GRAHAM'S AMERICAN MONTHLY MAGAZINE Of Literature and Art. EMBELLISHED WITH MEZZOTINT AND STEEL ENGRAVINGS, MUSIC, ETC. WILLIAM C. BRYANT, J. FENIMORE COOPER, RICHARD H. DANA, JAMES K. PAULDING, HENRY W. LONGFELLOW, N. P. WILLIS, CHARLES F. HOFFMAN, J. R. LOWELL. MRS. LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY, MISS C. M. SEDGWICK, MRS. FRANCES S. OSGOOD, MRS. EMMA C. EMBURY, MRS. ANN S. STEPHENS, MRS. AMELIA B. WELBY, MRS. A. M. F. ANNAN, ETC. PRINCIPAL CONTRIBUTORS. G. R. GRAHAM, J. R. CHANDLER AND J. B. TAYLOR, EDITORS. VOLUME XXXIII. PHILADELPHIA:SAMUEL D. PATTERSON & CO. 98 CHESTNUT STREET. 1848. CONTENTS OF THE THIRTY-THIRD VOLUME. JUNE, 1848, TO JANUARY, 1849. A Night on the Ice. By Solitaire, 18 Aunt Mable's Love Story. By Susan Pindar, 107 Angila Mervale. By F. E. F. , 121 A Written Leaf of Memory. By Fanny Lee, 137 An Indian-Summer Ramble. By A. B. Street, 147 A Leaf in the Life of Ledyard Lincoln. By Mary Spencer Pease, 197 A Pic-Nic in Olden Time. By G. G. Foster, 229 A Dream Within a Dream. By C. A. Washburn, 233 A Scene on the Susquehanna. By Joseph R. Chandler, 275 A Legend of Clare. By J. Gerahty M'teague, 278 A Day or Two in the Olden Time. By A New Contributor, 287 De Lamartine. By Francis J. Grund, 25 Edith Maurice. By T. S. Arthur, 284 Fiel a la Muerte, or True Loves Devotion. By Henry W. Herbert, 4, 84, 153 Going to Heaven. By T. S. Arthur, 13 Game-Birds of America. By Prof. Frost, 291 Gems from Late Readings, 295 Game-Birds of America. By Prof. Frost, 357 Gems from Late Readings, 364 My Aunt Polly. By Mrs. E. C. Kinney, 34 Mexican Jealousy. By Ecolier, 172 Mary Dunbar. By the Author of "The Three Calls", 268 Mildred Ward. By Caroline H. Butler, 301 Mrs. Tiptop. By Mrs. E. C. Kinney, 325 Overboard in the Gulf. By C. J. Peterson, 337 Rising in the World, By F. E. F. , 41 Reflections on Some of the Events of the Year 1848. By Joseph R. Chandler, 318 Rochester's Return. By Joseph A. Nunes, 341 Sam Needy. By Louis Fitzgerald Tasistro, 204 Scouting Near Vera Cruz. By Ecolier, 211 The Fane-Builder. By Emma C. Embury, 38 The Sagamore of Saco. By Elizabeth Oakes Smith, 47 The Late Maria Brooks. By R. W. Griswold, 61 The Cruise of the Raker. By Henry A. Clark, 69, 129, 188, 257 The Maid of Bogota. By W. Gilmore Simms, 75 The Departure. By Mrs. Ann S. Stephens, 93 The Man Who Was Never Humbugged. By A Limner, 112 The Christmas Garland. By Emma Wood, 163 The Unmarried Belle. By Enna Duval, 181 The Humbling of a Fairy. By G. G. Foster, 214 The Will. By Miss E. A. Dupuy, 220 The Bride of Fate. By W. Gilmore Simms, 241 The Knights of the Ringlet. By Giftie, 253 The Sailor's Life-Tale. By Sybil Sutherland, 311 The Exhausted Topic. By Caroline C----, 330 The Early Called. By Mrs. Frances B. M. Brotherson, 347 The Lady of Fernheath. By Mary Spencer Pease, 349 POETRY. A New England Legend. By Caroline F. Orne, 126 A Farewell to a Happy Day. By Frances S. Osgood, 203 A Night Thought. By T. Buchanan Read, 219 A Voice for Poland. By Wm. H. C. Hosmer, 228 An Evening Song. By Prof. Wm. Campbell, 235 A Requiem in the North. By J. B. Taylor, 256 A Vision. By E. Curtiss Hine, 267 A Lay. By Grace Greenwood, 310 Angels on Earth. By Blanche Bennairde, 324 Brutus in His Tent. By Wm. H. C. Hosmer, 115 Death. By Thomas Dunn English, 3 Dream-Music. By Frances S. Osgood, 39 Description of a Visit to Niagara. By Professor James Moffat, 106 Dreams. By E. O. H, 196 Death. By George S. Burleigh, 256 Erin Waking. By Wm. H. C. Hosmer, 360 Gold. By R. H. Stoddart, 3 Gautama's Song of Rest By J. B. Taylor, 361 Heads of the Poets. By W. Gilmore Simms, 170 Hope On--Hope Ever. By E. Curtiss Hine, 171 I Want to Go Home. By Richard Coe, Jr. , 213 Korner's Sister. By Elizabeth J. Eames, 111 Life. By A. J. Requier, 294 Love Thy Mother, Little One. By Richard Coe, Jr. , 346 Lines to a Sketch of J. Bayard Taylor, in His Alpine Costume. By Geo. W. Dewey, 360 My Bird. By Mrs. Jane C. Campbell, 252 My Love. By J. Ives Pease, 294 My Native Isle. By Mary G. Horsford, 340 My Father's Grave. By S. D. Anderson, 361 Ornithologoi. By J. M. Legare, 1 Ode to the Moon. By Mrs. E. C. Kinney, 251 One of the "Southern Tier of Counties. " By Alfred B. Street, 329 Passed Away. By W. Wallace Shaw, 234 Pedro and Inez. By Elizabeth J. Eames, 277 Sir Humphrey Gilbert. By Henry W. Longfellow, 33 Study. By Henry S. Hagert, 37 Summer. By E. Curtiss Hine, U. S. N. , 105 Sonnet. By Caroline F. Orne, 106 Song of Sleep. By G. G. Foster, 128 Sunshine and Rain. By George S. Burleigh, 162 Supplication. By Fayette Robinson, 267 Stanzas. By S. S. Hornor, 286 Sonnet. By Elizabeth Oakes Smith, 340 The Land of the West. By T. Buchanan Read, 12 To Lydia. By G. G. Foster, 17 The Thanksgiving of the Sorrowful. By Mrs. Joseph C. Neal, 24 The Night. By M. E. T. , 33 The Bob-o-link. By George S. Burleigh, 33 Twilight. By H. D. G. , 46 The Sachem's Hill. By Alfred B. Street, 52 The Hall of Independence. By G. W. Dewey, 53 To an Isle of the Sea. By Mrs. J. W. Mercur, 56 To Arabella. By Mrs. E. C. Kinney, 56 The Soul's Dream. By George H. Boker, 74 To the Eagle. By Mrs. E. C. Kinney, 83 The Block-House. By Alfred B. Street, 92 To Erato. By Thomas Buchanan Read, 110 The Laborer's Companions. By George S. Burleigh, 110 The Enchanted Knight. By J. B. Taylor, 111 The Sisters. By G. G. Foster, 114 To Violet. By Jerome A. Maby, 115 The Prayer of the Dying Girl. By Samuel D. Patterson, 136 The Spanish Princess to the Moorish Knight. By Grace Greenwood, 146 The Light of our Home. By Thomas Buchanan Read, 146 The Lost Pet. By Mrs. Lydia H. Sigourney, 152 The Poet's Heart. By Charles E. Trail, 161 The Return to Scenes of Childhood. By Gretta, 162 To Guadalupe. By Mayne Reid, 174 The Faded Rose. By G. G. Foster, 174 The Child's Appeal. By Mary G. Horsford, 175 The Old Farm-House. By Mary L. Lawson, 175 Temper Life's Extremes. By G. S. Burleigh, 187 The Deformed Artist. By Mrs. E. N. Horsford, 202 The Angel of the Soul. By J. Bayard Taylor, 210 The Bard. By S. Anna Lewis, 219 To Her Who Can Understand It. By Mayne Reid, 228 To the Violet. By H. T. Tuckerman, 232 They May Tell of a Clime. By C. E. Trail, 232 The Battle of Life. By Anne C. Lynch, 266 The Prophet's Rebuke. By Mrs. Juliet H. L. Campbell, 274 The Mourners. By Rev. T. L. Harris, 317 The Gardener. By George S. Burleigh, 328 The Record of December. By H. Morford, 335 The Christian Hero's Epitaph. By B. , 348 The City of Mexico. By M. E. Thropp, 356 To a Rose-Bud. By Y. S. , 359 Visit to Greenwood Cemetery. By Mrs. Lydia H. Sigourney, 53 Zenobia. By L. Mason, 185 REVIEWS. Endymion. By Henry B. Hirst, 57 Memoir of William Ellery Channing, 58 Napoleon and the Marshals of the Empire, 58 Romance of the History of Louisiana. By Charles Gayarre, 59 The Life of Oliver Cromwell. By J. T. Headley, 118 A Supplement to the Plays of Shakspeare. By Wm. Gilmore Simms, 119 Pilgrimage to the Holy Land. By Alphonse de Lamartine, 119 Hawkstone: A Tale of and for England in 184- 178 The Planetary and Stellar Worlds, 178 Harold, the Last of the Saxon Kings, 179 Calaynos. A Tragedy. By George H. Boker, 238 Literary Sketches and Letters, 238 Vanity Fair. By W. M. Thackerway, 297 Life, Letters and Literary Remains of Keats, 297 Principles of Political Economy. By John Stuart Mill, 367 MUSIC. The Last of the Bourbons. A French PatrioticSong. Written by Alexandre Pantoléon. Music by J. C. N. G. 54 "Think Not that I Love Thee. " A Ballad. Music by J. L. Milner, 116 "'Tis Home where the Heart is. " Words byMiss L. M. Brown. Music by Karl W. Petersilie, 176 The Ocean-Buried. Composed by Miss Agnes H. Jones, 236 Voices from the Spirit-Land. Wordsby John S. Adams. Music by Valentine Dister, 362 ENGRAVINGS. Ornithologoi, engraved by W. E. Tucker. Lamartine, engraved by Sartain. Paris Fashions, from Le Follet. The Departure, engraved by Ellis. The Portrait of Mrs. Brooks, engraved by Parker. The Sisters, engraved by Thompson. Angila Mervale, engraved by J. Addison. The Lost Pet, engraved by Ellis. Paris Fashions, from Le Follet. A Pic-Nic in Olden Time, engraved by Tucker. The Unmarried Belle, engraved by A. B. Ross. Paris Fashions, from Le Follet. Edith Maurice, engraved by J. Addison. Supplication, engraved by Ellis. Mildred Ward, engraved by A. B. Ross. Overboard in the Gulf, engraved by J. D. Gross. Portrait of J. B. Taylor, engraved by G. Jackman. Paris Fashions, from Le Follet. [Illustration: ORNITHOLOGOI "Thou, sitting on the hill-top bare, Dost see the far hills disappear In autumn smoke, and all the air Filled with bright leaves. Below thee spread Are yellow harvests rich in bread For winter use. "] GRAHAM'S MAGAZINE. VOL. XXXIII. PHILADELPHIA, JULY, 1848. NO. 1. ORNITHOLOGOI. [1] BY J. M. LEGARE. [WITH AN ENGRAVING. ] Thou, sitting on the hill-top bare, Dost see the far hills disappear In Autumn smoke, and all the air Filled with bright leaves. Below thee spread Are yellow harvests, rich in bread For winter use; while over-head The jays to one another call, And through the stilly woods there fall, Ripe nuts at intervals, where'er The squirrel, perched in upper air, From tree-top barks at thee his fear; His cunning eyes, mistrustingly, Do spy at thee around the tree; Then, prompted by a sudden whim, Down leaping on the quivering limb, Gains the smooth hickory, from whence He nimbly scours along the fence To secret haunts. But oftener, When Mother Earth begins to stir, And like a Hadji who hath been To Mecca, wears a caftan green; When jasmines and azalias fill The air with sweets, and down the hill Turbid no more descends the rill; The wonder of thy hazel eyes, Soft opening on the misty skies-- Dost smile within thyself to see Things uncontained in, seemingly, The open book upon thy knee, And through the quiet woodlands hear Sounds full of mystery to ear Of grosser mould--the myriad cries That from the teeming world arise; Which we, self-confidently wise, Pass by unheeding. Thou didst yearn From thy weak babyhood to learn Arcana of creation; turn Thy eyes on things intangible To mortals; when the earth was still. Hear dreamy voices on the hill, [Footnote 1: Bird-voices. ] In wavy woods, that sent a thrill Of joyousness through thy young veins. Ah, happy thou! whose seeking gains All that thou lovest, man disdains A sympathy in joys and pains With dwellers in the long, green lanes, With wings that shady groves explore, With watchers at the torrent's roar, And waders by the reedy shore; For thou, through purity of mind, Dost hear, and art no longer blind. CROAK! croak!--who croaketh over-head So hoarsely, with his pinion spread, Dabbled in blood, and dripping red? Croak! croak!--a raven's curse on him, The giver of this shattered limb! Albeit young, (a hundred years, When next the forest leaved appears, ) Will Duskywing behold this breast Shot-riddled, or divide my nest With wearer of so tattered vest? I see myself, with wing awry, Approaching. Duskywing will spy My altered mien, and shun my eye. With laughter bursting, through the wood The birds will scream--she's quite too good For thee. And yonder meddling jay, I hear him chatter all the day, "He's crippled--send the thief away!" At every hop--"don't let him stay. " I'll catch thee yet, despite my wing; For all thy fine blue plumes, thou'lt sing Another song! Is't not enough The carrion festering we snuff, And gathering down upon the breeze, Release the valley from disease; If longing for more fresh a meal, Around the tender flock we wheel, A marksman doth some bush conceal. This very morn, I heard an ewe Bleat in the thicket; there I flew, With lazy wing slow circling round, Until I spied unto the ground A lamb by tangled briars bound. The ewe, meanwhile, on hillock-side, Bleat to her young--so loudly cried, She heard it not when it replied. Ho, ho!--a feast! I 'gan to croak, Alighting straightway on an oak; Whence gloatingly I eyed aslant The little trembler lie and pant. Leapt nimbly thence upon its head; Down its white nostril bubbled red A gush of blood; ere life had fled, My beak was buried in its eyes, Turned tearfully upon the skies-- Strong grew my croak, as weak its cries. No longer couldst thou sit and hear This demon prate in upper air-- Deeds horrible to maiden ear. Begone, thou spokest. Over-head The startled fiend his pinion spread, And croaking maledictions, fled. But, hark! who at some secret door Knocks loud, and knocketh evermore? Thou seest how around the tree, With scarlet head for hammer, he Probes where the haunts of insects be. The worm in labyrinthian hole Begins his sluggard length to roll; But crafty Rufus spies the prey, And with his mallet beats away The loose bark, crumbling to decay; Then chirping loud, with wing elate, He bears the morsel to his mate. His mate, she sitteth on her nest, In sober feather plumage dressed; A matron underneath whose breast Three little tender heads appear. With bills distent from ear to ear, Each clamors for the bigger share; And whilst they clamor, climb--and, lo! Upon the margin, to and fro, Unsteady poised, one wavers slow. Stay, stay! the parents anguished shriek, Too late; for venturesome, yet weak, His frail legs falter under him; He falls--but from a lower limb A moment dangles, thence again Launched out upon the air, in vain He spread his little plumeless wing, A poor, blind, dizzy, helpless thing. But thou, who all didst see and hear, Young, active, wast already there, And caught the flutterer in air. Then up the tree to topmost limb, A vine for ladder, borest him. Against thy cheek his little heart Beat soft. Ah, trembler that thou art, Thou spokest smiling; comfort thee! With joyous cries the parents flee Thy presence none--confidingly Pour out their very hearts to thee. The mockbird sees thy tenderness Of deed; doth with melodiousness, In many tongues, thy praise express. And all the while, his dappled wings He claps his sides with, as he sings, From perch to perch his body flings: A poet he, to ecstasy Wrought by the sweets his tongue doth say. Stay, stay!--I hear a flutter now Beneath yon flowering alder bough. I hear a little plaintive voice That did at early morn rejoice, Make a most sad yet sweet complaint, Saying, "my heart is very faint With its unutterable wo. What shall I do, where can I go, My cruel anguish to abate. Oh! my poor desolated mate, Dear Cherry, will our haw-bush seek, Joyful, and bearing in her beak Fresh seeds, and such like dainties, won By careful search. But they are gone Whom she did brood and dote upon. Oh! if there be a mortal ear My sorrowful complaint to hear; If manly breast is ever stirred By wrong done to a helpless bird, To them for quick redress I cry. " Moved by the tale, and drawing nigh, On alder branch thou didst espy How, sitting lonely and forlorn, His breast was pressed upon a thorn, Unknowing that he leant thereon; Then bidding him take heart again, Thou rannest down into the lane To seek the doer of this wrong, Nor under hedgerow hunted long, When, sturdy, rude, and sun-embrowned, A child thy earnest seeking found. To him in sweet and modest tone Thou madest straight thy errand known. With gentle eloquence didst show (Things erst he surely did not know) How great an evil he had done; How, when next year the mild May sun Renewed its warmth, this shady lane No timid birds would haunt again; And how around his mother's door The robins, yearly guests before-- He knew their names--would come no more; But if his prisoners he released, Before their little bosoms ceased To palpitate, each coming year Would find them gladly reappear To sing his praises everywhere-- The sweetest, dearest songs to hear. And afterward, when came the term Of ripened corn, the robber worm Would hunt through every blade and turn, Impatient thus his smile to earn. At first, flushed, angrily, and proud, He answered thee with laughter loud And brief retort. But thou didst speak So mild, so earnestly did seek To change his mood, in wonder first He eyed thee; then no longer durst Raise his bold glances to thy face, But, looking down, began to trace, With little, naked foot and hand, Thoughtful devices in the sand; And when at last thou didst relate The sad affliction of the mate, When to the well-known spot she came, He hung his head for very shame; His penitential tears to hide, His face averted while he cried; "Here, take them all, I've no more pride In climbing up to rob a nest-- I've better feelings in my breast. " Then thanking him with heart and eyes, Thou tookest from his grasp the prize, And bid the little freedmen rise. But when thou sawest how too weak Their pinions were, the nest didst seek, And called thy client. Down he flew Instant, and with him Cherry too; And fluttering after, not a few Of the minuter feathered race Filled with their warbling all the place. From hedge and pendent branch and vine, Recounted still that deed of thine; Still sang thy praises o'er and o'er, Gladly--more heartily, be sure, Were praises never sung before. Beholding thee, they understand (These Minne-singers of the land) How thou apart from all dost stand, Full of great love and tenderness For all God's creatures--these express Thy hazel eyes. With life instinct All things that are, to thee are linked By subtle ties; and none so mean Or loathsome hast thou ever seen, But wonderous in make hath been. Compassionate, thou seest none Of insect tribes beneath the sun That thou canst set thy heel upon. A sympathy thou hast with wings In groves, and with all living things. Unmindful if they walk or crawl, The same arm shelters each and all; The shadow of the Curse and Fall Alike impends. Ah! truly great, Who strivest earnestly and late, A single atom to abate, Of helpless wo and misery. For very often thou dost see How sadly and how helplessly A pleading face looks up to thee. Therefore it is, thou canst not choose, With petty tyranny to abuse Thy higher gifts; and justly fear The feeblest worm of earth or air, In thy heart's judgment to condemn, Since God made thee, and God made them. DEATH:--AN INVOCATION. BY THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH. Thou art no king of terrors--sweet Death! But a maiden young and fair; Thine eyes are bright as the spring starlight, And golden is thy hair; While the smile that flickers thy lips upon Has a light beyond compare. Come then, Death, from the dark-brown shades Where thou hast lingered long; Come to the haunts where sins abound And troubles thickly throng, And lay thy bridal kiss on the lips Of a child of sorrow and song. For I can gaze with a rapture deep Upon thy lovely face; Many a smile I find therein, Where another a frown would trace-- As a lover would clasp his new-made bride I will take thee to my embrace. Come, oh, come! I long for thy look; I weary to win thy kiss-- Bear me away from a world of wo To a world of quiet bliss-- For in that I may kneel to God alone, Which I may not do in this. For woman and wealth they woo pursuit, And a winning voice has fame; Men labor for love and work for wealth And struggle to gain a name; Yet find but fickleness, need and scorn, If not the brand of shame. Then carry me hence, sweet Death--_my_ Death! Must I woo thee still in vain? Come at the morn or come at the eve, Or come in the sun or rain; But come--oh, come! for the loss of life To me is the chiefest gain. GOLD. BY R. H. STODDARD. Alas! my heart is sick when I behold The deep engrossing interest of wealth, How eagerly men sacrifice their health, Love, honor, fame and truth for sordid gold; Dealing in sin, and wrong, and tears, and strife, Their only aim and business in life To gain and heap together shining store;-- Alchemists, mad as e'er were those of yore. Transmuting every thing to glittering dross, Wasting their energies o'er magic scrolls, Day-books and ledgers leaden, gain and loss-- Casting the holiest feelings of their souls High hopes, and aspirations, and desires, Beneath their crucibles to feed th' accursed fires! FIEL A LA MUERTE, OR TRUE LOVE'S DEVOTION. A TALE OF THE TIMES OF LOUIS QUINZE. BY HENRY WILLIAM HERBERT, AUTHOR OF "THE ROMAN TRAITOR, " "MARMADUKEWYVIL, " "CROMWELL, " ETC. There was a mighty stir in the streets of Paris, as Paris' streetswere in the olden time. A dense and eager mob had taken possession, atan early hour of the day, of all the environs of the Bastile, andlined the way which led thence to the Place de Greve in solid andalmost impenetrable masses. People of all conditions were there, except the very highest; but thegreat majority of the concourse was composed of the low populace, andthe smaller bourgeoisie. Multitudes of women were there, too, from thegirl of sixteen to the beldam of sixty, nor had mothers been ashamedto bring their infants in their arms into that loud and tumultuousassemblage. Loud it was and tumultuous, as all great multitudes are, unless theyare convened by purposes too resolutely dark and solemn to find anyvent in noise. When that is the case, let rulers beware, for peril isat hand--perhaps the beginning of the end. But this Parisian mob, although long before this period it had learnedthe use of barricades, though noisy, turbulent, and sometimes evenviolent in the demonstrations of its impatience, was any thing butangry or excited. On the contrary, it seemed to be on the very tip-toe of pleasurableexpectation, and from the somewhat frequent allusions to _notre bonroi_, which circulated among the better order of spectators, it wouldappear that the government of the Fifteenth Louis was for the momentin unusually good odor with the good folks of the metropolis. What was the spectacle to which they were looking forward with so muchglee--which had brought forth young delicate girls, and tendermothers, into the streets at so early an hour--which, as the dayadvanced toward ten o'clock of the morning, was tempting forth lacedcloaks, and rapiers, and plumed hats, and here and there, in thecumbrous carriages of the day, the proud and luxurious ladies of thegay metropolis? One glance toward the centre of the Place de Greve was sufficient toinform the dullest, for there uprose, black, grisly, horrible, a tallstout pile of some thirty feet in height, with a huge wheel affixedhorizontally to the summit. Around this hideous instrument of torture was raised a scaffold hungwith black cloth, and strewed with saw-dust, for the convenience ofthe executioners, about three feet lower than the wheel whichsurmounted it. Around this frightful apparatus were drawn up two companies of theFrench guard, forming a large hollow-square facing outwards, withmuskets loaded, and bayonets fixed, as if they apprehended an attemptat rescue, although from the demeanor of the people nothing appearedat that time to be further from their thoughts than any thing of thekind. Above was the executioner-in-chief, with two grim, truculent-lookingassistants, making preparations for the fearful operation they wereabout to perform, or leaning indolently on the instruments ofslaughter. By and bye, as the day wore onward, and the concourse kept stillincreasing both in numbers and in the respectability of those whocomposed it, something of irritation began to show itself, mingledwith the eagerness and expectation of the populace, and from somemurmurs, which ran from time to time through their ranks, it wouldseem that they apprehended the escape of their victim. By this time the windows of all the houses which overlooked theprecincts of that fatal square on which so much of noble blood hasbeen shed through so many ages, were occupied by persons of bothsexes, all of the middle, and some even of the upper classes, as eagerto behold the frightful and disgusting scene, which was about toensue, as the mere rabble in the open streets below. The same thing was manifest along the whole line of the thoroughfareby which the fatal procession would advance, with this differencealone, that many of the houses in that quarter belonging to the highnobility, and all with few exceptions being the dwellings of opulentpersons, the windows, instead of being let like seats at the opera, toany who would pay the price, were occupied by the inhabitants, comingand going from their ordinary avocations to look out upon the noisythrong, when any louder outbreak of voices called their attention tothe busy scene. Among the latter, in a large and splendid mansion, not far from thePorte St. Antoine, and commanding a direct view of the Place de laBastille, with its esplanade, drawbridge, and principal entrance, agroup was collected at one of the windows, nearly overlooking the gateitself, which seemed to take the liveliest interest in the proceedingsof the day, although that interest was entirely unmixed with any thinglike the brutal expectation, and morbid love of horrible excitementwhich characterized the temper of the multitude. The most prominent person of this group was a singularly noble-lookingman, fast verging to his fiftieth year, if he had not yet attained it. His countenance, though resolute and firm, with a clear, piercing eye, lighted up at times, for a moment, by a quick, fiery flash, was calm, benevolent, and pensive in its ordinary mood, rather than energeticalor active. Yet it was easy to perceive that the mind, which informedit, was of the highest capacity both of intellect and imagination. The figure and carriage of this gentleman would have sufficientlyindicated that, at some period of his life, he had borne arms and ledthe life of a camp--which, indeed, at that day was only to say that hewas a nobleman of France--but a long scar on his right brow, a littleway above the eye, losing itself among the thick locks of his finewaving hair, and a small round cicatrix in the centre of his cheek, showing where a pistol ball had found entrance, proved that he hadbeen where blows were falling thickest, and that he had not spared hisown person in the _melée_. His dress was very rich, according to the fashion of the day, thoughperhaps a fastidious eye might have objected that it partook somewhatof the past mode of the Regency, which had just been brought to aconclusion as my tale commences, by the resignation of the witty andlicentious Philip of Orleans. If, however, this fine-looking gentleman was the most prominent, hecertainly was not the most interesting person of the company, whichconsisted, beside himself, of an ecclesiastic of high rank in theFrench church, a lady, now somewhat advanced in years, but showing theremains of beauty which, in its prime, must have been extraordinary, and of a boy in his fifteenth or sixteenth year. For notwithstanding the eminent distinction, and high intellect of theelder nobleman, the dignity of the abbé, not unsupported by all whichmen look for as the outward and visible signs of that dignity, and thegrace and beauty of the lady, it was upon the boy alone that the eyeof every spectator would have dwelt, from the instant of its firstdiscovering him. He was tall of his age, and very finely made, of proportions whichgave promise of exceeding strength when he should arrive at maturity, but strength uncoupled to any thing of weight or clumsiness. He wasunusually free, even at this early period, from that heavy andungraceful redundance of flesh which not unfrequently is theforerunner of athletic power in boys just bursting into manhood; forhe was already as conspicuous for the thinness of his flanks, and theshapely hollow of his back, as for the depth and roundness of hischest, the breadth of his shoulders, and the symmetry of his limbs. His head was well set on, and his whole bearing was that of one whohad learned ease, and grace, and freedom, combined with dignity ofcarriage, in no school of practice and mannerism, but from the exampleof those with whom he had been brought up, and by familiar intercoursefrom his cradle upward with the high-born and gently nurtured of theland. His long rich chestnut hair fell down in natural masses, undisfiguredas yet by the hideous art of the court hair-dresser, on either sidehis fine broad forehead, and curled, untortured by the crisping-irons, over the collar of his velvet jerkin. His eyes were large and veryclear, of the deepest shade of blue, with dark lashes, yet full ofstrong, tranquil light. All his features were regular and shapely, butit was not so much in the beauty of their form, or in the harmony oftheir coloring that the attractiveness of his aspect consisted, as inthe peculiarity and power of his expression. For a boy of his age, the pensiveness and composure of that expressionwere indeed almost unnatural, and they combined with a calm firmnessand immobility of feature, which promised, I know not what ofresolution and tenacity of purpose. It was not gravity, much lesssternness, or sadness, that lent so powerful an expression to thatyoung face; nor was there a single line which indicated coldness orhardness of heart, or which would have led to a suspicion that he hadbeen schooled by those hard monitors, suffering and sorrow. No, it waspure thoughtfulness, and that of the highest and most intellectualorder, which characterized the boy's expression. Yet, though it was so thoughtful, there was nothing in the aspectwhence to forebode a want of the more masculine qualifications. It wasthe thoughtfulness of a worker, not of a dreamer--the thoughtfulnesswhich prepares, not unfits a man for action. If the powers portrayed in that boy's countenance were not deceptiveto the last degree, high qualities were within, and a high destinybefore him. But who, from the foreshowing and the bloom of sixteen years, mayaugur of the finish and the fruit of the three-score and ten, whichare the sum of human toil and sorrow? It was now nearly noon, when the outer drawbridge of the Bastile waslowered and its gate opened, and forth rode, two a-breast, a troop ofthe mousquetaires, or life-guard, in the bright steel casques andcuirasses, with the musquetoons, from which they derived their name, unslung and ready for action. As they issued into the wider spacebeyond the bridge, the troopers formed themselves rapidly into a sortof hollow column, the front of which, some eight file deep, occupiedthe whole width of the street, two files in close order composing eachflank, and leaving an open space in the centre completely surroundedby the horsemen. Into this space, without a moment's delay, there was driven a lowblack cart, or hurdle as it was technically called, of the rudestconstruction, drawn by four powerful black horses, a savage-facedofficial guiding them by the ropes which supplied the place of reins. On this ill-omened vehicle there stood three persons, the prisoner, and two of the armed wardens of the Bastile, the former ironed veryheavily, and the latter bristling with offensive weapons. Immediately in the rear of this car followed another troop of thelife-guard, which closed up in the densest and most serried orderaround and behind the victim of the law, so as to render any attemptat rescue useless. The person, to secure whose punishment so strong a military force hadbeen produced, and to witness whose execution so vast a multitude wascollected, was a tall, noble-looking man of forty or forty-five years, dressed in a rich mourning-habit of the day, but wearing neither hatnor mantle. His dark hair, mixed at intervals with thin lines ofsilver, was cut short behind, contrary to the usage of the times, andhis neck was bare, the collar of his superbly laced shirt being foldedbroadly back over the cape of his pourpoint. His face was very pale, and his complexion being naturally of thedarkest, the hue of his flesh, from which all the healthful blood hadreceded, was strangely livid and unnatural in its appearance. Still itdid not seem that it was fear which had blanched his cheeks, andstolen all the color from his compressed lip, for his eye was full ofa fierce, scornful light, and all his features were set and steadywith an expression of the calmest and most iron resolution. As the fatal vehicle which bore him made its appearance on theesplanade without the gates of the prison, a deep hum of satisfactionran through the assembled concourse, rising and deepening graduallyinto a savage howl like that of a hungry tiger. Then, then blazed out the haughty spirit, the indomitable pride of theFrench noble! Then shame, and fear, and death itself, which he waslooking even now full in the face, were all forgotten, all absorbed inhis overwhelming scorn of the people! The blood rushed in a torrent to his brow, his eye seemed to lightenforth actual fire, as he raised his right hand aloft, loaded althoughit was with such a mass of iron, as a Greek Athlete might have shunnedto lift, and shook it at the clamorous mob, with a glare of scorn andfury that showed how, had he been at liberty, he would have dealt withthe revilers of his fallen state. "_Sacré canaille!_" he hissed through his hard-set teeth, "back toyour gutters and your garbage, or follow, if you can, in silence, andlearn, if ye lack not courage to look on, how a man should die. " The reproof told; for, though at the contemptuous tone and fell insultof the first words the clamor of the rabble route waxed wilder, therewas so much true dignity in the last sentiment he uttered, and thefate to which he was going was so hideous, that a key was struck inthe popular heart, and thenceforth the tone of the spectators waschanged altogether. It was the exultation of the people over the downfall and disgrace ofa noble that had found tongue in that savage conclamation--it was theapprehension that his dignity, and the interest of his great name, would win him pardon from the partial justice of the king, that hadrendered them pitiless and savage--and now that their own cruel willwas about to be gratified, as they beheld how dauntlessly the proudlord went to a death of torture, they were stricken with a sort ofsecret shame, and followed the dread train in sullen silence. As the black car rolled onward, the haughty criminal turned his eyesupward, perchance from a sentiment of pride, which rendered it painfulto him to meet the gaze, whether pitiful or triumphant, of theParisian populace, and as he did so, it chanced that his glance fellon the group which I have described, as assembled at the windows of amansion which he knew well, and in which, in happier days, he hadpassed gay and pleasant hours. Every eye of that group, with but oneexception, was fixed upon himself, as he perceived on the instant; thelady alone having turned her head away, as unable to look upon one insuch a strait, whom she had known under circumstances so widelydifferent. There was nothing, however, in the gaze of all theseearnest eyes that seemed to embarrass, much less to offend theprisoner. Deep interest, earnestness, perhaps horror, was expressed byone and all; but that horror was not, nor in anywise partook of, theabhorrence which appeared to be the leading sentiment of the populacebelow. As he encountered their gaze, therefore, he drew himself up to hisfull height, and laying his right hand upon his heart bowed low andgracefully to the windows at which his friends of past days wereassembled. The boy turned his eye quickly toward his father as if to note whatreturn he should make to that strange salutation. If it were so, hedid not remain in doubt a moment, for that nobleman bowed low andsolemnly to his brother peer with a very grave and sad aspect; andeven the ecclesiastic inclined his head courteously to the condemnedcriminal. The boy perhaps marveled, for a look of bewilderment crossed hisingenuous features; but it passed away in an instant, and followingthe example of his seniors, he bent his ingenuous brow and sunny locksbefore the unhappy man, who never was again to interchange a salutewith living mortal. It would seem that the recipient of that last act of courtesy wasgratified even beyond the expectation of those who offered it, for afaint flush stole over his livid features, from which the momentaryglow of indignation had now entirely faded, and a slight smile playedupon his pallid lip, while a tear--the last he should evershed--twinkled for an instant on his dark lashes. "True, " he mutteredto himself approvingly--"the nobles are true ever to their order!" The eyes of the mob likewise had been attracted to the group above, bywhat had passed, and at first it appeared as if they had taken umbrageat the sympathy showed to the criminal by his equals in rank; forthere was manifested a little inclination to break out again into amurmured shout, and some angry words were bandied about, reflecting onthe pride and party spirit of the proud lords. But the inclination was checked instantly, before it had time torender itself audible, by a word which was circulated, no one knewwhence or by whom, through the crowded ranks--"Hush! hush! it is thegood Lord of St. Renan. " And therewith every voice was hushed, sofickle is the fancy of a crowd, although it is very certain that fourfifths of those present knew not, nor had ever heard the name of St. Renan, nor had the slightest suspicion what claims he who bore it, hadeither on their respect or forbearance. The death-train passed on its way, however, unmolested by any furthershow of temper on the part of the crowd, and the crowd itselffollowing the progress of the hurdle to the place of execution, wassoon out of sight of the windows occupied by the family of the Countde St. Renan. "Alas! unhappy Kerguelen!" exclaimed the count, with a deep andpainful sigh, as the fearful procession was lost to sight in thedistance. "He knows not yet half the bitterness of that which he hasto undergo. " The boy looked up into his father's face with an inquiring glance, which he answered at once, still in the same subdued and solemn voicewhich he had used from the first. "By the arrangement of his hair and dress I can see that he imagineshe is to die as a nobleman, by the axe. May Heaven support him when hesees the disgraceful wheel. " "You seem to pity the wretch, Louis, " cried the lady, who had nothitherto spoken, nor even looked toward the criminal as he was passingby the windows--"and yet he was assuredly a most atrocious criminal. Acool, deliberate, cold-blooded poisoner! Out upon it! out upon it! Thewheel is fifty times too good for him!" "He was all that you say, Marie, " replied her husband gravely; "andyet I do pity him with all my heart, and grieve for him. I knew himwell, though we have not met for many years, when we were both young, and there was no braver, nobler, better man within the limits of fairFrance. I know, too, how he loved that woman, how he trusted thatman--and then to be so betrayed! It seems to me but yesterday that heled her to the altar, all tears of happiness, and soft maiden blushes. Poor Kerguelen! He was sorely tried. " "But still, my son, he was found wanting. Had he submitted him as aChristian to the punishment the good God laid upon him--" "The world would have pronounced him a spiritless, dishonored slave, father, " said the count, answering the ecclesiastic's speech before itwas yet finished, "and gentlemen would have refused him the hand offellowship. " "Was he justified then, my father?" asked the boy eagerly, who hadbeen listening with eager attention to every word that had yet beenspoken. "Do you think, then, that he was in the right; that he couldnot do otherwise than to slay her? I can understand that he was boundto kill the man who had basely wronged his honor--but a woman!--awoman whom he had once loved too!--that seems to me most horrible; andthe mode, by a slow poison! living with her while it took effect!eating at the same board with her! sleeping by her side! that seemseven more than horrible, it was cowardly!" "God forbid, my son, " replied the elder nobleman, "that I should sayany man was justified who had murdered another in cold blood;especially, as you have said, a woman, and by a method so terrible aspoison. I only mean exactly what I said, that he was tried veryfearfully, and that under such trial the best and wisest of us herebelow cannot say how he would act himself. Moreover, it would seemthat mistaken as he was perhaps in the course which he seems to haveimagined that honor demanded at his hands, he was much mistaken in themode which he took of accomplishing his scheme of vengeance. It wasmade very evident upon his trial that he did nothing, even to thatwretched traitress, in rage or revenge, but all as he thought inhonor. He chose a drug which consumed her by a mild and gradual decay, without suffering or spasm; he gave her time for repentance, nay, itis clearly proved that he convinced her of her sin, reconciled her tothe part he had taken in her death, and exchanged forgiveness with herbefore she passed away. I do not think myself that to commit a crimehimself can clear one from dishonor cast upon him by another's act, but at the same time I cannot look upon Kerguelen's guilt as of thatbrutal and felonious nature which calls for such a punishment ashis--to be broken alive on the wheel, like a hired stabber--much lesscan I assent to the stigma which is attached to him on all sides, while that base, low-lived, treacherous, cogging miscreant, who felltoo honorably by his honorable sword, meets pity--God defend us fromsuch justice and sympathy!