsof a passing hour, expanded their foliage of living green, unchangedamidst the bleakest ruins of winter, while the stern-browed year, old, wrinkled, and hoary, drew nearer and nearer his death-time. Ere longspring came. As the grim darkness flees before the many-tinted dawn, until at last she stands blushing upon the eastern horizon in perfectbeauty, so fled the stern winter before the radiant footsteps of thisflower-goddess. At her approach the wooing south-winds swept downwardfrom their sky-built thrones, and stooping to the hill-tops, laidtheir soft fingers on the expanding buds, stealing a fragrance, andwhispering their heaven-taught melody amongst the gnarled oldbranches; then crept stealthily into the valleys below, and drinkingin their rich gush of pleasant sounds, glided back exulting to theirhigh communion. The merry-voiced waters, freed from their icy fetters, and sparkling like a sheet of silver sheen, went dancing and leapingon--on with a winged impetuosity to their ocean home. Anon, the yellowviolets shook off their winter slumbers, and opened their smiling cupsto the arrowy sunshine; then came a wealth of painted flowers, andsoon the life-breathing spring had attained its zenith. A thousandglad voices rose and swelled amid the forest's leaf-wrought canopy;its breezes were awake with spicy odors, and the bird warbled as lifewere new, and this creation's morn. In the orchards, the peach-treeswere glorious with pink blossoms, sprinkling the tall, waving grasswith rosy flakes at every gush of the wooing zephyr, which, laden withsweetness, swept sighing across the meadows. 

Anon, a spring sunset came on. The lurid disc of the sun wheeledslowly down to the western horizon. Pile on pile of clouds, heaped upin gorgeous magnificence, varying from red to purple, and from purpleto gold, gathered fantastically in the sky--now like a molten oceanwith uplifting rocks, and then like toppling steeps whose summitsreached the stars. Gradually the day went down behind the everlastinghills, and the brilliant hues insensibly died away through all thevariations of the many-tinted rainbow, until only a faint goldenmellowness suffused the western sky, slowly fading into a deep azureas it approached the zenith. At length twilight, twin sister to thecold, gray dawn, shrouded the heavens in misty dimness. Universalsilence seemed to pervade the whole face of nature. The voice of thefeathered songsters was hushed in the grove, and the breeze, which allday long had refreshed the deep woods with its joyous ministrations, lulled into stillness, as if its kind office were now completed. Thenthe brighter stars came out, one by one, and assumed their sapphirethrones in the vaulted cerulean, and the round, bright front of thefull moon floated over the eastern mountains, whose dark umbrageglowed with the silver glories of the thronging night--the night whosemorrow had but its dawn for David White, the condemned felon. Tenlong, weary months had come and passed away with their pomp andmutation, finding and leaving him within a prison's walls; and now, the lapse of a few short, rapid hours would behold a tenement inruins, and a soul set free. Another day-break, and he would know theuntried and unimaginable realities of a shoreless eternity, from whoseeverlasting portals men have so often shrunk back appalled. Oh, what abewildering rush of thoughts crowded upon his mind. He stood by theprison-window, through whose iron bars came trooping the silentmoonbeams, lighting up his countenance, ghastly and contracted withanguish, then flashing along the darkness, rested upon the floor inmellow radiance. At the farthermost verge of the western horizon, justwhere the gray outlines of the mountains stood forth like shadowsagainst the deep blue of the sky, huge masses of clouds piledthemselves up into strange and fantastic forms, indistinct and dark, from whose bright centre, ever and anon, leaped the fierce lightning, like the tongues of a thousand adders forked in flame, and boomed theloud thunder as the din of a far-off battle. While he gazed, oldmemories thronged from the past; the fount of tears sent up itsgushing libations, and he buried his face in his hands, and strove topray. Oh, how sorrow, and suffering, and solitude, and the certaintyof a near death bow the strong spirit! It may have become darkened byfierce and unruly passions; grown callous and crime-stained amidst theroll of years, and almost destitute of a single virtuous impulse, yet, for a time, under such circumstances, a softness will gather about theheart; a thousand little harps, untuned before, quiver with a richgush of melody, and the angel in our nature spring up and assert itsinfluence. But no one, in whom the mind has not been crushed ordebilitated by the decay of the body, has stood upon time's furthestbrink in perfect consciousness, as David White did at that moment, without thinking with an aching intenseness on the dread hour whenlife must end; and as he leaned his head against the iron bars of thenarrow lattice, the balmy breeze laying its cool hands upon hisfeverish brow, and the soft moonlight playing upon his wan featureslike the kiss of a tender bride, his soul was wrought with a sternagony, and his frame with a shudder--for dark thoughts and sad imagesof death and eternity came thronging--for no JESUS was there to lightthe breathless darkness of the grave--no HOPE stood by to pointexultant to a sinless heaven!--for him, futurity was a dark andimpenetrable gulf, without a wanderer or a voice. 

