*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 65235 ***

                           GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.
               Vol. XIX.      December, 1841.      No. 6.


                                Contents

                   Fiction, Literature and Articles

          The Hawkers
          Shakspeare.—No. IV
          The Reefer of ’76 (concluded)
          The Stolen Miniature
          The Marriage of Achilles
          A Chapter on Autography (continued)
          Misfortunes of a Timid Gentleman
          The Ideal
          The Rescue at the Eleventh Hour
          Review of New Books
          Secret Writing
          The Closing Year

                                Poetry

          The Glad Retreat
          He Woo’d Me at the Fountain
          Venice
          Lines
          The Sweet South Wind
          The Lyre Bird
          Lines to a Portrait
          Lines
          The Choice of Hearts

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

                 *        *        *        *        *

[Illustration: J. Hayter;  Rawdon, Wright, Hatch & Smillie, _The Lady
Isabel_
_Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine_]

                 *        *        *        *        *

                           GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

          Vol. XIX.    PHILADELPHIA: DECEMBER, 1841.    No. 6.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                              THE HAWKERS.


                          OR THE LADY ISABEL.


                             BY D. MAXWELL.


It was a merry day in Torbay castle. Never had a brighter sun shone on a
fair lady than that which now poured its mellow beams over the gay
hawking party assembled in the court yard,—while, as if all were
exhilarated by the unclouded sky above, shouts, jests, and sallies, sly
compliments and merry laughter saluted the ear on every hand. There was
the ringing of bridles, the champing of bits, the barking of dogs, the
shouts of serving men, the orders of the falconers, the low whispers of
gay gallants, or the half suppressed laughter of a bevy of merry young
girls, making altogether a concord of sounds, strange and yet somewhat
sweet, and not a little in unison with the old grim walls around and the
bracing character of the morning. Foremost in the group, and directly
under the massy archway of the gate, stood a rugged old falconer, who
looked as if he might have been an appanage of the castle from the time
of the conqueror, sustaining several _casts of toure_ and _leses_ of
hawks, hooded and ready for the field. To his right was the favorite
page of the mistress of the castle, holding the white palfrey of the
Lady Isabel, the only daughter of the Earl. A few dogs lay about
awaiting the setting forth of the cavalcade. In the rear the hawking
party was assembled in what seemed at first a promiscuous group, but it
would have been found on a closer examination, that the younger
cavaliers had each placed himself as near to his lady’s bridle as
possible, while the older sportsmen were drawn apart by themselves,
eagerly canvassing the chances of the day’s sport.

At length the cavalcade set forth, and leaving the castle to the right,
diverged towards the hills that skirt the neighborhood of Torbay, with
the object of gaining the little river Wyse, a small stream that runs
through that delightful vicinity, and is bordered by high overhanging
banks.

We have said that the younger gallants each sought his lady’s bridle
rein, but it might have been noticed as a little singular that perhaps
the two handsomest knights rode by themselves, keeping in the rear of
the “goodly companie,” and seemingly engaged in earnest conversation. It
might also have been noticed that the Lady Isabel rode unattended,
except by her father, and that now and then, she cast a sly and perhaps
uneasy glance back at the two cavaliers. She did this so often, that at
length it attracted their attention, and the shorter of the two
companions said to the other,

“There, Herbert, take heart, man—do you not see that my fair coz is not
indifferent to you—there, as I am a knight, she is looking back again.”

“It is but to chide you for deserting her,” said the other. “I may not
be so happy as to think she cares for me. Did you mark how chilling a
reception she gave me this morning?”

“Faith, man, and you deserved it,” answered his more mercurial
companion, “after your strange humor last evening. Do your beauties and
heiresses endure all the whim of jealous suitors without resentment?
Will you never take heart of grace, leave off this diffidence, and come
boldly out and woo my cousin in your own true and frank character? You
may depend on it she has not forgotten you since you were playmates
together, and though ten years of absence have elapsed since then, and
she has been sought and is now sought by a score of gentlemen, yet has
she not heard of your valor continually through my letters, and does she
not blush and turn pale whenever you come suddenly on her? What more
would you want? Tut, man, you are as blind in love as a bat. If you had
to charge a battery you would do it without winking an eye-lid, but here
you cannot attack a fair lady’s heart without quaking like a friar, and
being in a dozen humors a day, according as your mistress chances to
smile on you or not. Take my word for it, Isabel cares very little
whether her madcap cousin is at her bridle rein or away from it; but she
does care whether Sir Herbert Glendower is there or not, especially just
now, when her conscience is twitching her, I dare swear, for having
looked coldly on him a half hour since, and thus driven the poor knight
almost into the notion of hanging himself. But this jesting I see you do
not like—so let us push on and join the group, or we shall be suspected
of talking treason,” and with a gay laugh the mercurial young man
pricked his steed and pushed forward. His companion hesitated but an
instant and then followed.

Sir Herbert Glendower had known—as his fellow soldier said—the heiress
of Torbay castle in childhood; for his own father dying, the Earl of
Torbay had filled the place of guardian to the young orphan. At the age
of fourteen, Glendower had joined the army, but even at that early
period he had imbibed a passion for the young Isabel of which he was not
himself fully conscious, until years of watching, strife and absence had
convinced him that she was, after all, nearer to his heart than aught
beside. During a separation of ten years from Isabel, his bosom
companion had been her reckless cousin, and perhaps the conversation of
the two young soldiers had often turned on the young heiress and thus
insensibly deepened the passion felt for her by Glendower. Certain it
is, that when the young knight met her on his return to England, and saw
that she had grown up more beautiful than he had imagined her even in
his dreams, he felt his passion for her increased to such an extremity
that her love became thenceforth necessary to his very being. Yet, like
too many who love devotedly, the very depth of his passion prevented his
success, by filling him with uncalled for doubts and fears. Usually
frank and daring, he became reserved and timorous. The slightest
appearance of coldness, although unintentional, was sufficient to
overthrow all his hope. At such times he would throw himself on his
pride, and affect a reserve to Isabel, the consequence of which would be
a coldness on her part. Such had been the case on the morning in
question.

For a few minutes he mused silently, and then said to himself:

“He may be right after all; and if so, am I not a fool? I will watch
Isabel narrowly to-day, and if I see the least glimmering of hope, I
will know all. If not, or if she refuses me”—he paused and added sadly,
“why then a foreign service and a foreign grave will be mine.”

Meantime the hawkers had gained the river, and while the serving men,
with their dogs, descended into the ravine to rouse the birds from the
marshy margin of the stream, the cavalcade continued its progress along
the high banks above, in momentary expectation of the appearance of the
prey. Foremost amongst the hawkers was the father of Isabel; but the
heiress, although usually eager for the sport, appeared to-day to
partake in the pastime only as a spectator, having surrendered her
high-bred falcon to the hands of her favorite page. Isabel herself was
silent and apparently lost in thought. And as Glendower, in pursuance of
his new determination, hovered around her, he fancied he detected in her
manner a slight confirmation of her cousin’s assertion. The hopes of the
young knight beat high at the very thought. He drew his steed nearer to
that of Isabel, and would have addressed her, but at that instant the
shouts of the serving men beneath, in the margin of the river, announced
that the prey had been roused, and with a scream a huge heron, followed
by one of smaller size, rose above the bank, and stretching out their
long thin legs behind them, the quarry sailed away up into the sky.

“Isabel,” said the Earl, “you promised to give a cast at yonder
bird—quick, unhood.”

“Ay, Tremaine,” said the clear silvery voice of the maiden, assuming a
sudden animation, and turning quickly away from Glendower to her page,
“throw off my bird. You have often wished for the chance. Now, ladies
and gallants, all, we shall see rare sport unless my falcon fails me.”

The happy page, blushing, however, to find all eyes directed towards
himself, trotted out a few paces in advance of the group, and removing
the hood from the eyes of the noble bird, held the falcon on his left
wrist as he extended it over his horse’s head. The hawk shook himself
for an instant, gazed around him until he caught sight of the herons,
when he flapped his wings, and, as the page flung him off, darted away
like an arrow in pursuit.

[Illustration]

To any other person than Glendower, the turning of Isabel from him to
her page would at such a moment, have seemed trivial, but the proud and
sensitive nature of the lover instantly magnified it into a rebuke, and
drawing his rein around somewhat haughtily, he gave up his original
intention of keeping at her side, and dashed madly on, leading the
pursuit, as the cavalcade galloped off in the direction where it was
expected the quarry would fall. A gallant sight it was to see that gay
party sweeping along the banks of the stream. The caparisoned steeds,
silken scarfs, waving plumes, and proud demeanor of the nobles, knights
and pages; and the spirited palfreys, flowing robes, and brilliant
costumes of the maidens, with the trains of attendants pressing in the
rear, gave the cavalcade a gorgeousness which later days, in reviving
this courtly sport, have in vain attempted to imitate.