--and is entombed with tears and honors, while the avenger is crushed, living, out of the very shape ofhumanity by the hands of the common hangman. " The churchman's lips moved for a moment, as if he were about to speakin reply to the false doctrines which he heard enunciated by thatupright and honorable man, and good father, but, ere he spoke, hereflected that those doctrines were held at that time, throughoutChristian Europe, unquestioned, and confirmed by prejudice and pridebeyond all the power of argument or of religion to set them aside, orinvalidate them. The law of chivalry, sterner and more inflexible thanthat Mosaic code requiring an eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth, which demanded a human life as the sacrifice for every rash word, forevery wrongful action, was the law paramount of every civilized landin that day, and in France perhaps most of all lands, as standingforemost in what was then deemed civilization. And the abbé well knewthat discussion of this point would only tend to bring out theopinions of the Count de St. Renan, in favor of the sanguinary code ofhonor, more decidedly, and consequently to confirm the mind of theyoung man more effectually in what he believed himself to be a fatalerror. The young man, who was evidently very deeply interested in the matterof the conversation, had devoured every word of his father, as if hehad been listening to the oracles of a God; and, when he ceased, aftera pause of some seconds, during which he was pondering very deeply onthat which he had heard, he raised his intelligent face and said in anearnest voice. "I see, my father, all that you have alleged in palliation of thecount's crime, and I fully understand you--though I still think it themost terrible thing I ever have heard tell of. But I do not perfectlycomprehend wherefore you ransack our language of all its deepest termsof contempt which to heap upon the head of the Chevalier de laRochederrien? He was the count's sworn friend, she was the count'swedded wife; they both were forsworn and false, and both betrayed him. But in what was the chevalier's fault the greater or the viler?" Those were strange days, in which such a subject could have beendiscussed between two wise and virtuous parents and a son, whom it wastheir chiefest aim in life to bring up to be a good and honorableman--that son, too, barely more than a boy in years and understanding. But the morality of those times was coarser and harder, and, if therewas no more real vice, there was far less superficial delicacy in themanners of society, and the relations between men and women, thanthere is nowadays. Perhaps the true course lies midway; for certainly if there was muchcoarseness then, there is much cant and much squeamishness now, whichcould be excellently well dispensed with. Beside this, boys were brought into the great world much earlier atthat period, and were made men of at an age when they would have beenlearning Greek and Latin, had their birth been postponed by a singlecentury. Then, at fifteen, they held commissions, and carried colors in thebattle's front, and were initiated into all the license of the court, the camp, and the forum. So it came that the discussion of a subject such as that which I havedescribed, was very naturally introduced even between parents and abeloved and only son by the circumstances of the day. Morals, asregards the matrimonial contract, and the intercourse between thesexes, have at all times been lower and far less rigid among theFrench, than in nations of northern origin; and never at any period ofthe world was the morality of any country, in this respect, at so lowan ebb as was France under the reign of the Fifteenth Louis. The Count de St. Renan replied, therefore, to his son with as littlerestraint as if he had been his equal in age, and equally acquaintedwith the customs and vices of the world, although intrigue and crimewere the topics of which he had to treat. "It is quite true, Raoul, " replied the count, "that so far as theunhappy Lord of Kerguelen was concerned, the guilt of the Chevalier dela Rochederrien was, as you say, no deeper, perhaps less deep thanthat of the miserable lady. He was, indeed, bound to Kerguelen byevery tie of friendship and honor; he had been aided by his purse, backed by his sword, nay, I have heard and believe, that he owed hislife to him. Yet for all that he seduced his wife; and to make itworse, if worse it could be, Kerguelen had married her from thestrongest affection, and till the chevalier brought misery, anddishonor, and death upon them, there was no wedded couple in allFrance so virtuous or so happy. " "Indeed, sir!" replied Raoul, in tones of great emotion, staring withhis large, dark eyes as if some strange sight had presented itself tohim on a sudden. "I know well, Raoul, and if you have not heard it yet, you will soondo so, when you begin to mingle with men, that there are those insociety, _those_ whom the world regards, moreover, as honorable men, who affect to say that he who loves a woman, whether lawfully orsinfully, is at once absolved from all considerations except how hemost easily may win--or in other words--ruin her; and consequentlysuch men would speak slightly of the chevalier's conduct toward hisfriend, Kerguelen, and affect to regard it as a matter of course, anda mere affair of gallantry! But I trust you will remember this, myson, that there is nothing _gallant_, nor can be, in lying, or deceit, or treachery of any kind. And further, that to look with eyes ofpassion on the wife of a friend, is in itself both a crime, and an actof deliberate dishonor. " "I should not have supposed, sir, " replied the boy, blushing verydeeply, partly it might be from the nature of the subject underdiscussion, and partly from the strength of his emotions, "that anycavalier could have regarded it otherwise. It seems to me that tobetray a friend's honor is a far blacker thing than to betray hislife--and surely no man with one pretension to honor, would attempt tojustify that. " "I am happy to see, Raoul, that you think so correctly on this point. Hold to your creed, my dear boy, for there are who shall try ere longto shake it. But be sure that is the creed of honor. But, although Ithink La Rochederrien disgraced himself even in this, it was not forthis only that I termed him, as I deem him, the very vilest and mostinfamous of mankind. For when he had led that poor lady into sin; whenshe had surrendered herself up wholly to his honor; when she hadplaced the greatest trust--although a guilty trust, I admit--in hisfaith and integrity that one human being can place in another, thebase dog betrayed her. He boasted of her weakness, of Kerguelen'sdishonor, of his own infamy. " "And did not they to whom he boasted of it, " exclaimed the noble boy, his face flushing fiery red with excitement and indignation, "spurnhim at once from their presence, as a thing unworthy and beyond thepale of law. " "No, Raoul, they laughed at him, applauded his gallant success, andjeered at the Lord of Kerguelen. " "Great heaven! and these were gentlemen!" "They were called such, at least; gentlemen by name and descent theywere assuredly, but as surely not right gentlemen at heart. Many ofthem, however, in cooler moments, spoke of the traitor and thebraggart with the contempt and disgust he merited. Some friend ofKerguelen's heard what had passed, and deemed it his duty to informhim. The most unhappy husband called the seducer to the field, woundedhim mortally, and--to increase yet more his infamy--even in the agonyof death the slave confessed the whole, and craved forgiveness like adog. Confessed the _woman's crime_--you mark me, Raoul!--had he diedmute, or died even with a falsehood in his mouth, as I think he wasbound to do in such extremity, affirming her innocence with his lastbreath, he had saved her, and perhaps spared her wretched lord themisery of knowing certainly the depth of his dishonor. " The boy pondered for a moment or two without making any answer; andalthough he was evidently not altogether satisfied, probably would nothave again spoken, had not his father, who read what was passing inhis mind, asked him what it was that he desired to know further. Raoul smiled at perceiving how completely his father understood him, and then said at once, without pause or hesitation-- "I understand you to say, sir, that you thought the wretched man ofwhom we spoke was bound, under the extremity in which he stood, to diewith a falsehood in his mouth. Can a gentleman ever be justified insaying the thing that is not? Much more can it be his bounden duty todo so?" "Unquestionably, as a rule of general conduct, he cannot. Truth is thesoul of honor; and without truth, honor cannot exist. But this is amost intricate and tangled question. It never can arise withoutpresupposing the commission of one guilty act--one act which no goodor truly moral man would commit at all. It is, therefore, scarcelyworth our while to examine it. But I do say, on my deliberate andgrave opinion, that if a woman, previously innocent and pure, havesacrificed her honor to a man, that man is bound to sacrifice everything, his life without a question, and I think his truth also, inorder to preserve her character, so far as he can, scathless. But wewill speak no more of this. It is an odious subject, and one of which, I trust, you, Raoul, will never have the sad occasion to consider. " "Oh! never, father, never! I, " cried the ingenuous boy, "I must firstlose my senses, and become a madman. " "All men are madmen, Raoul, " said the church-man, who stood in therelation of maternal uncle to the youth, "who suffer their passions tohave the mastery of them. You must learn, therefore, to be theirtyrant, for if you be not, be well assured that they will beyours--and merciless tyrants they are to the wretches who become theirsubjects. " "I will remember what you say, sir, " answered the boy, "and, indeed, Iam not like to forget it, for, altogether, this is the saddest day Iever have passed; and this is the most horrible and appalling storythat I ever have heard told. It was but just that the Lord ofKerguelen should die, for he did a murder; and since the law punishesthat in a peasant, it must do so likewise with a noble. But to breakhim upon the wheel!--it is atrocious! I should have thought all thenobles of the land would have applied to the king to spare him thathorror. " "Many of them did apply, Raoul; but the king, or his ministers in hisname, made answer, that during the Regency the Count Horn was brokenon the wheel for murder, and therefore that to behead the Lord ofKerguelen for the same offence, would be to admit that the Count waswrongfully condemned. " "Out on it! out on it! what sophistry. Count Horn murdered a banker, like a common thief, for his gold, and this unhappy lord hath done thedeed for which he must suffer in a mistaken sense of honor, and withall tenderness compatible with such a deed. There is nothing similaror parallel in the two cases; and if there were, what signifies it nowto Count Horn, whether he were condemned rightfully or no; are thesemen heathen, that they would offer a victim to the offended manes ofthe dead? But is there no hope, my father, that his sentence may becommuted?" "None whatsoever. Let us trust, therefore, that he has died penitent, and that his sufferings are already over; and let us pray, ere we layus down to sleep, that his sins may be forgiven to him, and that hissoul may have rest. " "Amen!" replied the boy, solemnly, at the same moment that theecclesiastic repeated the same word, though he did so, as it wouldseem, less from the heart, and more as a matter of course. Nothing further was said on that subject, and in truth theconversation ceased altogether. A gloom was cast over the spirits ofall present, both by the imagination of the horrors which were inprogress at that very moment, and by the recollection of the precedingenormities of which this was but the consummation; but the youngViscount Raoul was so completely engrossed by the deep thoughts whichthat conversation had awakened in his mind, that his father, who was avery close observer, and correct judge of human nature, almostregretted that he had spoken, and determined, if possible, to diverthim from the gloomy revery into which he had fallen. "Viscount, " said he, after a silence which had endured now for manyminutes, "when did you last wait upon Mademoiselle Melanied'Argenson?" Raoul's eyes, brightened at the name, and again the bright blush, which I noticed before, crossed his ingenuous features; but this timeit was pleasure, not embarrassment, which colored his young face sovividly. "I called yesterday, sir;" he answered, "but she was abroad with thecountess, her mother. In truth, I have not seen her since Fridaylast. " "Why that is an age, Raoul! are you not dying to see her again by thistime. At your age, I was far more gallant. " "With your permission, sir, I will go now and make my compliments toher. " "Not only my permission, Raoul, but my advice to make your best hastethither. If you go straight-ways, you will be sure to find her athome, for the ladies are sure not to have ventured abroad with allthis uproar in the streets. Take Martin, the equerry, with you, andthree of the grooms. What will you ride? The new Barb I bought for youlast week? Yes! as well him as any; and, hark you, boy, tell them tosend Martin to me first, I will speak to him while you are beautifyingyourself to please the _beaux yeux_ of Mademoiselle Melanie. " "I am not sure that you are doing wisely, Louis, " said the lady, asher son left the saloon, her eye following him wistfully, "in bringingRaoul up as you are doing. " "Nor I, Marie, " replied her husband, gravely. "We poor, blind mortalscannot be sure of any thing, least of all of any thing the ends ofwhich are incalculably distant. But in what particular do you doubtthe wisdom of my method?" "In talking to him as you do, as though he were a man already; inopening his eyes so widely to the sins and vices of the world; indiscussing questions with him such as those you spoke of with him butnow. He is a mere boy, you will remember, to hear tell of suchthings. " "Boys hear of such things early enough, I assure you--far earlier thanyou ladies would deem possible. For the rest, he must hear of them oneday, and I think it quite as well that he should hear of them, sincehear he must, with the comments of an old man, and that old man hisbest friend, than find them out by the teachings, and judge of themaccording to the light views of his young and excitable associates. Hewho is forewarned is fore-weaponed. I was kept pure, as it istermed--or in other words, kept ignorant of myself and of the world Iwas destined to live in, until one fine day I was cut loose from theapron-strings of my lady mother, and the tether of my abbé tutor, andlaunched head-foremost into that vortex of temptation and iniquity, the world of Paris, like a ship without a chart or a compass. Aprecious race I ran in consequence, for a time; and if I had not beenso fortunate as to meet you, Marie, whose bright eyes brought me out, like a blessed beacon, safe from that perilous ocean, I know not but Ishould have suffered shipwreck, both in fortune, which is a trifle, and in character, which is every thing. No, no; if that is all inwhich you doubt, your fears are causeless. " "But that is not all. In this you may be right--I know not; at allevents you are a fitter judge than I. But are you wise in encouragingso very strongly his fancy for Melanie d'Argenson?" "I'faith, it is something more than a fancy, I think; the boy lovesher. " "I see that, Louis, clearly; and you encourage it. " "And wherefore should I not. She is a good girl--as good as she isbeautiful. " "She is an angel. " "And her mother, Marie, was your most intimate, your bosom friend. " "And now a saint in Heaven!" "Well, what more; she is as noble as a De Rohan, or a Montmorency. Sheis an heiress with superb estates adjoining our own lands of St. Renan. She is, like our Raoul, an only child. And what is the most ofall, I think, although it is not the mode in this dear France of oursto attach much weight to that, it is no made-up match, no cradleplighting between babes, to be made good, perhaps, by the breaking ofhearts, but a genuine, natural, mutual affection between two young, sincere, innocent, artless persons--and a splendid couple they willmake. What can you see to alarm you in that prospect?" "Her father. " "The Sieur d'Argenson! Well, I confess, he is not a very charmingperson; but we all have our own faults or weaknesses; and, after all, it is not he whom Raoul is about to marry. " "I doubt his good faith, very sorely. " "I should doubt it too, Marie, did I see any cause which should leadhim to break it. But the match is in all respects more desirable forhim than it is for us. For though Mademoiselle d'Argenson is noble, rich, and handsome, the Viscount de Douarnez might be well justifiedin looking for a wife far higher than the daughter of a simple Sieurof Bretagne. Beside, although the children loved before any one spokeof it--before any one saw it, indeed, save I--it was d'Argensonhimself who broke the subject. What, then, should induce him to playfalse?" "I do not know, yet I doubt--I fear him. " "But that, Marie, is unworthy of your character, of your mind. " "Louis, she is _too_ beautiful. " "I do not think Raoul will find fault with her on that score. " "Nor would one greater than Raoul. " "Whom do you mean?" cried the count, now for the first time startled. "I have seen eyes fixed upon her in deadly admiration, which neveradmire but they pollute the object of their admiration. " "The king's, Marie?" "The king's. " "And then--?" "And then I have heard it whispered that the Baron de Beaulieu hasasked her hand of the Sieur d'Argenson. " "The Baron de Beaulieu! and who the devil is the Baron de Beaulieu, that the Sieur d'Argenson should doubt for the nine hundredth part ofa minute between him and the Viscount de Douarnez for the husband ofhis daughter?" "The Baron de Beaulieu, count, is the very particular friend, theright hand man, and most private minister of his most ChristianMajesty King Louis the Fifteenth!" "Ha! is it possible? Do you mean that?--" "I mean even _that_. If, by that, you mean all that is most infamousand loathsome on the part of Beaulieu, all that is most licentious onthe part of the king. I believe--nay, I am well nigh sure, that thereis such a scheme of villany on foot against that sweet, unhappy child;and therefore would I pause ere I urged too far my child's love towardher, lest it prove most unhappy and disastrous. " "And do you think d'Argenson capable--" exclaimed her husband-- "Of any thing, " she answered, interrupting him, "of any thing that mayserve his avarice or his ambition. " "Ah! it may be so. I will look to it, Marie; I will look to itnarrowly. But I fear that if it be as you fancy, it is too latealready--that our boy's heart is devoted to her entirely--that anybreak now, in one word, would be a heart-break. " "He loves her very dearly, beyond doubt, " replied the lady; "and shedeserves it all, and is, I think, very fond of him likewise. " "And can you suppose for a moment that she will lend herself to such ascheme of infamy?" "Never. She would die sooner. " "I do not apprehend, then, that there will be so much difficulty asyou seem to fear. This business which brought all of us Bretons up toParis, as claimants of justice for our province, or counters of theking's grace, as they phrase it, is finished happily; and there isnothing to detain any of us in this great wilderness of stone andmortar any longer. D'Argenson told me yesterday that he should set outhomeward on Wednesday next; and it is but hurrying our ownpreparations a little to travel with them in one party. I will see himthis evening and arrange it. " "Have you ever spoken with him concerning the contract, Louis?" "Never, directly, or in the form of a solemn proposal. But we havespoken oftentimes of the evident attachment of the children, and hehas ever expressed himself gratified, and seemed to regard it as amatter of course. But hush, here comes the boy; leave us awhile and Iwill speak with him. " Almost before his words were ended the door was thrown open, and youngRaoul entered, splendidly dressed, with his rapier at his side, andhis plumed hat in his hand, as likely a youth to win a fair maid'sheart as ever wore the weapon of a gentleman. "Martin is absent, sir. He went out soon after breakfast, they tellme, to look after a pair of fine English carriage horses for thecountess my mother, and has not yet returned. I ordered old JeanFrançois to attend me with the four other grooms. " "Very well, Raoul. But look you, your head is young, and your bloodhot. You will meet, it is very like, all this canaille returning fromthe slaughter of poor Kerguelen. Now mark me, boy, there must be novaporing on your part, or interfering with the populace; and even ifthey should, as very probably may, be insolent, and utter outcries andabuse against the nobility, even bear with them. On no account strikeany person, nor let your servants do so, nor encroach upon theirorder, unless, indeed, they should so far forget themselves as tothrow stones, or to strike the first. " "And then, my father?" "Oh, then, Raoul, you are at liberty to let your good sword feel thefresh air, and to give your horse a taste of those fine spurs youwear. But even in that case, I should advise you to use your edgerather than your point. There is not much harm done in wiping a saucyburgher across the face to mend his manners, but to pink him throughthe body makes it an awkward matter. And I need not tell you by nomeans to fire, unless you should be so beset and maltreated that youcannot otherwise extricate yourself--yet you must have your pistolsloaded. In these times it is necessary always to be provided againstall things. I do not, however, tell you these things now because youare likely to be attacked but such events are always possible, and onecannot provide against such too early. " "I will observe what you say, my father. Have I your permission now todepart?" "Not yet, Raoul, I would speak with you first a few words. ThisMademoiselle Melanie is very pretty, is she not?" "She is the most beautiful lady I have ever seen, " replied the youth, not without some embarrassment. "And as amiable and gentle as she is beautiful?" "Oh, yes, indeed, sir. She is all gentleness and sweetness, yet isfull of mirth, too, and graceful merriment. " "In one word, then, she seems to you a very sweet and lovelycreature. " "Doubtless she does, my father. " "And I beseech you tell me, viscount, in what light do you appear inthe eyes of this very admirable young lady?" "Oh, sir!" replied the youth, now very much embarrassed, and blushingactually from shame. "Nay, Raoul, I did not ask the question lightly, I assure you, or inthe least degree as a jest. It becomes very important that I shouldknow on what terms you and this fair lady stand together. You havebeen visiting her now almost daily, I think, during these three monthslast past. Do you conceive that you are very disagreeable to her?" "Oh! I hope not, sir. It would grieve me much if I thought so. " "Well, I am to understand, then, that you think she is not blind toyour merits, sir. " "I am not aware, my dear father, that I have any merits which sheshould be called to observe. " "Oh, yes, viscount! That is an excess of modesty which touches alittle, I am afraid, on hypocrisy. You are not altogether withoutmerits. You are young, not ill-looking, nobly born, and will, in God'sgood time, be rich. Then you can ride well, and dance gracefully, andare not generally ill-educated or unpolished. It is quite asnecessary, my dear son, that a young man should not undervaluehimself, as that he should not think of his deserts too highly. Nowthat you have some merits is certain--for the rest I desire franknessof you just now, and beg that you will speak out plainly. I think youlove this young girl. Is it not so, Raoul?" "I do love, sir, very dearly; with my whole heart and spirit. " "And do you feel sure that this is not a mere transient liking--thatit will last, Raoul?" "So long as life lasts in my heart, so long will my love for her last, my father. " "And you would wish to marry her?" "Beyond all things in this world, my dear father. " "And do you think that, were her tastes and views on the subjectconsulted, she would say likewise?" "I hope she would, sir. But I have never asked her. " "And her father, is he gracious when you meet him?" "Most gracious, sir, and most kind. Indeed, he distinguishes me aboveall the other young gentlemen who visit there. " "You would not then despair of obtaining his consent?" "By no means, my father, if you would be so kind as to ask it. " "And you desire that I should do so?" "You will make me the happiest man in all France, if you will. " "Then go your way, sir, and make the best you can of it with the younglady. I will speak myself with the Sieur d'Argenson to-night; and I donot despair any more than you do, Raoul. But look you, boy, you do notfancy, I hope, that you are going to church with your lady-loveto-morrow or the next day. Two or three years hence, at the earliest, will be all in very good time. You must serve a campaign or two first, in order to show that you know how to use your sword. " "In all things, my dear father, I shall endeavor to fulfill yourwishes, knowing them to be as kindly as they are wise and prudent. Iowe you gratitude for every hour since I was born, but for none somuch as for this, for indeed you are going to make me the happiest ofmen. " "Away with you, then, Sir Happiness! Betake yourself on the wings oflove to your bright lady, and mind the advice of your favorite Horace, to pluck the pleasures of the passing hour, mindful how short is thesum of mortal life. " The young man embraced his father gayly, and left the room with aquick step and a joyous heart; and the jingling of his spurs, and thequick, merry clash of his scabbard on the marble staircase, told howjoyously he descended its steps. A moment afterward his father heard the clear, sonorous tones of hisfine voice calling to his attendants, and yet a few seconds later thelively clatter of his horse's hoofs on the resounding pavement. "Alas! for the happy days of youth, which are so quickly flown, "exclaimed the father, as he participated the hopeful and exulting moodof his noble boy. "And, alas! for the promise of mortal happiness, which is so oft deceitful and a traitress. " He paused for a fewmoments, and seemed to ponder, and then added with a confident andproud expression, "But I see not why one should forebode aught butsuccess and happiness to this noble boy of mine. Thus far, everything has worked toward the end as I would wish it. They have fallenin love naturally and of their own accord, and d'Argenson, whether helike it or no, cannot help himself. He must needs accede, proudly andjoyfully, to my proposal. He knows his estates to be in my power fartoo deeply to resist. Nay, more, though he be somewhat selfish, andambitious, and avaricious, I know nothing of him that should justifyme in believing that he would sell his daughter's honor, even to aking, for wealth or title! My good wife is all too doubtful andsuspicious. But, hark! here comes the mob, returning from thatunfortunate man's execution. I wonder how he bore it. " And with the words he moved toward the window, and throwing it open, stepped out upon the spacious balcony. Here he learned speedily fromthe conversation of the passing crowd, that, although dreadfullyshocked and startled by the first intimation of the death he was toundergo, which he received from the sight of the fatal wheel, the Lordof Kerguelen had died as becomes a proud, brave man, reconciled to thechurch, forgiving his enemies, without a groan or a murmur, under theprotracted agonies of that most horrible of deaths, the breaking onthe wheel. Meanwhile the day passed onward, and when evening came, and the lastand most social meal of the day was laid on the domestic board, youngRaoul had returned from his visit to the lady of his love, full ofhigh hopes and happy anticipations. Afterward, according to hispromise, the Count de St. Renan went forth and held debate until alate hour of the night with the Sieur d'Argenson. Raoul had notretired when he came home, too restless in his youthful ardor even tothink of sleep. His father brought good tidings, the father of thelady had consented, and on their arrival in Britanny the marriagecontract was to be signed in form. That was to Raoul an eventful day; and never did he forget it, or theteachings he drew from it. That day was his fate. [_To be continued_. THE LAND OF THE WEST. BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ. Thou land whose deep forest was wide as the sea, And heaved its broad ocean of green to the day, Or, waked by the tempest, in terrible glee Flung up from its billows the leaves like a spray; The swift birds of passage still spread their fleets there, Where sails the wild vulture, the pirate of air. Thou land whose dark streams, like a hurrying horde Of wilderness steeds without rider or rein, Swept down, owning Nature alone for their lord, Their foam flowing free on the air like a mane:-- Oh grand were thy waters which spurned as they ran The curb of the rock and the fetters of man! Thou land whose bright blossoms, like shells of the sea, Of numberless shapes and of many a shade, Begemmed thy ravines where the hidden springs be, And crowned the black hair of the dark forest maid:-- Those flowers still bloom in the depth of the wild To bind the white brow of the pioneer's child. Thou land whose last hamlets were circled with maize, And lay like a dream in the silence profound, While murmuring its song through the dark woodland ways The stream swept afar through the lone hunting-ground:-- Now loud anvils ring in that wild forest home And mill-wheels are dashing the waters to foam. Thou land where the eagle of Freedom looked down From his eyried crag through the depths of the shade, Or mounted at morn where no daylight can drown The stars on their broad field of azure arrayed:-- Still, still to thy banner that eagle is true, Encircled with stars on a heaven of blue! GOING TO HEAVEN. BY T. S. ARTHUR. Whatever our gifts may be, the love of imparting them for the good ofothers brings HEAVEN into the soul. MRS. CHILD. An old man, with a peaceful countenance, sat in a company of twelvepersons. They were conversing, but he was silent. The theme upon whichthey were discoursing was Heaven; and each one who spoke did so withanimation. "Heaven is a place of rest, " said one--"rest and peace. Oh! what sweetwords! rest and peace. Here, all is labor and disquietude. There weshall have rest and peace. " "And freedom from pain, " said another, whose pale cheeks and sunkeneyes told many a tale of bodily suffering. "No more pain; no moresickness--the aching head will be at rest--the weary limbs findeverlasting repose. " "Sorrow and sighing shall forever flee away, " spoke up a third one ofthe company. "No more grief, no more anguish of spirit. Happy, happychange!" "There, " added a fourth, "the wounded spirit that none can bear ishealed. The reed long bruised and bent by the tempests of life, findsa smiling sky, and a warm, refreshing, and healing sunshine. Oh! howmy soul pants to escape from this world, and, like a bird fleeing tothe mountains, get home again from its dreary exile. " "My heart expands, " said another, "whenever I think of Heaven; and Ilong for the wings of a dove, that I may rise at once from this low, ignorant, groveling state, and bathe my whole soul in the sunlight ofeternal felicity. What joy it will be to cast off this cumbersomeclay; to leave this poor body behind, and spread a free wing upon theheavenly atmosphere. I shall hail with delight the happy moment whichsets me free. " Thus, one after another spoke, and each one regarded Heaven as a stateof happiness into which he was to come after death; but the old manstill sat silent, and his eyes were bent thoughtfully upon the floor. Presently one said, "Our aged friend says nothing. Has he no hope of Heaven? Does he notrejoice with us in the happy prospect of getting there when the silverchord shall be loosened, and the golden bowl broken at the fountain?" The old man, thus addressed, looked around upon his companions. Hisface remained serene, and his eye had a heavenly expression. "Have you not a blessed hope of Heaven? Does not your heart grow warmwith sweet anticipations?" continued the last speaker. "I never think of going to Heaven, " the old man said, in a mild, quiettone. "Never think of going to Heaven!" exclaimed one of the most ardent ofthe company, his voice warming with indignation. "Are you a heathen?" "I am one who is patiently striving to fill my allotted place inlife, " replied the old man, as calmly as before. "And have you no hopes beyond the grave?" asked the last speaker. "If I live right here, all will be right there. " The old man pointedupward. "I have no anxieties about the future--no impatience--noardent longings to pass away and be at rest, as some of you have said. I already enjoy as much of Heaven as I am prepared to enjoy, and thisis all that I can expect throughout eternity. You all, my friends, seem to think that men come into Heaven when they die. You look aheadto death with pleasure, because then you think you will enter thehappy state you anticipate--or rather _place_; for it is clear youregard Heaven as a place full of delights, prepared for those who maybe fitted to become inhabitants thereof. But in this you are mistaken. If you do not enter Heaven before you die, you will never do soafterward. If Heaven be not formed within you, you will never find itout of you--you will never _come into it_. " These remarks offended the company, and they spoke harshly to the oldman, who made no reply, but arose and retired, with a sorrowfulexpression on his face. He went forth and resumed his dailyoccupations, and pursued them diligently. Those who had been assembledwith him, also went forth--one to his farm, another to hismerchandize, each one forgetting all he had thought about Heaven andits felicities, and only anxious to serve natural life and get gain. Heaven was above the world to them, and, therefore, while in theworld, they could only act upon the principle that governed the world;and prepare for Heaven by pious acts on the Sabbath. There was noother way to do, they believed--to attempt to bring religion down intolife would only, in their view, desecrate it, and expose it toridicule and contempt. The old man, to whom allusion has been made, kept a store for the saleof various useful articles; those of the pious company who neededthese articles as commodities of trade, or for their own use, boughtof him, because they believed that he would sell them only what was ofgood quality. One of the most ardent of these came into the old man'sstore one day, holding a small package in his hand; his eye wasrestless, his lip compressed, and he seemed struggling to keep down afeeling of excitement. "Look at that, " he said, speaking with some sternness, as he threw thepackage on the old man's counter. The package was taken up, opened, and examined. "Well?" said the old man, after he had made the examination, lookingup with a steady eye and a calm expression of countenance. "Well? Don't you see what is the matter?" "I see that this article is a damaged one, " was replied. "And yet you sold it to me for good. " The tone in which this was saidimplied a belief that there had been an intention of wrong. A flush warmed the pale cheek of the old man at this remark. Heexamined the sample before him more carefully, and then opened abarrel of the same commodity and compared its contents with thesample. They agreed. The sample from which he had bought and by whichhe had sold was next examined--this was in good condition and of thebest quality. "Are you satisfied?" asked the visitor with an air of triumph. "Of what?" the old man asked. "That you sold me a bad article for a good one. " "Intentionally?" "You are the best judge. That lies with God and your own conscience. " "Be kind enough to return every barrel you purchased of me, and getyour money. " There was a rebuke in the way this was said, which was keenly felt. Aneffort was made to soften the aspersion tacitly cast upon the oldman's integrity, but it was received without notice. In due time the damaged article was brought back, and the money whichhad been paid for it returned. "You will not lose, I hope?" said the merchant, with affectedsympathy. "I shall lose what I paid for the article. " "Why not return it, as I have done?" "The man from whom _I_ purchased is neither honest nor responsible, asI have recently learned. He left the city last week in no verycreditable manner, and no one expects to see him back again. " "That is hard; but I really don't think you ought to lose. " "The article is not merchantable. Loss is, therefore, inevitable. " "You can, of course, sell at some price. " "Would it be right to sell, at any price, an article known to beuseless--nay, worse than useless, positively injurious to any one whomight use it?" "If any one should see proper to buy from you the whole lot, knowingthat it was injured, you would certainly sell. For instance, if I wereto offer you two cents a pound for what I bought from you at sixcents, would you not take me at my offer?" "Will you buy at that price?" "Yes. I will give you two cents. " "What would you do with it?" "Sell it again. What did you suppose I would do with it? Throw it inthe street?" "To whom would you sell?" "I'd find a purchaser. " "At an advance?" "A trifle. " The inquiries of the old man created a suspicion that he wished toknow who was to be the second purchaser, in order that he might go tohim and get a better price than was offered. This was the cause of thebrief answers given to his questions. He clearly comprehended what waspassing in the other's mind, but took no notice of it. "For what purpose would the individual who purchased from you buy?" hepursued. "To sell again. " "At a further advance, of course?" "Certainly. " "And to some one, in all probability, who would be deceived intopurchasing a worthless article. " "As likely as not; but with that I have no concern. I sell it for whatit is, and ask only what it is worth. " "Is it worth anything?" "Why--yes--I can't say--no. " The first words were uttered withhesitation; the last one with a decided emphasis. "But then it has amarket value, as every article has. " "I cannot sell it to you, my friend, " said the old man firmly. "Why not?" I am sure you can't do better. " "I am not willing to become a party in wronging my neighbors. That isthe reason. The article has no real value, and it would be wrong forme to take even a farthing per pound for it. You might sell it at anadvance, and the purchaser from you at a still further advance, butsome one would be cheated in the end, for the article never could beused. " "But the loss would be divided. It isn't right that one man shouldbear all. In the end it would be distributed amongst a good many, andthe loss fall lightly upon each. " The good old man shook his head. "My friend, " he said, laying his handgently upon his arm--"Not very long since I heard you indulging themost ardent anticipations of Heaven. You expected to get there one ofthese days. Is it by acts of over-reaching your neighbor that youexpect to merit Heaven? Will becoming a party to wrong make you morefitted for the company of angels who seek the good of others, and loveothers more than themselves? I fear you are deceiving yourself. Allwho come into Heaven love God: and I would ask with one of theapostles, 'If a man love not his brother whom he hath seen, how can helove God whom he hath not seen?' You have much yet to learn, myfriend. Of that true religion by which Heaven is formed in man, youhave not yet learned the bare rudiments. " There was a calm earnestness in the manner of the old man, and animpressiveness in the tone of his voice, that completely subdued hisauditor. He felt rebuked and humbled, and went away more serious thanhe had come. But though serious, his mind was not free from anger, hisself-love had been too deeply wounded. After he had gone away, the property about which so much had beensaid, was taken and destroyed as privately as it could be done. Thefact, however, could not be concealed. A friend of a different orderfrom the pious one last introduced, inquired of the old man why he haddone this. His answer was as follows: "No man should live for himself alone. Each one should regard thecommon good, and act with a view to the common good. If all were to doso, you can easily see that we should have Heaven upon earth, fromwhence, alas! it has been almost entirely banished. Our variousemployments are means whereby we can serve others--our own good beinga natural consequence. If the merchant sent out his ships to distantparts to obtain the useful commodities of other countries, in order tobenefit his fellow citizens, do you not see that he would be farhappier when his ships came in laden with rich produce, than if he hadsought only gain for himself? And do you not also see that he wouldobtain for himself equal, if not greater advantages. If the builderhad in view the comfort and convenience of his neighbors whileerecting a house, instead of regarding only the money he was toreceive for his work, he would not only perform that work morefaithfully, and add to the common stock of happiness, but would lay upfor himself a source of perennial satisfaction. He would not, afterreceiving the reward of his labor in a just return of this world'sgoods, lose all interest in the result of that labor; but would, instead, have a feeling of deep interior pleasure whenever he lookedat a human habitation erected by his hands, arising from aconsciousness that his skill had enabled him to add to the commongood. The tillers of the soil, the manufacturers of its products intouseful articles, the artisans of every class, the literary andprofessional man, all would, if moved by a regard for the welfare ofthe whole social body, not only act more efficiently in theircallings, but would derive therefrom a delight now unimagined exceptby a very few. Believing thus, I could not be so blind as not to seethat the only right course for me to pursue was to destroy a worthlessand injurious commodity, rather than sell it at any price to one whowould, for gain, either himself defraud his neighbor, or aid anotherin doing it. The article was not only useless, it