Suddenly he started. An overpowering, yet unutterable awe crept overhim--a fearful but undefined sensation--a presentiment that somethingterrible was about to happen. He strove to shake it off, but couldnot--like an icy thrill it ran, slow and curdling, through his veins. A low rustling, as of silken drapery, struck upon his ear. He turnedto know the cause, and leaned eagerly forward. A shriek, wild andagonizing, burst from his pallid lips; his hair stood upright, and hisarms fell nerveless to his side--his blood ebbed back upon the heart, returned with tenfold violence throughout his system, seemed tothicken, and then stagnate; his pulses bounded, staggered and ceased;cold moisture bathed his wan forehead, and his whole frame appearedstiffening with the death-chill. A few feet distant, by a window thevery counterpart of the one near which he stood, loomed forth ashape--a substance, yet it cast no shadow--the moonlight shone throughit, resting on the floor like slightly tarnished silver. He looked onspeechless and motionless; his whole soul concentrated into an intenseand aching gaze. At first, it floated before his fixed and dilatingvision, indistinct and mist-like; but, as he gazed, it assumed theoutline of a human form--then the features of Mary White, thefoster-sister whom he had murdered. The apparition grew still plainer. The ghastly countenance; the fallen lip; the sightless eye, dull andopen with a vacant stare; the deep, solemn, mysterious repose whichever accompanies the aspect of death; the deep wound near the heart, from which gushed life's crimson torrent, falling at her feet withouta sound--each--all, for one short, passing, fearful, agonizing moment, trembled into terrible distinctness. Then she lifted an arm reekingwith blood, and pointing through the window at a new-made gibbet andits dangling rope, smiled a faint and sickly smile, and vanished as adying spark. The trance passed from his spirit, and nature recommencedher operations like the clanking of a vast machinery. Yet his eye, asif it could not recover from its vision of terror, remained glaringupon the spot where the spectre had been; and it was not until severalminutes had elapsed that the sharp agony which had contracted hisfeatures died away. He sprung forward with a wild cry, but the echoalone replied. No voice but his own awoke the awful stillness, pulseless it reigned around him. The stars glittered as brightly, themoon shone as gloriously, and, as he held his breath, the faint andconfused murmur of the distant water-fall, and the caroling of thenight-wind in the gnarled old forest, almost seeming to be a part ofthe silence, came up through the window to his ear as distinctly andsteadily as ever--every thing belied the scene he had just witnessed. Was it a dream? He grasped his arm until it pained him--he wasawake--there was no change--all appeared as it had been. He attemptedto shake the iron bars of the lattice--they were firm in theirsockets. He groped his way to the other side of the room, passed hishands along the walls--nothing but darkness was there. He stood wherefirst he had stood when he beheld the apparition--the unearthlyvisitant was there no longer. He bent forward, and strained an achinggaze--in vain; nothing underwent a change. Then he felt that he hadseen the dead--the murdered. His mind recoiled upon itself, and thevery marrow in his bones crept at the thought. He flung himself uponhis pallet, and for the hundredth time strove to sleep. Black despairhad eaten down into his very heart's core, and remorse, like an oldvulture, gnawed at his vitals; yet for a few brief, agonizing momentshe slept, but only as the fiends of hell might be supposed to sleep. Adream, a series of change and torture, bewildering and terrible, came, like a blight, over his spirit. 

Now he felt the cold hand of death upon his brow, and his whole bodyseemed to be encompassed in a mass of ice. His blood waxed thick inits courses; his heart staggered, fluttered, gave one agonizing throb, and for a moment ceased to pulsate; cold dews gathered on his brow, and a stinging sensation pervaded his whole system; his eyelidstrembled, and the balls rolled, gave out a dying lustre, glazed, grewfixed and sightless in their sockets--then came the last convulsiveand impotent contest with the King of Terrors--the groan, the gaspingbreath, the half-uttered words upon the quivering lip--thedeath-rattle, the soulless face, and the pulseless silence. Herecovered. Above him was a sky of livid flame, upon whose high zenithdread darkness sat enthroned. Around him spread a shoreless ocean ofmolten fire. No wave agitated its placid bosom--no sound--no windbreathed over its fearful stillness. A lone rock, cold, barren, anddismal, yet like an oasis in a desert, lifted its gray summit from thesluggish surface. Upon this he stood, rigid and motionless, like amarble statue on its pedestal; and, ever and ever, around and abovehim, rushed to and fro shadowy forms, upon whose countenances wasengraven unutterable anguish. Suddenly, over the vast and drearyprofound, went the low, deep, muffled tolling of a bell, bursting onthe red air like the knell of hope, peace, and mercy, lost forever toanother soul. As it ceased, the boundless sea of ebbless andunextinguishable flame, that glowed with a lurid but intolerable lightat his feet, began to uplift in one mighty and unbroken mass. Slowly--slowly it rose up--up--up, until the liquid fire was frothing, and the sky and ocean seemed to blend--then flowed back, returned, andclosed hissing around him. A groan, deep, intense, and fearful, bubbled up in a gush of blood, and echoed in the distance likefiendish laughter. Higher and higher rose the living flames. They wereabout to close over him--his head sunk upon his bosom, and avoice--the voice of her whom he had murdered, shrieked in hisear--"THE OCEAN OF REMORSE!"

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

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

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

Thus that agony-fraught night lapsed away, and the morning, which, from the birth of creation, has never failed, dawned once more--dawnedas it ever dawns, bright, glorious, and magnificent, bearing theimpress of a mighty God. That morning witnessed a terrible--a horriblescene. Another human being took his exit from the transitory splendorsof this decaying world, and entered upon the untried and unimaginablerealities of a futurity, whose secrets none can ever know until thesilver chord is loosened, and the golden bowl is broken. Upon whatstate of existence David White entered when eternity closed itseverlasting portals, and the enfranchised spirit went up to theEternal Judge, it is not for me to say. God is just, and whatever wasapportioned, it was good and right. Let it suffice to know, that, behis doom what it may, it is irrevocable--sealed forever. 

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

THE REAL AND THE IDEAL. 

BY MARION H. RAND. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE HUMAN VOICE. 

BY GEORGE P. MORRIS. 

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

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

VENICE AS IT WAS, AND AS IT IS. 

[WRITTEN IN 1826. ]

BY PROFESSOR GOODRICH, YALE COLLEGE. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

SONG. --THOU REIGN'ST SUPREME. 

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

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

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

THE NEW ENGLAND FACTORY GIRL. 

A SKETCH OF EVERYDAY LIFE. 

BY MRS. JOSEPH C. NEAL. 

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

(_Concluded from page_ 292. )

CHAPTER III. 

THE RETURN--THE LOSS. 

How vexatious is delay of any kind when one's mind is prepared for ajourney, "made up to go, " as a good aunt used to say. Mary grewanxious and almost impatient as April passed and found her still aninhabitant of the city of looms and spindles. The more so, that springwas the favorite season, and she longed to watch its coming in thehaunts of her childhood; and in the busy, bustling atmosphere by whichshe was surrounded, none gave heed to the steps of "the light-footedmaiden, " save that our heroine's companions availed themselves of thebalmier air to dress more gayly. In our larger cities the ladies arethe only spring blossoms. It is they who tell us by bright tints andfabrics, that the time has come when nature puts on her gayappareling; yet it is in vain that they imitate the lilies of thefield, there is a grace, a delicacy in those frail blossoms, that artnever can rival. 

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

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

"Mary's lip quivered as she looked up. The instant the sheet wasunfolded in her hand, she saw that it bore no common message. Therewas but a few lines written in a hurried, nervous manner; and as hereye glanced hastily over the page, she found that she was notmistaken. 

"Poor little Sue is very ill, " said she, in reply to her friend'sanxious queries; "mother has written for me to come directly, or I maynever see her again"--her tone grew indistinct as she ceased tospeak; and leaning her face upon Lizzie's shoulder, a burst of tearsand choking sobs relieved her. Poor Sue--and poor Mary! It would nothave been so hard could she have watched by her sister's bedside andaided to soothe the pain and the fear of the dear little one who hadfrom the time of her birth been Mary's especial care. 