“No, she loves me not,” said Glendower as he galloped furiously on—“it
is folly for me to pretend to win her regard. Well—”

“Ho, sir knight of the woful countenance,” shouted the merry voice of
Isabel’s cousin as he drew up by Glendower, “you are leaving the route
altogether, and faith your conduct will attract notice if it has not
already done so. Come, man, in despair again—away with it—if you won’t
ride at Isabel’s bridle and say things such as maidens love to hear, why
e’en forget her for to-day and attend to the sport—see how her falcon
mounts into the clouds; shade your eyes—there—by St. George he has the
heron now.”

As the knight spoke, the hawk, which had been ascending above the heron
spirally, gradually narrowing the circles as it rose, suddenly stooped
from its height and shooting like a thunderbolt down on the quarry bore
it to the earth. The shout of the hawkers announced that all had seen
the stroke, and instantly spur and whip were put to every steed to reach
the spot where the quarry fell, in order, if necessary, to assist the
falcon. Glendower was among the first to lead the chase, for he felt
that his conduct was attracting attention, and he resolved during the
remainder of the day to adhere to the advice of Isabel’s cousin, let
what might take place.

“A wager that I reach the quarry first, and win a smile from Isabel for
assisting her falcon,” laughingly said the mercurial soldier, “ho! Sir
Glendower, do you close with me?”

“Even so,” said Glendower; “I will distance you a score of paces and
more, or my steed belies his former feats. Your fair cousin shall smile
on me, or rebuff me fairly, for once.”

At the word, the two cavaliers darted forwards at an increased pace; and
instantly every eye, forgetful of the quarry, was directed towards the
race. Both the knights rode splendid horses, and as the animals were now
pressed to show their greatest speed, their riders seemed borne along
the earth as if they were mounted on the enchanted steeds of fairy land.
The cavaliers behind encouraged them with shouts, while the ladies waved
their scarfs and laughed gaily. For a few minutes the horses scoured
along head and head; but, when within a few paces of where the two birds
had fallen, Glendower suddenly dashed away from his competitor and
reaching the quarry first, threw his bridle to a youthful page who had
just arrived from the margin of the stream below, and springing from the
saddle lost not a moment in assisting the falcon to overcome the tall
and powerful bird against which hitherto it had maintained a doubtful
fight.

[Illustration]

By the time Glendower had broken the legs of the hernsaw and stuck its
long bill into the ground, as was the duty of the first sportsman who
reached the quarry after it had been brought to the earth, the members
of the cavalcade began to arrive, and as the knight rose from his
stooping posture, with the prey in one hand and the falcon perched on
his wrist, the silvery voice of Isabel was heard exclaiming—

“Ah! my gay coz, and so you lost your race—a very unusual thing however
for a madcap like you; but pray what was the wager?”

“Yes!—the wager—the wager!” said a dozen merry voices.

“Fair ladies, I cry your mercy; but the wager must be a secret from you
as yet, though perhaps I will tell cousin Isabel, to raise your
curiosity;” and as he spoke, the young man bent his face to the ear of
the high-born beauty and whispered a few words, whose import none could
tell, but which brought the red blood, like a crimson sunset, into the
maiden’s cheek.

“But here is the winner,” continued the young cavalier aloud, as he
moved away to allow Glendower to approach Isabel with the prey.

The knight drew near, and, assuming as much composure as he could,
tendered Isabel the quarry, in the courtly language of the day. The
embarrassment of the maiden was by no means diminished at the address of
Glendower, and, as the knight proceeded, her demeanor appeared to infect
him with a like embarrassment, the more that every eye was directed on
the maiden and Glendower. It was, therefore, a relief to both when a
sudden shout announced that another quarry had been started, and in an
instant one of the party cast off a falcon in pursuit. This attracted
attention from Isabel and Glendower, and as the gay cavalcade dashed
away they were left almost alone. For a minute Glendower had not words
to speak, although something in the smile of the maiden emboldened him
to venture—indeed never had Isabel greeted him more encouragingly. The
maiden looked on the ground and was also silent. As usual, in such
cases, the maiden was the first to speak, and, like most of her sex, she
opened the conversation with a casual remark.

“Yon hawk is but an _eyas_,” said she, pointing to the bird which had
just been cast off, “see, he flies the prey. Ah! yonder goes Tremaine to
lure him down. And see, the bird is not such a foul kestrel after all,
for he answers to the call.”

[Illustration]

As she spoke, the same page to whom we have more than once alluded
already, was seen galloping away in the distance, waving around his head
the tasseled hood used to lure birds of the highest training, and
shouting with his voice. At the same instant another falcon was cast
off, and directly the quarry and its pursuer were lost in the clouds,
while the cavalcade, galloped away along the banks of the river,
following the direction taken by the heron, and leaving Isabel and
Glendower wholly alone.

Glendower did not for a moment reply, for a world of thoughts was in his
bosom—but over them all reigned the consciousness that Isabel appeared
to be less repellent than she had been for days. Why then should he not
avail himself of this accidental _tête à tête_, and learn all? Why
should he be longer tortured with doubt? He did not, therefore, directly
reply to the remark of Isabel, but his eyes followed the form of the
page for a while, and then he suddenly turned them full on the maiden’s
face. Her glance fell beneath his own, and a blush tinged her cheeks
with a deep roseate hue. This emotion added courage to Glendower.

“Isabel,” said he, speaking at first with a trembling voice, which
however became firmer and more impassioned as he proceeded, “perhaps
what I am about to say may offend you—but I cannot restrain the words.
I love you, deeply, ardently, with my whole soul, and whatever may be
your reply, my love will only cease with my life. Ever since we played
together in childhood I have cherished your image in my breast—peril,
absence, silence, the tumult of war, nothing has been able to drive you
from my mind—my passion has grown with my growth, and strengthened with
my strength. Since I returned, my love has only increased. I know how
far above me you are, and I have thought a dozen times you saw, and
would by coldness check, my presumption. But be my punishment even
banishment from your presence, I can no longer keep silence. My love
will find words. You turn away from me—you despise me—you sob.—Can
it?—am I?—Oh! God, is this blessing really mine?” And as the maiden,
overcome by emotion, buried her face in her hands, her lover, at length
conscious that he was beloved, knelt on the sward at her feet, and with
a sacred feeling approaching almost to reverence—for such was the love
of those days—kissed Isabel’s white hand.

A month later, and there was high revelry and feasting in the castle of
Torbay; and many were the gallant knights and ladies fair who assembled
to do honor to the nuptials of Glendower and his fair young bride.

“Ah, did I not tell you to take heart of grace?” whispered Isabel’s
mercurial cousin, unobserved in the ear of the bridegroom, “did I not
say that Isabel had not forgotten you? By the shrine of Becket you
should thank me for my advice.”

“What treason are you plotting?” asked the smiling bride, approaching.

“I am only asking Glendower if you have paid the wager he won from me at
the hawking party—your hand,” was the reply.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                          SHAKSPEARE.—No. IV.


BY THEODORE S. FAY, AUTHOR OF “NORMAN LESLIE,” “THE COUNTESS IDA,” ETC.


                             LADY MACBETH.

The imagination of the reader is powerfully aroused by these dark
inuendoes, and the mind, prepared by a secret undefinable state of
suspense and emotion, is doubly startled by the woman’s sudden, hushed

    Lo you, _here she comes_!

It is possible that, with something of the terrors of a guilty
conscience herself, the poor waiting woman at first imagines that the
queen has been listening and caught her plotting with the doctor, for
the second exclamation shows an otherwise unaccountable surprise at her
being asleep;

    This is her very guise, and, _upon my life, fast asleep_:
    observe her: stand close.

    _Doctor._ How came she by that light?

    _Gent._ Why it stood by her. _She has a light by her
    continually_: ’tis _her command_!

Observe the short sentences—as of people listening—watching—under the
pressure of a powerful motive and interest. The light—the doctor’s
surprise at seeing her carry it about with her, and the reply. “_She has
a light by her continually. ’Tis her command._”

This is a new and fearful discovery of the internal state of the
wretched woman’s mind. Here we have at once a view of her night-terrors,
the guilty phantoms which throng her bedside. It is as if a lurid gleam
had been suddenly cast upon her soul from the half-opened gates of hell
itself.

    _Doct._ You see her eyes are open.

This is so remarkable a feature in a somnambulist that, even when aware
of it, we can scarcely—while looking on a countenance from which stare
two wide-gazing eyes—realize that they take no note of present objects,
but are bent only on the immaterial, supernatural world.

The gentlewoman who has so often seen her thus replies (at this moment
more cool than the doctor):

    _Gent._ Ay, but their sense is shut.

    _Doct._ What is it she does now? Look how she rubs her hands.

    _Gent._ It is an accustomed action with her, to seem thus
    washing her hands: I have known her continue this a quarter of
    an hour.

    _Lady._ Yet here’s a spot!