was worse thanuseless. How, then, could I, with a clear conscience sell it? No--no, my friend. I am not afraid of poverty; I am not afraid of any worldlyill--but I am afraid of doing wrong to my neighbors; or of putting itin the power of any one else to do wrong. As I have said before, ifevery man were to look to the good of the whole, instead of turningall his thoughts in upon himself, his own interests would be betterserved and he would be far happier. " "That is a beautiful theory, " remarked the friend, "but never can berealized in actual life. Men are too selfish. They would find nopleasure in contemplating the enjoyments of others, but would, rather, be envious of others' good. The merchant, so little does he care forthe common welfare, that unless he receives the gain of hisadventures, he will let his goods perish in his ware-house--todistribute them, even to the suffering, would not make him happier. And so with the product of labor in all the various grades ofsociety. Men turn their eyes inward upon the little world of self, instead of outward upon the great social world. Few, if any, understand that they are parts of a whole, and that any disease in anyother part of that whole, must affect the whole, and consequentlythemselves. Were this thoroughly understood, even selfishness wouldlead men to act less selfishly. We should indeed have Heaven uponearth if your pure theories could be brought out into actual life. " "Heaven will be found nowhere else by man, " was replied to this. "What!" said the friend, in surprise. "Do you mean to say that thereis no Heaven for the good who bravely battle with evil in this life?Is all the reward of the righteous to be in this world?" One of the pious company, at first introduced, came up at this moment, and hearing the last remark, comprehended, to some extent, itsmeaning. He was one who hoped, from pious acts of prayer, fastings, and attendance upon all the ordinances of the church, to get to Heavenat last. In the ordinary pursuits of life he was eager for gain, andmen of the world dealt warily with him--they had reason; for heseparated his religious from his business life. "A most impious doctrine, " he said, with indignant warmth. "Heavenupon earth! A man had better give all his passions the range, andfreely enjoy the world, if there is to be no hereafter. Pain, andsorrow, and self-denial make a poor kind of Heaven, and these are allthe Christian man meets here. Far better to live while we do live, sayI, if our Heaven is to be here. " "What makes Heaven, my friend?" calmly asked the old man. "Happiness. Freedom from care, and pain, and sorrow, and all the illsof this wretched life--to live in the presence of God and sing hispraises forever--to make one of the blessed company who, with thefour-and-twenty elders forever bow before the throne of God and theLamb--to have rest, and peace, and unspeakable felicity forever. " "How do you expect to get into Heaven? How do you expect to unlock thegolden gates of the New Jerusalem?" pursued the old man. "By faith, " was the prompt reply. "Faith unlocks these gates. " The old man shook his head, and turning to the individual with whom hehad first been conversing, remarked-- "You asked me if I meant to say that there was no Heaven for the goodwho bravely battle with evil in this life? If all the reward of therighteous was to be in this world? God forbid! For then would I be ofall men most miserable. What I said was, that Heaven would be _found_no where else but in this world, by man. Heaven must be entered intohere, or it never can be entered into when men die. " "You speak in a strange language, " said the individual who had joinedthem, in a sneering tone. "No one can understand what you mean. Certainly I do not. " "I should not think you did, " quietly replied the old man. "But Iwill explain my meaning more fully--perhaps you will be able tocomprehend something of what I say. Men talk a great deal aboutHeaven, but few understand what it means. All admit that in this lifethey must prepare for Heaven; but nearly all seem to think that thispreparation consists in the _doing_ of something as a means by whichthey will be entitled to enter Heaven after death, when there will bea sudden and wonderful change in all their feelings and perceptions. " "And is not that true?" asked the one who had previously spoken. "I do not believe that it is, in the commonly understood sense. " "And pray what do you believe?" "I believe that all in heavenly societies are engaged in doing good, and that heavenly delight is the delight which springs from agratified love of benefiting others. And I also believe, that thebeginning of Heaven with every one is on this earth, and takes placewhen he first makes the effort to renounce self and seek from a truedesire to benefit them, the good of others. If this coming intoHeaven, as I call it, does not take place here, it can never takeplace, for '_As the tree falls so it lies_. ' Whatever is a man'sinternal quality when he dies that it must remain forever. If he havebeen a lover of self, and sought only his own good, he will remain alover of self in the next life. But, if he have put away self-lovefrom his heart and shunned the evils to which it would prompt him, assins, then he comes into Heaven while still upon earth, and when helays aside his mortal body, his heavenly life is continued. Thus youcan see, that if a man do not find Heaven while in this world, he willnever find it in the next. He must come into heavenly affections here, or he will never feel their warmth hereafter. Hundreds and thousandslive on from day to day, thinking only of themselves, and caring onlyfor themselves, who insanely cherish the hope that they shall get intoHeaven at last. Some of these are church-going people, and partakersof its ordinances; while others expect, some time before they die, tobecome pious, and thus, by a 'saving faith, ' secure an entrance intoHeaven. Their chances of finding Heaven, at last, are about equal. Andif they should be permitted to come into a heavenly society they wouldsoon seek to escape from it. Where all were unselfish, how could onewho was utterly selfish dwell? Where all sought the good of others, how could one who cared simply for his own good, remain and be happy?It could not be. If you wish to enter Heaven, my friend, you mustbring heavenly life into your daily occupations. " "How can that be? Religion is too tender a plant for the world. " "Your error is a common one, " replied the old man, "and arises fromthe fact that you do not know what religion is. Mere piety is notreligion. There is a life of charity as well as a life of piety, andthe latter without the former is like sounding brass and tinklingcymbal. " "All know that, " was replied. "All profess to know it, but all do not know what is meant bycharity. " "It is love. That every Christian man admits. " "It is love for the neighbor in activity; not a mere idle emotion ofthe heart. Now, how can a man best promote the good of hisneighbor?--love, you know, always seeks the good of its object; in noway, it is clear, so well as by faithfully and diligently performingthe duties of his office, no matter what it may be. If a judge, lethim administer justice with equity and from a conscientious principle;if a physician, a lawyer, a soldier, a merchant, or an artisan, lethim with all diligence do the works that his hands find to do, notmerely for gain, but because it is his duty to serve the public goodin that calling by which he can most efficiently do it. If he act fromthis high motive, from this religious principle, all that he does willbe well and faithfully done. No wrong to his neighbor can result fromhis act. True charity is not that feeling which prompts merely to thebestowment of worldly goods for the benefit of others--in fact, truecharity has very little to do with alms-giving and publicbenefactions. It is not a mere 'love for the brethren' only, as manyreligious denominations think, but it is a love that embraces allmankind, and regards good as its brother wherever and in whomever itis seen. " "That every one admits. " "Admission and practice, my friend, are not always found walking inthe same path. But I am not at all sure that every one admits thatcharity consists in a man's performing his daily uses in life withjustice and judgment. By most minds charity, as well as religion, isviewed as separate from the ordinary business of man; while the truthis, there can be neither religion nor charity apart from a man'sbusiness life. If he be not charitable and religious here, he hasneither charity nor religion; if he love not his neighbor whom he hathseen; if he do not deal justly and conscientiously with his neighborwhom he hath seen, how can he love God, or act justly andconscientiously toward God whom he hath not seen? How blind andfoolish is more than half of mankind on this subject! They seem tothink, that if they only read the Bible and attend to the ordinancesof the church, and lead very pious lives on the Sabbath, that thisservice will be acceptable to God, and save them; while, at the sametime, in their business pursuits, they seek to gain this world's goodsso eagerly, that they trample heedlessly upon the rights and interestsof all around them; in fact, act from the most selfish, and, consequently, infernal principles. You call R---- a very pious man, doyou not?" "I believe him to be so. We are members of the same church, and I seea good deal of him. He is superintendent of our Sabbath-school, and isactive in all the various secular uses of the church. " "Do you know any thing of his business life?" "No. " "I do. Men of the world call him a shark, so eager is he for gain. Hewill not steal, nor commit murder, nor break any one of thecommandments so far as the laws of the state recognize these divinelaws to be laws of common society. But, in his heart, and in act, sofar as the law cannot reach him, he violates them daily. He willoverreach you in a bargain, and think it all right. If your businesscomes in contact with his, he will use every means in his power tobreak you down, even to the extent of secretly attacking your credit. He will lend his money on usury, and when he has none to lend, willplay the jackal to some money-lion, and get a large share of the spoilfor himself. And further, if you differ in faith from him, in hisheart will send you to hell with as much pleasure as he would derivefrom cheating you out of a dollar. " "You are too severe on R----. I cannot believe him to be what yousay. " "A man's reputation among business men gives the true impression ofhis character, for, in business, the eagerness with which men seektheir ends causes them to forget their disguises. Go and ask any manwho knows R---- in business, and he will tell you that he is asharper. That if you have any dealings with him you must keep youreyes open. I could point you to dozens of men who are as pious as heis on the Sabbath, who, in their ordinary life are no better thanswindlers. The Christian religion is disgraced by thousands of such, who are far worse than those who never saw the inside of a church. " "I am afraid that you, in the warmth of your indignation against falseprofessors, are led into the extreme of setting aside all religion; orof making it to consist alone in mere honesty and integrity ofcharacter--your moral man is all; it is morality that opens Heaven. Now mere morality, mere good works, are worth nothing, and cannotbring a man into Heaven. " "There is a life of piety, and a life of charity, my friend, as I havebefore said, " replied the old man, "and they cannot be separated. Thelife of charity regards man, and the life of piety God. A man'sprayers, and fastings, and pious duties on the Sabbath are nothing, iflove to the neighbor, showing itself in a faithful performance of alllife's varied uses that come within his sphere of action, is notoperative through the week, vain hopes are all those which are builtupon so crumbling a foundation as the mere life of piety. Morality, as you call it, built upon man's pride, is of little use, butmorality, which is based upon a sincere desire to do good, is worth athousand prayers from the lips of a man who inwardly hates hisneighbor. " "Then I understand you to mean that religious, or pious duties areuseless"--was remarked with a good deal of bitterness. "I said, " was mildly returned, "that the life of piety and the life ofcharity could not be separated. If a man truly loves his neighbor andseeks his good, he will come into heavenly states of mind, and willhave his heart elevated, and from a consciousness that every good andperfect gift comes from God, worship him in a thankful spirit. Hislife of piety will make one with his life of charity. The Sabbath tohim will be a day of true, not forced, spiritual life. He will restfrom all natural labors, and gain strength from that rest torecommence those labors in a true spirit. " Much more was said, that need not be repeated here. The closingremarks of the old man were full of truth. It will do any one good toremember them: "Our life is twofold. We have a natural life and a spiritual life, " hesaid. "Our natural life delights in external things, and our spirituallife in things internal. The first regards the things of time andsense, the latter involves states and qualities of the soul. Heaven isa state of mutual love from a desire to benefit others, and wheneverman's spiritual life corresponds with the life of Heaven, he is inHeaven so far as his spirit is concerned, notwithstanding his bodystill remains upon the earth. His heavenly life begins here, and isperfected after death. If, therefore, a man does not enter Heavenhere, he cannot enter it when he dies. His state of probation isclosed, and he goes to the place for which he is prepared. The meanswhereby man enters Heaven here, are very simple. He need only shun assin every thing that would in any way injure his neighbors, eithernaturally or spiritually, and look above for the power to do this. This will effect an entrance through the straight gate. After that, the way will be plain before him, and he will walk in it with a dailyincreasing delight. " TO LYDIA--WITH A WATCH. BY G. G. FOSTER. So well has time kept you, my love, Unfaded in your prime, That you would most ungrateful prove, If you did not keep time. Then let this busy monitor Remind you how the hours Steal, brook-like, over golden sands, Whose banks love gems with flowers. And when the weary day grows dark, And skies are overcast, Watch well this token--it will bring The morning true and fast. This little diamond-fooled sprite, How soft he glides along! How quaint, yet merry, singeth he His never-ending song! So smoothly pass thine hours and years, So calmly beat thy heart-- While both our souls, in concert tuned, Nor hope nor dream apart! A NIGHT ON THE ICE. BY SOLITAIRE. A love for amusement is one of those national peculiarities of theFrench people which neither time nor situation will ever eradicate, for, be their lot cast where it may, amid the brilliant _salons_ ofParis, or on the outskirts of civilization on the western continent, they will set apart seasons for innocent mirth, in which they enterinto its spirit with a joyousness totally devoid of calculation or ofcare. I love this trait in their character, because, perhaps, my ownspirits incline to the volatile. I like not that puritanical coldnessof intercourse which acts upon men as the winter winds do upon thesurface of the mountain streams, freezing them into immovablepropriety; and less do I delight in that festivity where calculationseems to wait on merriment. Joy at such a board can never rise toblood heat, for the jingle in the mind of cent. Per cent. , which risesabove the constrained mirth of the assembly, will hold the guests soanchored to the consideration of profit and loss, that in vain theyspread a free sail--the tide of gayety refuses to float their barksfrom the shoal beside which they are moored. In their seasons ofgayety the French are philosophers, for while they imbibe the mirththey discard the wassail, and wine instead of being the body of theirfeasts, as with other nations, it is but the spice used to add aflavor to the whole. I know not that these remarks of mine have aughtto do with my story, but I throw them out by way of a prelude to--somewill say excuse for--what may follow. In the winter of 1830 it was my good fortune to be the guest of an oldFrench resident upon the north-western frontier, and while enjoyinghis hospitality I had many opportunities of mingling with the_habitans_ of Detroit, a town well known as one of the early Frenchsettlements on the American continent. At the period of which I write, the stranger met a warm welcome in the habitation of the simpleresidents--time, progress and speculation, I am told, have somewhatmarred those friendly feelings. The greedy adventurer, by making hispassport to their hospitality a means of profit, has planted distrustin their bosoms, and the fire of friendship no longer flashes up atthe sound of an American's voice beneath their roof. To the allabsorbing spirit of Mammon be ascribed the evil change. While residing with my friend Morell, I received many invitations tojoin sleighing parties upon the ice, which generally terminated on thefloor of some old settler's dwelling upon the borders of the Detroit, Rouge, or Ecorse rivers; where, after a merry jaunt over the frozenriver, we kept the blood in circulation by participating in thepleasures of the dance. At one of these parties upon the Rouge Iformed two very interesting acquaintances, one of them a beautifulgirl named Estelle Beaubien, the other, Victor Druissel. Estelle wasone of those dark-eyed lively brunettes formed by nature for thecreation of flutterings about the hearts of the sterner sex. She wasfull of naive mischief, and coquetry, and having been petted intoimperial sway by the flattery of her courtiers, she punished them bywielding her sceptre with autocratic despotism--tremble, heart, thatowned her sway yet dared disobey her behests! In the dance she was thenimblest, in mirth the most gleeful, and in beauty peerless. VictorDruissel was a tall, dark haired young man, of powerful frame, intelligent countenance, quiet easy manners, and possessed of a bold, dark eye, through which the quick movings of his impassioned naturewere much sooner learned than through his words. He appeared to bedevoid of fear, and in either expeditions of pleasure or daring, witha calmness almost unnatural he led the way. He loved Estelle with allthat fervor so inherent in men of his peculiar temperament, and whenothers fluttered around her, seemingly winning lasting favor in hereyes, he would vainly try to hide the jealousy of his nature. When morning came Druissel insisted that I should take a seat in hiscutter, as he had come alone. He would rather have taken Estelle ashis companion to the city, but her careful aunt, who alwaysaccompanied her, would not trust herself behind the heels of theprancing pair of bays harnessed to Victor's sliding chariot. Thesleighs were at length filled with their merry passengers, and mycompanion shouting _allons!_ led the cavalcade. We swept over thechained tide like the wind, our horses' hoofs beating time to themerry music of their bells, and our laughter ringing out on the clear, cold air, free and unrestrained as the thoughts of youth. "I like this, " said Victor, as he leaned back and nestled in the furryrobes around us. "This is fun in the old-fashioned way; innocent, unconstrained, and full of real enjoyment. A fashionable ball is allwell enough in its way, but give me a dance where there is noformality continually reminding me of my 'white kids, ' or where myequanimity is never disturbed by missing a figure; there old Timeseldom croaks while he lingers, for the heart merriment makes himforget his mission. " On dashed our steeds over the glassy surface of the river, and soonthe company we had started with was left far behind. We in due timereached Detroit, and as I leaped from the sleigh at the door of myfriend's residence, Victor observed: "To-morrow night we are invited to a party at my uncle Yesson's, atthe foot of Lake St. Clair, and if you will accept a seat with me, Ishall with pleasure be your courier. I promise you a night of rareenjoyment. " "You promise then, " said I, "that Estelle Beaubien will be there. " He looked calmly at me for a moment. "What, another rival?" he exclaimed. "Now, by the mass one would thinkEstelle was the only fair maiden on the whole frontier. Out of pityfor the rest of her sex I shall have to bind her suddenly in the bondsof Hymen, for while she is free the young men will sigh after no otherbeauty, and other maids must pine in neglect. " "You flatter yourself, " said I. "Give me but a chance, and I willwhisper a lay of love in the fair beauty's ear that will obliteratethe image you have been engraving on her heart. She has listened toyou, no other splendid fellow being by, but when I enter the listslook well to your seat in her affections, for I am no timid knightwhen a fair hand or smile is to be won. " "Come on, " cried he, laughing, "I scorn to break lance with any otherknight. The lists shall be free to you, the fair Estelle shall be theprize, and I dare you to a tilt at Cupid's tourney. " With this challenge he departed, and as his yet unwearied steeds borehim away, I could hear his laugh of conscious triumph mingling withthe music of his horses' bells. After a troubled sleep that day, I awoke to a consciousness ofsuffering. I had lost my appetite, was troubled with vertigo, andobstructed breathing, which were sure indications that the suddenchange from heated rooms to the clear, cold air, sweeping over theice-bound river, had given me a severe influenza. My promise of a tiltwith Victor, or participation in further festivity, appearedabrogated, for a time at least. I kept my bed during the day, and atnight applied the usual restoratives. Sleep visited my pillow, but itwas of that unrefreshing character which follows disease. I tossedupon my couch in troubled dreams, amid which I fancied myself a knightof the olden time, fighting in the lists for a wreath or glove from atourney queen. In the contest I was conscious of being overthrown, andraised myself up from the inglorious earth upon which I had beenrolled, a bruised knight from head to heel. When I awoke in themorning the soreness of every joint made me half think, for a moment, that I had suffered some injury while in sleeping unconsciousness;but, waking recollection assigned a natural cause, and I bowed myfevered head to the punishment of my imprudence. An old and dignifiedphysician was summoned to my bed-side, who felt my pulse, orderedconfinement to my room, and the swallowing of a horrible lookingpotion, which nearly filled a common-sized tumbler. A few days care, he said, would restore me, and with his own hands he mixed my dose, placed it beside me upon a table, and departed. I venerate a kind andskillful physician; but, like all the rest of the human family, hisnauseous doses I abhor. I looked at the one before me until, inimagination, I tasted its ingredients. In my fevered vision the vesselgrew into a monster goblet, and soon after it assumed the shape of ahuge glass tun. Methought I commenced swallowing, fearful that if Ilonger hesitated it would grow more vast, and then it seemed as if thedose would never be exhausted, and that my body would not contain thewhole of the dreadful compound. I dropped off again from thishalf-dreamy state into the oblivion of deep sleep, and remainedunconscious of every thing until awoke in the evening by the chimingof bells beneath my window. I had scarcely changed my position beforeVictor, wrapped in his fur-lined coat, walked into my room. "Why, my dear fellow, " cried he, on seeing me nestled beneath thecover, with a towel round my head by way of a night-cap, "what is allthis? Nothing serious, I hope?" "Oh no, " answered I, "only sore bones, and an embargo on therespiratory organs. That mixture"--calling his attention to thetumbler--"will no doubt set all right again. " "_Pah!_" he exclaimed, twisting his face as if he had tasted it, "Ihope you don't resort to such restoratives. " "So goes the doctor's orders, " said I. "Oh, a pest on his drugs, " says Victor. "Why didn't you call me in?I'm worth a dozen _regular_ practitioners in such cases, especiallywhere I am the patient. Come, up and dress, and while you are about itI will empty this potion out of the window, we will then take a seatbehind the 'tinklers, ' and before the night is over, I will put youthrough a course of exercise which has won more practice among theyoung than ever the wisest practitioner has been able to obtain forhis most skillfully concocted healing draughts. " "I can't, positively, Victor, " said I. "It would cost me my life. " "Then I will lend you one of mine, without interest, " said he. "Alongyou must go, any how, so up at once. Think, my dear boy, of the beautygathering now in the old mansion at the foot of Lake St. Clair. " "Think, " said I, "of my sore bones. " "And then, " he continued, unmindful of my remark, "think of the dashalong the ice, the moon lighting your pathway, while a cluster ofstar-bright eyes wait to welcome your coming. " "Oh, _nonsense_" said I, "and by that I mean _your_ romance. Ifthrough my imprudence I should have the star of my existence quenched, the lustre of those eyes would fail in any effort to light me upagain, and that is a matter worth consideration. " Even while I talked to him I felt my health rapidly improving. "What would the doctor say, Victor, " inquired I, "if he came here and_found me out_? Nothing would convince him that it wasn't a hoax, shamelessly played off upon his old age, and he would never forgiveme. " "Not so, " says Victor, "you can take my prescription without hisknowing it, and it is as follows: First and foremost, toss hismedicine out of the window, visit uncle's with me and dance untilmorning, get back by daylight, go to bed and take a nap before hecomes, and take my word for it he will pronounce your improved statethe effect of _his_ medicine. " "It would be madness, and I cannot think of it, " replied I, halfdisposed at the same time to yield. "Then I pronounce you no true knight, " said he, "I will report toEstelle the challenge that passed between us, and be sure she will setyou down in her memory as a _timid gentleman_!" "Oh, stop, " said I, "and I will save you that sneer. I know that outof pure dread of my power you wish to kill me off; but I will go, nevertheless, if it is to death, in the performance of my duty. " "What _duty_ do you speak of, " inquired he. "Taking the conceit out of a coxcomb, " said I. "Bravo!" he shouted, "your blood is already in circulation, and thereare hopes of you. I will now look to the horses. " Indulging in a quietlaugh at his success, he descended the staircase. It was a work of some labor to perform the toilet for my journey, butat length Dr. B. 's patient, well muffled up, placed himself beneath aload of buffalo robes, and reversing the doctor's orders, which wereperemptory to keep quiet, he was going like mad, in the teeth of astrong breeze, over the surface of Detroit river. The moon was yet an hour high above the dark forest line of theAmerican shore, and light fleecy clouds were chasing each other acrossher bright disc, dimming her rays occasionally, but not enough to maketraveling doubtful. A south wind swept down from the lake, along thebright line of the river, but it was not the balmy breeze whichsouthern poets breathe of in their songs. True it had not the piercingpower of the northern blast, but in passing over those frozen regionsit had encountered its adversary and been chilled by his embrace. Itwas the first breath of spring combating with the strongly postedforces of old winter, and as they mingled, the mind could easilyimagine it heard the roar of elemental strife. Now the south windwould sound like the murmur of a myriad of voices, as it rustled androared through the dark woods lining the shore, and then it would pipeafar off as if a reserve were advancing to aid in holding the groundalready occupied; anon the echo of a force would be heard close in bythe bluff bordering the stream, and in a moment more, it was sweepingwith all its strength and pride of power down the broad surface of theglittering ice, as if the rightfulness of its invasion scornedresistance. Sullen old winter with his frosty beard and snow-wreathedbrow, sat with calm firmness at his post, sternly resolved to yieldonly when his power _melted_ before the advancing tide of the enemy. "Our sport on the ice is nearly at an end, " remarked Victor. "Thissouth wind, if it continues a few days, will set our present pathwayafloat. Go along!" he shouted, excitedly, to his horses, following theexclamation by the lash of his whip. They dashed ahead with the speedof lightning, while the ice cracked in a frightful manner beneath therunners of our sleigh for several rods. I held my breath withapprehension, but soon we were speeding along as before. "That was nigh being a cold bath, " quietly observed Victor. "What do you mean?" inquired I. "Did you not see the air-hole we just passed?" he inquired in turn. "It was at least ten yards long, and we came within six inches ofbeing emptied into it before I noticed the opening. " I could feel my pores open--moisture was quickly forced to the surfaceof my skin at this announcement, and I inwardly breathed a prayer ofthanks for our escape. But a short time elapsed ere the hospitable mansion of Victor's uncleappeared in sight, with lights dancing from every window, and our goodsteeds, like couriers of the air, scudded over the polished surfacetoward these pleasant beacons. We were soon able to descry formsflitting before the window, and as we turned up the road leading fromthe lake to the dwelling, Victor whispered-- "I recognize the person of Estelle standing by yonder window, rememberour challenge. " "I shall not forget it, " said I, as we drew up before the portal. Consigning our panting steeds to two negro boys, and divestingourselves of extra covering, we were soon mingling in the "merriecompanie. " Estelle was there in all her beauty, her dark eyes beamingmischief, her graceful actions inviting attention, and her merry laughinfecting all with its gleeful cadences. Victor was deep in the toils, and willingly he yielded to the bondage of the gay coquette. Now shesmiled winningly upon him, and again laughed at his tender speeches. He besought her to dance with him, and she refused, but with such anartless grace, such witching good humor, and playful cruelty, that hecould not feel offended. I addressed her and she turned away from him. I had not presumption enough to suppose I could win a maiden's heartwhere he was my rival, but I thought that, aided by the coquetry ofEstelle, I could help to torture the victim--and I set about it; nay, further, I confess that as she leaned her little ear, which peeped outfrom a cluster of dark curls, toward my flattering whisper, I fanciedthat she inclined it with pleasure; but, then, the next moment myhopes were dissipated, for she as fondly smiled on my rival. A flourish of the music, and with one accord the company moved forwardto the dance. Estelle consented to be my partner. Victor was not leftalone, but his companion in the set might as well have been, for shefrequently had to call his attention to herself and the figure--hiseye was continually wandering truant to the next set, where he was onemoment scanning with a lover's jealousy a rival's enjoyment, and thenext gazing with wrapt admiration upon the beautiful figure andgraceful movements of his mistress. The set was ended, and the secondbegun--Victor being too slow in his request for her hand, she yieldedit to another eager admirer. The third set soon followed, andlaughingly she again took my arm. The fourth, and she was dancing witha stranger guest. As she wound through the mazes of the dance, archingher graceful neck with a proud motion, her eye, maliciously sportive, watched the workings of jealousy which clouded Victor's brow. He didnot solicit her hand again, but stood with fixed eye and swellingthroat, looking out upon the lake. I rallied him upon his moodiness, and told him he did not bear defeat with philosophy. "Your dancing, " said he, "would win the admiration of an angel;" andhis lip curled with a slight sneer. I did not feel flattered much, that he attributed my success to my_heels_ instead of my _head_, and I carelessly remarked that perhapshe felt inclined to test my superior powers in some other method. Helooked at me firmly for a moment, his large, dark eye blazing, andthen burst into a laugh. "Yes, " said he, "I should like to try a waltz with you upon the icysurface of the lake. " "Come on, " said I, thoughtlessly, "any adventure that will cure you ofconceit--you know that is my purpose here to-night. " Laughing at the remark, he led the way from the ball-room. I observedby Victor's eye and pale countenance, that he was chagrined atEstelle's treatment, and thought he was making an excuse to get out inthe night air to cool his fevered passions. "See, " he said, when he descended, "there burns the torch of theIndian fishermen, far out on the lake--they are spearingsalmon-trout--we will go see the sport. "[2] I looked out in the direction he indicated, and far away upon itsglassy surface glimmered a single light, throwing its feeble ray in abright line along the ice. The moon was down, and the broad expansebefore us was wrapped in darkness, save this taper which shone throughthe clear, cold atmosphere. "You are surely mad, " said I, "to think of such an attempt. " "If the bare thought fills you with _fear_, " he answered, "I have nodesire for your company. The _dance_ within, I see, is more to yourmind. " Without regarding his sneer, I remarked that if he was disposed toplay the madman, I was not afraid to become his keeper, it matterednot how far the fit took him. "Come on, then, " said he; and we started on our mad jaunt. "Sam, have you a couple of saplings?" inquired Victor of the eldestnegro boy. "Yes, massa Victor, I got dem ar fixins; but what de lor you gemmenwant wid such tings at de ball?" "It is too hot in the ball-room, " answered Victor; "myself and friend, therefore, wish to try a waltz on the ice. " "Yah, yah, h-e-a-h!" shouted the negro, wonderfully tickled at thenovelty of the idea, "well, dat is a high kick, please goodness--guessyou can't git any ob de ladies to try dat shine wid you, _h-e-a-h_!" "We shall not _invite_ them, " said Victor, through his teeth. "Well, dar is de poles, massa, " said the negro, handing him a coupleof saplings about twelve feet long. "You better hab a lantern wid you, too, else you can't see dat dance berry well. " "A good thought, " said Victor; "give us the lantern. " [Footnote 2: The Indians cut holes in the ice, and holding a torchover the opening, spear the salmon-trout which are attracted to thesurface by the blaze. ] It was procured, lighted, and together we descended the steep bluff tothe lake's brink. He paused for a moment to listen--revelry soundedclearly out upon the air of night, nimble feet were treading gayly tothe strains of sweet music, and high above both, yet mingling withthem, was heard the merry laughter of the joyous guests. Ah, Victor, thought I, trout are not the only fish captured by brilliant lights;there is a pair dancing above, yonder, which even now is driving youto madness. I shrunk from the folly we were about to perpetrate, yethad not courage enough to dare my companion's sneer, and turn boldlyback; vainly hoping he would soon tire of the exploit I followed on. Running one pole through the ring of our lantern, and placingourselves at each end, we took up our line of march for the lightahead. Victor seizing the end of the other sapling slid it before himto feel our way. At times the beacon would blaze up as if but anhundred yards ahead, and again it would sink to a spark, far away inthe distance. The night wind was now sweeping down the lake in atornado, sighing and laboring in its course as if pregnant withevil--afar off, at one moment, heard in a low whistle, and anonrushing around us like an army of invisible spirits, bearing us alongwith the whirl of their advance, and yelling a fearful war-cry in ourears. The beacon-light still beckoned us on. My companion, as ifrejoicing in the fury of the tempest which roared around us, burstinto a derisive laugh. "Thunder would be fit music, now, " said he, "for this pleasant littleparty"--and the words were scarcely uttered, ere a sound of distantthunder appeared to shake the frozen surface of the lake. The pole hewas sliding before him, and of which he held but a careless grip, fellfrom his hands. He stooped to pick it up, but it was gone; and holdingup our lantern to look for it, we beheld before us a wide opening inthe ice, where the dark tide was ruffled into mimic waves by thebreeze. Our sapling was floating upon its surface. "This way, " said Victor, bent in his spirit of folly to fulfill hispurpose, and skirting the yawning pool, where the cold tide rolledmany fathoms deep, we held on our way. We thus progressed nearly twomiles, and yet the _ignus fatuus_ which tempted us upon the madjourney shone as distant as ever. Our own feeble light but served toshow, indistinctly, the dangers with which we were surrounded. I wasyoung, and loved life; nay, I was even about to plead in favor ofturning toward the shore that I might preserve it, when my companion, his eye burning with excitement, turned toward me, and raising his endof the sapling until the light of the lantern fell upon my face, remarked, "You are pale--I am sorry I frightened you thus, we will return. " With a reckless pride that would not own my fears, even though deathhung on my footsteps, I answered with a scornful laugh, "Your own fears, and not mine, counsel you to such a proceeding. " "Say you so, " says he, "then we will hold on until we cross thelake;" and with a shout he pressed forward; bending my head to theblast, I followed. I had often heard of the suddenness with which Lake St. Clair cast offits winter covering, when visited by a southern breeze; and whetherthe heat of my excitement, or an actual moderation of cold in the windsweeping over us was the fact, I am unable to determine, but I fanciedits puff upon my cheek had grown soft and balmy in its character; afew drops of rain accompanied it, borne along as forerunners of astorm. While we thus journeyed, a sound like the reverberation ofdistant thunder again smote upon our ears, and shook the ice beneathour feet. We suddenly halted. "There is no mistaking that, " said Victor. "The ice is breaking up--wewill pursue this folly no further. " He had scarcely ceased speaking, when a report, like that of cannon, was heard in our immediate neighborhood, and a wide crevice opened atour very feet, through which the agitated waters underneath bubbledup. We leaped it, and rushed forward. "Haste!" cried my companion, "there is sufficient time for us yet toreach the shore before the surface moves. " "_Time_, for us, Victor, " replied I, "is near an end--if we ever reachthe shore, it will be floating lifeless amid the ice. " "Courage, " says he, "do not despond;" and seizing my arm, we movedwith speed in the direction where lights streamed from the gay andpleasant mansion which we had so madly left. Ah, how with mingled hopeand fear our hearts beats, as with straining eyes we looked towardthat beacon. In an instant, even as we sped along, the ice openedagain before us, and ere I could check my impetus, I was, with thelantern in my hand, plunged within the flood. My companion retainedhis hold of me, and with herculean strength he dragged me from thedark tide upon the frail floor over which we had been speeding. In thestruggle, the lantern fell from my grasp, and sunk within the whirlingwaters. "Great God!" exclaimed Victor, "the field we stand upon is_moving_!"