Delay had before been vexatious, but it was now agony. The few hoursthat elapsed before she was on the way, were as weeks to Mary'simpatient spirit; and then the miles seemed _so_ endless, the drearyroad most solitary. The night was passed in sleepless tossing, and theafternoon of the second day found her scarcely able to control herrestless agitation. She was then rapidly nearing home. Every thing hada familiar aspect; the farm-houses--the huge rocks that lifted theirhoary heads by the road-side--the dark, deep woods--the villagechurch--were in turn recognized. Then came the long ascent of thehill, which alone hid her home from view. Even that was at lastaccomplished, and she caught a glimpse of the dear old homestead, itsrambling dark-brown walls, half-hidden by the clump of broad-leavedmaples that clustered about it. Could it be reality, that she was oncemore so near all whom she loved? There was no deception; it was notthe delusive phantom of a passing dream; her brother's glad greetingwas too earnest; her mother's sobbed blessing too tender. After thehopes and plans of many weeks, even months, such was her "welcomehome. "

"You are in time to see your sister once more, " said Mrs. Gordon, asshe released Mary from a fond embrace; and a feeble voice from theadjoining room, a whisper, rather than a call, came softly to herears. 

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

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

"I knew you would come, sister, to see me once more before I go, " wasthe murmured reply. "I knew God would let me meet you here, before hetakes me to be an angel in heaven. I am ready now, for I said good-byto mother and Jamie, and all, long ago. I only waited for you, dearMary. Kiss me, won't you--kiss me again, and call mother--I feel verystrangely. "

Her mother bent over her, but she was not recognized; her father tookone of those emaciated hands within his own, but it was cold, and gaveback no pressure. Awe fell upon every heart in that hushed andstricken group; there was no struggle with the dark angel, for thesilver chord was gently loosened. The calm gaze of those radiant eyesgrew fixed, unchangeable--a faint flutter, and the heart's quickpulsations forever ceased--wings had been given that balmy eve to apure and guileless spirit. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

 * * * * *

It was Sabbath morning, calm and holy. The bell of the little villagechurch tolled sadly and reverentially, as the funeral train woundthrough the shaded lane. All the young people for miles around hadgathered in the church-yard; and as the coffin was borne beneath thetrees that waved over its entrance, they joined in the procession. Itpassed toward the place of worship, and for the last time the form oftheir little friend entered the sacred walls. 

The simple coffin was placed in the broad central aisle, the choirsung a sweet yet mournful dirge; then the voice of music and ofweeping was hushed, for the man of God communed, with faltering voice, with the Father in heaven, who had seen fit in his mercy to take thislamb to his bosom; and when the prayer was ended, and an earnest andimpressive address was made to those who had been bereaved, and thosewho sympathized with them, the friends and playmates of the little oneclustered about the coffin to take a farewell glance of those lifelessyet beautiful features. 

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

Aye, "the last time!" for the lid was closed as the congregationpassed, one by one, once more into the church-yard, shutting out thelight of day from that still, pale face forever. The mother gazed nomore upon her child--brother and sister must henceforth dwell upon herloveliness but in memory--the father wept--and man's tears arescalding drops of agony. 

Many lingered until the simple rites were ended, and then turned awayunder the shade of sombre pines, to think of the loneliness that mustdwell in the hearts of those from whom such a treasure had been taken;and they, as they turned to a home that seemed almost desolate, triedin vain to subdue the bitterness of their anguish. _They had seen hergrave_--and who that has stood beside the little mound of earth thatcovers the form of some one loved and lost--has forgotten the crushingagony that comes with the first full realization that all isover--that hope--prayer--lamentation--is of no avail, for the "gravegiveth not up its dead until such a time as the mortal shall put onimmortality. "

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

It was many days before the household of Deacon Gordon regained anything like serenity; but the business of life must go on, come whatmay, and in the petty detail of domestic cares, the keenness of griefis worn away, and a mournful pleasure mingles with memories of thepast. It was in this case as in all others; gradually it became lesspainful to see everywhere around traces of the child and the sister;they could talk of her with calmness, and recall the many pleasantlittle traits of character which she had even at so early an ageexhibited. The robin that she had fed daily, came still at herbrother's call to peck daintily at the grain which he threw toward it. The pet kitten gamboled upon the sunny porch, or peered with curiousface over the deep well, as if studying her own reflection, unconscious that the one who had so loved to watch her ceaseless playwas gone forever. Even Mary could smile at its saucy ways; and thoughthe memory of her sister was ever present, she could converse withoutshedding tears, of her gentleness and truth, thanking God she had beentaken from evil to come. 

Then she felt doubly attached to her mother. She was now the onlydaughter; and though Mrs. Gordon seemed perfectly resigned, and evencheerful, she knew that many lonely and solitary hours would come whenMary was once more away. And James had so much to tell, for he, _too_, was home for a few days of the spring vacation, the rest being passedin the poor student's usual employment--school teaching. They wouldwander away in the pleasant afternoon to the depths of the cool greenwood, and sit with the shadows playing about them, and the windwhispering mystic prophecies as it wandered by, recalling for eachother the incidents of the past year, and speculating with thehopefulness of eager youth, on the dim and unknown future. 

A new friend sometimes joined them in their woodland walks. The youngpastor of the village church, who had sorrowed with them at theirsister's death, and who, having made Mary's acquaintance in a time ofdeep affliction, felt more drawn toward her than if he had known herhappy and cheerful for many years. Somehow they became less and lessrestrained in his presence, and at last James confided to him hishopes and prospects. Mary was not by when the disclosure was made, orshe would have blushed at her brother's enthusiastic praise of theunwavering self-denial which had led her away from home and friends, and made her youth a season "of toil and endeavor;" and she might havewondered why tears came to the eyes of their friend while he listened;and why he so earnestly besought James to improve to the utmost theadvantages thus put before him. Allan Loring was alone in the world, and almost a stranger to the people of his charge, for he had beenscarce a twelvemonth among them. Of a proud and somewhat haughtyfamily, and prejudiced by education, he had in early youth looked uponlabor of the hands as a kind of degradation; but the meek and humblefaith which he taught, and which had chastened his spirit, made himnow fully appreciate the loving and faithful heart, which Mary inevery act exhibited, and he looked upon her with renewed interest whennext they met. 