It is not possible to call up a more harrowing type of guilt than that
furnished by this bloody queen, thus haunted by the idea of what she has
done, still the ordinary processes of nature themselves are interrupted,
and she is driven to this species of insanity. It is the more striking
in _her_, from the contrast it affords with her supposed callousness of
character, and the haughty, masculine, I had almost said fiendish scorn
of all those phantoms of guilt which her more human husband saw in
advance. This is the proud and cruel mind which feared Macbeth’s _softer
nature_ could never be worked up to the commission of the deed necessary
to seat them on the throne:

                        yet do I fear thy nature;
    It is too full of the milk of human kindness,
    To catch the nearest way: Thou wouldst be great;
    Art not without ambition; but without
    The illness should attend it. What thou wouldst highly
    Thou wouldst holily: wouldst not play false,
    And yet wouldst wrongly win, etc. etc.

This is the sarcastic despiser of all that would impede her “from the
golden round.” This is the bloody tigress who with a deep, low joy,
triumphed over the unsuspecting visit of her royal guest, king, and
victim:

      The raven himself is hoarse
    That croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan
    Under my battlements.

This is the cool, sagacious, strong-minded counsellor who urged on,
advised, and superintended with a fatal firmness the dire and
sacrilegious murder. This is she who, when her bad, weak husband shrank
from the dangerous and horrible task imposed upon him, heaped him with
contemptuous reproaches—scorching ridicule, and infidel remonstrances.
This is the haughty insulter of heaven—the self-confident derider of
things holy—(the scorner of God, the sneerer at virtue.) Where are now
her high bearing—her bitter taunts—her bold conception, her daring
courage—the strong nerve that neither earth nor heaven could shake?
Where is the hand that drugged the “possets” of the “surfeited
grooms”—that “laid the daggers ready”—that, scorning the childish fear
of a dead face, took itself the bloody weapons back to their places?
Where is the fearless tongue that hooted and laughed at the terrors of
Macbeth; and that, on returning from placing back the daggers and from
smearing the faces of the grooms, (triumphantly showing the hands
dripping with gore) sternly said—

    My hands are of your colour; but I shame
      To wear a heart so white!

There she stands—the same being, successful in her guilt—in the full
possession of all for which the work was
done—unpunished—undiscovered—unquestioned—disturbed by nothing but
the eye of God. Behold guilt with all that earth can give of power and
exemption—the terrified maid on one side—the watchful doctor on the
other—herself confessing, under a torture more awful than that of the
rack, the bloody secret of her soul, and the physician _taking notes_ of
what falls from her lips! Behold guilt! in its castle—surrounded by its
guards, with all the sources of earthly pleasure at its command.

    _Doct._ Hark! she speaks. I will set down what comes from her,
    to satisfy my remembrance the more strongly.

    _Lady._ Out, damned spot! out, I say!—One, two; why, then ’tis
    time to do’t. Hell is murky!—Fie, my lord, fie! a soldier, and
    afraid? What need we fear who knows it, when none can call our
    power to account? Yet who would have thought the old man to have
    had so much blood in him?

    _Doct._ Do you mark that?

Here is the dream of the past scene on the night of the murder mingling
with the subsequent stings of conscience—hours and days floating
through her distempered imagination at the same moment—the cruel
purpose, the atrocious execution—the actual presence of the fatal
event, with its unrelenting determination, and guilty hope and the
trembling terrors of future remorse and fear—all together—all crowding
at once upon the mind, in those capricious fragments of reality which
unite with such terrible probability in the solemn hour of sleep. The
“damned spot” is the first—the predominant and blasting thought; the
horrible fixed phantom preying on her mind. Wash as she may, the red
trace will not out. She has continued in this “accustomed action with
her” a quarter of an hour at a time—striving and striving—rubbing and
rubbing—and dwelling upon the hour of her guilt, till the constant
contemplation of it has driven her mad. Amid all the charms, the
long-promised, dearly-prized charms of royalty—with the golden round at
length upon her brow—at all hours of the day and night—in the sunshine
and in the darkness—in solitude and at the banquet—this spot, this
“damned spot,” is there—always there—and so she is destined to go on,
vainly rubbing and rubbing, to her grave.

    One, two.

She hears over again the clock telling the hour of that dreadful night.

    Why, then ’tis time to do’t.

Here is the _habit_ of sin. She is committing the deed over again.

    Hell is murky!

In her imagination her ghastly, staggering lord is at her side uttering
this exclamation in fear, which she repeats in scorn.

    Hell is murky!—Fie, my lord, fie! a soldier, and afeard?

But as she speaks, the deed is already long done. She is still with the
trembling, spiritless, haggard partner of her crime, and seems to
address him with one of those unnatural sickly flickerings of
consolation and peace which only render more visible the surrounding
despair.

    What need we fear who knows it, when none can call our power to
    account.

A sad comfort at the best, but ominously significant on the lips of this
woman, at the very moment when the springs of her life are giving way
under the mere load of guilty recollection. But instantly she is
transported back again to the fatal hour. She is gazing upon the pale
face of the butchered old king, weltering in gore. She sees all things
stained, dripping, flooded—and with that kind of awful composure which
one feels often in a great crisis, she pauses to make a remark of
wonder:

    Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood
    in him?

These sudden transportations from place to place—from time to time—to
and fro—backward and forward—is a perfect representation of the
shifting changes, the starts and fragments of a rolling dream.

    The Thane of Fife had a wife; where is she now?—What! will
    these hands ne’er be clean? No more o’ that, my lord; no more o’
    that;—you will mar all with this starting.

Here another awful deed of her husband flashes across her recollection.
But still rubbing, still toiling—still with a perseverance which shows
how frightfully she is under the dominion of horror at her crime, she is
striving and ever striving to efface its mark, and through all with the
perception that it is in vain. Then she is at the banquet, where
Macbeth’s phrenzy conjures up the ghost of Banquo, and half betrays
them.

The Doctor has now seen and heard enough to show him the nature of the
secret which is destroying the life of his patient, and his horror
overflows immediately in a sort of confidential communication with the
waiting woman.

    Go to, go to; you have known what you should not.

    _Gentlewoman._ She has spoke what she should not, I am sure of
    that: Heaven knows what she has known.

    _Lady._ Here’s the smell of the blood still: all the perfumes of
    Arabia will not sweeten this little hand. Oh! oh! oh!

    _Doctor._ What a sight is there! The heart is sorely charg’d.

    _Gent._ I would not have such a heart in my bosom, for the
    dignity of the whole body.

Here we have the moral of this grand mighty scene. Guilt—successful
guilt—guilt in the bosom, of a scoffer—an atheist—a blasphemer—guilt
in the strongest impersonation of earthliness—of
nerve—courage—self-confidence—power, philosophy—profound sense, and
a high order of human genius. Lady Macbeth had obviously all these. She
impresses you powerfully with a haughty superiority over every one
around her. She would do to lead an army—to defend a citadel. Her mind
is that of a Spartan dame—or a Roman matron: and the courage and
understanding she displays are such as, if rightly used, if guided by
the spirit of virtue and religion, might have elevated her to the
dignity of a great historical heroine. None can rationally hope to bear
up by philosophy and strength of intellect alone, against the
consciousness of sin, if Lady Macbeth, in those rude times, could not.

Here, then, we have successful guilt. Painted by a historian, perhaps
she might have excited the envy of the lowly. We should have seen her
surrounded by splendor and luxury. The glittering crown upon her brow—a
circle of courtiers bending around her—as she presided at state
councils or gay banquets. The historian would have shown her situation,
and we might have exclaimed, “see how guilt triumphs.” But Shakspeare
gives us a view into her heart—her secret thoughts—her midnight
dreams. If any thing could heighten the picture as he had previously
drawn it, it would be these few words, “_Here’s the smell of the blood
still._” The _smell_ of the blood! How deeply imbued is her imagination
with the ideal! The heart sickens at it. Great as has been the crime, we
are compelled to acknowledge that the poet has at a glimpse shown us the
process of a penalty as great, and, with a sweetness of art peculiar to
him and nature, has mingled, with our abhorrence which would be too
violent by itself, a certain touch of sympathy and when that beautiful
and heart-rending exclamation falls with almost the last life-drops from
her utterly subdued and crushed heart—

    All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand.
    Oh! oh! oh!

We pity and utter a prayer for mercy which the guilty lips of the
sufferer dare not form themselves.

The remark of the gentlewoman is as applicable to _a class_ of
characters as that of Lady Macbeth.

    I would not have such a heart in my bosom for the dignity of the
    whole body.

This is the voice of innocence—lowly, self-congratulating innocence.
The humble dependant of the royal household is made to feel the
immeasurable advantage a peaceful conscience affords over all the
passing and hollow gauds of the world. She sees what a mockery are rank,
wealth, power, fame—when bought by the sacrifice of that greatest of
all treasures—a quiet heart. She will go gladly, after this—that
honest lady, on her obscure path, turning to her God with a deeper
reverence and love. She will pour out her heart to him in gratitude that
she has escaped the temptations of life thus far, and humbly implored
him to watch continually over her steps, to strengthen her good
resolutions, to teach her to subdue her passions, and to lead her safely
through the pit-falls of her mortal pilgrimage.