--and so it was. The mass closed up the gap into which I hadfallen; and we could hear the edges which formed the brink of thechasm, crushing and crumbling as they moved together in the conflict. We stood breathlessly clinging to each other, listening to the madfury of the wind, and the awful roar of the ice which broke and surgedaround us. The wind moaned by us and above our heads like the wail ofnature in an agony, while mingling with its voice could be distinctlyheard the ominous reverberations which proclaimed a general breakingup of the whole surface of the lake. The wind and current were bothdriving the ice toward the Detroit river, and we could see by thelights on the shore that we were rapidly passing in that direction. Adark line, scarcely discernible, revealed where the distant shorenarrowed into the straight; but the hope of ever reaching it diedwithin me, as our small platform rose and sunk on the troubled waves. While floating thus, held tightly in the grasp of my companion, hisdeep breathing fanning my cheek, I felt my senses gradually becomingwrapt with a sweet dream, and so quickly did it steal upon me, that ina few moments all the peril of our position was veiled from my mind, and I was reveling in a delightful illusion. I was floating upon anundulating field of ice, in a triumphal car, drawn by snow-whitesteeds, and in my path glittered a myriad gems of the icy north. Myprogress seemed to be as quiet as the falling of the snow-flake, andswift as the wind, which appeared drawn along with my chariot-wheels. To add to this dreamy delight, many forms of beauty, symmetrical asangels, with eyes radiant as the stars of night, floated around mypathway. Though their forms appeared superior to earth, the tenderexpression of their eyes was altogether human. Their ethereal formswere clad in flowing robes, white as the wintry drift; coronets of icyjewels circled their brows, and glittered upon their graceful necks;their golden hair floated upon the sportive wind, as if composed ofthe sun's bright rays, and the effect upon the infatuated gazer atthese spirit-like creations, was a desire not to break the spell, lestthey should vanish from before his entranced vision. To add to thecharm of their power they burst into music wild as the elements, butyet so plaintively sweet, that the senses yielded up in utter abandonto its soothing swell. I had neither the power nor the wish to move, but under the influence of this ravishing dream, floated along inhappy silence, a blest being, attended by an angel throng, whosevoluptuous forms delighted, and whose pleasing voices lulled into allthe joys of fancied elysium. From this dream I was aroused to the most painful sensations. Thepangs of death can bear no comparison to the agony of throwing offthis sleep. Action was attended with torture, and every move of myblood seemed as if molten lead was coursing through my veins. Mycompanion, by every means he could think of, was forcing me back toconsciousness; but I clung with the tenacity of death to my sweetdream. He dashed my body upon our floating island; he pinched myflesh, fastened his fingers into my hair, and beat me into feelingwith the power of his muscular arm. Slowly the figures of my dreambegan to change--my triumphal car vanished--dark night succeeded thesoft light which had before floated around me, and the fair forms, which had fascinated my soul by their beauty, were now changed intofuries, whose voices mingling in the howl of the elements, soundedlike a wail of sorrow, or a chaunt of rage. They looked into my eyeswith orbs lit by burning hatred, while they seemed to lash me withwhips of the biting wind, until every fibre in my frame was convulsedwith rage and madness. I screamed with anguish, and grasping themuscular form of my companion, amid the loud howl of the storm, amidthe roar of the crushing ice, amid the gloom of dark night upon thatuncertain platform of the congealed yet moving waters, I fought withhim, and struggled for the mastery. I rained blows upon his body, andhe returned them with interest. I tried to plunge with him into thedark waters that were bubbling around us, but he held me back as if Iwere a child; and in impotent rage I wept at my weakness. Slowly ourperilous situation again forced itself upon my mind. I becameconscious that a platform, brittle as the thread of life, was all thatseparated me from a watery grave; and I fancied the wind was murmuringour requiem as it passed. Hope died within _me_; but not so mycompanion. "Speak to me!" he cried; "arouse, and let me hear your voice! Shakeoff this stupor, or you are lost!" "Why did you wake me?" I inquired; "while in that lethargy I washappy. " "While there is hope you should never yield to despair, " said Victor. "I discovered you freezing in my arms. Come, arouse yourself morefully; Providence has designed us for another grave than the waters ofLake St. Clair, or ere this we would have been quietly resting in someof the chasms beneath. We are floating rapidly into the river, andwill here find some chance to escape. " "Here, at last, " answered I, despondingly, "we are likely to find ourresting-place. " "Shake off this despondency!" exclaimed Victor, "it is unmanly. If weare to die, let it be in a struggle against death. We have now only toavoid being crushed between the fields of ice. Oh! that unfortunatelantern! if we had only retained it--but no matter, we will escapeyet; aye, and have another dance among our friends in yonder oldhospitable mansion. Courage!" he exclaimed, "see, lights are dancingopposite us upon the shore. Hark! I hear shouts. " A murmur, as of the expiring sound of a shout rose above the roar ofthe ice and waters--but it failed to arouse me. The lights, though, wesoon plainly discerned; and on the bluff, at the very mouth of theriver, a column of flame began to rise, which cast a lurid light farover the surface of the raging lake. Some persons stood at the edge ofthe flood waving lighted torches; and I thought from their manner thatwe were discovered. "We are safe, thank God!" says Victor. "They have discovered us!" Hope revived again within me, and my muscles regained their strength. We were only distant about one hundred yards from shore, and rapidlynearing it, when a scene commenced, which, for the wildly terrific, exceeded aught I had ever before beheld. The force of the wind and thecurrent had driven vast fields of ice into the mouth of the river, where it now gorged; and with frightful rapidity, and a stunningnoise, the ice began to pile up in masses of several feet in height, until the channel was entirely obstructed. The dammed-up waters hereboiled and bubbled, seeking a passage, and crumbling the barrier whichimpeded their way, dashed against it, and over it, in the mad endeavorto rush onward. The persons seen a few moments before were driven upto the bluff; and they no sooner reached there than Victor and myself, struggling amid the breaking ice and the rising flood, gained theshore; but in vain did we seek a spot upon the perpendicular sides ofthe bluff, where, for an instant, we could rest from the struggle. Weshouted to those above, and they hailed us with a cheer, flashed theirtorches over our heads--but they had no power to aid us, for theground they stood upon was thirty feet above us. Even while we werethus struggling, and with our arms outstretched toward heaven, imploring aid, the gorge, with a sound like the rumbling of anearth-quake, broke away, and swept us along in its dreadful course. Now did it seem, indeed, as if we had been tempted with hope, onlythat we might feel to its full extent of poignancy the bitterness ofabsolute despair. I yielded in hopeless inactivity to the current; mycompanion, in the meantime, was separated from me--and I felt as iffate had singled out me, alone, as the victim; but, while thusyielding to despondency, Victor again appeared at my side, and held mewithin his powerful grasp. He seized me as I was about to sink throughexhaustion, and dragging me after him, with superhuman strength heleaped across the floating masses of ice, recklessly and boldly daringthe death that menaced us. We neared the shore where it was low; andall at once, directly before us, shot up another beacon, and a dozentorches flashed up beside it. The river again gorged below us, and theaccumulating flood and ice bore us forward full fifty feet beyond theriver's brink--as before, the tide again swept away the barrier, leaving us lying among the fragments of ice deposited by theretreating flood, which dashed on its course, foaming, and roaring, and flashing in the light of the blazing beacons. Locked in eachother's arms, and trembling with excitement, we lay collecting ourscattered senses, and endeavoring to divest us of the terrible thoughtthat we were still at the mercy of the flood. Our friends, who hadlearned from the negroes the mad adventure we had started upon, nowgathered around us, lifted us up from our prostrate position, andmoved toward Yesson's mansion. Victor, who through the whole strugglehad borne himself up with that firmness which scorns to shrink beforedanger, now yielded, and sunk insensible. The excitement was at anend, and the strong man had become a child. I, feeble in body, andlacking his energy in danger, now that the peril was past, felt abuoyancy and strength which I did not possess at starting out. My companion was lifted up and borne toward his uncle's. No musicsounded upon the air as we approached--no voice of mirth escaped fromthe portal, for all inside were hushed into grief--that grief whichanticipates a loss but knows not the sum of it. Several who enteredthe mansion first, and myself among the number, announced the comingof Victor, who had fallen in a fainting fit; but they would notbelieve us--they supposed at once that we came to save them from thesudden shock of an abrupt announcement of his death, and Estelle, witha piercing cry, rushed toward the hall--those bearing his body were atthe moment entering the house--rushing toward them she clung to hisinanimate form, uttering the most poignant cries of anguish. A fewrestoratives brought Victor to consciousness, and sweet were theaccents of reproof which fell upon his ear with the first waking intolife, for they betrayed to him the tender feelings of love which thefair Estelle had before concealed beneath her coquetry. While thetears of joy were bedewing her cheeks, on finding her lover safe, helike a skillful tactician pursued the advantage, and in a mockattitude of desperation threatened to rush out and cast himself amidthe turbid waters of the lake, unless she at once promised toterminate his suspense by fixing the day of their marriage. The fairgirl consented to throw around him, merely as she said for hispreservation, the gentle authority of a wife, and I at once offered toseal a "quit claim" of my pretensions upon her rosy lips, but shepreferred having Victor act as my attorney in the matter, and thetender negotiation was accordingly closed. After partaking of a fragrant cup of Mocha, about the hour day wasbreaking, I started for home, and having arrived, I plunged beneaththe blankets to rest my wearied body. Near noon I was awakened by themedical attendant feeling my pulse. On opening my eyes, the firstimpulse was to hide the neglected potions, which I had carelessly leftexposed upon the table, but a glance partially relieved my fears aboutits discovery, for I had fortunately thrown my cravat over it and hidit from view. As Victor predicted, the doctor attributed the healthystate in which he found me entirely to his prescription, and followingup its supposed good effect, with a repetition of his advice to keepquiet, he departed. I could scarcely suppress a smile in his presence. Little did he dream of the remedy which had banished my fever--coldbaths and excitement had produced an effect upon me far more potentthan drugs, either vegetable or mineral. A month after the events here above mentioned, I made one of a gayassembly in that same old mansion at the foot of Lake St. Clair. Itwas Victor's wedding-night, about to be consummated where theconfession was first won, and while he sat upon one side of a sofaholding his betrothed's hand, in all the joy of undisputed possession, I on the other gave her a description of the winter-spirits which holdtheir revel upon the ice of the lake. While she listened her eyekindled with excitement, and she clung unconsciously and with aconvulsive shudder to the person of her lover. "You are right, Estelle, " said I, "hold him fast, or they will stealhim away to their deep caves beneath the waters, where their dance is, to mortal, a dance of death. " Bidding me begone, for a spiteful croaker, who was trying out ofjealousy to mar her happiness, she turned confidingly to the manlyform beside her, and from the noble expression beaming from his eyesimbibed a fire which defied the whole spirit-world, so deep and sostrong was their assurance of devoted affection. The good priest nowbade them stand up, the words were spoken, the benediction bestowed, the bride and groom congratulated, and a general joy circled thecompany round. The causes which led to, and the incidents which befel, a "night onthe ice, " I have endeavored faithfully to rehearse, and now let me addthe pleasing sequel. Victor Druissel, folded in the embrace of beauty, now pillows his head upon a bosom as fond and true as ever in its wildpulsations of coquetry made a manly heart to ache with doubt. THE THANKSGIVING OF THE SORROWFUL. BY MRS. JOSEPH C. NEAL. "Thanksgiving, " said the preacher. "What hast thou, Oh heart"--I asked--"for which to render thanks! What--crushed and stricken--canst thou here recall Worthy for this rejoicing. That thy home Hath suddenly been made so desolate; Or that the love for which thy being yearned Through years of youth, was given but to show How fleet are life's enjoyments? For the smile That never more shall greet thee at the dawn, Or the low, earnest blessing, which at eve Merged thoughts of human love in dreams of Heaven; That these are taken wilt thou now rejoice? That thou art censured, where thou seekest love-- And all thy purest thoughts, are turned to ill Soon as they knew expression? Offerest praise That such has been thy lot in earliest youth? "_Thou murmurer_!"--thus whispered back my heart, "Thou--of all others--shouldst this day give thanks: Thanks for the love which for a little space Made thy life beautiful, and taught thee well By precept, and example, so to act That others might in turn be blessed by thee. The patient love, that checked each wayward word; The holy love, that turned thee to thy God-- Fount of all pure affection! Hadst thou dwelt Longer in such an atmosphere, thy strength Had yielded to the weakness of idolatry, Forgetting Him, the GIVER, in his gifts. So He recalled them. Ay, for that rejoice, That thou hast added treasure up in Heaven; O, let thy heart dwell with thy treasure there; The dream shall thus become reality. The blessing may be resting on thy brow Cold as it is with sorrow. Thou hast lost The love of earth--but gained an angel's care. And that the world views thee with curious eyes, Wronging the pure expression of thy thoughts, -- Censure may prove to thee as finer's fire, That purifies the gold. " Then gave I thanks, Reproved by that low whisper. FATHER hear! Forgive the murmurer thus in love rebuked; And may I never cease through all to pay This tribute to thy bounty. [Illustration: _Drawn by L. Nagel Engraved by J. Sartain_Lamartine Engraved Expressly for Graham's Magazine] DE LAMARTINE, MINISTER OF FOREIGN AFFAIRS OF THE PROVISIONAL GOVERNMENT OF FRANCE. BY FRANCIS J. GRUND. [SEE ENGRAVING. ] Alphonse de Lamartine, the present Minister of Foreign Affairs of theRepublic of France, was born in 1792, at Saint Pont, near Mâcon, inthe Department of the Saone and Loire. His true family name is DePrat; but he took the name of De Lamartine from his uncle, whosefortune he inherited in 1820. His father and uncle were bothroyalists, and suffered severely from the Jacobins during therevolution. Had they lived in Paris their heads might have fallen fromthe block, but even in the province they did not escape persecution--acircumstance which, from the earliest youth of Lamartine, made a deepand indelible impression on his mind. His early education he receivedat the College of Belley, from which he returned in 1809, at the ageof 18 years. The splendor of the empire under Napoleon had no attractions for him. Though, at that period, Napoleon was extremely desirous to reconcilesome of the old noble families, and for that purpose employedconfidential ladies and gentlemen to correspond with the exiles and torepresent to them the nobility of sentiment, and the magnanimity ofthe emperor; Lamartine refused to enter the service of his countryunder the new _régime_. So far from taking an interest in the greatevents of that period, he devoted himself entirely to literarystudies, and improved his time by perambulating Italy. The fall ofNapoleon did not affect him, for he was no friend of the firstrevolution, (whose last representative Napoleon still continued to be, though he had tamed it;) and when, in 1814, the elder line of Bourbonswas restored, Lamartine returned from Naples, and entered, the serviceof Louis XVIII. , as an officer of the _garde-du-corps_. With thereturn of Napoleon from Elba he left the military service forever. A contemporary of Chateaubriand, Delavigne and Beranger, he nowdevoted himself to that species of lyric and romantic poetry which atfirst exasperated the French critics, but, in a very short time, wonfor him the European appellation of "the French Schiller. " His firstpoems, "Méditations Poétiques, " which appeared in Paris in 1820, werereceived with ten times the bitter criticism that was poured out onByron by the Scotch reviewers, but with a similar result; in less thantwo months a second edition was called for and published. The spiritof these poems is that of a deep but undefined religion, presentimentsand fantastic dreams of another world, and the consecration of a nobleand disinterested passion for the beau ideal of his youth, "Elvire, "separated from him forever by the chilly hand of death. In the sameyear Lamartine became Secretary of the French Legation at Naples, andin 1822, Secretary of the Legation in London--Chateaubriand being atthe time minister plenipotentiary. But the author of the _Génie du Christianism_, _les Martyrs_, and_Bonaparte et des Bourbons_, "did not seem to have been much pleasedwith Lamartine, whom he treated with studied neglect, and afterwardentirely forgot as minister of foreign affairs. Chateaubriand, shortlybefore taking the place of Mons. Decazes in London, had published his_Mémoires_, _lettres_, _et pièces authentiques touchant la vie et lamort du Duc de Berri_, "[3] and was then preparing to accompany theDuke of Montmorency, whom, in December 1822, he followed as ministerof foreign affairs to the Congress of Verona. It is very possible thatChateaubriand, who was truly devoted to the elder branch of theBourbons, [4] may at that time have discovered in Lamartine little ofthat political talent or devotion which could have recommended him toa diplomatic post. Chateaubriand was a man of positive convictions inpolitics and religion, while Lamartine, at that period, though farsurpassing Chateaubriand in depth of feeling and imagination, had notyet acquired that objectiveness of thought and reflection which isindispensable to the statesman or the diplomatist. [Footnote 3: Memoirs, Letters and Authentic Papers Touching the Lifeand Death of the Duke de Berry. ] [Footnote 4: He followed them in 1815 into exile; and in 1830, afterthe Revolution of July, spoke with fervor in defence of the rights ofthe Duke of Bordeaux. Chateaubriand refused to pledge the oath ofallegiance to Louis Philippe, and left in consequence the Chamber ofPeers, and a salary of 12, 000 francs. From this period he devotedhimself entirely to the service of the unfortunate duchess and herson. Against the exclusion of the elder branch of Bourbons he wrote"_De la nouvelle proposition relative au banissement de Charles X. Etde sa famille_. " (On the New Proposition in regard to the Banishmentof Charles X. And his Family, ) and "_De la restoration et de lamonarchie elective_. " (On the Restoration and on the ElectiveMonarchy, ) and several other pamphlets, which, after the apprehensionof the duchess in France, caused his own imprisonment. Chateaubriand, in fact, was a _political_ writer as well as a poet. His "Genius of Christianity", published in 1802, reconciled Napoleonwith the clergy, and his work, "Bonaparte and the Bourbons, " was byLouis XVIII. Himself pronounced "equal to an army. "] After the dismission of Chateaubriand from the ministry, in July, 1824, Lamartine became Secretary to the French Legation at Florence. Here he wrote "_Le dernier chant du pélerinage d'Harold_, " (the LastSong of Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, ) which was published in Paris in1825. Some allusions to Italy which occur in this poem, caused him aduel with Col. Pepe, a relation of General Pepe--who had commanded theNeapolitan Insurgents--in which he was severely wounded. In the sameyear he published his "_Chant du Sacre_, " (Chant of the Coronation, )in honor of Charles X. , just about the time that his contemporary, Beranger, was preparing for publication his "_Chansons inédittes_, "containing the most bitter sarcasm on Charles X. , and for which thegreat _Chansonnier_ was afterward condemned to nine month'simprisonment, and a fine of 10, 000 francs. The career of Lamartinecommences in 1830, after he had been made a member of the Academy, when Beranger's muse went to sleep, because, with Charles X. 's flightfrom France, he declared his mission accomplished. Delavigne, in 1829, published his _Marino Falieri_. While in London, Lamartine married a young English lady, as handsomeas _spirituelle_, who had conceived a strong affection for him throughhis poems, which she appreciated far better than his compeer, Chateaubriand, and requited with the true _troubadour's_ reward. Withthe accession of Louis Philippe, Lamartine left the public service andtraveled through Turkey, Egypt, and Syria. Here he lost his daughter, a calamity which so preyed on his mind that it would haveincapacitated him for further intellectual efforts, had he not beensuddenly awakened to a new sphere of usefulness. The town of Bergues, in the Department of the North, returned him, in his absence, to theChamber of Deputies. He accepted the place, and was subsequently againreturned from his native town, Mâcon, which he represented at theperiod of the last Revolution, which has called him to the head of theprovisional government. It is here worthy of remark, that Lamartine, from the commencement ofhis political career, did not take that interest in public affairswhich seriously interferred with his poetical meditations; on thecontrary, it was his muse which gave direction to his politics. Hetook a poetical view of religion, politics, morals, society, andstate; the Chambers were to him but the medium for the realization ofhis beaux ideals. But it must not be imagined that Lamartine's beauxideals had a distinct form, definitive outlines, or distinguishinglights and shades. His imagination has never been plastic, and hisfancy was far better pleased with the magnitude of objects than withthe artistical arrangement of their details. His conceptions weregrand; but he possessed little power of elaboration; and thispeculiarity of his intellect he carried from literature into politics. Shortly after his becoming a member of the French Academy, hepublishes his "_Harmonies politiques et religieuses. _"[5] Between thepublication of these "Harmonies, " and the "Poetical Meditations, " withwhich he commenced his literary career, lies a cycle of ten years; butno perceptible intellectual progress or developement. True, the firsteffusions of a poet are chiefly marked by intensity of feeling anddepth of sentiment. (What a world of emotions does not pervadeSchiller's "Robbers, " or Goethe's "Götz of Berlichingen, with the ironhand!") but the subsequent productions must show some advancementtoward objective reality, without which it is impossible toindividualize even genius. To _our_ taste, the "Meditations" aresuperior to his "Harmonies, " in other words, we prefer his præludiumto the concert. The one leaves us full of expectation, the otherdisappoints us. Lamartine's religion is but a sentiment; his politicsat that time were but a poetical conception of human society. Hisreligion never reached the culmination point of _faith_; his politicswere never condensed into a system; his liquid sympathies for mankindnever left a precipitate in the form of an absorbing patriotism. Whenhis contemporary, Beranger, electrified the masses by his "_Roid'Yvetot_, " and "_le Senateur_, " (in 1813, ) Lamartine quietly mused inNaples, and in 1814 entered the body guard of Louis XVIII. , whenCormenin resigned his place as counsellor of state, to serve as avolunteer in Napoleon's army. [Footnote 5: Political and Religious Harmonies. Paris, 1830. 2 vols. ] Lamartine's political career did not, at first, interfere with hisliterary occupation, it was merely an agreeable pastime--a respitefrom his most ardent and congenial labors. In 1835 appeared his"_Souvenirs, impressions, pensées et paysages pendant un voyage enOrient, &c_. "[6] This work, though written from personal observations, is any thing but a description of travels, or a faithful delineationof Eastern scenery or character. It is all poetry, without asufficient substratum of reality--a dream of the Eastern world withits primitive vigor and sadness, but wholly destitute of eitherantiquarian research or living pictures. Lamartine gives us a pictureof the East by candle-light--a high-wrought picture, certainly; butafter all nothing but canvas. Shortly after this publication, thereappeared his "_Jocelyn, journal trouvé chez un curé de village_, "[7] asort of imitation of the Vicar of Wakefield; but with scarcely anattempt at a faithful delineation of character. Lamartine has nothingto do with the village parson, who may be a very ordinary personage;his priest is an ideal priest, who inculcates the doctrines of idealChristianity in ideal sermons without a text. Lamartine seems to havean aversion to all positive forms, and dislikes the dogma in religionas much as he did the principles of the _Doctrinaires_. It wouldfetter his genius or oblige it to take a definite direction, whichwould be destructive to its essence. As late as in 1838 Lamartine published his "_La chute d'un age_. "[8]This is one of his poorest productions, though exhibiting vast powersof imagination and productive genius. The scene is laid in a chaoticantediluvian world, inhabited by Titans, and is, perhaps, descriptiveof the author's mind, full of majestic imagery, but as yet undefined, vague, and without an object worthy of its efforts. Lamartine's timehad not yet come, though he required but a few years to complete thefiftieth anniversary of his birth. [Footnote 6: Souvenirs, Impressions, Thoughts and Landscapes, during aVoyage in the East. Paris, 1835. 4 vols. ] [Footnote 7: Jocelyn, a Journal found at the House of a VillagePriest. Paris, 1836. 2 vols. ] [Footnote 8: The Fall of an Angel. Paris, 1838. 2 vols. ] The year following, in 1839, he published his "_Recueillementspoétiques_, " which must be looked upon as the commencement of a newera in his life. Mahomed was past forty when he undertook to establisha new religion, and built upon it a new and powerful empire; Lamartinewas nearly fifty when he left the fantastic for the real; and from theinspiration without an object, returned to the only real poetry inthis world--the life of man. Lamartine, who until that period had beenyouthful in his conceptions, and wild and _bizarre_ in his fancy, didnot, as Voltaire said of his countrymen, pass "from childhood to oldage, " but paused at a green manhood, with a definite purpose, and themighty powers of his mind directed to an object large enough to affordit scope for its most vigorous exercise. His muse was now directed tothe interests of humanity; he was what the French call _un poetehumanitaire_. Thus far it was proper for us to follow the life of the poet tounderstand that of the statesman, orator, and tribune. Men likeLamartine must be judged in their totality, not by single or detachedacts of their lives. Above all men it is the poet who is aself-directing agent, whose faculties receive their principal impulsefrom _within_, and who stamps his own genius on every object of hismental activity. Schiller, after writing the history of the mostremarkable period preceding the French Revolution, "the thirty years'war, " (for liberty of conscience, ) and "the separation of theNetherlands from the crown of Spain, " felt that his energies were notyet exhausted on the subject; but his creative genius found no theatreof action such as was open to Lamartine in the French Chamber, in thepurification of the ideas engendered by the Revolution; and he hadtherefore to content himself with bringing _his_ poetical conceptionson the _stage_. Instead of becoming an actor in the great world-drama, he gave us his _Wallenstein_ and _Don Carlos_; Lamartine gave us_himself_ as the best creation of his poetic genius. The poetLamartine has produced the statesman. This it will be necessary tobear in mind, to understand Lamartine's career in the Chamber ofDeputies, or the position he now holds at the head of the provisionalgovernment. Lamartine, as we have above observed, entered the French Chamber in1833, as a cosmopolite, full of love for mankind, full of noble ideasof human destiny, and deeply impressed with the degraded socialcondition not only of his countrymen, but of all civilized Europe. Heknew and felt that the Revolution which had destroyed the socialelements of Europe, or thrown them in disorder, had not reconstructedand arranged them; and that the re-organization of society on thebasis of humanity and mutual obligation, was still an unfinishedproblem. Lamartine felt this; but did the French Chambers, as theywere then organized, offer him a fair scope for the development of hisideas, or the exercise of his genius? Certainly not. The FrenchChamber was divided into two great dynastic interests--those of theyounger and elder Bourbons. The Republican party (the extreme left)was small, and without an acknowledged leader; and the whole assembly, with few individual exceptions, had taken a material direction. During seventeen years--from 1830 to 1847--no organic principle of lawor politics was agitated in the Chambers, no new ideas evolved. Thewhole national legislation seemed to be directed toward materialimprovements, to the exclusion of every thing that could elevate thesoul or inspire the masses with patriotic sentiments. The governmentof Louis Philippe had at first become stationary, then reactionary;the mere enunciation of a general idea inspired its members withterror, and made the centres (right and left) afraid of the horrors ofthe guillotine. The government of Louis Philippe was not a reign ofterror, like that of 1793, but it was a reign of prospective terror, which it wished to avoid. Louis Philippe had no faith in the people;he treated them as the keeper of a menagerie would a tame tiger--heknew its strength, and he feared its vindictiveness. To disarm it, andto change its ferocious nature, he checked the progress of politicalideas, instead of combating them with the weapons of reason, andbanished from his counsel those who alone could have served asmediators between the throne and the liberties of the nation. TheFrench people seemed stupified at the _contre-coups_ to all theirhopes and aspirations. Even the more moderate complained; but theircomplaints were hushed by the immediate prospect of an improvedmaterial condition. All France seemed to have become industrious, manufacturing, mercantile, speculating. The thirst for wealth hadsucceeded to the ambition of the Republicans, the fanaticism of theJacobins, and the love of distinction of the old monarchists. TheChamber of Deputies no longer represented the French people--its love, its hatred, its devotion--the elasticity of its mind, its facility ofemotion, its capacity to sacrifice itself for a great idea. TheDeputies had become stock-jobbers, partners in large enterprises ofinternal improvements, and _timidly_ conservative, as are always therepresentatives of mere property. The Chamber, instead of representingthe essence of the nation, represented merely the moneyed classes ofsociety. Such was the Chamber of Deputies to which Lamartine was chosen by anelectoral college, devoted to the Dynastic opposition. He entered itin 1833, not a technical politician or orator as Odillon Barrot, notas a skillful tactitioner like Thiers, not as a man with one idea asthe Duke de Broglie, not as the funeral orator of departed grandeurlike Berryer, nor as the embodiment of a legal abstraction like Dupin, or a man of the devouring ambition and skill in debate of FrançoisPierre Guillaume Guizot: Lamartine was simply a _humanitaire_. Goadedby the sarcasm of Cormenin, he declared that he belonged to no party, that he sought for no parliamentary conquest--that he wished totriumph through the force of ideas, and through no power ofpersuasion. He was the very counterpart of Thiers, the most sterileorator and statesman of France. Lamartine had studied the FrenchRevolution, he saw the anarchical condition of society, and theineffectual attempt to compress instead of organizing it; and heconceived the noble idea of collecting the scattered fragments, anduniting them into a harmonious edifice. While the extreme left wereemployed in removing the pressure from above, Lamartine was quietlyemployed in laying the foundation of a new structure, and calledhimself _un démocrate conservateur_. [9] He spoke successfully and withgreat force against the political monopoly of real property, againstthe prohibitive system of trade, against slavery, and the punishmentof death. [10] His speeches made him at once a popular character; hedid not address himself to the Chamber, he spoke to the French people, in language that sunk deep into the hearts of the masses, withoutproducing a striking effect in the Legislature. At that time alreadyhad the king singled him out from the rest of the opposition. Hewished to secure his talents for his dynasty; but Lamartine was not insearch of a _portefeuille_, and escaped without effort from thetemptation. In November, 1837, he was re-elected to the Chamber from Bergues andMâcon, his native town. He decided in favor of the latter, and tookhis seat as a member for that place. He supported the Molé ministry, not because he had become converted to the new dynasty, but because hedespised the _Doctrinaires_, who, by their union with the Liberals, brought in the new Soult ministry. He was not satisfied with thepurity of motives, he also wanted proper means to attain a laudableobject. In the Oriental question, which was agitated under Soult, Lamartine was not felt. His opposition was too vague and undefined:instead of pointing to the interests of France, he pointed to theduties of humanity of a great nation; he read Milton in acounting-room, and a commercial Maclaurin asked him "what does itprove?" [Footnote 9: A conservative Democrat. ] [Footnote 10: He had already, in 1830, published a pamphlet, _Contrela peine de mort au peuple du 19 Octobre, 1830_. (Against thePunishment of Death to the People of the 19th October, 1830. )] In 1841 his talent as an orator (he was never distinguished as adebater) was afforded ample scope by Thiers' project to fortify thecapital. He opposed it vehemently, but without effect. In theboisterous session of 1842 he acted the part of a moderator; but stillso far seconded the views of Thiers as to consider the left bank ofthe Rhine as the proper and legitimate boundary of France againstGermany. This debate, it is well known, produced a perfect storm ofpopular passions in Germany. In a few weeks the whole shores of theRhine were bristling with bayonets; the peasantry in the Black Forestbegan to clean and polish their rusty muskets, buried since the fallof Napoleon, and the princes perceiving that the spirit of nationalitywas stronger than that of freedom, encouraged this popular declarationagainst French usurpation. Nicolas Becker, a modest German, withoutpretension or poetic genius, but inspired by an honest love of countryand national glory, then composed a war-song, commencing thus: No, never shall they have it, The free, the German Rhine; which was soon in every man's mouth, and being set to music, becamefor a short period the German Marseillaise. Lamartine answered theGerman with the _Marseillaise de paix_, (the Marseillaise of peace, )which produced a deep impression; and the fall of the Thiers' ministrysoon calmed the warlike spirit throughout Europe. On the question of the Regency, Lamartine declared himself in favor ofthe Duchess of Orleans as Regent, should Louis Philippe die during theminority of the Count of Paris, and it is our firm belief that hewould have accepted that Regency even in February last, if the kinghad abdicated a day sooner. Lamartine never avowed himself aRepublican; but was left no alternative but to eclipse himselfforever, or become its champion. The star of Lamartine's political destiny rose in the session of 1843, when, utterly disgusted with the reactionary policy of Guizot, heconceived the practical idea of uniting all the elements ofopposition, of whatever shade and color, against the government. Buthe was not satisfied with this movement in the Chamber, which producedthe coalition of the Dynastic right with the Democratic left, and fora moment completely paralyzed the administration of Guizot: he carriedhis new doctrine right before the people, as the legitimate source ofthe Chamber, and thus became the first political agitator of Francesince the restoration, in the legitimate, legal, English sense of theword. Finding that the press was muzzled, or subsidized and bought, hemoved his countrymen through the power of his eloquence. He appealedfrom the Chamber to the sense and the virtue of the people. InSeptember, 1843, he first addressed the electors of Mâcon on thenecessity of extending the franchise, in order to admit of a greaterrepresentation of the French people--generous, magnanimous, bold anddevoted to their country. Instead of fruitlessly endeavoring to reformthe government, he saw that the time had come for reforming theChamber. In the month of October, of the same year--so rapidly did his newpolitical genius develop itself--he published a regular programme forthe opposition; a thing which Thiers, up to that moment, hadstudiously avoided, not to break entirely with the king, and to renderhimself still "possible" as a minister of the crown. Lamartine knew nosuch selfish consideration, which has destroyed Thiers as a man of thepeople, and declared himself entirely independent of the throne ofJuly. He advocated openly _the abolition of industrial feudalism, andthe foundation of a new democratic society under a constitutionalthrone_. Thus, then, had Lamartine separated himself not only from the king andhis ministers, but also from the ancient _noblesse_ and the_bourgeoisie_, without approaching or identifying himself with theRepublican left wing of the Chamber. He stood alone, admired for hisgenius, his irreproachable rectitude, his devoted patriotism, butconsidered rather as a poetical abstraction, an impracticable Utopist;and yet he was the only man in the Chamber who had devised apractical means of regenerating the people and the government. Lamartine was now considered a parliamentary oddity rather than theleader of a faction, or the representative of a political principle;but he was indeed far in advance of the miserable routine of hiscolleagues. He personated, indeed, no principle represented in theChamber, but he was already the Tribune of the unrepresented masses!The people had declared the government a fraud--the Chamber anembodied falsehood. At last Marrast, one of the editors of theNational, (now a member of the provisional government, ) pronounced itin his paper that the French people had no representation, that it wasin vain to attempt to oppose the government in the legislature: "_LaChambre_, " said Marrast, "_n'est qu' un mensonge_. "[11] Lamartine had thus, all at once, as if by a _coup-de-main_, become "apopular greatness. " He was the man of the people, without havingcourted popularity--that stimulus (as he himself called it) to so manynoble acts and crimes, as the object of its caresses remains itsconscious master or its pandering slave. Lamartine grew rapidly inpublic estimation, because he was a new man. All the great charactersof the Chamber, beginning with Casimir Perrier, had, in contact withLouis Philippe, become either eclipsed or tarnished. Lamartine avoidedthe court, but openly and frankly confessed that he belonged to noparty. He had boldly avowed his determination to oppose the governmentof Louis Philippe, not merely this or that particular direction, whichit took in regard to its internal and external relations; but in itswhole general tendency. He was neither the friend nor the enemy of aparticular combination for the ministry, and had, during a shortperiod, given his support to Count Molé, not because he was satisfiedwith his administration, but because he thought the opposition and itsobjects less virtuous than the minister. In this independent position, supported by an ample private fortune, (inherited, as we beforeobserved, by his maternal uncle, and the returns of his literaryactivity, ) Lamartine became an important element of parliamentarycombination, from the weight of his _personal_ influence, while at thesame time his "utopies, " as they were termed by the tactitioners ofAlphonse Thiers, gave but little umbrage to the ambition of hisrivals. He alone enjoyed some credit with the masses, though hissocial position ranked with the first in the country, while, from thepeculiar bend of his mind, and the idealization of his principles, hewas deemed the most harmless aspirant to political power. Thepractical genius of the opposition, everlastingly occupied withunintellectual details of a venal class-legislature, saw in Lamartinea useful co-operator: they never dreamt that the day would come whenthey would be obliged to serve under him. [Footnote 11: The Chamber is but a lie. ] And, in truth, it must be admitted that without the Revolution ofFebruary, Lamartine must have been condemned to a comparativepolitical inactivity. With the exception of a few friends, personallydevoted to him, he had no party in the Chamber. The career which hehad entered, as the people's Tribune, placed him, in a measure, in_opposition_ to all existing parties; but it was even this singularposition of parliamentary impotence, which confirmed and strengthenedhis reputation as an honest man, in contradistinction to a notoriouslycorrupt legislature. His eloquence in the Chamber had no particulardirection; but it was the sword of justice, and was, as such, dreadedby all parties. As a statesman his views were tempered by humanity, and so little specific as to be almost anti-national. In his views asregards the foreign policy of France he was alike opposed to Guizotand Thiers; and, perhaps, to a large portion of the French people. Hewished the external policy of France governed by a general principle, as the internal politics of the country, and admitted openly thesolidarity of interests of the different states of Europe. He thuscreated for