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

Beside, Mr. Loring had seemed, she knew not why, to take a deepinterest in all her movements. He had begged permission, at parting, to write to her occasionally; and his letters, full of friendly adviceand inquiry, became a great and increasing source of pleasure. Therewas nothing in them that a kind brother might not have addressed to ayoung and gentle sister; and Mary's replies were dictated in the samespirit of candor and esteem. So gradually her simple and child-likecharacter was unfolded to her new friend, who encouraged all that wasnoble, and strove to check each lighter and vainer feeling whichsprung up in her heart. At times she wondered why one so wise and sogood should seem interested in her welfare; but gradually she ceasedto wonder why he wrote, so that his letters did not fail to reach her. Still noisy and fatiguing labor claimed her daily care; but in thelong quiet evenings she found time for study and reflection; thusbecoming, even in that rude school, "a perfect woman, nobly planned. "

CHAPTER IV. 

THE REWARD. 

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

Four years had passed since first we looked in upon that quiet countryhome. Four years of cheerful toil--of mingled trial--despondency andhope to those who then gathered around that blazing hearth. One, aswe have seen, had been taken to a higher mansion--others had goneforth into the world, strong only in noble hearts, firm in the path ofrectitude. We have witnessed the commencement of the struggle, followed in part its progress--and now let us look to its end. No, notthe end--for life is ever a struggle--there may be a cessation of carefor a season, but till the weary journey be accomplished, who shallsay that all danger is passed. 

It was the annual examination at one of our largest New England femaleschools. The pretty seminary-building gleamed through the clusteringtrees that lovingly encircled it, and its snowy pillars andporticoes--vine-wreathed by fairy-fingers--gave it an air of lightnessand grace which village architecture rarely shows. Now the shaded pathwhich led to its entrance was thronged, as group after group pressedupward. Carriages, from the simple "Rockaway" to equipages glitteringwith richly plated harness, and drawn by fiery, impatient steeds, stood thickly around. It was the festival-day of the village, and eachcottage was filled to overflowing--for strangers from all parts of theUnion were come to witness the _debut_ of the sister, the daughter, orthe friend. 

Many were the bright eyes that scarcely closed in sleep the nightpreceding this eventful anniversary. There was so much to hope--somuch to fear. "If I _should_ fail, " was repeated again and again; andtheir hearts throbbed wildly as the signal-bell was heard, whichcalled them to pass the dread ordeal. Such a display ofbeauty--genuine, unadorned beauty--rarely greets the eye of man. Morethan a hundred young girls, from timid fifteen to more assuredone-and-twenty, robed in pure white, with tresses untortured by theprevailing mode, decorated only by wreaths of delicate wild flowers, or the rich coral berry of the ground-ivy, shaded by its owndark-green leaves. A simple sash bound each rounded form, and a knotof the same fastened the spotless dress about the throat. Thenexcitement flushed the cheeks which the mountain air had alreadytinged with the glow of health, and made bright eyes still brighter asthey rested on familiar faces. 

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

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

"With her hair in one plain braid, and large, full eyes? Oh, that isMiss Gordon; she has the valedictory, though why, I'm sure I don'tknow, for she has been in school but about a year, and Jenny Dowling, my room-mate, has gone through the whole course. Miss Gordon enteredtwo years in advance. She was a factory girl, brother--just think of_that_; and worked in Lowell three or four years. Miss Harrisonwished me to room with her this term--but not I; there is too muchHoward spirit in me to associate with one no better than aservant-girl. Some of them seem to like her though; and as for theteachers, they are quite carried away with her. Miss Harrison had theimpertinence to say to me only last week, that I would do well to takepattern by her. Not in dress, I hope--" and the young girl's lipcurled, as she contrasted her own richly embroidered robe with thesimple muslin which Mary Gordon wore. 

Clayton Howard had not attended to half that his sister said, for withlow and earnest voice Mary had commenced reading the farewell addresswhich she, as head of her class, had been chosen to prepare in itsbehalf; and his eyes were riveted on the timid but graceful girl. Wehave never spoken of our heroine's personal attractions, choosingfirst to display if possible, the beauty of heart and character whichher humble life exhibited. The young Southerner thought, as he eagerlylistened, that the flattered and richly attired belle of thefashionable watering-place he had just left, was not half as worthy ofthe homage which she received, as was this lowly maiden. If beautyconsists in regularity of features, Mary would have little in the eyeof those who dwell upon outline alone; but there was a highintelligence beaming from her full, dark eyes, a sweet smile everplaying about the small exquisitely formed mouth, and a mass of soft, rich hair, smoothly braided back, added not a little to perfect thecontour of her queenly head. 

Her voice grew tremulous with deep feeling as she proceeded, her eyeswere shaded by gathering tears, and when, in behalf of those who wereabout to leave this sheltered nook, she bade farewell to thecompanions whose love and sympathy had made their school dayspleasant; the teachers who had been their friends as well as guides;scarce one in that crowded hall deemed it weakness to weep with thosenow parting. Never more could those cherished friends meet again; theywere going forth, each on a separate mission, and though in afteryears, greetings might pass between them, the heart would be utterlychanged. The unreserved confidence, the warm affection of girlhoodpasses forever away, when rude contact with the world has chilledtrust and child-like faith. And they knew this, though it was _felt_more fully in after years. 

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

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

And when she ceased, and the gathered crowd turned slowly from thethreshold, many hearts--beating in proud and manly bosoms--feltstronger and purer for the words they had that hour listened to, fromone who, young as she was, had learned to think, and to act, with asound judgment, and bold independence in the cause of truth, whichshamed them in their vacillation. 

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

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

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

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

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

Her brother thought _that_ was hardly possible, though he did not sayso; neither did he add--lest he should vex his foolishly aristocraticsister--that but for Mr. Loring the chances were that she would becalled upon, so far as his inclinations were concerned, to receiveMiss Gordon not as a room-mate, but as a sister, before the year wasended. 

CHAPTER V. 

THE BRIDE AND THE WIFE. 