It seems almost impossible to carry the scene farther, but the poet does
so.

The mind of the reader, stretched to a too strong tension, is relieved
by the few, broken yet calm expressions of the two watchers whose health
and hearts’ ease also afford a contrast which sets off more strikingly
the state of the wretched lady thus floating by us like a rudderless
wreck sweeping onward with a resistless current to the brink of some
vast cataract or yawning and unfathomless Maelstrom.

The doctor’s “Well, well, well,—” shows embarrassment the result of
amazement. He scarcely knows what to do. He, also, has now become the
possessor of an astounding and dangerous secret, and he might well be
supposed to hesitate as to the proper course to pursue. He does not seem
decided to acknowledge the full extent of his conviction, yet he cannot
deny that the patient is not to be cured by his medicine. He does not
seem inclined to enter upon any confidential interchanges of opinions
with the gentlewoman. He is, in all things, the man of the world—the
professional man and the courtier. The very air he breathes he may
imagine full of eyes and ears. He may be no more inclined to trust the
gentlewoman than she had been to trust him. Guilt, gloom, and danger
preside over the blood-stained castle, and envelope the principal
inmates—while suspicions, fear and silent watchfulness are hugged to
the anxious bosom of each distrustful servant. The doctor’s “Well, well,
well”—is a kind of mask to hide what is passing in his mind: and the
gentlewoman with less art, equal prudence and more piety, ventures only
upon the awe-struck prayer,

    Pray God, it be, sir!

The doctor then confesses,

    This disease is beyond my practice!

But instantly avoids even the appearance of _committing_ himself by the
cautious reserve—

    Yet I have known those which have walked in their sleep who have
    died holily in their beds.

What a picture of a tyrant’s castle. These trembling slaves dare neither
of them express an opinion or confess they have seen what they are
seeing—even to each other in the silence and solitude of the night.

The dream of the haunted lady now quickens its flow. She is back again
at the murder scene whose successful completion has gratified all her
worldly hopes and ambition, and at the same time blasted her mind and
soul.

Hear her nervous, convulsed reiteration of the minutest incident of that
too well remembered hour.

    Wash your hands, put on your night-gown;

Then the dream shifts once more.

    I tell you yet again, Banquo’s buried; he cannot come out of his
    grave.

Then back to the night of the murder.

    To bed—to bed. There’s _knocking at the gate_. Come, come,
    come, come. Give me your hand, what’s done cannot be undone. To
    bed, to bed, to bed.

                                              _Exit Lady Macbeth._

And thus, as from the new commission of a frightful crime, she returns
to her bed, there to tremble—and writhe and dream—and act over again
and again the bloody drama.

    _Doctor._ Will she now go to bed?

    _Gent._ Directly.

Then the doctor, apparently excited out of his usual reserve, utters the
thoughts which are passing in his mind.

       _Doct._ Foul whisperings are abroad: unnatural deeds
    Do breed unnatural troubles: infected minds
    To their deaf pillows, will discharge their secrets.
    More needs she the divine, than the physician.—

And then, profoundly impressed and shocked with what he has witnessed
and discovered, he adds:

    God, God, forgive us all!

This prayer, bursting involuntarily from the heart of a worldly man in
the mere exercise of his profession, is very expressive of the effect
the scene has had upon him. He immediately returns, however, to the
business which keeps him in the castle, viz: the treatment of his
patient, and he gives this sagacious advice to the gentlewoman:
supposing very properly that a conscience so desperately diseased might
attempt self-destruction.

                        Look after her;
    Remove from her the _means of all annoyance_,
    And still _keep eyes upon her_;—so, good-night:
    My mind she has mated,[1] and amaz’d my sight:
    I _think_, but _dare not speak_.
       _Gent._ Good-night,—good doctor.

Notwithstanding these injunctions, however, she succeeds in committing
suicide. After her exit from this scene she appears no more. She could
not, indeed, again come before our eyes without injuring the impression
it has left. Her death is told in a way to harmonize with this
impression and to leave the excited imagination at leisure to fill up
the details to the last moment. Macbeth, desperate like a baited bull,
is roaring a defiance of heaven and earth, for guilt has brutalized him
perceptibly, when he is interrupted by “_a cry within, of women_.”

    _Macbeth._ What is that noise?

    _Seyton._ It is the cry of woman, my good lord.

       _Mac._ I have almost forgot the taste of fears:
    The time has been, my senses would have cool’d
    To hear a night-shriek; and my fell of hair
    Would at a dismal treatise rouse, and stir
    As life were in’t: I have supp’d full with horrors;
    Direness, familiar to my slaught’rous thoughts,
    Cannot once start me.—Wherefore was that cry?

    _Sey._ The queen, my lord, is _dead_.

The signification of Lady Macbeth’s sleep-walking scene is heightened by
the contrast it affords to her proud overbearing demeanor in the earlier
scenes of the play. There she is as bold as if, indeed, there were no
God to supervise human affairs. When Macbeth, his dripping hands at
length burthened with a now irreparable murder, finds himself appalled
and feels that, among the other disadvantages of the crime, he has
“murdered sleep,” “Macbeth shall sleep no more,” “The innocent sleep,”
etc., etc., his lady is scarcely able to find words for her cool
contempt of such weakness.

                    Why, worthy thane
    You do unbend your noble strength, to think
    So brain-sickly of things:—go, get some water,
    And wash this filthy witness from your hand.—
    Why did you bring these daggers from the place?
    They must lie there. Go. Carry them; and smear
    The sleepy grooms with blood.
       _Mac._ I’ll go no more;
    I am afraid to think on what I have done.
    Look out again I dare not.
       _Lady._ Infirm of purpose!
       Give me the daggers:
    _The sleeping and the dead are but as portions_:
    ’Tis the eye of _childhood_, that fears a _painted devil_.
    If he does bleed I’ll gild the faces of the grooms withall
    For it must seem their guilt.

Thus, braving heaven, denying God, laughing to derision the idea of
conscience, and impiously promising that the blood may be washed from
their hands with a _little water_, glorying in the butchery of the good
old king, and accumulating murder upon murder, she rushes on her fate,
and, like all who oppose the Creator and Judge of the Universe, is
dashed to pieces.

-----

[1] “My mind she has _mated_.” This expression is supposed to be taken
from chess playing. She has _confounded_ my mind.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                           THE GLAD RETREAT.


                           BY E. G. SQUIRES.


    Beneath an elm, a green old elm,
      I raised a rustic seat,
    The boughs low bending o’er my head,
      The green grass at my feet.
    A little streamlet dancing by,
      With voice so clear and sweet;
    The air-spirit’s low and mournful sigh—
      Oh, ’twas a glad retreat!

    And often at the dewy morn,
      Just when the earliest ray,
    That from the chariot of the sun,
      Betokened coming day—
    I’d hie me to my glad retreat,
      To that old elm I’d stray,
    And by that rude and rustic seat,
      I’d kneel me down and pray.

    And at the sultry hour of noon,
      I’d seek the cooling shade,
    And listen to the murmuring sound
      That little streamlet made.
    And watched the bright birds glancing through
      The branches, old and young—
    And wondered as they gaily flew,
      What was the song they sung.

    But time has passed, those days are gone,
      Ay, more, long years have fled—
    And lying o’er that little brook,
      A withered trunk and dead.
    But memory often wanders back,
      On Fancy’s pinions free—
    I’ll ne’er forget the rustic seat
      Beneath the old elm tree!

                 *        *        *        *        *




                           THE REEFER OF ’76.


              BY THE “AUTHOR OF CRUIZING IN THE LAST WAR.”


                            THE CONCLUSION.

The cool breath of morning was blowing through the open casement, when I
awoke on the ensuing day, and as the wind dallied with the curtains of
my bed and kissed my fevered brow, I felt an exhiliration of spirits
which no one can fully appreciate who has not experienced the torture of
a bed of sickness.

My dreams had been pleasant during my repose, for they were of Beatrice.
Overcome by exhaustion, I had sank into a slumber almost immediately
after my faint attempt to address her; but I knew not how long I slept;
for, although it was now early morning, I had no means of telling at
what hour I had awoke the day before. No one appeared to be stirring in
the room. The mild light of an October sun lay in rich masses on the
carpet, while occasionally the brown vine leaves outside the casement,
would rustle pleasantly in the breeze. How I gazed on the patch of blue
sky discernible through that open window—how I longed to be wandering
free and uncontrolled over the rich plains and up the glowing hill-sides
that stretched away before the vision. Oh! there is nothing so glorious
to the sick man as a sunny morning. At this instant a bird whistled
outside the casement. How my blood danced at the lightsome tone! A
succession of dreamy, delicious feelings floated through my soul, and I
lay for some moments motionless, but dissolved in gratitude.