himself allies in Germany, in Italy, in Spain; but helacked powerful supporters at home; and became the most impracticableman to carry out the aggressive views of the fallen Dynasty. Thiersnever considered him a rival; for he considered him incapable of everbecoming the exponent of a leading popular passion: neither thepresent nor the future seemed to present a chance for Lamartine'saccession to power. _L'homme positive_, as Thiers was pleased to callhimself at the tribune of the Chamber, almost commiserated the poetstatesman and orator. Lamartine never affected, in his manner or in his mode of living, that"republican simplicity" which is so often nothing but the frontispieceof demagoguism. He despised to flatter the people, for whom hecherished a generous sentiment, by vulgar appeal to their ignobleprejudices. He gratified his tastes where they did not come inconflict with morality or justice, and thus preserved hisindividuality and his friends, in the midst of the swelling tide ofpopular commotion and conflicting opinions. Guizot affected in his_déhors_ that severity and simplicity of style, which won for him the_soubriquet_ of "the Puritan;" bestowed by the sarcasm of theParisians, to punish his egotism, his craving ambition and his love ofpower. While Guizot was penetrating the mysteries of Europeandiplomacy, under the guidance of Princess Lieven, Lamartine's hôtel, in the _Rue de l'Université_ was the _réunion_ of science, literature, wit, elegance and grace. His country-seat near Paris was as elegantlyfurnished and artistically arranged as his palace in the Faubourg St. Germain; and his weekly receptions in Paris were as brilliant as theywere attractive by the intelligence of those who had the honor tofrequent them. The _élite_ of the old nobility, the descendants of thenotabilities of the Empire, the historical remnants of the Gironde andthe Jacobins, the versatility of French genius in every department, and distinguished strangers from all parts of the world were hisguests; excluded were only the men of mere accidental position--themob in politics, literature and the arts. But the time for Lamartine had not yet come, though the demoralizationof the government, and the sordid impulses given by it to thenational legislature were fast preparing that anarchy of passionswhich no government has the power to render uniform, though it maycompress it. The ministry in the session of 1845 was defeated by thecoalition; but the defection of Emil de Girardin saved it once morefrom destruction. Meanwhile Duchâtel, the Minister of the Interior, had found means, by a gigantic system of internal improvement, (by alarge number of concessions for new rail-ways and canals, ) to obtainfrom the same Chamber a ministerial majority, which toward the closeof the session amounted to nearly eighty members. Under such auspicesthe new elections were ushered in, and the result was an overwhelmingmajority for the administration. The government was not to be shakenin the Chambers, but its popular ascendancy had sunk to zero. Theopposition from being parliamentary had become organic. Theopposition, seeing all hopes of success vanish in the Chambers, nowembraced Lamartine's plan of agitating the people. They must eitherfall into perfect insignificance or dare to attack the very basis ofthe government. The party of Thiers and Odillon Barrot joined themovement, and by that means gave it a practical direction; whileLamartine, Marrast, Louis Blanc, and Ledru Rollin were operating onthe masses, Thiers and Odillon Barrot indoctrinated the NationalGuards. While Thiers was willing to stake his life to dethrone Guizot, the confederates of Lamartine aimed at an organic change of theconstitution. Was Lamartine a conspirator? may here be asked. We answer mostreadily, no! Lamartine is what himself says of Robespierre, "a man ofgeneral ideas;" but not a man of a positive system; and hence, incapable of devising a plan for attaining a specific politicalobject. His opposition to Louis Philippe's government was general; butit rested on a noble basis, and was free from individual passions. Hemay have been willing to batter it, but he did not intend itsdemolition. The Republic of France was proclaimed in the streets, partly as the consequence of the king's cowardice. Lamartine acceptedits first office, because he had to choose between it and anarchy, andhe has thus far nobly discharged his trust. If he is not a statesmanof consummate ability, who would devise means of extricating hiscountry from a difficult and perilous situation, he will not easilyplunge it into danger; if he be not versed in the intrigues ofcabinets, his straight forward course commands their respect, and theconfidence of the French people. This is not the time for Europe togive birth to new ideas--the old Revolution has done thatsufficiently--but the period has arrived for elaborating them, with aview to a new and lasting organization of society. The presentrevolution in Europe need not forcibly overthrow any establishedpolitical creed; for there is no established political conviction inEurope. The people have arrived at a period of universal politicalscepticism, which, like scepticism in religion, always prepares thesoil for the reception of the seed of a new faith. The great work ofthe revolution is done, if the people will but seize and perpetuateits consequences. Such, at least, are the views of Lamartine, and withhim of a majority of European writers, as expressed in the literatureof the day. The history of the Girondists contains Lamartine's political faith. Itis not without its poetry and its Utopian visions; but it is full ofthought and valuable reflections, and breathes throughout the loftiestand most noble sentiments. Lamartine, in that history, becomes thepanegyrist and the censor of the French Revolution. He vindicates witha powerful hand the ideas which it evolved; while he castigates, anddepicts with poetic melancholy its mournful errors and its tragiccharacter. He makes Vergniaud, the chief of the Girondists, say beforehis execution--"In grafting the tree, my friend, we have killed it. Itwas too old. Robespierrie cuts it. Will he be more successful thanourselves? No. This soil is too unsteady to nourish the roots of civilliberty; this people is too childish to handle its laws withoutwounding itself. It will come back to its kings as children come backto their rattle. We made a mistake in our births, in being born anddying for the liberty of the world. We imagined that we were in Rome, and we were in Paris. But revolutions are like those crises which, ina single night, turn men's hair gray. They ripen the people fast. Theblood in our veins is warm enough to fecundate the soil of theRepublic. Let us not take with us the future, and let us bequeath tothe people our hope in return for the death which it gives us. "[12] It is impossible that Lamartine should not have felt as a poet what heexpressed as a historian, and his character is too sincere to preventhim from acting out his conviction. In describing the death of thefounders of the first French Republic, Lamartine employs the wholepathos of his poetic inspiration. "They (the Girondists) possessed three virtues which in the eyes ofposterity atone for many faults. They worshiped liberty; they foundedthe Republic--this precautions truth of future governments;--at last, they died, because they refused blood to the people. Their time hascondemned them to death, the future has judged them to glory andpardon. They died because they did not allow Liberty to soil itself, and posterity will yet engrave on their memory the inscription whichVergniaud, their oracle, has, with his own hand, engraved on the wallof his dungeon: 'Rather death than crime!' '_Potius mori quamfoedari!_'" [Footnote 12: This and the following versions of Lamartine are ourown; for we have not as yet had time to look into the publishedtranslation. We mention this to prevent our own mistakes, if we shouldhave committed any, from being charged to the American translator ofthe work. ] Lamartine is visibly inclined in favor of the Girondists--the foundersof the Republic; but his sense of justice does not permit him tocondemn the Jacobins without vindicating their memory from thatcrushing judgment which their contemporaries pronounced upon them. Hethus describes, in a few masterly strokes, the character ofRobespierre: "Robespierre's refusal of the supreme power was sincere in themotives which he alleged. But there were other motives which causedhim to reject the sole government. These motives he did not yet avow. The fact is that he had arrived at the end of his thoughts, and thathimself did not know what form was best suited to revolutionaryinstitutions. More a man of ideas than of action, Robespierre had thesentiment of the Revolution rather than the political formula. Thesoul of the institutions of the future was in his dreams, but helacked the mechanism of a popular government. His theories, all takenfrom books, were brilliant and vague as perspectives, and cloudy asthe far distance. He contemplated them daily; he was dazzled by them;but he never touched them with the firm and precise hand of practice. He forgot that Liberty herself requires the protection of a strongpower, and that this power must have a head to conceive, and hands toexecute. He believed that the words Liberty, Equality, Disinterestedness, Devotion, Virtue, incessantly repeated, were themselves a government. He took philosophy for politics, and became indignant at his falsecalculations. He attributed continually his deceptions to theconspiracies of aristocrats and demagogues. He thought that inextinguishing from society the aristocrats and demagogues, he would beable to suppress the vices of humanity, and the obstacles to the workof liberal institutions. His notion of the people was an illusion, nota reality. He became irritated to find the people often so weak, socowardly, so cruel, so ignorant, so changeable, so unworthy the rankwhich nature has assigned them. He became irritated and soured, andchallenged the scaffold to extricate him from his difficulties. Then, indignant at the excesses of the scaffold, he returned to words ofjustice and humanity. Then once more he seized upon the scaffold, invoked virtue and suscitated death. Floating sometimes on clouds, sometimes in human gore, he despaired of mankind and became frightenedat himself. 'Death, and nothing but death!' he cried, in conversationwith his intimate friends, 'and the villains charge it upon me. Whatmemory shall I leave behind me if this goes on? Life is a burthen tome!'" Once, says Lamartine, the truth became manifest. He (Robespierre)exclaimed, with a gesture of despair, "_No, I was not made to govern, I was made to combat the enemies of the people!_" These meditations on the character of Robespierre, show sufficientlythat Lamartine, though he may not as yet have taken a positivedirection in politics, has at least, from his vague poeticalconceptions, returned to a sound state of political criticism, theinevitable precursor of sound theories. His views on the execution ofthe royal family are severe but just. "Had the French nation a right to judge Louis XVI. As a legaltribunal?" demands Lamartine. "No! Because the judge ought to beimpartial and disinterested--and the nation was neither the one northe other. In this terrible but inevitable combat, in which, under thename of revolution, royalty and liberty were engaged for emancipatingor enslaving the citizen, Louis XVI. Personified the throne, thenation personified liberty. This was not their fault, it was theirnature. All attempts at a mutual understanding were in vain. Theirnatures warred against each other in spite of their inclination towardpeace. Between these two adversaries, the king and the people, of whomthe one, by instinct, was prompted to retain, the other to wrest fromits antagonist the rights of the nation, there was no tribunal butcombat, no judge but victory. We do not mean to say that there was notabove the parties a moral of the case, and acts which judge evenvictory itself. This justice never perishes in the eclipse of the law, and the ruin of empires; but it has no tribunal before which it canlegally summon the accused; it is the justice of state, the justicewhich has neither regularly appointed judges, nor written laws, butwhich pronounces its sentences in men's consciences, and whose code isequity. " "Louis XVI. Could not be judged in politics or equity, but by aprocess of state. Had the nation a right to judge him thus? As wellmight we demand whether she had a right to fight and conquer, in otherwords, as well might we ask whether despotism is inviolable--whetherliberty is a revolt--whether there is no justice here below but forkings--whether there is, for the people, no other right than to serveand obey? The mere doubt is an act of impiety toward the people. " So far the political philosophy of Lamartine, the legal argumentagainst the king, strikes us as less logical and just. We may agreewith him in principle, but we cannot assent to the abstract justice ofhis conclusions. "The nation, " says the head of the present provisional government ofFrance, "possessing within itself the inalienable sovereignty whichrests in reason, in the right and the will of each citizen, theaggregate of which constitutes the people, possesses certainly thefaculty of modifying the exterior form of its sovereignty, to levelits aristocracy, to dispossess its church of its property, to lower oreven to suppress the throne, and to govern themselves through theirproper magistrates. But as the nation had a right to combat andemancipate itself, she also had a right to watch over and consolidatethe fruits of its victories. If, then, Louis XVI. , a king too recentlydispossessed of sovereign power--a king in whose eyes all restitutionof power to the people was tantamount to a forfeiture--a king illsatisfied with what little of government remained in his hands, aspiring to reconquer the part he had lost--torn in one direction by ausurping assembly, and in another by a restless queen or humblenobility, and a clergy which made Heaven to intervene in his cause, byimplacable emigrants, by his brothers running all over Europe to drumup enemies to the Revolution; if, in one word, Louis XVI. , KING, appeared to the nation a living conspiracy against her liberty; if thenation suspected him of regretting in his soul too much the loss ofsupreme power--of causing the new constitution to stumble, in order toprofit by its fall--of conducting liberty into snares to rejoice inanarchy--of disarming the country because he secretly wished it to bedefeated--then the nation had a right to make him descend from thethrone, and to call him to her bar, and to depose him in the name ofher own dictatorship, and for her own safety. If the nation had notpossessed this right, the right to betray the people with impunity, would, in the new constitution, have been one of the prerogatives ofthe crown. " This is a pretty fair specimen of revolutionary reasoning; but it israther a definition of Democracy, as Lamartine understands it, than aconstitutional argument in favor of the decapitation of "_LouisCapet_. " Lamartine is, indeed, a "Conservative Democrat, " that is, ready to immolate the king to preserve the rights of the people; buthe does not distinguish in his mind a justifiable act from a righteousone. But it is a peculiarity of the French mind to identify itself socompletely with the object of its reflection, that it is impossiblefor a French mind to be impartial, or as they will have it, not to bean enthusiast. The French are partisans even in science; the Academyitself has its factions. We have thus quoted the most important political opinions expressed inhis "Girondists, " because these are his _latest_ politicalconvictions, and he has subscribed to them his name. We look upon thishis last work, as a public confession of his faith--as a declarationof the principles which will guide him in the administration of thenew government. Lamartine has been indoctrinated with the spirit ofrevolution; but it is not the spirit of his youth or early manhood. Liberty in his hands becomes something poetical--perhaps a lyricpoem--but we respectfully doubt his capacity to give her a practicalorganization, and a real existence. High moral precepts and sublimetheories may momentarily elevate a people to the height of a nobledevotion; but laws and institutions are made for ordinary men, andmust be adapted to their circumstances. Herein consists the specifictalent of the statesman, and his capacity to govern. Government is notan ideal abstraction--a blessing showered from a given height on theabiding masses, or a scourge applied to mortify their passions; it issomething natural and spontaneous, originating in and coeval with thepeople, and must be adapted to their situation, their moral andintellectual progress, and to their national peculiarities. Itconsists of details as well as of general forms, and requires laborand industry as well as genius. The majority of the people must notonly yield the laws a ready submission, but they must find, or atleast believe, it their interest to do so, or the government becomescoercion. The great problem of Europe is to discover the laws oflabor, not to invent them, for without this question being practicallysettled in some feasible manner, all fine spun theories will notsuffice to preserve the government. Lamartine closes his history of the Girondists with the followingsublime though mystic reflection: "A nation ought, no doubt, to weepher dead, and not to console itself in regard to a single life thathas been unjustly and odiously sacrificed; but it ought not to regretits blood when it was shed to reveal eternal truths. God has put thisprice on the germination and maturation of all His designs in regardto man. Ideas vegetate in human blood; revolutions descend from thescaffold. All religions become divine through martyrdom. Let us, then, pardon each other, sons of combatants and victims. Let us becomereconciled over their graves to take up the work which they have leftundone. Crime has lost every thing in introducing itself into theranks of the republic. To do battle is not to immolate. Let us takeaway the crime from the cause of the people, as a weapon which haspierced their hands and changed liberty into despotism. Let us notseek to justify the scaffold with the cause of our country, andproscriptions by the cause of liberty. Let us not pardon the spirit ofour age by the sophism of revolutionary energy, let humanity preserveits heart; it is the safest and most infallible of its principles, and_let us resign ourselves to the condition of human things_. Thehistory of the Revolution is glorious and sad as the day after thevictory, or the eve of another combat. But if this history is full ofmourning, it is also full of faith. It resembles the antique dramawhere, while the narrator recites his story, the chorus of the peopleshouts the glory, weeps for the victims and raises a hymn ofconsolation and hope to God. " All this is very beautiful, but it does not increase our stock ofhistorical information. It teaches the people resignation, instead ofpointing to their errors, and the errors of those who claimed to betheir deliverers. Lamartme has made an apotheosis of the Revolution, instead of treating it as the unavoidable consequence ofmisgovernment. To an English or American reader the allusion to "theblood sacrifice, " which is necessary in politics as in religion, wouldborder on impiety; with the French it is probably a proof of religiousfaith. Lamartine, in his views and conceptions, in his mode ofthinking and philosophizing, is much more nearly allied to the Germanthan to the English schools; only that, instead of a philosophicalsystem, carried through with a rigorous and unsparing logic, heindulges in philosophical reveries. As a statesman Lamartine lacksspeciality, and for this reason we think that his administration willbe a short one. With respect to character, energy, and courage, Lamartine has fewequals. He has not risen to power by those crafty combinations whichdestroy a man's moral greatness in giving him distinction. "Greatness"was, indeed, "thrust upon him, " and thus far he has nobly andcourageously sustained it. He neither courted power, nor declined it. When it was offered, he did not shrink from assuming theresponsibility of accepting it. He has no vulgar ambition to gratify, no insults to revenge, no devotion to reward. He stands untrammeledand uncommitted to any faction whatever. He may not be able to solvethe social problem of the age; but will, in that case, surrender hiscommand untarnished as he received it, and serve once more in theranks. SIR HUMPHREY GILBERT. BY HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. [When the wind abated and the vessels were near enough, the admiral was seen constantly sitting in the stern, with a book in his hand. On the 9th of September he was seen for the last time, and was heard by the people of the Hind to say, "We are as near Heaven by sea as by land. " In the following night the lights of the ship suddenly disappeared. The people in the other vessel kept a good look out for him during the remainder of the voyage. On the 22d of September they arrived, through much tempest and peril; at Falmouth. But nothing more was seen or heard of the admiral. _Belknap's American Biography_, I. 203. ] Southward with his fleet of ice Sailed the Corsair Death; Wild and fast, blew the blast, And the east-wind was his breath. His lordly ships of ice Glistened in the sun; On each side, like pennons wide, Flashing crystal streamlets run. His sails of white sea-mist Dripped with silver rain; But where he passed there were cast Leaden shadows o'er the main. Eastward from Campobello Sir Humphrey Gilbert sailed; Three days or more seaward he bore, Then, alas! the land wind failed. Alas! the land wind failed, And ice-cold grew the night; And nevermore, on sea or shore, Should Sir Humphrey see the light. He sat upon the deck, The book was in his hand; "Do not fear! Heaven is as near, " He said "by water as by land!" In the first watch of the night, Without a signal's sound, Out of the sea, mysteriously, The fleet of Death rose all around. The moon and the evening star Were hanging in the shrouds; Every mast, as it passed, Seemed to rake the passing clouds. They grappled with their prize, At midnight black and cold! As of a rock was the shock; Heavily the ground-swell rolled. Southward through day and dark, They drift in close embrace; With mist and rain to the Spanish main; Yet there seems no change of place. Southward, forever southward, They drift through dark and day; And like a dream, in the Gulf-Stream, Sinking vanish all away. THE NIGHT. The day, the bitter day, divides us, sweet-- Tears from our souls the wings with which we soar To Heaven. All things are cruel. We may meet Only by stealth, to sigh--and all is o'er: We part--the world is dark again, and fleet; The phantoms of despair and doubt once more Pursue our hearts and look into our eyes, Till Memory grows dismayed, and sweet Hope dies. But the still night, with all its fiery stars, And sleep, within her world of dreams apart-- These, these are ours! Then no rude tumult mars Thy image in the fountain of my heart-- Then the faint soul her prison-gate unbars And springs to life and thee, no more to part, Till cruel day our rapture disenchants, And stills with waking each fond bosom's pants. M. E. T. THE BOB-O-LINK. BY GEORGE S. BURLEIGH. Merrily sings the fluttering Bob-o-link, Whose trilling song above the meadow floats; The eager air speeds tremulous to drink The bubbling sweetness of the liquid notes, Whose silver cadences arise and sink, Shift, glide and shiver, like the trembling motes In the full gush of sunset. One might think Some potent charm had turned the auroral flame Of the night-kindling north to melody, That in one gurgling rush of sweetness came Mocking the ear, as once it mocked the eye, With varying beauties twinkling fitfully; Low hovering in the air, his song he sings As if he shook it from his trembling wings. MY AUNT POLLY. BY MRS. E. C. KINNEY. Every body has had an Aunt Peggy--an Aunt Patty--an Aunt Penelope, oran aunt something else; but every body hasn't had an Aunt POLLY--i. E. _such_ an Aunt Polly as mine! Most Aunt Pollies have been theexemplars and promulgators of "single blessedness"--not such was_she_! But more of this anon. Aunt Polly was the only sister of myfather, who often spoke of her affectionately; but would end hisremark with "poor Polly! so nervous--so unlike her self-possessed andbeautiful mother"--whose memory he devoutly revered. Children are notdestitute of the curiosity native to the human mind, and we oftenteased papa about a visit from Aunt Polly, who, he replied, never lefthome; but not enlightening us on the _why_, his replies only served towhet the edge of curiosity more and more. I never shall forget thesurprise that opened my eye-lids early and wide one morning, when itwas announced to me that Aunt Polly and her spouse had unexpectedlyarrived at the homestead. It would be difficult to analyze the natureof that eagerness which hastily dressed and sent me down stairs. Butunfortunately did I enter the breakfast-room just as the good book wasclosing, and the family circle preparing to finish its devotions onthe knee; however, a glance of the eye takes but little time, and apenetrating look was returned me by Aunt Polly, in which the beamingaffection of her sanguine nature, and the scowl of scarce restrainedimpatience to get hold of me, were mixed so strangely as to give hernaturally sharp black eyes an expression almost fearful to a child;but on surveying her unique apparel, and indescribably uneasy positionon the chair--for she remained seated while the rest of us knelt, giving me thus an opportunity to scrutinize her through theinterstices of my chair-back--so excited my girlish risibilities, thatfear became stifled in suppressed laughter. "Amen" was scarcepronounced, when a shrill voice called out--"Come here, you littlegood-for-nothing--_what's_ your name?" The inviting smile conveyed tome with these startling tones left no doubt who was addressed, and Iinstantly obeyed the really fervent call. Both the stout arms of myaunt were opened to receive me, but held me at their length, while--with a nervous sensibility that made the tears gush from hereyes--she hurriedly exclaimed--"_What_ shall I do with you? Do youlove to be _squeezed_? When, suiting the action to the question, sheembraced me with a tenacity that almost choked my breath. From thatmoment I loved Aunt Polly! The fervid outpouring of her affection hadmingled with the well-springs of a heart that--despite itsmischievousness--was ever brimming with love. The first gush offeeling over, Aunt Polly again held me at arm's distance, while shesurveyed intently my features, and traced in the laughing eye andgolden ringlets the likeness of her "_dearest_ brother in the world!"Poor aunty had but one! Nor was my opportunity lost of looking rightinto the face I had so often desired to see. It would be hard to drawa picture of Aunt Polly in words, so good as the reader's fancy willsupply. There was nothing peculiar in her tall, stout figure; in herwell developed features--something between the Grecian and theRoman--in her complexion, which one could see had faded from a glowingbrunette to a pale Scotch snuff color. But her eyes, they _were_peculiar--so black--so rapid in their motions--so penetrating whenlooking forward--so flashing when she laughed, that really--I neversaw such eyes! It would be still more puzzling to describe her dress. She wore a realchintz of the olden time, filled with nosegays, as unlike to Nature'sflowers as the fashion of her gown was to the dresses of modern damesof her sixty years. Though I don't believe Aunt Polly's attire lookedlike any body else's at the time it was made; at any rate, it was puton in a way that differed from the pictures I had seen of theold-school ladies. Her cap was indeed the crowner! but let that pass, for the old lady had these dainty articles so carefully packed in whathad been a sugar-box, that no doubt they were _sweet_ to any _taste_but mine. I said that Aunt Polly was not a spinster. A better idea ofher lord cannot be given than in her own words to my eldest sister, who declared in her hearing that she would never marry a minister. "Hush, hush, my dear!" said Aunt Polly, "I remember saying, when I wasa girl, that whatever faults my husband might have, he should never beyounger than myself--have red hair, or stammer in his speech: allthese objections were united in the man I married!" One more fact will convey to the imagination all that I need say ofAunt Polly's husband. Late one evening came a thundering knock at myfather's door, and as all the servants had retired, a youth whohappened to be staying with us at the time, started, candle in hand, to answer it: Now the young man was of a credulous turn, and had justawakened from a snooze in his chair. Presently a loud shriek calledall who were up in the house to the door, where, lying prostrate andfaint, was found the youth, and standing over him, with eye-ballsdistended--making ineffectual efforts to speak--was the husband ofAunt Polly. When the lad recovered, all that he could tell of hismishap was, that on opening the street-door a man, wrapped in a largeover-coat, with glassy eyes staring straight at him, opened and shuthis mouth four times without uttering a syllable--when the candlefell from his hands, and he to the floor! Aunt Polly's spouse was theprince of stammerers! But if he could seldom _begin_ a sentence, soAunt Polly could seldom _finish_ one: indeed the most noticeable_point_ in her conversation was, that it had _no_ point, or was madeup of sentences broken off in the middle. This may have beenphysiologically owing to the velocity with which the nervous fluidpassed through her brain, giving uncommon rapidity to her thoughts, and correspondingly to the motions of her body. It soon became awonder to my girlish mind how Aunt Polly ever kept still long enoughto listen to a declaration of love--especially from a stutterer--oreven to respond to the marriage ceremony. My wonder now is, how the functions of her system ever had time tofulfill their offices, or the flesh to accumulate, as it did, to avery respectable consistency; for she never, to my knowledge, finisheda meal while under our roof; nor do I believe that she ever slept_out_ a nap in her life. As she became a study well fitted to interestone of my novel, fun-loving age, I used often to steal out of bed atdifferent times in the night and peep from my own apartment into hers, which adjoined it, where a night lamp was always burning; for sheinsisted on having the door between left open. I invariably foundthose eyes of hers wide awake, and my own room being dark, tookpleasure in watching her unobserved, as she fidgeted now with herample-bordered night-cap, and now with the bed-clothes. Once was Icaught by a sudden cough on my part, which brought Aunt Polly to herfeet before I had time to slip back to bed; and the only plea that myguiltiness could make her kind remonstrance on my being up in thecold, was the very natural and very wicked fib, that I heard her moveand thought she might want something. Unsuspecting old lady! May herashes at least rest in peace! How she caught me in her arms, kissedand carried me to bed, tucking in the blankets so effectually that allattempts to get up again that night were vain! Oh, she was a love ofan aunt! The partiality of her attachment to me might have beenaccounted for by her having had no children of her own; or to theevident interest which she excited in me, causing my steps to followher wherever she went; though all the family endeavored to make herfirst and last visit as agreeable as possible. But every attempt tofasten her attention to an object of interest or curiosity long enoughto understand it, was unavailing. Sometimes I sallied out with herinto the street, and while rather pleased than mortified by theobservation which her grotesque costume and nervous, irregular gaitattracted, it was different with me when she attempted to shop; asmore often than otherwise, she would begin to pay for articlespurchased, and putting her purse abruptly in her pocket, hurry towardthe door, as if on purpose to avoid a touch on the elbow, whichsometimes served to jog her memory also, and sometimes the verypurchases were forgotten, till I became their witness. On the whole, Aunt Polly's visit was a source of more amusement to methan all the visits of all my school-mates put together. When weparted--for I truly loved her--I forgave the squeeze--a screw-turntighter than that at our meeting--and promised through my tears tomake her a visit whenever my parents would consent to it. Thehomestead was as still for a week after her departure, as a ball-roomafter the waltzers have all whirled themselves home. Hardly had thefamily clock-work commenced its methodical revolutions again, when aletter arrived; and who that knew Aunt Polly, could have mistaken itscharacteristic superscription. My father was well-known at the post office, or thehalf-written-out-name would never have found its way into his box. Internally, the letter was made up of broken sentences, big with love, like the large, fragmentary drops of rain from a passing summer cloud. By dint of patient perseverance we "gathered up the fragments, so thatnothing was lost" of Aunt Polly's itinerant thoughts or wishes. Among the latter was an invitation for me to visit her, on which myfather looked silently and negatively; but I was not thus to be denieda desire of the heart, and insisted on having an audible response tomy request of permission to fulfill the parting promise to Aunt Polly. In vain did my father give first an evasive answer, and then hint atthe disappointment likely to await such a step--recall to my mind theeccentricities of his "worthy sister"--endeavor by all gentle means ofpersuasion to deter me from my purpose, and finally try to frighten meout of it. I was incorrigible. Not long after, a gentleman who resided in the town with my aunt, cameto visit us, and being alone in a comfortable one-horse vehicle, wasglad enough to accept my offered company on his way home; so, gainingthe reluctant consent of my mother, I started, full of an indefinitesort of pleasurable expectation, nourished by the changing diorama ofa summer afternoon's ride through a cultivated part of the country. Arriving at the verge of a limpid stream, my companion turned thehorse to drink, so suddenly, that the wheels became cramped, and wewere precipitated into the water, the wagon turning a summersetdirectly over our heads. Strange to say, neither of us were hurt, andthe stream was shallow, though deep enough to give us a thorough coldbath, and to deluge the trunk containing my clothes, the lock of whichflew open in the fall. My mortified protector crept from under ourcapsized ark as soon as he could, and let me out at the window; when Ifelt myself to be in rather a worse condition than was Noah's dove, who "found no rest for the sole of her foot;" for beside dripping fromall my garments, like a surcharged umbrella, my soul, too, found nofoothold of excuse on which to stand justified before my father forexposing myself to such an _emergence_ without his knowledge. However, _return_ we must. Nor was the situation of my conductor's body or mindvery enviable, being obliged to present me to my parents, droopinglike a water-lily. But if ill-luck had pursued us, good luck awaitedour return; for we found that my father had not yet arrived from hisbusiness, and my mother's conscience kept our secret; so thatfrustration in my first attempt to visit Aunt Polly, was all the evilthat came out of the adventure. Notwithstanding my ardor had been sodamped with cold water, it was yet warm enough for another effort;though it must be confessed, that for a few days subsequent to theaccident, my animal spirits were something in the state ofover-night--uncorked champagne. The first sign of their renewed vitality was the again expresseddesire to visit Aunt Polly. I, however, learned obedience by thethings I had suffered, and resolved not to venture on anotherexpedition without the approval and protection of my father, who, because of my importunity, at length consented to accompany me, provided I would not reveal to Aunt Polly the proposed length of myvisit until I had spent a day and night under her roof. This I readilyconsented to, thinking only at the time what a strange proviso it was. Accordingly, arrangements were soon completed for the long covetedjourney; but not until I had remonstrated with my mother on herlimited provision for my wardrobe, furnishing me only with what asmall carpet-bag would contain. After a ride of some forty miles, through scenery that gave freshinspiration to my hopes, we arrived at the witching hour of sunset, before a venerable-looking farm-house. Its exterior gave no signs inthe form of shrubbery or flowers of the decorating, refining hand ofwoman; but the sturdy oak and sycamore were there to give shade, andthe life-scenes that surrounded the farm-yard were plenty in promiseof eggs and poultry for the keen appetites of the travelers. As we drove into the avenue leading to a side-door of the mansion, Icaught a glimpse of Aunt Polly's unparalleled cap through a window, and the next moment she stood on the steps, wringing her hands andcrying for joy. An involuntary dread of another _squeezing_ came overme, which had scarce time to be idealized ere it was realized almostto suffocation. My father's more graduated look of pleasure, calledfrom Aunt Polly an out-bursting--"_Forgive_ me, _forgive_ me! It's myonly brother in the world! It's my dear little puss all over again!