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

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

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

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

Despite of all the sunshine and festivity at a bridal, there is to memore of solemnity, almost sadness, in the scene than in any other weare called upon to witness, save that more mournful rite, when dust isreturned to dust. There is a young and often thoughtless maiden, taking upon herself vows which but few understand, in the depth oftheir import, vows lasting as life, and on the full performance ofthem depends, in a great measure, the joy or misery of her futureyears. Then, too, in her trust and innocence, she does not dream thatchange can come, that the loved one will ever be less considerate, less tender, than at the present hour. True, she has been told that itmay be so--but the thought is not harbored for an instant. "He nevercould speak coldly or unkindly to me, " she murmurs, as eyes beamingwith deep affection meet her own. Then, too, the proud man that standsbeside her, may be but taking that gentle flower to his bosom, to castit aside when its perfume may have become less grateful--leaving itcrushed and faded; or, worse still--and still more improbable, thoughit is sometimes so--there may be poison lurking in the seemingly pureblossom, that will sting and embitter his future life. Oh, that womanshould ever prove false to the vow of her girlhood!

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

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

How could I call up such a train of sombre thought when speaking ofMary Gordon's marriage? None doubted her husband's truth, her own deepdevotion, as they crowded around when the simple rite was ended tocongratulate them, and breathe a fervent wish that their joy mightincrease as the years of their life rolled onward. They went forthfrom that quiet church with new and strange feelings springing up, andas Mary looked upon the throng who still reiterated their friendlywishes, she felt an inward consciousness that God had blessed andsustained her through those years of trial and probation. 

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

So we see the differences of opinion which exist in the narrowestcommunity; for Mrs. Hall, as she turned toward her own bright home, said to her husband that Mary Gordon was a pattern to the young girlsnow growing up in the village. But for her honest independence andhardihood in braving the opinion of the world, her family might havebeen living without education, and without refinement. Now she had wonfor herself the love of a noble heart--could see her brothersuccessful through her efforts, and knew that their parents were happyin feeling that they were so. "She has been the sun of thathousehold, " replied her husband, "and I doubt not will ever be thehappiness of her own. "

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

The moonlight trembled through the shaded casement, and surrounded aswith a halo the sweet, serious face that looked out upon the night;and far around, even to the rugged mountains that rose as sentinelsover the green valley, earth and air were bathed in that pure andtender radiance. The flowering shrubs that twined about the littleporch seemed to give forth a more delicious perfume than when scorchedby the sun's warm kiss. The neighboring orchards almost bendingbeneath the clusters of buds and blossoms that covered the greenboughs, waved gently in the light breeze that showered the sunnypetals as it passed upon the freshly springing grass beneath. The lowcry of the whippo-wil came now and then from a far-off wood; savethat, and the rustle of the vines clinging about the casement, nosound broke the sabbath-like repose. The church--scarce a stone'sthrow from the little parsonage--stood boldly relieved by the darktrees which rose beside it; and not far away--not too far for them tosee by day the loved forms of its inmates--they could distinguish thesloping roofs and brown walls of Mary's early home. 

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

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

"Happy! oh, only too happy!" was the murmured response, as he kissedthe tears away. "I was but thinking of my past life; how strange itseems that I should have been so prompted, so guided through all. Then, stranger than the rest that you should love one so humble, soignorant as myself. I may tell you now--now that I am your own truewife, how your love has been the happiness of many years. Ere I daredto hope that your letters breathed more than a friendly interest--andbelieve me I would not indulge the thought for an instant until youhad given me the right so to do--though the wish would for an instantflit across my mind--I knew that one less wise, less noble thanyourself would never gain the deep affection of my heart. I almostfelt that I could live through life without dearer ties, if so youwould always watch my path with interest, awarding, as then, praiseand blame. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

LINES TO ----. 

BY W. HORRY STILWELL. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE DOUBLE TRANSFORMATION. 

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

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

Here he would recline on a sofa in listless apathy, or peevishdiscontent, sometimes half dozing, and, at others, inwardlycomplaining of the lot of man, which seemed to have ordained that thepossession of that wealth which it is said can purchase all which isnecessary to human enjoyment, should yet be incapable of conferringhappiness. He became the victim of spleen and disappointment; and ashe watched the butterflies flitting gayly about among the groves andbeds of many-colored flowers, sipping their sweets, without labor orsatiety, he often wished that he was like them gifted with wings tocut the trackless regions of the air, and freed from all the miseriesof disappointed hope, inflamed imagination, and memory, which toooften brings with it nothing but the sting of remorse. By degrees herendered himself still more miserable by envying the happiness ofthese gilded epicures, and it became the dearest wish of his heart tobecome a butterfly, that he might pass his life among the flowers, andbanquet on their sweets like them. 

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

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

Adakar sat down with the butterfly in his hand, and was contemplatingits beautiful colors with increasing envy as well as admiration, whenhe thought he heard a low silvery whisper come from he knew notwhither. He gazed around wistfully, but could see no tiny thing butthe little captive in his hand, and was about setting it free, whenanother whisper, more distinct met his ear. "Adakar, " it seemed tosay, "thou hast saved me from the jaws of a devouring monster. I am afairy transformed for a time by the malice of a wicked enchanter, andfairies are never ungrateful. Ask what thou wilt and it shall begranted. Wealth thou hast already more than enough. Thou art in theenjoyment of youth, beauty and a distinguished name, for thou artdescended from the Prophet, and wearest the green turban. Dost thouwish to be any thing more? If so thou hast only to ask and it shall begiven thee. "

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

At first his astonishment rendered him incapable of estimating theimmediate consequences of the change, and he remained on the spotwhere it was accomplished, until seeing the great black spidercautiously emerging from his retreat and coming toward him, he spreadhis glittering wings, and mounting over the tops of the minarets ofDamascus, at length settled down among the flowery meadows thatenviron the city. Here, for a time, he was delighted with his changeof being, and eagerly enjoyed the freedom of thus roaming at will, andsipping the flowery banquet. But while he was thus solacing himself, alittle boy, who had approached unseen, suddenly covered him with hiscap, and he became a prisoner. The boy was however greatly puzzled tosecure his prey, and while slipping his hand under the cap, raised itsufficiently to permit Adakar to escape. 

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

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

"Here, " thought he, "I shall surely be safe, since the foot of man cannever reach these inaccessible cliffs. " Scarcely, however, had thethought passed over his mind, when hearing a whistling noise in theair, he cast his eyes fearfully upward and perceived a bird dartingtoward him with such inconceivable swiftness, that he had scarcelytime to shelter himself from its talons by crouching into a hole inthe rock, where he remained throbbing with fear, not daring to lookout to see whether his enemy was still on the watch. 