I raised myself feebly up, and faintly pushing aside the curtain, strove
to obtain a survey of my apartment. At length my thoughts reverted to my
situation. When I lost my consciousness, I was on a deserted deck—now I
was lying in a spacious apartment, in perfect security. Who could
explain this mystery? It was a rich, even luxurious room. The furniture
was of the costliest and most tasteful pattern, and the arrangement of
the different articles was made with an artist’s eye to the keeping—if
I may so speak—of the whole. A stand just in front of me held a bouquet
of fresh flowers, which, from their rarity, must have come from some
green house. On the opposite wall hung a glorious picture of the
Madonna, with her golden hair and beatified countenance, gazing down,
with that smile which Raphael has made immortal, on the infant on her
knee. A dim recollection floated through my brain that I had seen that
smile before, only the features which then accompanied it, had been like
those of Beatrice, rather than of the picture. Suddenly that angel face
I had seen in my dream, flashed on me. I knew it all now. It had been,
while gazing on this divine portrait in my delirium, that my fancy had
imagined it the face of Beatrice, smiling down upon me from the clouds.

It was evident that Beatrice had some connexion with my present
situation, for I was convinced that I had seen her the preceding day.
Where was she now?—How long had I been sick in this place?—And in what
manner was she I loved involved in my rescue, were questions that
continually forced themselves on my mind, until my still weak brain
began to be dizzy with the mystery. Putting my hands to my brow I strove
to drive away such thoughts; but they only returned with ten-fold force.
I would have risen to solve the mystery, but my strength proved
inefficient to the task, and I sank back on my pillow. A half hour must
thus have passed, when I heard a light footstep on the carpet, and in an
instant my heart was throbbing, and the blood dancing in my veins. In a
moment I should see Beatrice again. I gazed in the direction whence the
sound of the steps proceeded, and the name of her I adored was already
trembling on my lips, when a hand gathered back the curtain, and I saw,
not Beatrice, but an elderly French woman, whose dress bespoke her a
nurse. Never did a way-worn pilgrim, fancying he beheld the minaret of
the holy city in the distance, gaze on a _mirage_ with more
disappointment than I did on the countenance of my visitor. But my
curiosity soon triumphed over my disappointment. Perhaps she read my
thoughts, for a smile of equivocal meaning gradually stole into the
corners of her month as she returned my gaze. She was the first to
speak:

“Is Monsieur better?” she inquired.

“Yes,” I replied, “I am almost well—sufficiently so, at least, to feel
curiosity. In a word, how and when did I come here? Who am I to thank as
my preserver?”

“Monsieur has more questions to ask than even a Parisian _grisette_
could answer,” she replied, evasively. “Besides, his physician says he
must be kept quiet. I can only tell him for the present that he is in
France. Let him be patient and he shall soon know all. He is at any rate
among friends, and when he gets stronger he shall hear his story from
other lips than mine.”

As this was accompanied with a meaning smile that left no doubt on my
mind to whom she alluded, and as she seconded her words by drawing the
curtains together as if to retire, I was fain to be content. In addition
to this moreover, I felt that I had already exerted myself sufficiently
in conversation, for my brain was dizzy with the few words I had spoken.
So I closed my eyes, and, like one wearied out with toil, in a few
minutes was asleep.

Several days elapsed, during which I saw no one but the nurse, and now
and then a servant or two in a rich livery, who brought in the tray. To
all my inquiries I received the same answer, until at length, unbounded
as was my curiosity, I gave over the attempt, comforting myself with the
conviction that, in a day or two more, I should hear my story from the
loved lips of Beatrice herself.

At length I was able to sit up, and when the formal old physician
appeared, he announced to me with a meaning smile, that he would now
permit me to receive visitors. He added that my host and hostess were
anxious to pay their compliments in person, and had only been prevented
hitherto from doing so by my extreme weakness, and his express commands.
All this had an air of mystery about it which, however, I had not time
to unravel, for the physician had scarcely ceased speaking when the door
opened and my entertainers entered, announced by a servant in a rich
livery. I started and crimsoned to the brow, but a hasty glance assured
me that Beatrice was not there. The wonder increased,—but the physician
left me no time for thought, for, advancing on the instant, he
introduced my visitors to me formally as a Baron and Baroness de St.
Allaire. They were both somewhat in years, at least past their prime,
but their manners, apart from their former kindness to me, would have
attracted me to them at once. The Baron was a stately Frenchman, of the
school of _le grand monarque_, very formal, very dignified, but withal
kind hearted. His lady possessed one of the most benignant countenances
I ever recollect to have seen. Her smile was peculiarly sweet. Her years
sat on her lightly, and with all the propriety of her age she had all
the liveliness of youth. It was not long, therefore, before I was
perfectly at ease. The Baron expressed his satisfaction at my rapid
improvement for the better, complimented himself on his good fortune in
being my host, hoped that I found the prospect from my window pleasant,
and all this, too, with a formality, yet an affability that realized my
idea of the old French chevalier. His lady was less precise, and
consequently more winning. She conversed even gaily, and on a variety of
subjects, all, however, having a bearing on my illness. Yet, with a tact
which I could not but admire, she avoided every allusion to the means by
which I had become her guest, reminding me of a skilful advocate in a
bad cause, always hovering about but never approaching the issue. A
quarter of an hour was thus spent and I had determined to relieve my
eager curiosity by broaching the subject myself at the first pause in
the conversation, but, as if anticipating my design, the Baroness
suddenly rose, and still continuing her gay remarks, fairly complimented
herself out of the room before I had a chance to speak without violating
all etiquette by interrupting the good lady. I fancied, as she closed
the door with an “adieu, Monsieur,” that there was malice in her
provoking smile, betokening a lurking consciousness that she had
outwitted me. At first I was half disposed to feel angry, it was so
evident that my curiosity was trifled with. My patience nearly gave way
at these continued disappointments. Yet I had nothing at which I could
rationally get displeased. It was in vain for me to feel angry—my
discomfiture had been too adroitly managed—and at length I fairly burst
into a laugh at my own expense.

“You are pleased to be merry,” said a silvery voice behind me, and a low
glad laugh that rung through the chamber like fairy music, echoed my
own. I started up at once. I knew I could not be mistaken. The next
moment Beatrice was in my arms.

The rapture of that re-union I shall not attempt to portray. If my
readers have been young, and after having been separated for years from
the one they loved, have met her as their preserver, they can appreciate
my feelings. I draw a veil over the sacred emotions of that interview.
Nor will I repeat the thousand questions which were asked and answered
almost in the same breath.

It was some ten minutes before Beatrice narrated the circumstances which
had transpired since I parted with her in Charleston. Nor did she, even
when she began, give me a connected account. There were too many
questions to be asked, and too many inquiries to be answered, all
growing, it is true, out of her story, but all sadly at variance with
the course of the narration, to permit a continuous tale. At length,
however, I learned all, or nearly all, for there were a few things which
the dear girl did not tell me until long after,—and even then not
without a blush at her avowal.

My first inquiry was about her own fortunes, but she would not answer me
until I had told her how I came on the wreck, and she had acquainted me
with the manner of my rescue. I will give it in her own words.

“When you lost your consciousness you were, I fancy, nearer to aid than
you imagine, for a French privateer that was hovering along the coast
discovered the wreck, and making for it rescued you, almost exhausted it
is true, but still retaining life. You were insensible, and well nigh
frozen to death. But the exertions of your preservers finally restored
you to life, though not to consciousness. You fell into a raging fever
in which you raved in a constant delirium. The captain of the privateer,
having occasion to put into port the following day, brought you on
shore, and suspecting you to be an Englishman from your language,
unfeelingly consigned you to the common jail hospital, among the poorest
and most degraded of human beings. There you lay the whole of the
ensuing night, scarcely tended even by the callous nurses of those
establishments. No one knew your name; your dress was not a uniform; and
death was rapidly approaching to consign you to an unknown grave. But
Providence did not will that such should be your fate. An all-seeing eye
beheld you; an omnipotent arm interposed to save you. And the means of
your preservation were so fortuitous as to seem almost those of chance.
The confessor of the Baroness was in the habit of visiting the
prison—for we reside but a short drive from the town—and while giving
consolation to one of those miserable wretches—oh! I shudder to think
that you were once there—he heard a sick man in a neighboring ward
raving of a name,” and here the dear girl covered her face in confusion,
“which was familiar to him. Need I say it was mine? He listened, and
heard enough to satisfy him that you were acquainted with me. He made
inquiries, learned how you came there—and you can imagine the rest.”

“That I was brought here and saved from death,” said I, looking fondly
into Beatrice’s face. “But you have not told me how you came here, or
what tie exists between you and our hostess.”

“Oh! she is my cousin. I spent some years here in early childhood. But
to tell my story I must go back to when we last parted in Charleston.”

“Very well. I listen.”