_Forgive_ me, _forgive_ me!" But during these ejaculations I wasconfirmed in a discovery that had escaped all my vigilance while AuntPolly sojourned with us. She was a snuff-taker! That she took snuff, as she did every thing else, by _snatches_, I had also ascertained, onseeing her in the door, when she thought herself yet beyond the reachof our vision, forgetting that young eyes can see further than oldeyes; _mine_ could not be deceived in the convulsive motion thatcarried her fore-finger and thumb to the tip of her olfactory organ, which drew up one snuff of the fragrant weed--as hurriedly as aporpoise puts his head out of water for a snuff of the sweet air ofmorning--when scattering the rest of the pinch to the four winds, sheforgot, in her excitement, for once, to wipe the traces from her upperlip. Had I only suspected before, the hearty sneeze on my part thatfollowed close upon her kiss, would have made that suspicion acertainty. Aunt Polly was, indeed, that inborn abhorrence of mine, asnuff-taker! Thus my rosy prospects began to assume a yellowish tingebefore entering the house; what color they took afterward it would bedifficult to tell; for the wild confusion of its interior, gave to myfancy as many and as mixed hues as one sees in a kaleidoscope. The old-fashioned parlor had a corner cupboard, which appeared to beput to any use but the right one, while the teacups and saucers--nowhole set alike--were indiscriminately arranged _on_ the side-board, and _in_ it I saw, as the door stood ajar, Aunt Polly's bonnet andshawl; a drawer, too, being half open, disclosed one of her _sweetish_caps, side by side with a card of gingerbread. The carpet was woven ofevery color, in every form, but without any definite _figure_, andpromised to be another puzzle for my curious eyes to unravel; itseemed to have been just _thrown_ down with here and there a tack init, only serving to make it look more awry. While amusing myself withthis carpet, it recalled an incident that a roguish cousin of mineonce related to me after he had been to see Aunt Polly, connected withthis parlor, which she always called her "_square_-room!" One dayduring his visit the old lady having occasion to step into aneighbor's house, while a pot of lard was trying over the kitchenfire, and not being willing to trust her half-trained servants towatch it, she gave the precious oil in charge to this youth, who wasone of her favorites, bidding him, after a stated time, remove it fromthe chimney to a cooling-place; now not finishing her directions, thelad indulged his mischievous propensities by attempting to place thekettle of boiling lard to cool in the square-room fire-place; butfinding it heavier than his strength could carry, its contents weresuddenly deposited on the carpet, save such sprinklings as served tobrand his face and hands as the culprit of the mischief. The terrified boy hearing Aunt Polly's step on the threshold, took thefirst way that was suggested to him of escaping her wrath, which ledout at the window. Scarce had his agile limbs landed him safe on_terra firma_, when the door opened, and, preceded by a shriek thatpenetrated his hiding-place, he heard Aunt Polly's lamentablelamentation--"It's my _square_-room! my square-room _carpet_! Oh! that_I_ should live to see it come to this!" and again, and again, werethese heart-thrilling exclamations reiterated. The lad, finding thatall the good lady's excitement was likely to be spent on thesquare-room--though, alas! all wouldn't exterminate thegrease--recovered courage and magnanimity enough to reveal himself asthe author of the catastrophe, which he did with such contrition, showing at the same time his wounds, that Aunt Polly soon began "totake on" about her dear boy, to the seeming forgetfulness, whileanointing his burns, of the kettle of lard and her unfortunatesquare-room. But I must take up again the broken thread of my own adventures inthis square-room, where I left Aunt Polly flourishing about in joy atour unexpected arrival. A large, straight-backed rocking-chair stood in one corner of thisapartment, and on its cushion--stuffed with feathers, and covered withblazing chintz--lay a large gray cat curled up asleep--decidedly themost comfortable looking object in the room--till Aunt Pollyunceremoniously shook her out of her snug quarters to give my fatherthe chair. I then discovered that poor puss was without a tail! Onexpressing my surprise, aunt only replied--"Oh, _my_ cats are all so!"And, true enough, before we left, I saw some half dozen round thehouse, all deficient in this same graceful appendage of the felinerace. The human domestics of the family were only half-grown--but halfdid their work, and seemed altogether naturalized to the whirligigspirit of their mistress. The reader may anticipate the consequencesto the culinary and table arrangements. For supper we had, notunleavened bread, but that which contained "the little leaven, " thathaving had no time to "leaven the whole lump, " rendered it stillheavier of digestion; butter half-worked, tea made of water that didnot get time to boil, and slack-baked cakes. I supped on cucumbers, and complaining of fatigue, was conducted by my kind aunt to thesleeping apartment next her own, as it would seem like old times tohave me so near. What was wanting to make my bed comfortable, mighthave been owing to the fact, that the feathers under me had been onlyhalf-baked, or were picked from geese of Aunt Polly's raising; at anyrate, I was as restless as the good lady herself until daylight, whenI fell into as uneasy dreams--blessing the ducking that saved me amore lingering fate before. After a brief morning-nap I arose, andseeing fresh eggs brought in from the farm-yard, confidently expectedto have my appetite appeased, knowing that they could be cooked in"less than no time;" but here again disappointment awaited me. Foronce, Aunt Polly's mis-hit was in _over_-doing. The coffee sustainedin part her reputation, being half-roasted, half-ground, half-boiled, and, I may add, half-swallowed. After this breakfast--or keepfast--myfather archly inquired of me aside, how long I wished him to leave mewith Aunt Polly, as he must return immediately home. Horror at theidea of being left at all overcame the mortification that my reactionof feeling naturally occasioned, and throwing my arms around his neck, I implored him to take me back with him. This reply he took as coollyas if he were prepared for it. Not so did Aunt Polly receive theannouncement of my departure. She insisted that I had promised her a_visit_, and this was no visit at all. My father humored her fondnesswith his usual tact; but on telling her that it was really necessaryfor me to return to school, the kind woman relinquished at once herselfish claims, in view of a greater good to me. Poor Aunt Polly! if my affection for her was less disinterested thanher own, it was none the less in quantity; and I never loved her morethan when she gave me that cruelest of squeezes at our parting, whichproved to be the last--for I never saw her again. But in proof thatshe loved me to the end, I was remembered in her will; and did I notbelieve that if living, her generous affection, that was the preciousoil through which floated her eccentricities like "flies as big asbumble-bees, " would smooth over all appearance of ridicule in thesereminiscences, they should never amuse any one save myself. Butreally, I cannot better carry out her restless desire of pleasingothers, than by reproducing the merriment which throughout a long lifewas occasioned by her, who of all the Aunt Pollies that ever lived, was _the_ AUNT POLLY! STUDY. (Extract. ) Life, like the sea, hath yet a few green isles Amid the waste of waters. If the gale Has tossed your bark, and many weary miles Stretch yet before you, furl the battered sail, Fling out the anchor, and with rapture hail The pleasant prospect--storms will come too soon. They are but suicides, at best, who fail To seize when'er they can Joy's fleeting boon-- Fools, who exclaim "'tis night, " yet always shun the noon. Live not as though you had been born for naught. Save like the brutes to perish. What do they But crop the grass and die? Ye have been taught A nobler lesson--that within the clay, Upon the minds high altar, burns a ray Flashed from Divinity--and shall it shine Fitful and feebly? Shall it die away, Because, forsooth, no priest is at the shrine? Go ye with learning's lamp and tend the fire divine. Pore o'er the classic page, and turn again The leaf of History--ye will not heed The noisy revel and the shouts of men, The jester and the mime, for ye can feed, Deep, deep, on these; and if your bosoms bleed, At tales of treachery and death they tell, The land that gave you birth will never need Tarpeian rock, that rock from which there fell He who loved Rome and Rome's, yet loved himself too well. And she, the traitress, who beneath the weight Of Sabine shields and bracelets basely sank, Stifled and dying, at the city-gate, Lies buried there--and now the long weeds, dank With baneful dews, bend o'er her, and the rank Entangled grass, the timid lizard's home, Covers the sepulchre--the wild flower shrank To plant its roots in that polluted loam-- Pity that such a tomb should look o'er ruined Rome. Rome! lovely in her ruins! Can they claim Common humanity who never feel The pulse beat higher at the very name, The brain grow wild, and the rapt senses reel, Drunken with happiness? O'er us should steal Feelings too big for utt'rance--I should prize Such joy above all earthly wealth and weal, Nor barter it for love--when Beauty dies Love spreads his silken wings. The happy are the wise. HENRY S. HAGERT. THE FANE-BUILDER. BY EMMA C. EMBURY. A poet's wreath shall be thine only crown, A poet's memory thy most far renown. LAMENT OF TASSO. In the olden time of the world there stood on the ocean-border a largeand flourishing city, whose winged ships brought daily the costlymerchandise of all nations to its overflowing store-houses. It was aplace of busy, bustling, turbulent life. Men were struggling fiercelyfor wealth, and rank, and lofty name. The dawn of day saw themstriving each for his own separate and selfish schemes; the stars ofmidnight looked down in mild rebuke upon the protracted labor of menwho gave themselves no time to gaze upon the quiet heavens. One onlyof all this busy crowd mingled not in their toil--one only idlersauntered carelessly along the thronged mart, or wandered listlesslyby the seashore; Adonais alone scorned to bind himself by fetterswhich he could not fling aside at his own wild will. Those who lovedthe stripling grieved to see him waste the spring-time of life in thusaimlessly loitering by the way-side; while the old men and sages wouldfain have taken from him his ill-used freedom, and shut him up in theprison-house where they bestowed their madmen, lest his example shouldcorrupt the youth of the city. But for all this Adonais cared little. In vain they showed him thecraggy path which traversed the hill of Fame; in vain they set him inthe foul and miry roads which led to the temple of Mammon. He bowedbefore their solemn wisdom, but there was a lurking mischief in hisglance as he pointed to his slender limbs, and feigned a shudder ofdisgust at the very sight of these rugged and distasteful ways. So atlast he was suffered to wend his own idle course, and save thatcareful sires sometimes held him up as a warning to their children, his fellow-townsmen almost forgot his existence. Years passed on, and then a beautiful and stately Fane began to risein the very heart of the great city. Slowly it rose, and for a whilethey who toiled so intently at their daily business, marked not thewhite and polished stones which were so gradually and silently piledtogether in their midst. It grew, that noble temple, as if by magic. Every morning dawn shed its rose-tints upon another snowy marble whichhad been fixed in its appointed place beneath the light of the quietstars. Men wondered somewhat, but they had scarce time to observe, andnone to inquire. So the superb fabric had nearly reached its summitere they heard, with unbelieving ears, that the builder of this noblefane, was none other than Adonais, the idler. Few gave credence to the tale, for whence could he, the vagrant, andthe dreamer, have drawn those precious marbles, encrusted as they werewith sculpture still more precious, and written over with charactersas inscrutable as they were immortal? Some set themselves to watch forthe Fane-builder, but their eyes were heavy, and at the magic hourwhen the artist took up his labors, their senses were fast locked inslumber. Yet silently, even as the temple of the mighty Solomon, inwhich was never heard the sound of the workman's tool, so rose thatmystic fane. Not until it stood in grand relief against the clear bluesky; not until its lofty dome pierced the clouds even a mountain-top;not until its polished walls were fashioned within and without, tosurpassing beauty, did men learn the truth, and behold in the despisedAdonais, the wonder-working Fane-builder. In his wanderings thedreamer had lighted on the entrance to that exhaustless mine, whencemen of like soul have drawn their riches for all time. The hiddentreasures of poesy had been given to his grasp, and he had built atemple which should long outlast the sand-heaps which the worshipersof Mammon had gathered around them. But even then, when pilgrims came from afar to gaze upon the noblefane, the men of his own kindred and people stood aloof. They carednot for this adornment of their birth-place--they valued not thetreasures that had there been gathered together. Only the few whoentered the vestibule, and saw the sparkle of jewels which decked theinner shrine, or they to whom the pilgrims recounted the pricelessvalue of these gems in other lands--only they began to look withsomething like pride upon the dreamer Adonais. But not without purpose had the Fane-builder reared this magnificentstructure. Within those costly walls was a veiled and jeweledsanctuary. There had he enshrined an idol--the image of a brightdivinity which he alone might worship. Willingly and freely did headmit the pilgrim and the wayfarer to the outer courts of his temple;gladly did he offer them refreshing draughts from the fountain ofliving water which gushed up in its midst; but never did he sufferthem to enter that "Holy of holies;" never did their eyes rest on thatenshrined idol, in whose honor all these treasures were gatheredtogether. In progress of time, when Adonais had lavished all his wealth upon histemple, and when with the toil of gathering and shaping out hertreasures, his strength had well-nigh failed him, there came a troopof revilers and slanderers--men of evil tongue, who swore that theFane-builder was no better than a midnight robber, and had despoiledother temples of all that adorned his own. The tale was as false andfoul as they who coined it; but when they pointed to many pigmy faneswhich now began to be reared about the city, and when men saw thatthey were built of like marbles as those which glittered in the templeof Adonais, they paused not to mark that the fairest stones in thesenew structures were but the imperfect sculptures which the true artisthad scorned to employ, or perhaps the chippings of some rare gem whichin his affluence he could fling aside. So the tale was hearkened untoand believed. They whose dim perceptions had been bewildered by thisnew uncoined and uncoinable wealth, were glad to think that it hadbelonged to some far off time, or some distant region. The envious, the sordid, the cold, all listened well-pleased to the base slander;and they who had cared little for his glory made themselves strangelybusy in spreading the story of his shame. Patiently and unweariedly had the dreamer labored at his pleasanttask, while the temple was gradually growing up toward the heavens;skillfully had he polished the rich marbles, and graven upon them theineffaceable characters of truth. But the jeweled adornments of theinner shrine had cost him more than all his other toil, for with hisvery heart's blood had he purchased those costly gems that sparkled onhis soul's idol. Now wearied and worn with by-gone suffering he had nostrength to stand forth and defy his revilers. Proudly and silently hewithdrew from the world, and entered into his own beautiful fane. Presently men beheld that a heavy stone had been piled against thedoor of the inner sanctuary, and upon its polished surface wasinscribed these words: "To Time the Avenger!" From that day no one ever again beheld the dreamer. Pilgrims came asbefore, and rested within the vestibule, and drank of the springingfountain, but they no longer saw the dim outline of the veiled goddessin the distant shrine, only the white and ghastly glitter of thatthreatening stone, which seemed like the portal of a tomb, met theireyes. Thus years passed on, and men had almost forgotten the name of him whohad wasted himself in such fruitless toil. At length there came onefrom a country far beyond the seas, who had set forth to explore thewonders of all lands. He lacked the pious reverence of the pilgrims, but he also lacked the cold indifference of those who dwelt within theshadow of the temple. He entered the mystic fane, he gazed withunsated eye upon the treasures it contained, and his soul sought forgreater beauty. With daring hand he and his companions thrust asidethe marble portal which guarded the sanctuary. At first they shrunkback, dazzled and awe-stricken as the blaze of rich light met theirunhallowed gaze. Again they went forward, and then what saw they?Surrounded by the sheen of jewels--glowing in the gorgeous light ofthe diamond, the chrysolite, the beryl, the ruby, they found an imagefashioned but of common clay, while extended at its feet lay theskeleton of the Fane-builder. Worn with toil, and pain, and disappointment, he had perished at thefeet of his idol. It may be that the scorn of the world had opened hiseyes to behold of what mean materials was shapen the divinity he hadso honored. It may be that the glitter of the gems he had heapedaround it had perpetuated the delusion which had first charmed him, and he had thus been saved the last, worst pang of wasted idolatry. Itmatters not. He died--as all such men must die--in sorrow and inloneliness. But the fane he has reared is as indestructible as the soul of him wholifted its lofty summit to the skies. "Time, the Avenger, " hasredeemed the builder's fame; and even the men of his own nation nowbelieve that a prophet and a seer once dwelt among them. When that great city shall have shared the fortunes of the Babylonsand Ninevahs of olden time, that snow-white fane, written all overwith characters of truth, and graven with images of beauty, will yetendure; and men of new times and new states shall learn lessons ofholier and loftier existence from a pilgrimage to that glorioustemple, built by spirit-toil, and consecrated by spirit-worship andspirit-suffering. DREAM-MUSIC; OR, THE SPIRIT-FLUTE. A BALLAD. BY FRANCES S. OSGOOD. There--Pearl of Beauty! lightly press, With yielding form, the yielding sand; And while you lift the rosy shells, Within your dear and dainty hand, Or toss them to the heedless waves. That reck not how your treasures shine, As oft you waste on careless hearts Your fancies, touched with light divine, I'll sing a lay--more wild than gay-- The story of a magic flute; And as I sing, the waves shall play An ordered tune, the song to suit. In silence flowed our grand old Rhine; For on his breast a picture burned, The loveliest of all scenes that shine Where'er his glorious course has turned. That radiant morn the peasants saw A wondrous vision rise in light, They gazed, with blended joy and awe-- A castle crowned the beetling height! Far up amid the amber mist, That softly wreathes each mountain-spire, The sky its clustered columns kissed, And touched their snow with golden fire; The vapor parts--against the skies, In delicate tracery on the blue, Those graceful turrets lightly rise, As if to music there they grew! And issuing from its portal fair, A youth descends the dizzy steps; The sunrise gilds his waving hair, From rock to rock he lightly leaps-- He comes--the radiant, angel-boy! He moves with more than human grace; His eyes are filled with earnest joy, And Heaven is in his beauteous face. And whether bred the stars among, Or in that luminous palace born, Around his airy footsteps hung The light of an immortal morn. From steep to steep he fearless springs, And now he glides the throng amid. So light, as if still played the wings That 'neath his tunic sure are hid! A fairy flute is in his hand-- He parts his bright, disordered hair, And smiles upon the wondering band, A strange, sweet smile, with tranquil air. Anon, his blue, celestial eyes He bent upon a youthful maid, Whose looks met his in still surprise, The while a low, glad tune he played-- Her heart beat wildly--in her face The lovely rose-light went and came; She clasped her hands with timid grace, In mute appeal, in joy and shame! Then slow he turned--more wildly breathed The pleading flute, and by the sound Through all the throng her steps she wreathed, As if a chain were o'er her wound. All mute and still the group remained, And watched the charm, with lips apart, While in those linkéd notes enchained, The girl was led, with listening heart:-- The youth ascends the rocks again. And in his steps the maiden stole, While softer, holier grew the strain, Till rapture thrilled her yearning soul! And fainter fell that fairy tune; Its low, melodious cadence wound, Most like a rippling rill at noon, Through delicate lights and shades of sound; And with the music, gliding slow, Far up the steep, their garments gleam; Now through the palace gate they go; And now--it vanished like a dream! Still frowns above thy waves, oh Rhine! The mountain's wild terrific height, But where has fled the work divine, That lent its brow a halo-light? Ah! springing arch and pillar pale Had melted in the azure air! And she--the darling of the dale-- She too had gone--but how--and where? * * * * * Long years rolled by--and lo! one morn, Again o'er regal Rhine it came, That picture from the dream-land borne, That palace built of frost and flame. Behold! within its portal gleams A heavenly shape--oh! rapturous sight! For lovely as the light of dreams She glides adown the mountain height! She comes! the loved, the long-lost maid! And in her hand the charméd flute; But ere its mystic tune was played She spake--the peasants listened mute-- She told how in that instrument Was chained a world of wingéd dreams; And how the notes that from it went Revealed them as with lightning gleams; And how its music's magic braid O'er the unwary heart it threw, Till he or she whose dream it played Was forced to follow where it drew. She told how on that marvelous day Within its changing tune she heard A forest-fountain's plaintive play, A silver trill from far-off bird; And how the sweet tones, in her heart, Had changed to promises as sweet, That if she dared with them depart, Each lovely hope its heaven should meet. And then she played a joyous lay, And to her side a fair child springs, And wildly cries--"Oh! where are they? Those singing-birds, with diamond wings?" Anon a loftier strain is heard, A princely youth beholds his dream; And by the thrilling cadence stirred, Would follow where its wonders gleam. Still played the maid--and from the throng-- Receding slow--the music drew A choice and lovely band along-- The brave--the beautiful--the true! The sordid--worldly--cold--remained, To watch that radiant troop ascend; To hear the fading fairy strain; To see with Heaven the vision blend! And ne'er again, o'er glorious Rhine, That sculptured dream rose calm and mute; Ah! would that now once more 't would shine, And I could play the fairy flute! I'd play, Marié, the dream I see, Deep in those changeful eyes of thine, And thou perforce should'st follow _me_, Up--up where life is all divine! RISING IN THE WORLD. BY P. E. F. , AUTHOR OF "AARON'S ROD, " "TELLING SECRETS, " ETC. "This is the house that Jack built. " Whether it was cotton or tallow that laid the foundations of Mr. Fairchild's fortunes we forget--for people have no right now-a-days tosuch accurate memories--but it was long ago, when Mrs. Fairchild wascontented and humble, and Mr. Fairchild happy in the full stretch ofhis abilities to make the two ends meet--days which had long passedaway. A sudden turn of fortune's wheel had placed them on new ground. Mr. Fairchild toiled, and strained, and struggled to follow upfortune's favors, and was successful. The springs of life hadwell-nigh been consumed in the eager and exhausting contest; and now, breathless and worn, he paused to be happy. One half of life he hadthus devoted to the one object, meaning when that object was obtainedto enjoy the other half, supposing that happiness, like every thingelse, was to be bought. Mrs. Fairchild's ideas had jumped with her husband's fortunes. Onceshe only wanted additional pantries and a new carpet for her frontparlor, to be perfectly happy. Now, a grand house in a grand avenuewas indispensable. Once, she only wished to be a little finer thanMrs. Simpkins; now, she ardently desired to forget she ever knew Mrs. Simpkins; and what was harder, to make Mrs. Simpkins forget she hadever known _her_. In short, Mrs. Fairchild had grown _fine_, and meantto be fashionable. And why not? Her house was as big as any body's. Her husband gave her _carte blanche_ for furniture, and the mirrors, and gilding, and candelabras, were enough to put your eyes out. She was very busy, and talked very grand to the shopmen, who were veryobsequious, and altogether was very happy. "I don't know what to do with this room, or how to furnish it, " shesaid to her husband one day, as they were going through the house. There are the two drawing-rooms, and the dining-room--but this fourthroom seems of no use--I would make a _keeping_-room of it, but that ithas only that one large window that looks back--and I like a cheerfullook-out where I sit--why did you build it so?" "I don't know, " he replied, "it's just like Ashfield's house nextdoor, and so I supposed it must be right, and I told the workmen tofollow the same plan as his. " "Ashfield's!" said Mrs. Fairchild, looking up with a new idea, "Iwonder what use they put it to. " "A library, I believe. I think the head carpenter told me so. " "A library! Well, then, let's _us_ have a library, " she said. "Book-cases would fill those walls very handsomely. " He looked at her for a moment, and said, "But the books?" "Oh, we can get those, " she replied. "I'll go this very morning toMetcalf about the book-cases. " So forthwith she ordered the carriage, and drove to thecabinet-maker's. "Mr. Metcalf, " she said with her grandest air, (for as at present shehad to confine her grandeur to her trades-people, she gave them fullmeasure, for which, however, they charged her full price, ) "I want newbook-cases for my library--I want your handsomest and most expensivekind. " The man bowed civilly, and asked if she preferred the Gothic orEgyptian pattern. Gothic or Egyptian! Mrs. Fairchild was nonplused. What did he mean byGothic and Egyptian? She would have given the world to ask, but wasashamed. "I have not made up my mind, " she replied, after some hesitation, (herEgyptian ideas being drawn from the Bible, were not of the latestdate, and so she thought of Pharaoh) and added, "but Gothic, Ibelieve"--for Gothic at least was untrenched ground, and she had noprejudices of any kind to combat there--"which, however, are the mostfashionable?" she continued. "Why I make as many of the one as the other, " he replied. "Mr. Ashfield's are Egyptian, Mr. Campden's Gothic. " Now the Ashfields were her grand people. She did not know them, butshe meant to. They lived next door, and she thought nothing would beeasier. They were not only rich, but fashionable. He was a man oftalent and information, (but that the Fairchilds knew nothing about, )head of half the literary institutions, a person of weight andinfluence in all circles. She was very pretty and very elegant--dressingbeautifully, and looking very animated and happy; and Mrs. Fairchildoften gazed at her as she drove from the door, (for the housesjoined, ) and made up her mind to be very intimate as soon as she was"all fixed. " "The Ashfields have Egyptian, " she repeated, and Pharaoh faded intoinsignificance before such grand authority--and so she orderedEgyptian too. "Not there, " said Mrs. Fairchild, "you need not measure there, " as thecabinet-maker was taking the dimensions of her rooms. "I shall have alooking-glass there. " "A mirror in a library!" said the man of rule and inches, with a toneof surprise that made Mrs. Fairchild color. "Did you wish a mirrorhere, ma'am, " he added, more respectfully. "No, no, " she replied quickly, "go on"--for she felt at once that hehad seen the inside of more libraries than she had. Her ideas received another illumination from the upholsterer, as shewas looking at blue satin for a curtain to the one large window whichopened on a conservatory, who said, "Oh, it's for a library window; then cloth, I presume, madam, is thearticle you wish. " "Cloth!" she repeated, looking at him. "Yes, " he replied; "we always furnish libraries with cloth. Heavy, rich materials is considered more suitable for such a purpose thansilk. " Mrs. Fairchild was schooled again. However, Mr. Ashfield was again themodel. And now the curtains were up, and the cases home, and all but thebooks there, which being somewhat essential to a library, Mrs. Fairchild said to her husband, "My dear, you must buy some books. I want to fill these cases and getthis room finished. " "I will, " he replied. "There's an auction to-night. I'll buy a lot. " "An auction, " she said, hesitatingly. "Is that the best place? I don'tthink the bindings will be apt to be handsome of auction books. " "I can have them rebound, " he answered. "But you cannot tell whether they will fit these shelves, " shecontinued, anxiously. "I think you had better take the measure of theshelves, and go to some book-store, and then you can choose themaccordingly. " "I see Ashfield very often at book auctions, " he persisted, to whichshe innocently replied, "Oh, yes--but he knows what he is buying, we don't;" to whichunanswerable argument Mr. Fairchild had nothing to say. And so theydrove to a great book importers, and ordered the finest books andbindings that would suit their measurements. And now they were at last, as Mrs. Fairchild expressed it, "_allfixed_. " Mr. Fairchild had paid and dismissed the last workman--shehad home every article she could think of--and now they were to sitdown and enjoy. The succeeding weeks passed in perfect quiet--and, it must beconfessed, profound _ennui_. "I wish people would begin to call, " said Mrs. Fairchild, with animpatient yawn. "I wonder when they will. " "There seems to be visiting enough in the street, " said Mr. Fairchild, as he looked out at the window. "There seems no end of Ashfield'scompany. " "I wish some of them would call here, " she replied sorrowfully. "We are not fine enough for them, I suppose, " he answered, halfangrily. "Not fine enough!" she ejaculated with indignant surprise. "_We_ notfine enough! I am sure this is the finest house in the Avenue. And Idon't believe there is such furniture in town. " Mr. Fairchild made no reply, but walked the floor impatiently. "Do you know Mr. Ashfield?" she presently ask. "Yes, " he replied; "I meet him on 'change constantly. " "I wonder, then, why _she_ does not call, " she said, indignantly. "It's very rude in her, I am sure. We are the last comers. " And the weeks went on, and Mr. Fairchild without business, and Mrs. Fairchild without gossip, had a very quiet, dull time of it in theirfine house. "I wish somebody would call, " had been repeated again and again inevery note of _ennui_, beginning in impatience and ending in despair. Mr. Fairchild grew angry. His pride was hurt. He looked upon himselfas especially wronged by his neighbor Ashfield. The people opposite, too--"who were they, that the Ashfields were so intimate with them?The Hamiltons! Why he could buy them over and over again! Hamilton'sincome was nothing. " At last Mrs. Fairchild took a desperate resolution, "Why should not_we_ call first? We'll never get acquainted in this way, " whichdeclaration Mr. Fairchild could not deny. And so she dressed onemorning in her finest and drove round with a pack of cards. Somehow she found every body "out. " But that was not much, for, totell the truth, her heart did beat a little at the idea of enteringstrange drawing-rooms and introducing herself, and she would be sureto be at home when they returned her calls; and that would be lessembarrassing, and suit her views quite as well. In the course of a few days cards were left in return. "But, Lawrence, I told you to say I was at home. " said Mrs. Fairchild, impatiently, as the servant handed her half a dozen cards. "I did, ma'am, " he replied. "You did, " she said, "then how is this?" "I don't know, ma'am, " he replied, "but the foot-man gave me the cardsand said all was right. " Mrs. Fairchild flushed and looked disconcerted. Before a fortnight had elapsed she called again; but this time hercards remained unnoticed. "Who on earth is this Mrs. Fairchild?" said Mrs. Leslie Herbert toMrs. Ashfield, "who is forever leaving her cards. " "The people who built next to us, " replied Mrs. Ashfield. "I don'tknow who they are. " "What an odd idea, " pursued the other, "to be calling once a week inthis way. I left my card after the first visit; but if the littlewoman means to call every other day in this way, I shall not callagain. " And so Mrs. Fairchild was dismissed from the minds of her newneighbors, while she sat in anxious wonderment at their not callingagain. Though Mr. Fairchild was no longer in business, yet he had property tomanage, and could still walk down town and see some businessacquaintances, and inquire into stocks, and lots, and otherinteresting matters; but poor Mrs. Fairchild had fairly nothing to do. She was too rich to sew. She could buy every thing she wanted. She hadbut two children, and they could not occupy all her time; and herhouse and furniture were so new, and her servants so many, thathousekeeping was a mere name. As to reading, that never formed anypart of either her or Mr. Fairchild's pleasures. They did not evenknow the names of half the books they had. He read the papers, whichwas more than she did beyond the list of deaths and marriages--and soshe felt as if she would die in her grandeur for something to do, andsomebody to see. We are not sure but that Mrs. Simpkins would havebeen most delightedly received if she had suddenly walked in upon her. But this Mrs. Simpkins had no idea of doing. The state of wrath andindignation in which Mrs. Fairchild had left her old friends andacquaintances is not easily to be described. "She had begun to give herself airs, " they said, "even before she left---- street; and if she had thought herself a great lady then, in thatlittle box, what must she be now?" said Mrs. Thompson, angrily. "I met her not long ago in a store, and she pretended not to see me, "replied Mrs Simpkins. "So I shall not trouble myself to call, " shecontinued, with considerable dignity of manner; not telling, however, that she _had_ called soon after Mrs. Fairchild moved, and her visithad never been returned. "Oh, I am sure, " said the other, "I don't want to visit her if shedon't want to visit me;" which, we are sorry to say, Mrs. Thompson, was a story, for you know you were dying to get in the house and seeand "hear all about it. " To which Mrs. Simpkins responded, "That, for her part, she did not care about it--there was no love lostbetween them;" and these people, who had once been kind and neighborlyfriends, would not have been sorry to hear that Mr. Fairchild hadfailed--or rather would have been glad (which people mean when theysay, "they would not be sorry, ") to see them humbled in any way. So much for Mrs. Fairchild's first step in prosperity. Mrs. Fairchild pined and languished for something to do, and somebodyto see. The memory of early habits came strongly over her at times, and she longed to go in the kitchen and make a good batch of pumpkinpies, by way of amusement; but she did not dare. Her stylish pamperedmenials already suspected she was "nobody, " and constantly quoted theprivileges of Mrs. Ashfield's servants, and the authority of otherfashionable names, with the impertinence and contempt invariably feltby inferiors for those who they instinctively know to be ignorant andvulgar, and "not to the manor born. " She accidently, to her great delight, came across a young mantuamaker, who occasionally sewed at Mrs. Ashfield's; and she engaged her at onceto come and make her some morning-dresses; not that she wanted them, only the opportunity for the gossip to be thence derived. And to thosewho know nothing of the familiarity with which ladies can sometimescondescend to question such persons, it would be astonishing to knowthe quantity of information she extracted from Miss Hawkins. Not onlyof Mrs. Ashfield's mode of living, number of dresses, &c. , but of manyother families of the neighborhood, particularly the Misses Hamilton, who were described to be such "nice young ladies, " and for whom shechiefly sewed, as "Mrs. Ashfield chiefly imported most of herdresses, " but she lent all her patterns to the Miss Hamiltons; andMiss Hawkins made up all their dresses after hers, only not of suchexpensive materials. And thus she found out all the Hamiltons'economies, which filled her with contempt and indignation--contemptfor their poverty, and indignation at their position in society, andthe company they saw notwithstanding. She could not understand it. Her husband sympathized with her mostfully on this score, for, like all ignorant, purse-proud men, he couldcomprehend no claims not based in money. A sudden light broke in, however, upon the Fairchild's dull life. Agreat exertion was being made for a new Opera company, and Mr. Fairchild's money being as good as any body else's, the subscriptionbooks were taken to him. He put down his name for as large a sum asthe best of them, and felt himself at once a patron of music, fashion, and the fine arts. Mrs. Fairchild was in ecstasies. She had chosen seats in the midst ofthe Ashfields, Harpers, and others, and felt now "that they would beall together. " Mr. Fairchild came home one day very indignant with a young Mr. Bankhead, who had asked him if he would change seats with him, sayinghis would probably suit Mr. Fairchild better than those he hadselected, as they were front places, &c. , that his only object inwishing to change was to be next to the Ashfields, "as it would be aconvenience to his wife, who could then go often with them when he wasotherwise engaged. " Mr. Fairchild promptly refused in what Mr. Bankhead considered a rudemanner, who rather haughtily replied "that he should not have offeredthe exchange if he had supposed it was a favor, his seats beinggenerally considered the best. It was only on his wife's account, whowished to be among her friends that he had asked it, as he presumedthe change would be a matter of indifference to Mr. Fairchild. " The young man had no idea of the sting conveyed in these words. Mrs. Fairchild was very angry when her husband repeated it to her. "It was_not_ a matter of indifference at all. Why should not _we_ wish to beamong the Ashfields and Harpers as well as anybody?" she said, indignantly. "And who is this Mrs. Bankhead, I should like to know, that I am to yield my place to _her_;" to which Mr. Fairchild replied, with his usual degree of angry contempt when speaking of people of noproperty, "A pretty fellow, indeed! He's hardly worth salt to his porridge!Indeed, I wonder how he is able to pay for his seats at all!" While on the Bankhead's side it was, "We cannot change our places, Mrs. Ashfield. Those Fairchildsrefused. " "Oh, how provoking!" was the reply. "We should have been such a nicelittle set by ourselves. And so disagreeable, too, to have people onedon't know right in the midst of us so! Why what do the creaturesmean--your places are the best?" "Oh, I don't know. He 's a vulgar, purse-proud man. My husband wasquite sorry he had asked him, for he seemed to think it was a greatfavor, and made the most of the opportunity to be rude. " "Well, I am sorry. It's not pleasant to have such people near one; andthen I am so very, very sorry, not to have you and Mr. Bankhead withus. The Harpers were saying how delightful it would be for us all tobe together; and now to have those vulgar people instead--tooprovoking!" Ignorant, however, of the disgust, in which her anticipated proximitywas held, Mrs. Fairchild, in high spirits, bought the most beautifulof white satin Opera cloaks, and ordered the most expensiveparaphernalia she could think of to make it all complete, anddetermined on sporting diamonds that would dazzle old acquaintances, (if any presumed to be there, ) and make even the fashionables stare. The first night opened with a very brilliant house. Every body wasthere, and every body in full dress. Mrs. Fairchild had as much as shecould do to look around. To be sure she knew nobody, but then it waspleasant to see them all. She learnt a few names from the conversationthat she overheard of the Ashfields and Harpers, as they nodded todifferent acquaintances about the house. And then, during theintervals, different friends came and chatted a little while withthem, and the Bankheads leaned across and exchanged a few animatedwords; and, in short, every body seemed so full of talk, and sointimate with every body, except poor Mrs. Fairchild, who sat, loadedwith finery, and no one to speak to but her husband, who was by thistime yawning wearily, well-nigh worn out with the fatigue of hearingtwo acts of a grand Italian Opera. As Mrs. Fairchild began to recover self-possession enough tocomprehend what was going on among them, she found to her surprise, from their conversation, that the music was not all alike; that onesinger was "divine, " another "only so so;" the orchestra admirable, and the choruses very indifferent. She could not comprehend how theycould tell one from another. "They all sang at the same time; and asfor the chorus and orchestra, she did not know 'which was which. '" Then there was a great deal said about "_contraltos_" and"_sopranos_;" and when her husband asked her what they meant, shereplied, "she did not know, it was _French_!" They talked, too, ofRossini and Bellini, and people who _read_ and _wrote_ music, and thatquite passed her comprehension. She thought "music was only played andsung;" and what they meant by reading and writing it, she could notdivine. Had they talked of eating it, it would have sounded to herabout as rational. Occasionally one of the Hamiltons sat with some of the set, for itseemed they had no regular places of their own. "Of course not, " saidMrs Fairchild, contemptuously. "They can't afford it, " whichexpressive phrase summed up, with both husband and wife, the veryessence of all that was mean and contemptible, and she was onlyindignant at their being able to come there at all. The Bankheads werebad enough; but to have the Hamiltons there too, and then to hear themall talking French with some foreigners who occasionally joined them, really humbled her. This, then, she conceived was the secret of success. "They _know_French, " she would reply in a voice of infinite mortification, whenher husband expressed his indignant astonishment at finding these"nobodies" on 'change, "somebodies" at the Opera. To "_know_ French, "comprehended all her ideas of education, information, sense, andliterature. This, then, she thought was the "Open Sesame" of "goodsociety, " the secret of enjoyment at the Opera; for, be it understood, all foreign languages were "French" to Mrs. Fairchild. She was beginning to find the Opera a terrible bore, spite of all thefinery she sported and saw around her, with people she did not know, and music she did not understand. As for Mr. Fairchild, the fatiguewas intolerable; and he would have rebelled at once, if he had notpaid for his places for the season, and so chose to have his money'sworth, if it was only in tedium. A bright idea, a bold resolution occurred to Mrs. Fairchild. She wouldlearn French. So she engaged a teacher at once, at enormous terms, who was to placeher on a level with the best of them. Poor little woman! and poor teacher, too! what work it was! How hegroaned in spirit at the thick tongue that _could not_ pronounce thedelicate vowels, and the dull apprehension that knew nothing of moodsand tenses. And she, poor little soul, who was as innocent of English Grammar asof murder, how was she to be expected to understand the definite andindefinite when it was all indefinite; and as for the participle past, she did not believe _any_ body understood it. And so she worked andpuzzled, and sometimes almost cried, for a week, and then went to theOpera and found she was no better off than before. In despair, and angry with her teacher, she dismissed him. "She didnot believe any body ever learnt it that way out of books;" and "soshe would get a French maid, and she'd learn more hearing her talk ina month, than Mr. A. Could teach her, if she took lessons forever. "And so she got a maid, who brought high recommendations from somegrand people who had brought her from France, and then she thoughtherself quite set up. But the experiment did not succeed. She turned out a saucy thing, whoshrugged her shoulders with infinite contempt when she found "madame"did not comprehend her; and soon Mrs. Fairchild was very glad to takeadvantage of a grand flare-up in the kitchen