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

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

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

"Adakar, " said she, in her whispering, silvery voice, "thou hast firstplayed the butterfly as a man, and now as an insect. In bothsituations thou didst pursue the same course. As a man thou livedstonly for the present moment, regardless of the consequences ofreveling in perpetual sweets, without looking to the period when thefrosts of age would chill thy imagination, and the ice of winterfreeze up thy capacity for those enjoyments of sense which constitutedthy sole happiness, if happiness it may be called. As a butterfly thoudidst sport through the spring-time and summer without for a momentthinking of providing food and refuge against the wintry barrennessand wintry cold. Thou hast learned that the beings which live in air, sport among gardens, groves, and flowers, and traverse the climes ofthe earth at will, are not necessarily happier than man, since theylive in perpetual fear. Be wiser in future. Be content with thy lot, assured that the only way to be happy in this and every other state ofexistence, is to use the blessings bestowed on us by a beneficentProvidence with sober moderation, and share them among others with achastened liberality. Thou hast been a benefactor to me, and I haverepaid the obligation by enabling thee thus to learn wisdom frombitter experience. The lesson has been dearly bought, but is fullyworth the price. Go, and be thankful that thou wast created a maninstead of a butterfly. "

The fairy disappeared, and Adakar took his way toward Damascus, wherehis appearance caused great surprise, most especially to a hump-backedcousin, who had taken possession of his estate, after having convincedthe bashaw of Damascus, by twelve purses of gold, that he wascertainly dead. Adakar was obliged to appeal to the bashaw for therestoration of his property, but failed to establish his identity. Hecould only account for his absence by relating his transformation intoa butterfly, of which the bashaw, being blinded to the truth by theglitter of gold, would not believe one word. He decreed the estate tothe cousin, and consoled the other for his loss by inflicting thebastinado. Adakar passed several years as a water-carrier, until thebenevolent fairy, finding that he had completed the circle of hisexperience by drinking at both extremes of the fountain, wrought asecond transformation, by which Adakar became changed into thelikeness of his cousin, and the latter into that of Adakar, who thusregained his estate at the expense of his beauty. He became a wise aswell as a good man; and devoting himself to the study of philosophy, wrote a famous treatise, in which he clearly demonstrated that menwere at least as well off in this world as butterflies. 

CINCINNATI. 

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

When Columbus discovered the new world, he was in search of a westernroute to Cathay and India, whence he expected to bring back, if nottreasures of gold and gems, intelligence of the wonderful land MarcoPolo had described. It was not until long after the discovery of thecontinents of North and South America, that it was ascertained that anew region, broad as the Atlantic, lay between the ocean and theIndian Sea, as the Pacific was then called. So deep-rooted was thisbelief that the French colonists in Canada, long after they had begunto be formidable to their English and Hollandish neighbors, in spiteof many disappointments, followed the tracery of the Ohio andMississippi in the full confidence that this mighty current could endonly in the Western Sea. They could not realize that nature in Americahad always acted on a grander scale than they were used to, and wouldhave laughed, if told that not far above the mouth of the Ohio wasanother great artery which, by its tributaries, watered one valley, the superfices of which was larger than all Europe. 

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

Possessed of Canada, with strongly defended positions at Fort Duquesne(Pittsburg) and Fort Chartres, near the confluence of the Ohio andMississippi, with the even then important city of New Orleans, thewily statesmen of the reign of Louis XIV. Conceived the plan ofenclosing the English colonies in a network of fortifications, andultimately of controlling the continent. So cherished was this policythat treaties made in Europe between the crowns of France and Englandnever extended their influence to America, and for almost a centurycontinued a series of contests, during which Montcalm, de Levi, Wolfand Braddock distinguished themselves and died. The result is wellknown, Canada became English, the northern point _d'appui_ of thesystem was lost, and the Ohio was no longer under their control. Thisprologue to the beautiful engraving of Cincinnati is given because, though Pittsburg and Louisville are important cities, Cincinnati isthe undoubted queen of the river. 

It was not, however, until the war of the Revolution that seriousattention was generally directed to the Ohio, for the brilliantexpedition of Clarke against Kaskaskia (which is almost unknown, though in difficulty and daring it far exceeded Arnold's againstQuebec, ) was purely military. Immediately on the termination of thewar, emigrants began to hurry to the Ohio, and by one of the hardiestof these, Cincinnati was commenced in 1789. By the gradual influx ofpopulation into the west Cincinnati throve, and soon became the chiefcity of the region. 

For a long while Cincinnati was merely the depot of the Indians andfur trade, the most valuable of the products of which required to betransported across the mountains and through forests to the seaboard. At that time Cincinnati presented a strange appearance; the houseswere of logs, and here and there through the broad streets itsfounders so providentially prepared, were seen the hunter, in hisleathern jerkin, the Indian warrior in full paint, and the husbandmanreturning home from his labors. Almost from the establishment of thenorthwest territory Cincinnati had been the home of the governor; andit was the residence of St. Clair, long the only delegate in congressof the whole northwest--a wilderness then, but now teeming with threemillion of men, and sending to Washington thirty-four representatives. 

Cincinnati was the _point de depart_ of many of the expeditionsagainst the Indians between the revolution and the war of 1812. Whenthat war broke out it acquired new importance. Military men replacedthe hunter and Indian, and every arrival brought a reinforcement oftroops. From it Taylor and Croghan marched with Gen. Harrisonnorthward, and to it the victorious army returned from the Thames. When peace returned, a new activity was infused into Cincinnati; thevast disbursements made by the government had attracted thither manyadventurers. Then commenced the era of bateau navigation, and theadvent of a peculiar race of men, of whom now no trace remains. Rudeboats were built and freighted with produce, which descended the riverto New Orleans, where the cargo was disposed of, and the boat itselfbroken up and sold. The crew, after a season of dissipation, returnedhomeward by land, through the country inhabited by the Chactas andChickasas, and the yet wilder region infested by thieves and pirates. It was no uncommon thing for the boatmen never to return. Exposureto danger made them reckless; and they were often seen floating downthe bosom of the stream, with the violin sounding merrily, but withtheir rifles loaded, and resting against the gunwales, ready to beused whenever an emergency arose. All the west even now rings withtraditions of the daring of this race; and the traveler on the watersof the west often has pointed out to him the scene of their bloodycontests and quarrels. 