“You know,” sweetly began Beatrice, “how much I feared, when you were in
Charleston, that my uncle would make himself obnoxious to the colonial
authorities, and endanger perhaps his life. You knew also, that he
seemed resolved to bring about a union betwixt his son and myself. The
necessity of obtaining my uncle’s sanction to my marriage under the
penalty of forfeiting my fortune, weighed but lightly with me, for I
knew his hostility to you to be unjust. Yet, as the representative of my
deceased parent, I wished, if possible, to win Mr. Rochester’s sanction.
His persevering determination to unite me to his son prevented all hope
of this; and it was not long after our parting that I saw he would never
consent to my becoming the bride of any one but his heir. Besides, he
grew every day more openly hostile to the colonies. Unjust as I felt he
was to me, I yet loved him as my mother’s brother, and I trembled for
his life. But death suddenly interposed and calmed my fears, only
however to awaken my grief. In the grave I buried my wrongs. I saw in
him then only my protector in a strange land—my nearest living
relative—the one with whom my sainted mother had spent her childhood.

“My uncle’s decease at once changed my fortunes. The only impediment to
my enjoyment of my father’s estate was now removed, and I was free to
bestow my hand on whomsoever I wished. My cousin renewed his offer, at a
decent interval after his father’s death, but, need I say, I courteously
yet firmly refused it. My longer stay in Charleston was now a matter of
delicacy, for I had no relatives there except the family of Mr.
Rochester, and they naturally viewed my decision with feelings more
favorable to my cousin than to myself. Under these circumstances I
availed myself of an opportunity that just then presented to sail for
this country, where my relative the Baroness, with whom I had spent some
years in childhood, resided. She had continued in correspondence with me
ever since, and had urged me in every letter to visit her, even if I
could not come and make my home with her. Little did I think that I
should meet you under the circumstances in which I did.”

I have little more to add. Of the letters which I had written to
Beatrice some miscarried, some were lost in captured ships, and a few
reached her months after they had been penned. Her answers came with
even more irregularity, for since the day we had parted in Charleston I
had received but a solitary epistle from her. Now, however, every
disappointment was amply redressed. She sat beside me with her hand in
mine, and her soft eyes looking smilingly up into my face.

“But why,” said I at length, “was so much mystery preserved respecting
your presence here? And why, after I had recognized you on my first
awaking from delirium, did you order the nurse—for you only could have
done so—to avoid all mention of your name, to conceal from me in whose
house I was?”

“That was a scheme adopted as much from the orders of the physician as
from any other motive. He feared that the least agitation would bring
back your fever, and he enjoined secresy on the nurse, as the surest way
to keep you composed.”

I would have said how much he had failed of success had I not been too
full of happiness to condemn even a formal old physician.

The period of my convalescence is one written on my inmost heart in
characters never to be obliterated. Oh! those were delicious hours. With
Beatrice beside me I would sit gazing out on the sunny landscape beneath
the window, or wander through the rich garden which surrounded the
chateau. Or perhaps she would ply her needle while I would read to her.
And then she would sing some of the old songs of her native land. And by
and by the Baroness would come in, and with her ever sunny mind join in
the conversation. Years, long eventful years, have passed since then,
and God knows too many of those I loved are now in their graves, but the
memory of that fortnight of happiness never fails to restore gladness to
my heart even in its utmost sorrow.

But I have too long forgotten the little Fire Fly. It will be
recollected that I had left Holland with the intention of joining my old
commander at Paris, and I now seized the earliest opportunity of
communicating my present situation to him by letter. A reply soon
arrived by which I learned that, although the Fire Fly had been
condemned, a brig had been chartered, and that he intended returning to
America with his officers and most of his crew in her. They had been in
the greatest anxiety respecting my fate, and had finally given me up for
lost. The letter informed me that the day of sailing had been fixed, and
that before I could return an answer the brig would have broke ground.
My old commander ended by hoping that I might soon be able to rejoin him
in the United States—although he added a gay postscript to say that he
understood there was great probability of my choosing another mistress
than glory.

Meanwhile I slowly recovered, and as every obstacle to my union with
Beatrice was now removed, I did not hesitate to press the dear girl to
name an early day for the realization of our nuptials. With a thousand
blushes she referred me to the Baron and his lady, promising in the
softest whisper, as if she feared to trust herself to speak, to abide by
their decision. Need I say how speedily I availed myself of the
permission, or how warmly I petitioned for as short a delay as possible?

At length the day was named, and though I was condemned to wait a whole
month, in the company of Beatrice it glided away almost insensibly.

The morning at length dawned. It was a bright sunny day in early winter,
and never shall I forget the cheery sound of the village bells ringing
to announce my approaching nuptials. The air was keen and frosty; not a
cloud was in the sky; the brown woods fairly glowed in the sunlight;
and, in a word, had I chosen the day a more fitting one could not have
been selected. My lady readers may expect a description of the dress of
the bride, the carriage, the feast, and a thousand other things, but as
I am no Sir Charles Grandison, I shall pass them over without comment. I
will only say that Beatrice—my own Beatrice at last—never looked
lovelier than when she descended to the room, where we were all awaiting
her, on that marriage morn. The smile, the blush, the look of unreserved
affection as her eye was raised timidly to my face and then dropped, I
shall never forget. The Baron gave her away, the nuptial vow was said,
and with a tumult of feelings I cannot describe, I pressed her to my
bosom, a wife. A tear was on her cheek, but I kissed it holily away.

We remained in France for nearly a year after our union, and even after
that prolonged stay, could hardly tear ourselves from the Baron and his
lady. But the prospect of peace daily growing stronger we availed
ourselves of the kind offer of the French monarch, and sailed for
America in one of our allies’ frigates. I never, however, served again,
for the war was in fact terminated, but thereafter I spent my life in
the bosom of my family.

As the magician after having summoned up and marshalled before him a
phantasmagoria of shadowy figures, at length perceives them fading from
his sight, and, conscious that the spell is fast departing, lays down
his rod, so we, approaching to the end of our task, find that the charm
is beginning to lose its power, and that the beings we have conjured up
are melting rapidly from our vision. Even now they seem to us only as a
dream. Yet there is one glimpse more afforded to us before the magic
curtain falls on them forever. It is that of a happy fireside and a
smiling circle around it. Nor are the principals in that domestic scene
wholly unfamiliar to us, for in the mild eyes and Madonna-like
countenance of the one, and in the well-known face and embrowned
features of the other, we recognize two of those who have figured as the
chief personages in our story. Years have not impaired the beauty of
Beatrice, for they have fallen as light on her as blossoms. But she is
not now alone in her loveliness, for at her knee is one, like and yet
unlike her, younger but not more beautiful, gayer but with scarcely less
sweetness. Need we say of whom the group is composed?

And now, reader, let me drop my disguise and come before you in my own
character as

                                                       Harry Danforth.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                      HE WOO’D ME AT THE FOUNTAIN.


                             BY A. M’MAKIN.


    He woo’d me at the fountain,
      When the moon shone bright above,
    And with the murmuring of the stream,
      He pledged his vows of love.
    I bade him to my father hie,
      The pleasing tale to tell,
    Then seek again the fountain sheen,
      Down in the sylvan dell.

    He woo’d me in the bower,
      When the songsters fill’d the grove,
    And with the dove’s soft tones he sigh’d
      His ardent tale of love.
    I bade him seek my mother’s side,
      Her blessing first to win,
    Then claim me for his chosen bride,
      The trelliced bower within.

    He woo’d me at the festal,
      Where music reigned supreme,
    And ’mid the revel wild and light
      He breath’d his chosen theme;
    Yet all unbless’d I could not yield
      To man the heart’s rich mine,
    Or falsely dash the holy light
      From filial duty’s shrine.

    At length ’twas at the altar,
      ’Neath the organ’s pealing sound,
    He sought again my trembling hand,
      While friends were smiling round;
    No more I bade him others seek,
      Or waved him from my side:
    With blushes mantling o’er my cheek,
      _I knelt his happy bride_.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                         THE STOLEN MINIATURE.


                         BY MRS. R. S. NICHOLS.


                “The very head and front of my offending
                Hath this extent, no more.”
                                              _Othello._

It was near midnight, on one of the beautiful summer evenings that brood
over our Western Land, as some fair spirit hovers near to Paradise—and
which can be realized only by those who have witnessed them—that one of
the numerous strangers that throng the waters of “La Belle Rivière,”
paused on its upward course before a small town which lay upon the banks
of the aforesaid stream. When the boat had effected a landing, a few
passengers, who either blind to the charms of Morpheus, or more allied
to those of sundry packs of cards, that strewed the tables of the
“social hall,” stepped upon shore to enjoy a moonlight view of the
village. Among the number, was a group of three individuals, who,
withdrawing from the rest, strolled carelessly along one of the
principal streets, until they arrived at a cross, turning down whose
short but secluded walk, several large buildings, evidently the
residences of the most wealthy portion of the inhabitants, were
situated. As they passed into this beautiful and peaceful retreat, a
slight whispering, which presently broke forth into loud and angry
words, disturbed the slumbering echoes of the night.

“I tell you, Layton, it is impossible! I will not—cannot do it!”

“Spoken like a fool, and a milksop, as you are; there is a way to stop
your whining scruples, and curse me if I’ll not show it you.”