between her and the cook, in which the belligerent parties declared that "one or the other mustleave the house, " to dismiss her. In deep humility of spirit Mrs. Fairchild placed her little girl atthe best French school in the city, almost grudging the poor child herSundays at home when she must hear nothing but English. She wasdetermined that she should learn French young; for she now began tothink it must be taken like measles or whooping-cough, in youth, orelse the attack must be severe, if not dangerous. Mrs. Fairchild made no acquaintances, as she fondly hoped, at theOpera. A few asked, "Who is that dressy little body who sits in frontof you, Mrs. Ashfield?" "A Mrs. Fairchild. I know nothing about them except that they livenext door to us. " "What a passion the little woman seems to have for jewelry, " remarkedthe other. "It seems to me she has a new set of something once a weekat least. " "Yes, " said one of the Hamiltons, laughing, "she's as good as ajeweler's window. It's quite an amusement to me to see the quantity ofbracelets and chains she contrives to hang around her. " "I would gladly have dispensed with that amusement, Ellen, " repliedMrs. Ashfield, "for they have the places the Bankheads wanted; and heis so clever and well-informed, and she such a bright, intelligentlittle creature, that it would have added so much to our pleasure tohave had them with us. " "Oh, to be sure! the Bankheads are jewels of the first water. And howthey enjoy every thing. What a shame it is they have not thoseFairchilds' money. " "No, no, Ellen, that is not fair, " replied Mrs. Ashfield. "Let Mrs. Fairchild have her finery--it's all, I suppose, the poor woman has. The Bankheads don't require wealth for either enjoyment orconsequence. They are bright and flashing in their own lustre, andlike all pure brilliants, are the brighter for their simple setting. " "May be, " replied the gay Ellen, "but I do love to see some peoplehave every thing. " "Nay, Ellen, " said Mrs. Ashfield, "Is that quite just? Be satisfiedwith Mrs. Bankhead's having so much more than Mrs. Fairchild, withoutrobbing poor Mrs. Fairchild of the little she has. " Could Mrs. Fairchild have believed her ears had she heard this? Couldshe have believed that little Mrs. Bankhead, whose simple book-muslinand plainly braided dark hair excited her nightly contempt, was heldin such respect and admiration by those who would not know her. AndBankhead, whom her husband spoke of with such infinite contempt, ashaving "nothing at all, " "not salt to his porridge. " And yet as Mrs. Fairchild saw them courted and gay, she longed for some of theirporridge, "for they knew French. " And thus the season wore on in extreme weariness and deepmortification. The Fairchilds made no headway at all. She made noacquaintances at all at the opera, as she had fondly hoped. She evenregretted that her husband had refused their seats to the Bankheads. Had he yielded them a favor may be they would have spoken to them. Desperate, at last, she determined she would do something. She wouldgive a party. But who to ask? Not old friends and acquaintance. That was not to be thought of. Butwho else? She knew nobody. "It was not necessary to know them, " she told her husband. "She wouldsend her card and invitations to all those fine people, and they'd beglad enough to come. The Bankheads, too, and the Hamiltons, she wouldask them. " "You are sure of them, at any rate, " said her husband contemptuously. "Poor devils! it's not often they get such a supper as they'll gethere. " But somehow the Hamiltons and Bankheads were not as hungry as Mr. Fairchild supposed, for very polite regrets came in the course of afew days, to Mrs. Fairchild's great wrath and mortification. This was but the beginning, however. Refusals came pouring in thickand fast from all quarters. The lights were prepared, the music sounding, and some half dozenladies, whose husbands had occasionally a business transaction withMr. Fairchild, looked in on their way to a grand fashionable partygiven the same evening by one of their own _clique_, and thenvanished, leaving Mrs. Fairchild with the mortified wish that they hadnot come at all, to see the splendor of preparations and the beggaryof guests. Some few young men dropped in and took a look, and bowedthemselves out as soon as the Fairchilds gave them a chance; and soended this last and most desperate effort. "My dear, " said Mrs. Fairchild one day to her husband in perfectdesperation, "let us go to Europe. " "To Europe, " he said, looking up in amazement. "Yes, " she replied, with energy. "That's what all these fine peoplehave done, and that's the way they know each other so well. All theAmericans are intimate in Paris, and then when they come back they areall friends together. " Mr. Fairchild listened and pondered. He was as tired as his wife withnothing to do; and moreover deeply mortified, though he said lessabout it, at not being admitted among those with whom he had no tastesor associations in common, and he consented. The house was shut up and the Fairchilds were off. * * * * * "Who are those Fairchilds, " asked somebody in Paris, "that one seesevery where, where money can gain admittance?" "Oh, I don't know, " replied Miss Rutherford. "They traveled down theRhine with us last summer, and were our perfect torment. We could notshake them off. " "What sort of people are they?" was the next question. "Ignorant past belief: but that would not so much matter if she werenot such a spiteful little creature. I declare I heard more gossip andill-natured stories from her about Americans in Paris than I everheard in all the rest of my life put together. " "And rich?" "Yes, I suppose so--for they spent absurdly. They are just thoseignorant, vulgar people that one only meets in traveling, and thatmake us blush for our country and countrymen. Such people should nothave passports. " "Fairchild, " said Mrs. Castleton. "The name is familiar to me. Oh, now I remember. But they can't be the same. The Fairchilds I knew werepeople in humble circumstances. They lived in ---- street. " "Yes. I dare say they are the very people, " replied Miss Rutherford. "He has made money rapidly within a few years. " "But she was the best little creature I ever knew, " persisted Mrs. Castleton. "My baby was taken ill while we were in the countryboarding at the same house, and this Mrs. Fairchild came to me atonce, and helped me get a warm bath, and watched and nursed the childwith me as if it had been her own. I remember I was very grateful forher excessive kindness and attention. " "Well, I dare say, " replied Miss Rutherford. "But that was when shewas poor, and, as you say, humble, Mrs. Castleton. Very probably shemay have been kind-hearted originally. She does love her childrendearly. She has that merit; but now that she is rich, and wants to befine and fashionable, and don't know how to manage it, and can'tsucceed, you never knew any body so spiteful and jealous as she is ofall those she feels beyond her reach. " "Pity, " said Mrs. Castleton almost sorrowfully. "She was such a goodlittle creature. How prosperity spoils some people. " And so Mrs. Fairchild traveled and came home again. They had been to Paris, and seen more things and places than theycould remember, and did not understand what they could remember, andwere afraid of telling what they had seen, lest they shouldmispronounce names, whose spelling was beyond their most ambitiousflights. They had gone to the ends of the earth to be in society at home. Butignorant they went and ignorant they returned. "Edward and Fanny shall know every thing, " said Mrs. Fairchild, andteachers without end were engaged for the young Fairchilds, who, totheir parents' great delight were not only chatting in "unknowntongues, " but becoming quite intimate with the little Ashfields andother baby sprigs of nobility. "Who is that pretty boy dancing with your Helen, Mrs. Bankhead?" askedsome one at a child's party. "Young Fairchild, " was the reply. "Fairchild! What, a son of that overdressed little woman you used tolaugh at so at the opera?" said the other. "The same, " replied Mrs. Bankhead laughing. "And here's an incipient flirtation between your girl and her boy, "continued the other archly. "Well, there's no leveler like Education. The true democrat afterall, " she pursued. "Certainly, " replied Mrs. Bankhead. "Intelligence puts us all on afooting. What other distinction can or should we have?" "I doubt whether Mrs. Fairchild thinks so, " replied her friend. "Indeed you are mistaken, " replied Mrs. Bankhead earnestly. "She wouldnot perhaps express it in those words: but her humble reverence foreducation is quite touching. They are giving these children everypossible advantage, and in a few years, when they are grown up, " shecontinued, laughing, "We mothers will be very glad to admit the youngFairchilds in society, even if they must bring the mother with them. " "I suppose so, " said the other. "And old people are inoffensive evenif they are ignorant. Old age is in itself a claim to respect. " "True enough, " returned Mrs. Bankhead; "and when you see themengrossed and happy in the success of their children, you forgive thema good deal. That is the reward of such people. " "They have fought through a good deal of mortification though toattain it, " rejoined the other. "I wonder whether the end is worthit?" "Ah! that's a question hard to settle, " replied Mrs. Bankheadseriously. "Society at large is certainly improved, but I doubtwhether individuals are the happier. No doubt the young Fairchildswill be happier for their parents' rise in the world--but I should saythe 'transition state' had been any thing but a pleasant one to theparents. The children will have the tastes as well as the means forenjoyment; the one Mrs. Fairchild having found to be quite asnecessary as the other. " "This is the march of intellect, the progress of society, exemplifiedin the poor Fairchilds, " replied the other laughing. "Well, thankHeaven my mission has not been to _rise_ in the world. " TWILIGHT. --TO MARY. Oh! how I love this time of ev'n, When day in tender twilight dies; And the parting sun, as it falls from heaven, Leaves all its beauty on the skies. When all of rash and restless Nature, Passion--impulse--meekly sleeps, And loveliness, the soul's sweet teacher, Seems like religion in its deeps. And now is trembling through my senses The melting music of the trees, And from the near and rose-crowned fences Comes the balm and fragrant breeze; And from the bowers, not yet shrouded In the coming gloom of night, Breaks the bird-song, clear, unclouded. In trembling tones of deep delight. But not for this alone I prize This witching time of ev'n, The murmuring breeze, the blushing skies, And day's last smile on heaven. But thoughts of thee, and such as thou art. That mingle with these sacred hours, Give deeper pleasure to my heart Than song of birds arid breath of flowers. Then welcome the hour when the last smile of day Just lingers at the portal of ev'n, When so much of life's tumults are passing away, And earth seems exalted to heaven. H. D. G. THE SAGAMORE OF SACO. A LEGEND OF MAINE. BY ELIZABETH OAKES SMITH. Land of the forest and the rock-- Of dark blue lake and mighty river-- Of mountains reared aloft to mock The storms career, the lightning's shock-- My own green land forever. WHITTIER. Never was country more fruitful than our own with rich materials ofromantic and tragic interest, to call into exercise the finest talentsof the dramatist and novelist. Every cliff and headland has itsaboriginal legend; the village, now thrifty and quiet, had its days ofslaughter and conflagration, its tale of devoted love or crueltreachery; while the city, now tumultuous with the pressure ofcommerce, in its "day of small things, " had its bombardment andforeign army, and its handful of determined freemen, who achievedprodigies of single handed valor. Now that men are daily learning theworth of humanity, its hopes and its trials coming nearer home tothought and affection; now that the complicated passions of refinedand artificial life are becoming less important than the broad, deep, genuine manifestations of the common mind, we may hope for a bolderand more courageous literature: we may hope to see the drama freeitself from sensualism and frivolity, and rise to the Shaksperiandignity of true passion; while the romance will learn better its trueground, and will create, rather than portray--delineate, rather thandissect human sentiment and emotion. The State of Maine is peculiarly rich in its historically romanticassociations. Settled as it was prior to the landing of the Pilgrims, first under Raleigh Gilbert, and subsequently by Sir FerdinandoGorges, whose colony it is fair, in the absence of testimony, to infernever left the country after 1616, but continued to employ themselvesin the fisheries, and in some commerce with the West Indies, up to thetime of their final incorporation with the Plymouth settlement. Indeedthe correspondence of Sir Richard Vines, governor of the colony underSir Ferdinando Gorges, with the Governor of Plymouth, leaves no doubtupon this head; and it is a well known fact that the two settlementsof De Aulney and De la Tour at the mouths of the Penobscot andKennebec rivers, even at this early age, were far from beingcontemptible, both in a commercial and numeric point of view. Added tothese was the handful of Jesuits at Mont Desert, and we might say acolony of Swedes on the sea-coast, between the two large rivers justnamed, the memory of which is traditional, and the vestiges of whichare sometimes turned up by the ploughshare. These people probably fellbeneath some outbreak of savage vengeance, which left no name orrecord of their existence. Subsequently to these was the dispersion of the Acadians, thatterrible and wanton piece of political policy, which resulted in theextinction and denationalizing of a simple and pious people. Thefugitive Acadians found their way through a wilderness of forests, suffering and dying as they went, some landing in distant states, (five hundred having been consigned to Governor Oglethorpe ofGeorgia, ) and others, lonely and bereft, found a home with the humbleand laborious farmers of this hardy state, whose finest quality is anopen-handed hospitality. These intermarrying with our people here, have left traces of their blood and fine moral qualities to enhancethe excellence of a pure and healthful population. Then followed the times of the Revolution, when Maine did her partnobly in the great and perilous work. Our own Knox was commandant ofthe artillery, and the bosom friend of Washington: our youth sunk intounknown graves in the sacred cause of freedom; and our people, poor asthey were, for the resources of the state were then undeveloped, casttheir mite of wealth into the national treasury. Northerly andisolated as she is, her cities were burned, and her frontiersjealously watched by an alert and cruel enemy. Here, too, Arnold sowedhis last seeds of virtue and patriotism, in his arduous march throughthe wilderness of Maine to the capital of the Canadas, an exploitwhich, considering the season, the poverty of numbers and resources, combined with the wild, unknown, and uncleared state of the country, may compete with the most heroic actions of any great leader of anypeople. A maritime state, Maine suffers severely from the fluctuations ofcommerce, but is the first to realize the reactions of prosperity. Herextended seaboard, her vast forests, her immense mineral resources, together with a population hardy, laborious, virtuous, andenterprising; a population less adulterated by foreign admixture thanany state in the Union, all point to a coming day of power andprosperity which shall place her foremost in the ranks of the states, in point of wealth, as she is already in that of intelligence. We have enumerated but a tithe of the intellectual resources ofMaine--have given but a blank sheet as it were of the material whichwill hereafter make her renowned in story, and must confine ourselvesto but a single point of historic and romantic interest, connectedwith the earlier records of the country. We have alluded to the firstgovernor, Sir Richard Vines, a right worthy and chivalric gentleman, the friend and agent of Sir Ferdinando Gorges, of Walter Raleigh, andother fine spirits of the day. His residence was at the Pool, as it isnow called, or "Winter Harbor, " from the fact that the winter of1616-17 was passed by Vines and his followers at this place. After aresidence of eighteen or twenty years, devoted to the interests of thecolony, the death of his patron, the transfer of the Maine plantationto the Plymouth proprietors, together with domestic and pecuniarymisfortunes, induced Sir Richard Vines to retire to the Island ofBarbadoes, where we find him prosperous and respected, and stillmindful of the colony for which he had done and suffered so much. Prior to his departure, and probably not altogether unconnected withit, he had incurred the deadly hatred of John Bonyton, a young man ofthe colony, who in after years was called, and is still remembered intradition as the "Sagamore of Saco. " The cause of this hatred was insome way connected with the disappearance of Bridget Vines, thedaughter of the governor, for whom John Bonyton had conceived a wildand passionate attachment. Years before our story she had beensuddenly missing, to the permanent grief and dismay of the family, andthe more terrible agony of John Bonyton, who had conceived the ideathat Bridget had been sent to a European convent, to save her from hispresence. This idea he would never abandon, notwithstanding the mostsolemn denials of Sir Richard, and the most womanly and sympathizingasseverations of Mistress Vines. The youth listened with compressedlip, his large, remarkable eye fixed with stern and searching scrutinyupon the face of the speaker, and when he was done the reply wasalways the same, "God knows if this be true; but, true or false, myhand shall be against every man till she be found. " Accordingly we find the youth, who seems to have been possessed ofthose rare and strong points of character which go to make the hero, in constant collision with the people of the times. Moody andrevengeful, he became an alien to his father's house, and with gun anddog passed months in the wildest regions of that wild country. Withthe savage he slept in his wigwam, he threaded the forest and stoodupon the verge of the cataract; or penetrated up to the stormy regionsof the White Mountains; and anon, hushed the tumultuous beatings ofhis heart in accordance with the stroke of his paddle, as he and hisred companions glided over that loveliest of lakes, Winnépisógé, or"the smile of the Great Spirit. " There seemed no rest for the unhappy man. Unable to endure theformalities and intermedlings, which so strongly mark the period, hespent most of his time on the frontiers of the settlement, admittingof little companionship, and yielding less of courtesy. When heappeared in the colony, the women regarded his fine person, hissmile, at once sorrowful and tender, and his free, noble bearing withadmiration, not unmingled with terror; while men, even in that age ofmanly physique looked upon his frame, lithe yet firm as iron, athleticand yet graceful, with eyes of envious delight. Truth to say, JohnBonyton had never impaired a fine development by any usefulemployment, or any elaborate attempts at book-knowledge. He knew allthat was essential for the times, or the mode of life which he hadadopted, and further he cared not. His great power consisted in apassionate yet steady will, by which all who came within his spherefound themselves bent to his purposes. The Pilgrims even, unflinching and uncompromising as they were, feltthe spell of his presence, and were content to spurn, to persecute, and set a price upon the head of a man whom they could not control. Yet for all this John Bonyton died quietly in his bed, no one daringto do to him even what the law would justify. He slept in perfectsecurity, for he knew this, and knew, too, that the woods were alivewith ardent and devoted adherents, who would have deluged the soilwith blood had but a hair of his head been injured. The Sagamore ofSaco was no ordinary man; and the men of the times, remarkable as theywere, felt this; and hence is it, that even to this day his memory isheld in remembrance with an almost superstitious awe, and people pointout a barrow where lie the ashes of the "Sagamore, " and show theboundaries of his land, and tell marvelous tales of his hardihood andself-possession. They tell of a time when a price had been set upon his head, how, whenthe people were assembled in the little church for worship, JohnBonyton walked in with gun in hand, and stood through the wholeservice, erect and stern as a man of iron, and no one dared scarcelylook upon him, much less lift a finger against him; and how he waitedtill all had gone forth, even the oracle of God, pale and trembling, and then departed in silence as he came. Surely there was greatness inthis--the greatness of a Napoleon, needing but a field for itsexercise. CHAPTER II. Methought, within a desert cave, Cold, dark, and solemn as the grave, I suddenly awoke. It seemed of sable night the cell, Where, save when from the ceiling fell An oozing drop, her silent spell No sound had ever broke. --ALLSTON. Among the great rivers of Maine the Penobscot and Kennebec standpreëminent, on account of their maritime importance, their depth andadaptability to the purposes of internal navigation; but there areothers less known, yet no less essential to the wealth of the country, which, encumbered with falls and rapids, spurn alike ship and steamer, but are invaluable for the great purposes of manufacture. TheAndroscoggin is one of these, a river, winding, capricious and mostbeautiful; just the one to touch the fancy of the poet, and tempt thecupidity of a millwright. It abounds with scenery of the most lovelyand romantic interest, and falls already in bondage to loom andshuttle. Lewiston Falls, or Pe-jip-scot, as the aboriginals calledthis beautiful place, are, perhaps, among the finest water plunges inthe country. It is not merely the beauty of the river itself, a broadand lengthened sheet of liquid in the heart of a fine country, but thewhole region is wild and romantic. The sudden bends of the riverpresent headlands of rare boldness, beneath which the river spreadsitself into a placid bay, till ready to gather up its skirts again, and thread itself daintily amid the hills. The banks present slopesand savannas warm and sheltered, in which nestle away finelycultivated farms, and from whence arise those rural sounds of flockand herd so grateful to the spirit, and that primitive blast of horn, winding itself into a thousand echoes, the signal of the in-gatheringof a household. Cliffs, crowned with fir, overhang the waters; hills, rising hundreds of feet, cast their dense shadows quite across thestream; and even now the "slim canoe" of the Indian may be seen poisedbelow, while some stern relic of the woods looks upward to the ancienthunting sites of his people, and recalls the day when, at the verge ofthis very fall, a populous village sent up its council smoke day andnight, telling of peace and the uncontested power of his tribe. But in the times of our story the region stood in its untamed majesty;the whirling mass of waters tumbling and plunging in the midst of anunbroken forest, and the great roar of the cataract booming throughthe solitude like the unceasing voice of the eternal deep. Men nowstand with awe and gaze upon those mysterious falls, vital withtraditions terribly beautiful, and again and again ask, "Can they betrue? Can it be that beneath these waters, behind that sheet of foamis a room, spacious and vast, and well known, and frequented by theIndian?" An old man will tell you that one morning as he stood watching therainbows of the fall, he was surprised at the sudden appearance of anIndian from the very midst of the foam. He accosted him, asked whencehe came, and how he escaped the terrible plunge of the descendingwaves. The Indian, old and white-headed, with the eye of an eagle, andthe frame of a Hercules, raised the old man from the ground, shook himfiercely, and then cast him like a reptile to one side. A moment moreand the measured stroke of a paddle betrayed the passage of the stoutRed Man adown the stream. Our story must establish the fact in regard to this cave--a fact wellknown in the earlier records of the country, more than one white manhaving found himself sufficiently athletic to plunge behind the sheetof water and gain the room. It was mid-day, and the sun, penetrating the sheet of the falls, casta not uncheerful light into the cave, the size and gloom of which werestill further relieved by a fire burning in the centre, and one ormore torches stuck in the fissures of the rocks. Before this firestood a woman of forty or fifty years of age, gazing intently upon thewhite, liquid, and tumultuous covering to the door of her home, andyet the expression of her eye showed that her thoughts were far beyondthe place in which she stood. She was taller than the wont of Indian women, more slender than iscustomary with them at her period of life, and altogether, presented akeenness and springiness of fibre that reminded one of Arab more thanaboriginal blood. Her brow was high, retreating, and narrow, witharched and contracted brows, beneath which fairly burned a pair ofintense, restless eyes. At one side, stretched upon skins, appeared what might have beenmistaken for a white veil, except that a draft of air caused a portionof it to rise and fall, showing it to be a mass of human hair. Yet somotionless was the figure, so still a tiny moccasoned foot, justperceptible, and so ghastly the hue and abundance of the covering, that all suggested an image of death. At length the tall woman turned sharply round and addressed the objectupon the mats. "How much longer will you sleep, Skoke? Get up, I tell thee. " At this ungracious speech--for Skoke[13]means snake--the figurestarted slightly, but did not obey. After some silence she spokeagain, "Wa-ain (white soul) get up and eat, our people will soon behere. " Still no motion nor reply. At length the woman, in a sharperaccent, resumed, "Bridget Vines, I bid thee arise!" and she laughed in an under tone. The figure slowly lifted itself up and looked upon the speaker. "Ascáshe, [14] I will answer only to my own name. " "As you like, " retorted the other. "Skoke is as good a name asAscáshe. " A truism which the other did not seem disposed toquestion--the one meaning a snake, the other a spider, or"net-weaver. " Contrary to what might have been expected from the color of the hair, the figure from the mat seemed a mere child in aspect, and yet theeye, the mouth, and the grasp of the hand, indicated not only maturityof years, but the presence of deep and intense passions. Her size wasthat of a girl of thirteen years in our northern climate, yet the finebust, the distinct and slender waist, and the firm pressure of thearched foot, revealed maturity as well as individualism of character. [Footnote 13: I do not know how general is the use of this wordamongst the Indians. The writer found it in use amongst the Penobscottribe. ] [Footnote 14: As-nob-a-cá-she, contracted to Ascáshe, is literally anet-weaver, the name for spider. This term is from Schoolcraft. ] Rising from her recumbent posture, she approached the water at theentrance of the cave till the spray mingled with her long, whitelocks, and the light falling upon her brow, revealed a sharp beautifuloutline of face scarcely touched by years, white, even teeth, and eyesof blue, yet so deeply and sadly kindling into intensity, that theygrew momentarily darker and darker as you gazed upon them. "Water, still water, forever water, " she murmured. Suddenly turninground, she darted away into the recesses of the cave, leaping andflying, as it were, with her long hair tossed to and fro about herperson. Presently she emerged, followed by a pet panther, which leapedand bounded in concert with his mistress. Seizing a bow, she sent thearrow away into the black roof of the cavern, waited for its return, and then discharged it again and again, watching its progress witheager and impatient delight. This done, she cast herself again uponthe skins, spread her long hair over her form, and lay motionless asmarble. Ascáshe again called, "Why do you not come and eat, Skoke?" Having no answer, she called out, "Wa-ain, come and eat;" and thentired of this useless teasing, she arose, and shaking the white girlby the arm, cried, "Bridget Vines, I bid you eat. " "I will, Ascáshe, " answered the other, taking corn and dried fish, which the other presented. "The spider caught a bad snake when she wove a net for Bridget Vines, "muttered the tall woman. The other covered her face with her hands, and the veins of her forehead swelled above her fingers; yet when sheuncovered her eyes they were red, not with tears, but the effort tosuppress their flow. "It is a long, long time, that I have been here, Ascáshe, " answeredBridget, sorrowfully. "Have you never been out since Samoret left you here?" asked thenet-weaver; and she fixed her eyes searchingly upon the face of thegirl, who never quailed nor changed color beneath her gaze, butreplied in the same tone, "How should little Hope escape--where shouldshe go?" Hope being the name by which Mistress Vines had called herchild in moments of tenderness, as suggesting a mother's yearning hopethat she would at some time be less capricious, for Bridget had alwaysbeen a wayward, incoherent, and diminutive creature, and treated withgreat gentleness by the family. "Do you remember what I once told you?" continued the other. "You hada friend--you have an enemy. " This time Bridget Vines started, and gave utterance to a long, low, plaintive cry, as if her soul wailed, as it flitted from its frailtenement, for she fell back as if dead upon the skins. The woman muttered, "The white boy and girl shouldn't have scorned thered woman, " and she took her to the verge of the water and awaited herrecovery; when she opened her eyes, she continued, "Ascáshe iscontent--she has been very, very wretched, but so has been her enemy. Look, my hair is black; Wa-ain's is like the white frost. " "I knew it would be so, " answered the other, gently, "but it isnothing. Tell me where you have been, Ascáshe, and how came you here?O-ya-ah died the other day. " She alluded to an old squaw, who had beenher keeper in the cave. At this moment a shadow darkened the room, another, and another, andthree stalwart savages stood before the two women. Each, as he passed, patted the head of Bridget, who shook them off with moody impatience. They gathered about the coals in the centre, talking in under tones, while the women prepared some venison which was to furnish forth therepast. CHAPTER III. And she who climbed the storm-swept steep, She who the foaming wave would dare, So oft love's vigil here to keep, Stranger, albeit, thou think'st I dote; I know, I know, she watches there. --HOFFMAN. That night the men sat long around the fire, and talked of a deadlyfeud and a deadly prospect of revenge. Ascáshe listened and counseled, and her suggestions were often hailed with intimations ofapproval--for the woman was possessed of a keen and penetrating mind, heightened by passions at once powerful and malevolent. Had the groupobserved the white occupant of the skins, they would have seen a pairof dark, bright eyes peering through those snowy locks, and red lipsparted, in the eagerness of the intent ear. "How far distant are they now?" asked the woman. "A three hours walk down stream, " was the answer. "To-morrow they willascend the falls to surprise our people, and burn the village. To-night, when the moon is down, we are to light a fire at still-water_above_ the falls, and the Terrentines will join us at the signal, leave their canoes in the care of the women, and descend upon ourfoes. The fire will warn our people how near to approach the falls, for the night will be dark. " This was told at intervals, and to thequestionings of the woman. "Where is the Sagamore of Saco, " asked Ascáshe. "John Bonyton heads our foes, but to-night is the last one to theSagamore. " At this name the white hair stirred violently, and then a low wailescaped from beneath. The group started, and one of the men, withAscáshe, scanned the face of the girl, who seemed to sleep in perfectunconsciousness; but the panther rolled itself over, stretched out itsclaws, and threw back his head, showing his long, red tongue, anduttered a yawn so nearly a howl, that the woman declared the soundsmust have been the same. Presently the group disposed themselves to sleep till the moon shouldset, when they must once more be upon the trail. Previous to this, many were the charges enjoined upon the woman in regard to Bridget. "Guard her well, " said the leader of the band. "In a few suns more shewill be a great medicine woman, foretelling things that shall come tothe tribes. " We must now visit the encampment of John Bonyton, where he and hisfollowers slept, waiting till the first dawn of day should send themon their deadly path. The moon had set; the night was intensely dark, for clouds flitted over the sky, now and then disburdening themselveswith gusts of wind, which swayed the old woods to and fro, while bigdrops of rain fell amid the leaves and were hushed. Suddenly a white figure stood over the sleeping chief, so slight, sounearthly in its shroud of wet, white hair, that one might well bepardoned a superstitious tremor. She wrung her hands and wept bitterlyas she gazed--then she knelt down and looked more closely; then, witha quick cry, she flung herself into his bosom. "Oh, John Bonyton, did I not tell you this? Did I not tell you, yearsago, that little Hope stood in my path, with hair white as snow?" The man raised himself up, he gathered the slight figure in hisarms--he uncovered a torch and held it to her face. "Oh, my God! my God!" he cried--and his strength departed, and he washelpless as a child. The years of agony, the lapse of thirty yearswere concentrated in that fearful moment. Bridget, too, lay motionlessand silent, clinging to his neck. Long, long was that hour ofsuffering to the two. What was life to them! stricken and changed, living and breathing, they only felt that they lived and breathed bythe pangs that betrayed the beating pulse. Oh, life! life! thou art afearful boon, and thy love not the least fearful of thy gifts. At length Bridget raised herself up, and would have left his arms; butJohn Bonyton held her fast. "Nay, Hope, never again. My tender, my beautiful bird, it has faredill with thee;" and smoothing her white locks, the tears gushed to theeyes of the strong man. Indeed, he, in his full strength and manhood, she, diminutive and bleached by solitude and grief, contrasted sopowerfully in his mind, that a paternal tenderness grew upon him, andhe kissed her brow reverently, saying, "How have I searched for thee, my birdie, my child; I have beenhaunted by the furies, and goaded well nigh to murder--but thou arthere--yet not thou. Oh, Hope! Hope!" The girl listened intent and breathless. "I knew it would be so, John Bonyton; I knew if parted we could neverbe the same again--the same cloud returns not to the sky; the sameblossom blooms not twice; human faces wear never twice the same look;and, alas! alas! the heart of to-day is not that of to-morrow. " "Say on, Hope--years are annihilated, and we are children again, hoping, loving children. " But the girl only buried her face in his bosom, weeping and sobbing. At this moment a red glare of light shot up into the sky, and Bridgetsprung to her feet. "I had forgotten. Come, John Bonyton, come and see the only work thatpoor little Hope could do to save thee;" and she darted forward withthe eager step which Bonyton so well remembered. As they approachedthe falls, the light of the burning tree, kindled by the hands ofBridget _below_ the falls, flickered and glared upon the waters; thewinds had died away; the stars beamed forth, and nothing mingled withthe roar of waters, save an occasional screech of some nocturnalcreature prowling for its prey. Ever and ever poured on the untiring flood, till one wondered it didnot pour itself out; and the heart grew oppressed at the vast imagescrowding into it, swelling and pressing, as did the tumultuous wavesover their impediment of granite--water, still water, till the nervesached from weariness at the perpetual flow, and the mind questioned ifthe sound itself were not silence, so lonely was the spell--questionedif it were stopped if the heart would not cease to beat, and lifebecome annihilate. Suddenly the girl stopped with hand pointing to the falls. A blackmass gleamed amid the foam--one wild, fearful yell arose, even abovethe roar of waters, and then the waves flowed on as before. "Tell me, what is this?" cried John Bonyton, seizing the hand ofBridget, and staying her flight with a strong grasp. "Ascáshe did not know I could plunge under the falls--she did not knowthe strength of little Hope, when she heard the name of John Bonyton. She then went on to tell how she had escaped the cave--how she hadkindled a signal fire _below_ the falls in advance of that to bekindled above--and how she had dared, alone, the terrors of theforest, and the black night, that she might once more look upon theface of her lover. When she had finished, she threw her arms tenderlyaround his neck, she pressed her lips to his, and then, with agentleness unwonted to her nature, would have disengaged herself fromhis arms. "Why do you leave me, Hope--where will you go?" asked the Sagamore. She looked up with a face so pale, so hopeless, so mournfully tender, as was most affecting to behold. "I will go under the falls, and theresleep--oh! so long will I sleep, John Bonyton. He folded her like a little child to his bosom. "You must not leaveme, Hope--do you not love me?" She answered only by a low wail, that was more affecting than anywords; and when the Sagamore pressed her again to his heart, sheanswered, calling him John Bonyton, as she used to call him in thedays of her childhood. "Little Hope is a terror to herself, John Bonyton. Her heart is alllove--all lost in yours; but she is a child, a child just as she wasyears ago; but you, you are not the same--more beautiful--greater;poor little Hope grows fearful before you;" and again her voice waslost in tears. The sun now began to tinge the sky with his ruddy hue; the birdsfilled the woods with an out-gush of melody; the rainbow, as ever, spanned the abyss of waters, while below, drifting in eddies, werefragments of canoes, and still more ghastly fragments telling of thenight's destruction. The stratagem of the girl had been entirelysuccessful--deluded by the false beacon, the unhappy savages haddrifted on with the tide, unconscious of danger, till the one terriblepang of danger, and the terrible plunge of death came at the one andsame moment. Upon a headland overlooking the falls stood the group of the cavern, stirred with feelings to which words give no utterance, and which findexpression only in some deadly act. Ascáshe descended stealthily alongthe bank, watching intently the group upon the opposite shore, in themidst of which floated the white, abundant locks of Bridget Vines, visible at a great distance. She now stood beside the Sagamore, saying, "Forget poor little Hope, John Bonyton, or only remember that her lifewas one long, long thought of thee. " She started--gave one wild look of love and grief at the Sagamore--andthen darted down the bank, marking her path with streams of blood, anddisappeared under the falls. The aim of the savage had done its work. "Ascáshe is revenged, John Bonyton, " cried a loud voice--and a dozenarrows stopped it in its utterance. Fierce was the pursuit, anddesperate the flight of the few surviving foes. The "Sagamore of Saco"never rested day nor night till he and his followers had cut off thelast vestige of the Terrantines, and avenged the blood of the unhappymaiden. Then for years did he linger about the falls in the vain hopeof seeing once more her wild spectral beauty--but she appeared no morein the flesh; though to this, men not romantic nor visionary declarethey have seen a figure, slight and beautiful, clad in robe of skin, with moccasoned feet, and long, white hair, nearly reaching to theground, hovering sorrowfully around the falls; and this strange figurethey believe to be the wraith of the lost Bridget Vines. THE SACHEM's HILL. BY ALFRED B. STREET. 