[Illustration: VIEW OF CINCINNATI OHIO. ]

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

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

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

Fulton had by his discovery overcome the difficulties ofcommunication, and opened a market for its immense products; but yetanother discovery was to contribute to its prosperity. By means of themagnetic telegraph communication between the seaboard of the Atlanticand the lakes is more easy than between New York and Brooklyn, andwith the whole west Cincinnati has acquired new importance. It can notbut continue to advance and acquire yet more influence than now ithas. 

CLEOPATRA. 

BY ELIZABETH J. EAMES. 

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

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

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

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

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

REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS. 

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

This is one of the most useful works now issuing from the Americanpress. Its publication has been commenced in this country somewhat inadvance of the London and Leipsic editions, which have been previouslyadvertised; thus securing an immediate circulation in the three greatreading nations of the world. The entire work will embrace abouttwenty numbers, appearing at intervals of a month. The first four ofthese, two numbers of which are before us, are devoted to AncientHistory, extending to the Fall of the Roman Empire. 

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

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

The present work fills a blank which has long existed among historicalworks--that of a Universal History, which, embracing the prominentevents of all ages, placed before the reader in a clear andcomprehensive arrangement, shall yet be so simple and brief as tocommand the perusal of the great laboring classes, who would shrinkfrom the study of Rollin or Rotteck, as a task too serious to beundertaken. The abridgment of Schlosser's "Weltgeschichte, " which webelieve has never been translated, contains these qualifications in aneminent degree; yet its high philosophical tone is rather adapted tothe scholar than the general reader. Gibbon's great work, from itsmagnificence of language, long retained a place in popular favor, andwill always be read by the diligent historical student, but of lateyears it has ceased to be in common use. Our knowledge of ancienthistory has been wonderfully extended by the study of the modernAsiatic languages, and the restoration of tongues, which had beenforgotten for centuries, and the Roman Empire, which once included inits history that of the greater part of the ancient world, is almostequaled in interest and importance by the records of Egypt, India, and China. What is wanted, therefore, is a concise abstract, whichshall embody the labor of all former histories and the discoveries ofmodern research. 

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

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

The author has chosen the epistolary form, as combining ease of stylewith a certain familiar license of language, and therefore betteradapted for popular instruction. Commencing at the traditionary periodfrom which we date the origin of man, he describes the gradualformation of society, and marks out the first broad divisions of therace from which sprung the great empires of Egypt and the East. Thegeographical account of these countries is extended and complete, embracing also a graphic view of their modern condition. We noticethat in common with several distinguished German historians, theauthor gives to the Hindoos the distinction of being the earliest raceof men. "Above all the historical records of other nations, " says he, "the Hindoos have brought forth the best evidence of the highestantiquity, and the earliest civilization. Therefore the supposition ofthose may be correct, who presume that man's first abode was somewherein the neighborhood of the Himalaya mountains, which are the moststupendous on the globe. "

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

 * * * * *

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

We suppose that few of our readers are unacquainted with Mr. Hudson, the lecturer on Shakspeare, and the writer of various brilliant andpowerful articles in the American Review. The lectures which composethe present volume have been delivered, at various times, in theprincipal cities of the Union, and have everywhere been welcomed asproductions of the highest merit in one of the most difficultdepartments of critical art. The author has delayed the publicationuntil the present time, in order that they might be subjected torepeated revision, and every opinion they contain cautiously scanned. Many of the lectures have been re-written a dozen times; and probablyfew books of the size ever published in the country, have been theslow product of so much toil of analysis and research. Almost everysentence gives evidence of being shaped in the "forge andworking-house of thought. " All questions which rise naturally in theprogress of the work are sturdily met and answered, however great maybe their demand on the intellect or the time of the author. Everything considered, subtilty, depth, force, brilliancy, comprehension, we know of no work of criticism ever produced in the United Stateswhich equals the present, either in refinement and profundity ofthought, or splendor and intensity of expression. Indeed, none of ourcritics have devoted so much time as Mr. Hudson to one subject, orbeen content to confine themselves so rigidly to the central sun ofour English literary system. We doubt, also, if there be any work onShakspeare, produced on the other side of the Atlantic, which is socomplete as the present in all which relates to Shakspeare's mind andcharacters. It not only comprehends the highest results of Shaksperiancriticism, but it is a step forward. 

This may to some appear extravagant praise, but for its justice weconfidentially appeal to the record. The plays which have mostseverely tried the sagacity of Shakspeare's critics, are Hamlet, Macbeth, Lear, and Othello. We do not hesitate to say that Mr. Hudson's analysis and representation of these are the most thorough, accurate, and comprehensive which exist at present either in Englishor German. Compare him or these tragedies with Goethe, with Schlegel, with Coleridge, with Hazlitt, with Ulrici, and it will be found thathe excels them all in completeness. It is needless to add that he isable to excel them only by coming after them; and that it is bydiligently digesting all the positive results of Shaksperian criticismthat he has been enabled to advance the science. He has grasped theprinciples which Schlegel and Coleridge established, and applied themto the discovery of new truths. By the most patient and toilsomeanalysis he has fully brought out many things which they simplyhinted, and distinctly set forth conclusions which lay dormant intheir premises. And in the analysis of individual character, meaningby that the resolving each Shaksperian personage into its originalelements, and indicating the degree of general truth it covers, ourcountryman has hardly a rival. Few even of Shakspeare's diligentreaders are aware of the vast stores of thought and knowledge impliedin Shakspeare's characters, because the fact is so commonly stated ingeneral terms. Mr. Hudson proves that the characters are classesintensely individualized, by showing how large is the number ofpersons each character represents, or of whom it is the ideal. He thusindicates the extent of Shakspeare's range over the whole field ofhumanity, and the degree of his success in _classifying_ mankind. Noone, therefore, can read Mr. Hudson's interpretative criticismswithout new wonder at the amazing reach and depth of Shakspeare'sgenius. 