Quick as thought, the first speaker turned, and confronting his
companion, exclaimed in a voice trembling with passion,—“Ay, there _is_
a way to rouse the sleeping devil, even in my _coward_ frame; but your
threats fall regardless on my ear, while I have this good blade to
protect me,”—and a long glittering Bowie-knife flashed beneath the soft
rays of the harvest moon.

“By Heavens! I believe you both to be mad! Put up your knife, Bradley,
and you, Layton, keep your infernal tongue within your teeth, unless you
want to have this goodly town about our ears.” This soothing speech was
spoken by the third, and hitherto silent companion; and while the
altercation is progressing in lower tones, you, my gentle reader, shall
have a Daguerreotype sketch of at least one of the party.

Bradley Spencer was the son of one of the most wealthy and aristocratic
planters in Louisiana, but maternal affection he never knew, at least
was not conscious of it, his mother having been snatched away in his
childhood, by one of the fearful epidemics peculiar to that portion of
the South. His father, a high-principled, noble-minded man, richly
endowed with the warm blood and chivalrous feelings of the Southerner,
having thus lost that which he considered as the better part of life,
gave his undivided heart to this “sole scion of his stock,” and for his
boy’s sake, no second lady darkened his halls, or cast a shadow over the
golden sunlight of the young heir’s youthful existence. Thus fondly
nurtured and cherished, every wish indulged to the utmost, the young
Bradley grew apace; but, with all his paternal prejudice, the elder
Spencer could not but note the wavering acts and vacillating mind of his
darling boy, betokening, even in youth, the indecision of the man. With
prophetic sorrow, he saw the consequences entailed on one, who, ever
willing to follow, had no projects to offer, or will of his own, to
oppose those of others. To eradicate this “crying evil,” the boy was
sent, at the age of fifteen, to college. There, at least, argued the
parent, he will learn independence of thought and expression. But how
widely was he mistaken! An universal favorite among his class-mates,
winning “golden opinions” from all, by his pliant disposition, and
suavity of manners, and being allowed an unlimited sum for his passing
expenditures, he bore the palm, and reigned any thing but a despot, over
his more firmly-minded companions. It is not our intention to follow him
through the mazes of college life, and we pass in silence over the four
succeeding years, when at the age of nineteen, he was re-called, to
receive the last blessing and injunctions of a dying father. Still true
to his erroneous system of indulgence, Mr. Spencer left his property to
the undivided control of his son, fondly imagining, that unlimited sway
would overcome the imbecile principles of youth, and teach him that
firmness of mind, and stability of purpose, so essential to manhood.

Youth is the season of luxury and enjoyment. Joy is evanescent; and
grief, in the young bosom, is but the sudden o’ercasting of a summer
sky; the cloud passes away, and the bow of promise is bent in the now
smiling heavens. Thus was it with Bradley’s grief; a few short weeks in
New Orleans did wonders; they initiated him in the mysteries and
delights of the gaming table; they did more: they introduced him to the
lowest haunts of vice and infamy, cloaked, indeed, for the decoy of this
rich windfall; but so thin and flimsy was the protecting veil of decency
and morality, that any other than Bradley Spencer’s eyes would have
pierced the wily folds, and laid bare the monsters lurking behind them.
Thus early possessed with the fatal passion of gaming, night after night
saw the infatuated youth wound deeper and deeper in the toils of his
betrayers. Mortgage after mortgage was given,—though not having a
shadow of legality about them, they were accepted as eagerly by these
human leeches, as the red gold for which they had sold their souls to
perdition. The men with whom it was Spencer’s fate to become connected,
were most of them from thirty to forty years of age; wily, unprincipled
villains, well calculated to govern the simple youth, whom they
remorselessly plundered of all at his present command, and accepted his
honor as pledge for the rest, when he should become of age. Nor were the
months tardy in their flight. At the end of two short years, his
property was formally yielded by his passive guardian, and the day that
gave him house and land, stock and slave, saw him resign it to the
fiends who had possessed him with a love of all that was degrading to
human nature, and taught him to scoff at all who were truly poor and
virtuous.

It is the same Bradley Spencer, kind reader, whose brief career we have
endeavored to trace, that we left in the little village, with his
knavish companions, who, fresh from the hiding places of loathsome vice,
were intent on drawing the young man into yet greater depths of
wickedness. But they struck upon the wrong chord—Spencer had been
culpable, most culpable, it is true, but he was to himself his worst
foe; he had not willingly injured others, but had been the dupe, in
every instance. Thus, when his brutal comrade expressed his
determination to _rob_ one of the habitations before them, and urged his
assistance, his nobler spirit that had slept so long, was aroused, and
he gave vent to his feelings in the manner we have described.

Brief was their consultation, and the arguments they held with him bade
fair to be of no avail, until the elder and more polite villain,
declared that Bradley could not now withdraw in honor, as they should
suspect he meant to betray them; that they would not require his
assistance, if he had any _foolish_ prejudice to the contrary; but he
should accompany them, as a mere looker-on. Without pausing for an
answer, he passed his arm in that of the young man’s, and followed by
Layton, they stepped into a small yard, at the gable end of one of the
mansions. There, a window had been left open by the unsuspecting
inmates, for the benefit of the air. Springing lightly in, he was
followed by the others. Groping their way by the light of a dark
lantern, which Layton pulled from the bosom of his coat—thus showing
himself perfectly _au fait_ in such proceedings—they ascended a
staircase, and pausing in a long passage, bade Bradley be watchful, and
give a low whistle upon the slightest alarm. The two less scrupulous
ruffians then pursued their way down the passage. What Spencer’s
reflections would have been, he had not leisure to ascertain, for,
fancying he heard a low breathing, like one in deep slumber, he turned
and discovered, by the light of the moon, which was streaming in a
window near, a door, the which, on applying his hand, yielded to the
impulse. Impelled by curiosity, or some more definable feeling, he
stepped softly into the room. A night-lamp was burning dimly upon a
table, near a small couch, where, in her bright and youthful loveliness,
slept a fair girl. Scarce had the breath of sixteen summers passed over
the clear brow that lay upturned in its marble whiteness, for

    “Death’s twin-sister, sleep,”

weighed down the veined lids, the long dark lashes of which rested on
the faintly-tinged cheek beneath. As Spencer turned from this unexpected
vision, his glance fell on a small book, that lay open on the table.
Some light pencil-mark, that pointed to an admired passage, drew his
attention. As he bent to read, his brow crimsoned, and his frame
trembled with emotion. It was a volume of the ill-fated Shelley’s Poems,
open at “Adonais,” and as he read

    “Remorse and self-contempt shall cling to thee,
    Hot shame shall burn upon thy secret brow,”

a full sense of his degradation, and how he had “fallen from his high
estate,” rushed upon his stricken heart, and feelings that had slumbered
long, were now fully awakened by the thrilling lines of the mystical
poet, and the strange scene before him. As he turned quickly to leave
where his presence was a sacrilege, his attention was caught by a small
miniature, one glance at which showed him the waking likeness of the
sleeping beauty before him. Involuntarily catching it, he fled from the
room, and giving the signal agreed upon, to his companions, the next
moment saw them wending their way to the boat, which, having discharged
the freight that detained her, was soon flying upon her onward course.

Three years had passed away, since Bradley Spencer, leagued with common
thieves, accompanied them on their nefarious night expedition, in the
little village already mentioned. Bradley Spencer, _then_ the companion
of gamblers and low debauchees, was _now_ Henry Murray, the trusted head
clerk of one of the most wealthy mercantile houses in New York. From the
ever memorable night of the robbery, the wretched young man forsook his
unworthy associates. “Remorse and self-contempt” did indeed cling to
him, and despair and shame at first conquered his remaining energy. But
the spirit was present with him; it only needed to be roused into
action. He had parted with his last dollar, when he arrived in New York,
and the change of name was decided on to soothe the pride that came to
his aid after so long a time. Deprivations only rendered him stronger in
his virtuous purposes, thus proving at once the false system of
indulgence adopted by his parent.

Clement Archer, Esq., was a stern, unbending, business man. Strictly
moral in his walk before men, he required all around him to show the
same regard for the welfare of society. With a heart filled with
benevolence, though veiled with an air of sternness, he received Bradley
in his counting-house, as Henry Murray, knowing it to be a fictitious
name, for Spencer scorned to impose on his benefactor in this respect,
and though Bradley’s past history was a sealed book which his employer
never attempted to pry into, he could not help fancying some misdemeanor
had driven the young man from his home and friends. He contented
himself, therefore, by placing a strict watch upon his conduct, but
after months had passed away, indeed, years, and saw Henry the same
attentive, hard-laboring clerk he was at first, his patron took pleasure
in showing him favor, and in placing the most unlimited confidence in
him. Thus had the three years glided by. That Henry was comparatively
happy, we admit, but many an agonizing night had passed, ere he acquired
even this slight tranquility, and shall we confess it, kind reader? the
stolen miniature, the witness of his involuntary crime, was cherished as
a precious relic, for instead of serving to remind him of his errors,
and fill him with shame, it was regarded as a mute angel, that had
snatched him from ignominy and vice. And who could blame him for loving
to look upon that fair countenance, with its deep and eloquent eyes
forever speaking of the intellectual worth within? It was not so much
the beautiful form of the features, that arrested the gaze, as the
whole-soul expression that shone around them. Long would the infatuated
youth gaze on the memento of his crime, but there was little penitence
in his looks, and not one thought of sorrow for the grief the loss of it
must have given the fair original, for enclosed in the back was a braid
of dark hair, slightly silvered with grey, and beneath was engraved,
“from a fond mother to her daughter, on her sixteenth birthday.”