'T was a green towering hill-top: on its sides June showered her red delicious strawberries, Spotting the mounds, and in the hollows spread Her pink brier roses, and gold johnswort stars. The top was scattered, here and there, with pines, Making soft music in the summer wind, And painting underneath each other's boughs Spaces of auburn from their withered fringe. Below, a scene of rural loveliness Was pictured, vivid with its varied hues; The yellow of the wheat--the fallow's black-- The buckwheat's foam-like whiteness, and the green Of pasture-field and meadow, whilst amidst Wound a slim, snake-like streamlet. Here I oft Have come in summer days, and with the shade Cast by one hollowed pine upon my brow, Have couched upon the grass, and let my eye Roam o'er the landscape, from the green hill's foot To where the hazy distance wrapped the scene. Beneath this pine a long and narrow mound Heaves up its grassy shape; the silver tufts Of the wild clover richly spangle it, And breathe such fragrance that each passing wind Is turned into an odor. Underneath A Mohawk Sachem sleeps, whose form had borne A century's burthen. Oft have I the tale Heard from a pioneer, who, with a band Of comrades, broke into the unshorn wilds That shadowed then this region, and awoke The echoes with their axes. By the stream They found this Indian Sachem in a hut Of bark and boughs. One of the pioneers Had lived a captive 'mid the Iroquois. And knew their language, and he told the chief How they had come to mow the woods away, And change the forest earth to meadows green, And the tall trees to dwellings. Rearing up His aged form, the Sachem proud replied, That he had seen a hundred winters pass Over this spot; that here his tribe had died, Parents and children, braves, old men and all, Until he stood a withered tree amidst His prostrate kind; that he had hoped he ne'er Would see the race, whose skin was like the flower Of the spring dogwood, blasting his old sight; And that beholding them amidst his haunts, He called on Hah-wen-ne-yo to bear off His spirit to the happy hunting-grounds. Shrouding his face within his deer-skin robe, And chanting the low death-song of his tribe, He then with trembling footsteps left the hut And sought the hill-top; here he sat him down With his back placed within this hollowed tree, And fixing his dull eye upon the scene Of woods below him, rocked with guttural chant The livelong day, whilst plyed the pioneers Their axes round him. Sunset came, and still There rocked his form. The twilight glimmered gray, Then kindled to the moon, and still he rocked; Till stretched the pioneers upon the earth Their wearied limbs for sleep. One, wakeful, left His plump moss couch, and strolling near the tree Saw in the pomp of moonlight that old form Still rocking, and, with deep awe at his heart, Hastened to join his comrades. Morn awoke, And the first light discovered to their eyes That weird shape rocking still. The pioneers, With kindly hands, took food and at his side Placed it, and tried to rouse him, but in vain. He fixed his eye still dully down the hill, And when they took their hands from off his frame It still renewed its rocking. Morning went, And noon and sunset. Often had they glanced From their hard toil as passed the hours away Upon that rocking form, and wondered much; And when the sunset vanished they approached Their kindness to renew; but suddenly, As came they near, they saw the rocking cease, And the head drop upon his naked breast. Close came they, and the shorn head lifting up, In the glazed eye and fallen jaw beheld Death's awful presence. With deep sorrowing hearts They scooped a grave amidst the soft black mould, Laid the old Sachem in its narrow depth, Then heaped the sod above, and left him there To hallow the green hill-top with his name. VISIT TO GREENWOOD CEMETERY. BY MRS. LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY. City of marble! whose lone structures rise In pomp of sculpture beautifully rare, On thy still brow a mournful shadow lies, For round thy haunts no busy feet repair; No curling smoke ascends from roof-tree fair, Nor cry of warning time the clock repeats-- No voice of Sabbath-bell doth call to prayer-- There are no children playing in thy streets, Nor sounds of echoing toil invade thy green retreats. Rich vines around thy graceful columns wind, Young buds unfold, the dewy skies to bless, Yet no fresh wreaths thine inmates wake to bind-- Prune no wild spray, nor pleasant garden dress-- From no luxuriant flower its fragrance press-- The golden sunsets through enwoven trees Tremble and flash, but they no praise express-- They lift no casement to the balmy breeze, For fairest scenes of earth have lost their power to please. A ceaseless tide of emigration flows On through thy gates, for thou forbiddest none In thy close-curtained couches to repose, Or lease thy narrow tenements of stone, It matters not where first the sunbeam shone Upon their cradle--'neath the foliage free Where dark palmettos fleck the torrid zone, Or 'mid the icebergs of the Arctic sea-- Thou dost no questions ask; all are at home with thee. One pledge alone they give, before their name Is with thy peaceful denizens enrolled-- The vow of silence thou from each dost claim, More strict and stern than Sparta's rule of old, Bidding no secrets of thy realm be told, Nor slightest whisper from its precincts spread-- Sealing each whitened lip with signet cold, To stamp the oath of fealty, ere they tread Thy never-echoing halls, oh city of the dead! 'Mid scenes like thine, fond memories find their home, For sweet it was to me, in childhood's hours, 'Neath every village church-yard's shade to roam, Where humblest mounds were decked with grassy flowers, And I have roamed where dear Mount Auburn towers, Where Laurel-Hill a cordial welcome gave To the rich tracery of its hallowed bowers, And where, by quiet Lehigh's crystal wave, The meek Moravian smooths his turf-embroidered grave: Where too, in Scotia, o'er the Bridge of Sighs, The Clyde's Necropolis uprears its head, Or that old abbey's sacred turrets rise Whose crypts contain proud Albion's noblest dead, -- And where, by leafy canopy o'erspread, The lyre of Gray its pensive descant made-- And where, beside the dancing city's tread, Famed Père La Chaise all gorgeously displayed Its meretricious robes, with chaplets overlaid. But thou, oh Greenwood! sweetest art to me, Enriched with tints of ocean, earth and sky, Solemn and sweet, to meditation free, Most like a mother, who with pleading eye Dost turn to Him who for the lost did die-- And with thy many children at thy breast, Invoke His aid, with low and prayerful sigh, To bless the lowly pillow of their rest, And shield them, when the tomb no longer guards its guest. Calm, holy shades! we come to you for health, -- Sickness is with the living--wo and pain-- And dire diseases thronging on, by stealth From the worn heart its vital flood to drain, Or smite with sudden shaft the reeling brain, Till lingering on, with nameless ills distrest, We find the healer's vaunted armor vain, The undrawn spear-point in our bleeding breast, -- Fain would we hide with you, and win the boon of rest. Sorrow is with the living! Youth doth fade-- And Joy unclasp its tendril green, to die-- The mocking tares our harvest-hopes invade, On wrecking blasts our garnered treasures fly, Our idols shame the soul's idolatry, Unkindness gnaws the bosom's secret core, Long-trusted friendship turns an altered eye When, helpless, we its sympathies implore-- Oh! take us to your arms, that we may weep no more. THE HALL OF INDEPENDENCE. BY GEO. W. DEWEY. This is the sacred fane wherein assembled The fearless champions on the side of Right; Men, at whose declaration empires trembled, Moved by the truth's immortal might. Here stood the patriot band--one union folding The Eastern, Northern, Southern sage and seer, Within that living bond which truth upholding, Proclaims each man his fellow's peer. Here rose the anthem, which all nations hearing, In loud response the echoes backward hurled; Reverberating still the ceaseless cheering, Our continent repeats it to the world. This is the hallowed spot where first, unfurling, Fair Freedom spread her blazing scroll of light; Here, from oppression's throne the tyrant hurling, She stood supreme in majesty and might! THE LAST OF THE BOURBONS. A FRENCH PATRIOTIC SONG, WRITTEN BY ALEXANDRE PANTOLÉON, THE MUSIC COMPOSED AND DEDICATED TO THE NATIONAL GUARD OF FRANCE, BY =J. C. N. G. = Presented by George Willig, No. 171 Chesnut Street, Philad'a. --Copyrightsecured. [Illustration: Des Bourbons c'est la chu te Dit la Li-ber-té Leur scep-tre dans lalut-te Mes mains l'ont bri sé; J'ai chas- 'Tis the last of the Bourbons Shouts freedom with joy, As her legionsin triumph Be-fore her de-ploy, And the sé de ma lan ce, Le cou-pa-ble roi, Et j'ai ren-du la France, Mai-tres-se de soi. throne of the des-pot Is dashed at her feet, Which her men in coarseblouses, With Mar-seillaise greet. _Ad. Lib. _] [Illustration: Vi-ve, vi-ve, vi-ve la Li-ber-té! Vi-ve, vi-ve, vi-ve la Li-ber-té! Hur-rah! hur-rah! hur-rah! for Li-ber-ty! Hur-rah! hur-rah! hur-rah!for Li-ber-ty! Tempo. CHORUS. A-bas les ty-rans! A-bas les ty-rans! Vi-ve, vi-ve, vi-ve laLi-ber-té! Ty-rants shall no more our coun-try con-trol! Hur-rah! hur-rah!hur-rah! for Li-ber-ty!] II. Oh thou spirit of lightning That movest the French From the hands of the tyrant, The sceptre to wrench. Thou no more wilt be cheated But keep under arms Till the sway thou upholdest Is free from alarms! Hurrah! hurrah! &c. II. J'entends gronder la foudre Des braves Français Ils ont réduit en poudre Le siége des forfaits. Leurs éclairs épouvantent Les rois étrangers Dont les glaives tourmentent Des coeurs opprimés. Vive, vive, &c. III. Tis too late for an Infant To govern a land Which a tyrant long practiced Has failed to command. For the men of fair Gallia At home will be free, And extend independence To lands o'er the sea! Hurrah! hurrah! &c. III. Désormais soyez sages Restez tous armés Protégeant vos suffrages Et vos droits sacrés. Comblez l'espoir unique De France! en avant! Vive la République! A bas les tyrans! Vive, vive, &c. TO AN ISLE OF THE SEA. [15] BY MRS. J. W. MERCUR. Bright Isle of the Ocean, and gem of the sea, Thou art stately and fair as an island can be, With thy clifts tow'ring upward, thy valleys outspread, And thy fir-crested hills, where the mountain deer tread, So crowned with rich verdure, so kissed by each ray Of the day-god that mounts on and upward his way, While thy wild rushing torrent, thy streams in their flow, Reflect the high archway of heaven below, Whose clear azure curtains, so cloudless and bright, Are here ever tinged with the red gold at night; Then with one burst of glory the sun sinks to rest, And the stars they shine out on the land that is blest. Thy foliage is fadeless, no chilling winds blow, No frost has embraced thee, no mantle of snow; Then hail to each sunbeam whose swift airy flight Speeds on for thy valleys each hill-top and height! To clothe them in glory then die 'mid the roar Of the sea-waves which echo far up from the shore! They will rest for a day, as if bound by a spell, They will noiselessly fall where the beautiful dwell, They will beam on thy summits so lofty and lone, Where nature hath sway and her emerald throne, Then each pearly dew-drop descending at even, At morn they will bear to the portals of Heaven. Thou art rich in the spoils of the deep sounding sea, Thou art blest in thy clime, (of all climates for me, ) Thou hast wealth on thy bosom, where orange-flowers blow, And thy groves with their golden-hued fruit bending low, In thy broad-leafed banana, thy fig and the lime, And grandeur and beauty, in palm-tree and vine. Thou hast wreaths on thy brow, and gay flowers ever bloom, Wafting upward and onward a deathless perfume, While round thee the sea-birds first circle, then rise, Then sink to the wave and then glance tow'rd the skies! While their bright plumage glows 'neath the sun's burning light, And their screams echo back in a song of delight. Thou hast hearts that are noble, and doubtless are brave, Thou hast altars to bow at, for worship and praise, Thou hast light when night's curtains around thee are driven From the Cross which beams out in the far southern heaven, Yet one spot of darkness remains on thy breast, As a cloud in the depth of a calm sky at rest. Like a queen that is crowned, or a king on his throne, In grandeur thou sittest majestic and lone, And the power of thy beauty is breathed on each gale As it sweeps o'er thy hills or descends to the vale; And homage is offered most boundless and free, Oh, Isle of the Ocean, in gladness to thee, So circled with waters, so dashed by the spray Of the waves which leap upward then stop in their way. And lo! thou art loved by a child of the West, For the beauty and bloom of thy tropical breast, Yet dearer by far is that land where the skies Though colder bends o'er it and bleak winds arise, Where the broad chart of Nature is boldly unfurled, And a light from the free beameth out o'er the world. Yes, dearer that land where the eagle on high Spreads his wings to the wind as he cleaves the cold sky, Where mountain, and torrent, and forest and vale, Are swept by the path of the storm-ridden gale, And each rock is an altar, each heart is a shrine, Where Freedom is worshiped in Liberty clime, And her banners float out on the breath of the gale, Bright symbols of glory which proudly we hail, And her bulwarks are reared where the heart of the brave Refused to be subject, and scorned to be slave. [Footnote 15: Santa Cruz. ] SONNET:--TO ARABELLA, BY MRS. E. C. KINNEY. There is a pathos in those azure eyes, Touching, and beautiful, and strange, fair child! When the fringed lids upturn, such radiance mild Beams out as in some brimming lakelet lies, Which undisturbed reflects the cloudless skies: No tokens glitter there of passion wild, That into ecstasy with time shall rise; But in the deep of those clear orbs are signs-- Which Poesy's prophetic eye divines-- Of woman's love, enduring, undefiled! If, like the lake at rest, through life we see Thy face reflect the heaven that in it shines, No _idol_ to thy worshipers thou'lt be, For he will worship HEAVEN, who worships _thee_. PROTESTATION. No, I will not forget thee. Hearts may break Around us, as old lifeless trees are snapt By the swift breath of whirlwinds as they wake Their path amid the forest. Lightning-wrapt, (For love is fire from Heaven, ) we calmly stand-- Heart pressed to answering heart--hand linked with hand. REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS. _Endymion. By Henry B. Hirst. Boston: Wm. D. Ticknor & Co. 1 vol. 12mo. _ It was Goethe, we believe, who objected to some poet, that he put toomuch water in his ink. This objection would apply to the uncountedhost of our amateur versifiers, and poets by the grace of verbiage. Ifan idea, or part of an idea, chances to stray into the brain of anAmerican gentleman, he quickly apparels it in an old coat from hiswardrobe of worn phrases, and rushes off in mad haste to the firstmagazine or newspaper, in order that the public may enjoy itsdelectable beauty at once. We have on hand enough MSS. Of this kind, which we never intend to print, to freight the navy of Great Britain. But mediocrity and stupidity are not the only sinners in respect tothis habit of writing carelessly. Hasty composition is an epidemicamong many of our writers, whose powers, if disciplined by study, anddirected to a definite object, would enable them to produce beautifuland permanent works. So general is the mental malady to which we havealluded, that it affects the judgments of criticism, and if acollection of lines, going under the name of a poem, contains finepassages, or felicitous flashes of thought, it commonly passes musteras satisfying the requirements of the critical code. Careless writers, therefore, are sustained by indulgent critics, and between both goodliterature is apt to be strangled in its birth. Now it is due to Mr. Hirst to say that his poem belongs not to theclass we have described. It is no transcript of chance conceptions, expressed in loose language, and recklessly huddled together, withoutcoherence and without artistic form, but a true and consistentcreation, with a central principle of vitality and a definite shape. He has, in short, produced an original poem on a classic subject, written in a style of classic grace, sweetness and simplicity, rejecting all superfluous ornament and sentimental prettinesses, andconveying one clear and strong impression throughout all its varietyof incident, character and description. It is no conglomeration ofparts, but an organic whole. This merit alone should give him a highrank among the leading poets of the country, for it evidences that hehas a clear notion of what the word poem means. We have neither time nor space to analyze the poem, and indicate itsmerits as a work of art. It displays throughout great force anddelicacy of conception, a fine sense of harmony, and a power anddecision of expression which neither overloads nor falls short of thethought. In tone it is half way between Shelley and Keats, neither soideal as the one nor so sensuous as the other. Keat's Endymion is sothick with fancies, and verbal daintinesses, and sweet sensations, that with all its wonderful affluence of beautiful things it lacksunity of impression. The mind of the poet is so possessed by hissubject that, in an artistic sense, he becomes its victim, and wandersin metaphor, and revels in separate images, and gets entangled in athrong of thoughts, until, at the end, we have a sense of a beautifulconfusion of "flowers of all hues, and weeds of glorious feature, " andapplaud the fertility at the expense of the force of his mind. Thetruth is that will is an important element of genius, and without itthe spontaneous productions of the mind must lack the highest qualityof poetic art. True intellectual creation is an _effort_ of theimagination, not its result, and without force of will to guide it, itdoes not obey its own laws, and gives little impression of realpower. Art is not the prize of luck or the effect of chance, but ofconscious combination of vital elements. Mr. Hirst, though he doesgive evidence of Keats' fluency of fancy and expression, has reallyproduced a finer work of art. We think it is so important that a poem, to be altogether worthy of the name, should be deeply meditated andcarefully finished, that we hazard this last opinion at the expense ofbeing berated by all the undeveloped geniuses of the land, as havingno true sense of the richness of Keats' mind, or the great capacityimplied, rather than fully expressed, in his Endymion. Mere extracts alone can give no fair impression of the beauty of Mr. Hirst's poem as a whole, but we cannot leave it without quoting a fewpassages illustrative of the author's power of spiritualizing thevoluptuous, and the grace, harmony and expressiveness of his verse: And still the moon arose, serenely hovering, Dove-like, above the horizon. Like a queen She walked in light between The stars--her lovely handmaids--softly covering Valley and wold, and mountain-side and plain With streams of lucid rain. She saw not Eros, who on rosy pinion Hung in the willow's shadow--did not feel His subtle searching steel Piercing her very soul, though his dominion Her breast had grown: and what to her was heaven If from Endymion riven? Nothing; for love flowed in her, like a river, Flooding the banks of wisdom; and her soul, Losing its self-control, Waved with a vague, uncertain, tremulous quiver, And like a lily in the storm, at last She sunk 'neath passion's blast. Flowing the fragrance rose--as though each blossom Breathed out its very life--swell over swell, Like mist along the dell, Wooing his wondering heart from out his bosom-- His heart, which like a lark seemed slowly winging Its way toward heaven, singing. Dian looked on; she saw her spells completing, And sighing, bade the sweetest nightingale That ever in Carian vale Sang to her charms, rise, and with softest greeting Woo from its mortal dreams and thoughts of clay Endymion's soul away. From the conclusion of the poem we take a few stanzas, describing thestruggle of Dian with her passion, when Endymion asserts his love forChromia: The goddess gasped for breath, with bosom swelling: Her lips unclosed, while her large, luminous eyes Blazing like Stygian skies, With passion, on the audacious youth were dwelling: She raised her angry hand, that seemed to clasp Jove's thunder in its grasp. And then she stood in silence, fixed and breathless; But presently the threatening arm slid down; The fierce, destroying frown Departed from her eyes, which took a deathless Expression of despair, like Niobe's-- Her dead ones at her knees. Slowly her agony passed, and an Elysian, Majestic fervor lit her lofty eyes, Now dwelling on the skies: Meanwhile, Endymion stood, cheek, brow and vision, Radiant with resignation, stern and cold, In conscious virtue bold, In conclusion, we cannot but congratulate Mr. Hirst on his success inproducing a poem conceived with so much force and refinement ofimagination, and finished with such consummate art, as the present. Itis a valuable addition to the permanent poetical literature of thecountry. _Memoir of William Ellery Channing. With Extracts from His Correspondence and Manuscripts. Boston: Crosby & Nichols. 3 vols. 12mo. _ This long expected work has at last been published, and we think itwill realize the high expectations raised by its announcement two orthree years ago. It is mostly composed of extracts from the letters, journals, and unpublished sermons of Dr. Channing, and is edited byhis nephew, Wm. H. Channing, who has also supplied a memoir. Itconveys a full view of Dr. Channing's interior life from childhood toold age, and apart from its great value and interest, contains, in theexhibition of the steps of his intellectual and spiritual growth, asperfect a specimen of psychological autobiography as we have inliterature. Such a work subjects its author to the severest testswhich can be applied to a human mind in this life, and we have risenfrom its perusal with a new idea of the humility, sincerity, andsaintliness of Dr. Channing's character. In him self-distrust wasadmirably blended with a sublime conception of the capacity of man, and a sublime confidence in human nature. He was not an egotist, aspassages in his writings may seem to indicate, for he was more severeupon himself than upon others, and numberless remarks in the presentvolumes show how sharp was the scrutiny to which he subjected the mostelusive appearances of pride and vanity. But with his high and livingsense of the source and destiny of every human mind, and his almostmorbid consciousness of the deformity of moral evil, he reverenced inhimself and in others the presence of a spirit which connectedhumanity with its Maker, and by unfolding the greatness of thespiritual capacities of men, he hoped to elevate them above thedegradation of sensuality and sin. He was not a teacher of spiritualpride, conceit and self-worship, but of those vital principles of loveand reverence which elevate man only by directing his aspirations toGod. The present volumes give a full length portrait of Dr. Channing in allthe relations of life, and some of the minor details regarding hisopinions and idiosyncrasies are among the most interesting portions ofthe book. We are glad to perceive that he early appreciatedWordsworth. The Excursion he eagerly read on its first appearance, andwhile so many of the Pharisees of taste were scoffing at it, hemanfully expressed his sense of its excellence. This poem he recurredto oftener than to any other, and next to Shakspeare, Wordsworth seemsto have been the poet he read with the most thoughtful delight. Whenhe went to Europe, in 1822, he had an interview with Wordsworth, andof the impression he himself made on the poet there can be no morepertinent illustration, than the fact that, twenty years afterward, Wordsworth mentioned to an American gentleman that one observation ofChanning, respecting the connection of Christianity with progress, hadstamped itself ineffaceably upon his mind. Coleridge he appears tohave profoundly impressed. In a letter to Washington Allston, Coleridge says of him--"His affection for the good as the good, andhis earnestness for the true as the true--with that harmonioussubordination of the latter to the former, without encroachment on theabsolute worth of either--present in him a character which in myheart's heart I believe to be the very rarest on earth. . . . . Mr. Channing is a philosopher in both the possible renderings of the word. He has the love of wisdom and the wisdom of love. . . . . I amconfident that the few differences of opinion between him and myselfnot only are, but would by him be found to be apparent, not real--thesame truth seen in different relations. Perhaps I have been moreabsorbed in the depth of the mystery of the spiritual life, he moreengrossed by the loveliness of its manifestations. " In nothing is Dr. Channing's humility better seen than in hisrelations to literature. He became an author almost unconsciously. Allhis intellectual convictions were so indissolubly woven into thetexture of his life, so vitalized by his heart and imagination, thatwriting with him was never an end but a means. Literary fame followedhim; he did not follow it. When, however, he found that his reputationnot only rung through his own country but was reverberated fromEurope, he appears to have feared that it might corrupt his motivesfor composition. He studiously avoided reading all eulogistic noticesof his works or character, though they were interesting to him asindications of the influence his cherished opinions were exerting. Thearticle in the Westminster Review, which exceeded all others inpraise, he never read. Dr. Dewey's criticism in the Christian Examinerhe only knew as far as related to its objections, and his onlydisappointment was in finding them so few. Brougham's criticism on hisstyle provoked in him no retort. Hazlitt's coarse attack on him in theEdinburgh Review he considered as an offset to the undue praise he hadreceived from other quarters. "The author of the article, " he says, inone of his letters, "is now dead; and as I did not feel a moment'sanger toward him during his life, I have no reproach for him now. Hewas a man of fine powers, and wanted nothing but pure and fixedprinciples to make him one of the lights of the age. " It would be impossible in our limits to convey an adequate impressionof the beauty, value, or interest of the present volumes. They arefull of matter. The letters are admirable specimens of epistolarycomposition, considered as the spontaneous expression of a grave, highand warm nature, to the friends of his heart and mind. They areexceedingly original of their kind, and while they bear no resemblanceto those of Cowper, Burns, Byron, or Mackintosh, they are on that veryaccount a positive addition to the literature of epistolarycomposition. Few biographies have been published within a centurycalculated to make so deep an impression as this of Dr. Channing, andfew could have admitted the reader to so close a communion with thesubject, without sacrificing that delicacy in the treatment offrailties due to the character of the departed. _Napoleon and the Marshals of the Empire. Philadelphia: Carey & Hart. 2 vols. 12mo. _ The present work is to some extent an attempt "to head" Mr. Headley. For our part, we profess to have as much patience as any of thedescendants of Job, but we must acknowledge that we have broken downin every effort to master the merits of the quarrel between thepublishers of the present volumes and the Author of Napoleon and hisMarshals. Accordingly we can give no opinion on that matter. Inrespect to the value of the volumes under consideration, as comparedwith a similar work by Mr. Headley, there can be little hesitation ofjudgment. It is idle to say, as some have said, that a work which hasrun through fifteen editions, as Mr. Headley's has done, is a merehumbug. On the contrary, it is a book evincing a mind as shrewd as itis strong, aiming, it is true, rather at popularity than excellence, but obtaining the former by possessing the sagacity to perceive thataccounts of battles, to be generally apprehended, must be addressed tothe eye and blood rather than to the understanding; and this powerof producing vivid pictures of events Mr. Headley has in largemeasure. Hence the success of his book, in spite of its exaggerationsof statement, sentiment and language. The present work evinces a merit of another kind. It is a keen, accurate, well-written production, devoid of all tumult in its styleand all exaggeration in its matter, and giving close and consistentexpositions of the characters, and a clear narrative of the lives, ofNapoleon and his Marshals. It is evidently the work of a person whounderstands military operations, and conveys a large amount ofknowledge which we have seen in no other single production on thesubject of the wars springing out of the French Revolution. Theportraits of fifteen of the marshals, in military costume, are verywell executed. The portion of the work devoted to Napoleon, about one third of thewhole, is very able. Its defect consists in the leniency of itsjudgment on that gigantic public criminal. Napoleon was a grandexample of a great man, who demonstrated, on a wide theatre of action, what can be done in this world by a colossal intellect and an ironwill without any moral sense. In his disregard of humanity, and hisreliance on falsehood and force, he was the architect at once of hisfortune and his ruin. No man can be greatly and wisely politic who isincapable of grasping those universal sentiments which underlie allsuperficial selfishness in mankind, and of discerning the action ofthe moral laws of the universe. Without this, events cannot be read intheir principles. The only defect in Napoleon's mind was a lack ofmoral insight, the quality of perceiving the moral character andrelations of objects, and, wanting this, he must necessarily have beenin the long run unsuccessful. It is curious that of all the great menwhich the Revolution called forth, Lafayette was almost the only onewho never violated his conscience, and the only one who came out wellin the end. Intellectually he was below a hundred of hiscontemporaries, but his instinctive sense of right pushed him blindlyin the right direction, when all the sagacity and insight of themasters in intrigue and comprehensive falsehood signally failed. _Romance of the History of Louisiana. A Series of Lectures. By Charles Gayarre. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 12mo. _ The romantic element in historical events is that which takes thestrongest hold upon the imagination and sensibility; and it puts acertain degree of life into the fleshless forms of even thecommonplace historian. The incidents of a nation's annals cannot benarrated in a style sufficiently dry and prosaic to prevent the soulof poetry from finding some expression, however short of the truth. Itseems to us that there is much error in the common notions regardingmatters of fact. Starting from the unquestionable axiom thathistorians should deal with facts and principles, not with fictionsand sentimentalities, most people have illogically concluded thatthose histories are the worthiest of belief which address theunderstanding alone, and studiously avoid all the arts ofrepresentation. Now this is false in two respects--such histories notonly giving imperfect and partial views of facts, but disabling thememory from retaining even them. Facts and events, whether we regardthem singly or in their relations, can be perceived and rememberedonly as they are presented to the whole nature. They must be realizedas well as generalized. The sensibility and imagination, as well asthe understanding are to be addressed. As far as possible they shouldbe made as real to the mind as any event which experience has stampedon the memory. History thus written, is written close to the truth ofthings, and conveys real knowledge. Far from departing from facts, orexaggerating them, it is the only kind of history which thoroughlycomprehends them. We should never forget that the events which haveoccurred in the world, are expressions of the nature of man under avariety of circumstances and conditions, and that these events must beinterpreted in the light of that common humanity which binds all mentogether. History, therefore, differs from true poetry, not so much inintensity and fullness of representation; not so much in the force, vividness and distinctness with which things are brought home to theheart and brain, as in difference of object. The historian and thepoet are both bound to deal with human nature, but one gives us itsactual development, the other its possible; one shows us what man hasdone, the other what man can do. The annalist who does not enable usto see mankind in real events, is as unnatural as the poetaster whosubstitutes monstrosities for men in fictitious events. We accordingly welcome with peculiar heartiness all attempts atrealizing history, by evolving its romantic element, and thusdemonstrating to the languid and lazy readers of ninepenny nonsense, that the actual heroes and heroines of the world have surpassed inromantic daring the fictitious ones who swell and swagger in mostnovels and poems. Mr. Gayarre's work is more interesting, both asregards its characters and incidents, than Jane Eyre or James's"last, " for, in truth, it requires a mind of large scope to imagine asgreat things as many men, in every country, have really performed. TheHistory of Louisiana affords a rich field to the poet and romancer, who is content simply to reproduce in their original life some of itsactual scenes and characters; and Mr. Gayarre has, to a considerableextent, succeeded in this difficult and delicate task. The workevinces a mind full of the subject; and if defective at all, thedefect is rather in style than matter. The author evidently had twotemptations to hasty composition--a copious vocabulary and completefamiliarity with his subject. There is an occasional impetuosity andrecklessness in his manner, and a general habit of tossing off hissentences with an air of disdainful indifference, which characterizesa large class of amateur southern writers. Such a style is often rapidfrom heedlessness rather than force, and animated from caprice ratherthan fire. The timid correctness of an elegant diction is not moreremote from beauty than the defiant carelessness of a reckless one isfrom power; and to avoid Mr. Prettyman, it is by no means necessary to"fraternize" with Sir Forcible Feeble. Mr. Gayarre has produced sopleasant a book, and gives evidence of an ability to do so much towardfamiliarizing American history to the hearts and imaginations of thepeople, that we trust he will not only give us more books, but subjecttheir style to a more scrupulous examination than he has the present. _Universal and Critical Dictionary of the English Language. By Joseph E. Worcester. Boston: Wilkins, Carter, & Co. 1 vol. 8vo. _ The present century has been distinguished above all others in thehistory of English lexicography, for the number and excellence of itsdictionaries. It is a matter of pride to Americans that so far theUnited States are in advance of England, in regard to the sagacity andlabor devoted to the English language. Of those who have done most inthis department, the pre-eminence belongs to Dr. Webster and Dr. Worcester. Each has published a Dictionary of great value; and that ofthe latter is now before us. It bears on every page marks of the mostgigantic labor, and must have been the result of many long years ofthought and investigation. Its arrangement is admirable, and itsdefinitions clear, concise, critical, and ever to the purpose. Theintroduction, devoted to the principles of pronunciation, orthography, English Grammar, the origin, formation, and etymology of the Englishlanguage; and the History of English Lexicography is laden withimportant information, drawn from a wide variety of sources. Dr. Worcester has also, in the appendix, enlarged and improved Walker'sKey to the Classical Pronunciation of Greek, Latin, and ScriptureNames, and added the pronunciation of modern geographical names. Takenas a whole, we think the dictionary one which not even the warmestadmirers of Dr. Webster can speak of without respect. The advantagewhich Dr. Worcester's dictionary holds over Dr. Webster's may becompressed in one word--objectiveness. The English language, as awhole, is seen through a more transparent medium in the former than inthe latter. Dr. Webster, with all his great merits as a lexicographer, loved to meddle with the language too much. Dr. Worcester is contentto take it as it is, without any intrusion of his own idiosyncracies. We think that both dictionaries are honorable to the country, and thateach has its peculiar excellencies. Perhaps the student oflexicography could spare neither. _The History of Don Quixote de la Mancha. From the Spanish of Cervantes. With Illustrations by Schoff. Boston: Charles H. Peirce. 1 vol. 12mo. _ This is a very handsome edition of one of the most wonderful creationsof the human intellect, elegantly illustrated with appropriateengravings. It is to a certain extent a family edition, omitting onlythose portions of the original which would shock the modesty of moderntimes. We know that there is a great opposition among men of lettersto the practice of meddling with a work of genius, and suppressing anyportion of it. To a considerable extent we sympathize with thisfeeling. But when the question lies between a purified edition and thewithdrawal of the book from popular circulation, we go for the former. Don Quixote is a pertinent instance. It is not now a book generallyread by many classes of people, especially young women, and theyounger branches of a family. The reason consists in the coarseness ofparticular passages and sentences. Strike these out, and there remainsa body of humor, pathos, wisdom, humanity, expressed in characters andincidents of engrossing interest, which none can read without benefitand pleasure. The present volume, which might be read by the firesideof any family, is so rich in all the treasures of its author'sbeautiful and beneficent genius, that we heartily wish it an extensivecirculation. It is got up with great care by one who evidentlyunderstands Cervantes; and the unity of the work, with all itsbeautiful episodes, is not broken by the omissions. _Wuthuring Heights. New York: Harper & Brothers. 1 vol. 12mo. _ This novel is said to be by the author of Jane Eyre, and was eagerlycaught at by a famished public, on the strength of the report. Itafforded, however, but little nutriment, and has universallydisappointed expectation. There is an old saying that those who eattoasted cheese at night will dream of Lucifer. The author of WuthuringHeights has evidently eat toasted cheese. How a human being could haveattempted such a book as the present without committing suicide beforehe had finished a dozen chapters, is a mystery. It is a compound ofvulgar depravity and unnatural horrors, such as we might suppose aperson, inspired by a mixture of brandy and gunpowder, might write forthe edification of fifth-rate blackguards. Were Mr. Quilp alive weshould be inclined to believe that the work had been dictated by himto Lawyer Brass, and published by the interesting sister of that legalgentleman. _A Discourse on the Life, Character, and Public Services of James Kent, late Chancellor of the State of New York. By John Duer. New York: D. Appleton & Co. _ This discourse was originally delivered before the Judiciary and Barof the city and State of New York. In a style of unpretendingsimplicity it gives a full length portrait of the great chancellor, doing complete justice to his life and works, and avoiding all thevague commendations and meaningless generalities of commonplaceeulogy. One charm of the discourse comes from its being the testimonyof a surviving friend to the intellectual and moral worth of a greatman, without being marred by the exaggeration of personal attachment. Judge Kent's mind and character needed but justice, and could dispensewith charity, even when friendship was to indicate the grasp of theone and the excellence of the other. _Memorials of the Introduction of Methodism into the Eastern States. By Rev. A. Stevens, A. M. Boston: Charles H. Peirce. 1 vol. 12mo. _ Mr. Stevens takes a high rank among the leading minds of hisdenomination. The present work shows that he combines the power ofpatient research with the ability to express its results in a lucid, animated, and elegant style. His biographies of the Methodistpreachers have the interest of a story. Indeed, out of the CatholicChurch, there is no religious chivalry whose characters and actionspartake so much of heroism, and of that fine enthusiasm which almostloses its own identity in the objects it contemplates, as theMethodist priests. _The Inundation; or Pardon and Peace. A Christmas Story. By Mrs. Gore. With Illustrations by Geo. Cruikshank. Boston: C. H. Peirce. 1 vol. 18mo. _ This is a delightful little story, interesting from its incidents andcharacters, and conveying excellent morality and humanity in apleasing dress. The illustrations are those of the London edition, andare admirably graphic. Cruikshank's mode of making a face expressiveof character by caricaturing it, is well exhibited in his sketches inthe present volume. _The Book of Visions, being a Transcript of the Record of the Secret Thoughts of a Variety of Individuals while attending Church. _ The design of this little work is original and commendable. It iswritten to do good, and we trust may answer the expectations of itsauthor. It enters the bosoms of members of the cabinet, members ofcongress, bankers, lawyers, editors, &c . , and reports the secretmeditations of those who affect to be worshipers. It is published byJ. W. MOORE of this city. DESCRIPTION OF THE FASHION PLATE. TOILETTE DE VILLE. --Dress of Nankin silk, ornamented in the front ofthe skirt with bias trimming of the same stuff, fastened by silkbuttons; corsage plain, with a rounded point, ornamented at the skirt;sleeves half long, with bias trimming; under sleeves of puffed muslin;capote of white crape, ornamented with two plumes falling upon theside. SUR LE COTE. --Dress of blue glacé taffetas, trimmed with two puffsalike, disposed (en tablier;) corsage plain, low in the neck, andtrimmed with puffs from the shoulder to the point, and down the sideseam; sleeves short, and puffed; stomacher of plaited muslin, (undersleeves of puffed muslin;) cap of lace, lower part puffed, withouttrimming, ornamented with two long lappets, fastened with some bows ofyellow ribbon. Transcriber's Note: Small errors in punctuation and obvious printer's errors have beencorrected silently. Minor irregularities in spelling have beenmaintained as in the original.