It would be impossible in the space to which we are necessarilyconfined, to do justice to Mr. Hudson's powers of analysis andrepresentation, as exercised through the wide variety of theShaksperian drama. The volumes swarm with strong and striking thoughtson so many suggested topics, that it is difficult to fix upon anyparticular excellence for especial praise. The first quality whichwill strike the reader will be the author's opulence of expression andprofusion of wit. Analogies with him are as cheap as commonplaces areto other men. He has no hesitation in announcing his analysis in awitticism, and condensing a principle into an epigram. His page oftenblazes and burns with wit. South, Congreve, and Sheridan are hardlyricher in the precious article. In Mr. Hudson, also, the quality hasan individual character, and is the racier from its genuineness andfrom its root in his intellectual constitution. This wit is, perhaps, the leading characteristic of his style, though his diction variessufficiently with the varying demands of his subjects, and oftenglides from the tingling concussion of antithesis into the softestmusic, or rises from sarcastic brevity and stinging emphasis into richand sonorous amplification. The analysis of Iago, and the analysis ofthe Weird Sisters, indicate, perhaps, the extremes of his manner. Throughout the volumes, whether the subject be comic or tragic, humorous or sublime, there is never any lack of verbal felicities. These seem to grow spontaneously in the soil of his mind; and there isno American writer whose style is more wholly free from worn andwasted images, phrases, and forms of expression. He is neithermediocre in thought nor expression. 

We cannot resist the temptation to give a few of Mr. Hudson'ssentences, illustrative of his manner of stinging the minds of hisreaders and enforcing their attention. Speaking of Sir Thomas Lucy, onwhose manor Shakspeare is said to have poached, Hudson remarks: "ThisWarwickshire esquire, once so rich and mighty, is now known only asthe block over which the Warwickshire peasant stumbled intoimmortality. " Referring to those purists who regard words more thanthings in their strictures on licentiousness, he calls them persons"whose morality seems to be all in their ears. " Speaking of Hume, "anexquisite voluptuary among political and metaphysical abstractions, "he puts him in a class of men who "study art as they study nature, only in the process of dissection--a process which, of course, scaresaway the very life which makes her nature; so that they get, afterall, but a _sort of post-mortem knowledge of her_. " Again, heobserves--"Pope, for example, was the prince of versifiers, and Humethe prince of logicians: with the one versification strangled itselfin a tub of honey; with the other logic broke its neck in trying tofly in a vacuum. It is by no means strange, therefore, that thethousand-eyed philosophy of Shakspeare should have seemed a perfectmonster to the one-eyed logic of Hume. " Perhaps the finest answer tothe charge that Shakspeare was an unregulated genius, full of greatabsurdities and great beauties, is contained in Hudson's ironicalstatement of it: "He has sometimes been represented as a sort ofinspired and infallible idiot, who practiced a species of poeticalmagic without knowing what he did or why he did it; who achieved thegreatest wonders of art, not by rational insight and design, but by aseries of lucky accidents and _lapsus naturæ_; who, in short, wentthrough life stumbling upon divinities, and blundering into miracles. "

By the publication of these lectures Mr. Hudson takes his place amongthe first thinkers and writers of the country. He has that in hiswritings which will make him popular, and that which will make himpermanent. It is unnecessary to say that a book so strongly marked byindividuality as his is calculated to provoke criticism. It containsmany things which will be severely assailed by those whose opinions oncertain theories of government and society are in exact opposition tothose of the author. Some positions, critical and political, which heconfidently states as settled, are still open to discussion. But takethe work as a whole, as an embodiment of mental power, and there arefew men in the country on whom it would not confer honor. It needs buta very small prophetic faculty to predict for a work so fascinatingand instructive a circulation commensurate with its merits. 

 * * * * *

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

This is one of the most elegant books which has ever been issued fromthe American press. The type is large and clear, and the paper is ofthe finest quality. It is embellished with nearly two hundredengravings, consisting of portraits of all the chief actors of theRevolution, spirited representations of almost every engagement, withnumerous views of noted places. This, together with the picturesquestyle in which the book is written, gives a peculiar charm, and leaveson the mind of the reader impressions more vivid and lasting than anyother work which we have seen on the same subject. 

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

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

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

The narrative of the war, in all its relations, is well told. It givesa comprehensive picture of the rise and progress of the contest, andabounds with much new matter, showing a thorough knowledge of thegreat history of that period. We notice many anecdotes which we havenever before seen in print. 

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

We cannot close this notice without quoting the following somewhatremarkable passage from Mr. Peterson's preliminary chapter, which wasevidently written long before the late events in Europe--more than twoyears ago, according to the preface. 

"It is evident, " he says, "that the old world is worn out. There arecycles in empires as well as dynasties; and Europe, after nearly twothousand years, seems to have finished another term of civilization. The most polite nation in the eastern hemisphere is now where theRoman empire was just before it verged to a decline--the same systemof government--the same extremes of wealth and poverty--the samedelusive prosperity characterizing both. _Europe stands on the crustof a decayed volcano, which at any time may fall in. _ The socialfabric in the old world is in its dotage. " Part of this prediction hasalready been verified, and we wait with impatient expectation for thefulfillment of the rest. 

 * * * * *

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

Here is a book "to stir a fever in the blood of age"--full of wildadventure, and running over with life. It seems to have been composedon horseback. The sentences trot, gallop, leap, toss the mane, andgive all other evidences of strength and activity in the race ofexpression. The author fairly gives the reins to his thoughts andfancies, and they sweep along the dizziest edges of rhetoric with ajubilant hip! hip! hurrah! We have rarely known so much daringrewarded with so much success. The critic is expecting every moment tosee the author break his neck by a sudden descent from the sublime tothe ridiculous, but is continually disappointed. The vigor of oldKentucky bounds in the veins and "lives along the heart" of this moststalwart and defiant Kentuckian. He charges critical batteries withthe force of Harney's dragoons. We accordingly surrender atdiscretion. Captain Scott need but to point his rifle, and the cooncomes down at once. 

Seriously, Mr. Webber's book is one of the most captivating of itskind ever produced in the United States. It shows the scholar and thepracticed writer amid all its rampant energy, and many passages arefull of eloquence. The scenery and events are of that kind mostcalculated to fasten on the popular imagination. The author has asingular faculty of condensing narration and description, and bringingthe scene and deed right before the eye, without any of the tediousminutiæ in which most descriptive writers indulge. Consequently hisobservations are flashed upon the mind of the reader rather thanconveyed to it, piece by piece. If Mr. Webber would soften a littlethe ravenousness of his style, and treat his subjects with a littlemore regard to artistic propriety, he might produce a work of fictionof very great merit, both as regards plot and characterization. Thepresent volume indicates a vitality of mind, to which creation is butan appropriate exercise. It evinces more genius than Typee or Omoo. 

 * * * * *

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

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

Transcriber's Note:

Several characteristic spellings and instances of punctuation wereleft as in the original, as representing the usage of the times--whilea number of obvious printer's errors and omissions were correctedsilently.