Bradley had carefully avoided every print which he thought would be
likely to contain the intelligence of the robbery, and as no
communication passed between himself and the perpetrators on this
subject, he was consequently ignorant of the amount abstracted, or of
the names of the sufferers.

It was a cold winter morning, when Mr. Archer suddenly entered his
counting-house and ordered it to be immediately closed. On Henry’s (for
so must we call him) looking up, he perceived his friend’s countenance
was clothed with grief, and the fresh crape upon his hat told that death
had been busy with his house. Bidding Henry, who was domesticated in his
family, accompany him home, he informed him he had just received letters
announcing the death of an only and well-beloved brother, and added, he
was hourly expecting the arrival of an orphan niece, now committed to
his charge. His companion asked no questions, for fear of stirring the
fountain of grief afresh. On entering the drawing-room at night, he was
presented to Miss Archer, but what was his surprise and consternation on
lifting his eyes to her face, to see the fair sleeper before him! The
face was paler than the miniature’s, and wore a more chastened and
somewhat older expression, for sorrow had indeed visited her. Both
parents had slept their last sleep, since she slumbered so unconsciously
in his presence. Stammering forth some faint apologies, Bradley left the
room and the house, and who may say what wild visions thronged his
restless couch that night!

Months glided away, and Mr. Archer beheld, with some slight misgivings,
the growing intimacy between his niece and Henry. Not but that he would
willingly have given her to his _protégé_, could the cloudy mystery
which hung over the young man have been cleared to his satisfaction. But
during the three years Henry had been with him, he had never received
letter or communication, of any kind, from friend or foe. For a young
man to stand so utterly alone, “looked strange,” to say the least of it.

Entering the room one evening, where Miss Archer and Henry were sitting,
her uncle, in a light and laughing tone, said,

“How is this, Emily? Young Dalton has been making serious complaints
concerning the obduracy of heart of an ungrateful niece of mine. What
has he done to provoke her displeasure? ‘and why won’t she wed?’”

“Nay, dear uncle, you know my heart and hand have long been pledged to
the restorer of my miniature.”

“And so my Emily stands pledged to a nameless robber! Would she like it
to reach his ear through the walls of a prison?”

“Most sincerely do I hope he is free, for he must be a gentle ruffian,
and having stolen naught but my picture, I can’t find it in my heart to
be very angry; the compliment, dear uncle, only think of the
compliment!”

“Ay, but the compliment paid to your father was a little more costly,
was it not?”

“With that I have nothing to do,” replied Emily, blushing; “but I would
willingly forgive the robber, would he restore my mother’s gift,” and
the tears sprang to her eyes, at the mention of her loss. Mr. Archer saw
her emotion, and said no more. But Bradley, how did he hear the secret?
How often was he tempted, as he heard the beautiful and enthusiastic
girl plead for him so eloquently, and regret the loss of what was so
dear to her, to throw himself on her mercy and confess all, but happily
he restrained his emotion, and soon after left the apartment.

“Now, gentlemen, while you are discussing your hot rolls and coffee, I
will read this delightful retailer of news and scandal,” exclaimed Miss
Archer, on seating herself at the breakfast table, the morning
succeeding the conversation already detailed. “Here is ‘latest foreign
news,’ ‘home affairs,’ ‘politics’ and ‘poetry;’ which will you have? Ah!
let me see; here is a mysterious affair:

    ‘The Governor of Louisiana offers five hundred dollars reward to
    any person or persons, who will intimate any knowledge of the
    residence of one Bradley Spencer, or satisfactorily prove that
    the said Bradley is living. He having left New Orleans about
    three years since, in company with a party of gamblers, and not
    having since been heard of, it is feared by his friends that he
    has fallen a victim to the machinations of the said men, as
    through a confession lately made by one of the party, who was
    stabbed in an affray, Spencer will be restored his property, of
    which he was most nefariously deprived. Should this meet his
    eye, he is earnestly requested to return and take possession of
    the same.’”

As Emily read this paragraph in a clear, distinct voice, Mr. Archer
fastened his eye on the young man who sat at his table. No power on
earth could have controlled Bradley’s emotions, and after the reader
paused, Mr. Archer arose, and taking his hand, said,

“Be candid, Henry; whatever faults you have been guilty of, these last
three years have expiated——”

“You know not the half of my rash acts,” passionately interrupted the
young man; “you would both loathe and spurn me, were I to tell all; but
I _will_ perform one just act. Miss Archer,” taking the miniature from
his bosom, “here is the deity that has preserved me from sin, and before
you stands the—robber!”

Both Mr. Archer and Emily were mute with surprise and amazement at this
confession; but when they eagerly questioned him, and learned what he
had to offer in extenuation, it is needless to say he was freely
forgiven.

It is sufficient to add that Bradley recovered the major portion of his
property, and as he gazes upon the generous and forgiving girl, who is
now his bride, he invokes blessings on the being who, by the
interposition of a Divine Providence, was the means of preserving him
from the “gambler’s fate.”

                 *        *        *        *        *




                                VENICE.


           “Oh! thou, that once was wedded to the sea—
            Queen of the Adriatic—where are thy glories now?”


    Oh Death! thy palaces are here,
      Thy footsteps echo round,
    And chills the heart with nameless fear
      At that unearthly sound—
    And Venice, at thy outer gate,
    Sits widowed, bowed and desolate,
      A queen, yet all discrowned,
    With ashes heaped upon her head—
    A mother wailing for her dead!

    It was not thus in ages past
      Oh! mistress of the sea,
    When to the wind thy banner cast
      Would rally forth the free—
    It was not thus when ev’ry shore
    From farthest Ind to Scylla bore
      Its richest gifts for thee—
    Nor thus when at Lepanti fell
    The fiery hordes of Ishmaël.

    Thou saw’st proconsuls on the Rhone,
      The Gaul beyond the Rhine,
    The Cæsar on his eastern throne,
      The English Alfred’s line—
    Thou saw’st the first and last crusade
    And Florence in her shackles laid,
      And Rome all drunk with wine,
    And haughty Stamboul’s overthrow
    Before the blind old Dandolo.

    Thou wast when Moslems ravaged Spain,
      Thou saw’st Grenada fall,—
    Thou wast when France received the Dane,
      When murder reigned in Gaul,—
    Thou wast before the Turk was known,
    When Huns were on the Roman throne,
      And England yet in thrall,—
    And still, as nations rose and died,
    Thy Titan front the world defied!

    But now thou art all desolate,
      The very mock of fame,
    With nothing save thy fallen state,
      Thy ruins, and—a name.
    And silent are thy songs of mirth,
    Thy form is prostrate on the earth,
      Thy brow is white with shame—
    Oh God! a harlot in her woe!
    Did ever grandeur fall so low?

    And waving from thy palace walls
      The long grass rankly grows—
    Lamenting, through its dull canals,
      The sluggish water flows—
    And ’neath the Lion of St. Mark—
    That scourge of vanished empires—hark!
      The tramp of Austrian foes.
    How long, Oh! Venice, o’er thy grave
    Shall jeer the coward and the slave?

    I stand beside the Lion’s mouth
      And gaze across the sea,
    The breeze is wafting from the south
      No argosies to thee!
    Thy hundred seers, thy fearful TEN.
    Are not, and shall not be again
      While God is for the free!
    Yet they a deathless name shall find,
    A scorn, a hissing to mankind!

    Go! let her moulder where she fell—
      We only weep the brave—
    Her destiny befits her well,
      A traitor, then a slave,—
    Betraying all, herself betrayed,
    And smote by parricidal blade,
      She sank into her grave—
    Shall nations shed a tear for her
    Whose life was Freedom’s sepulchre?

                                 ß.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                       THE MARRIAGE OF ACHILLES.


BY THE AUTHOR OF “THE BROTHERS,” “CROMWELL,” “RINGWOOD THE ROVER,” ETC.


It was a day of Truce in the fair Troad!—the festival of the great
Doric and Ionian God, sacred to either nation—it was a day of general
peace, of general rejoicing! The ninth year of the war was far advanced
toward its termination. Hector, the mighty prop of Troy, had fallen; yet
did the Grecian host still occupy their guarded camp by the dark waters
of the Hellespont; nor had the indomitable valor of the Goddess-born
prevailed to level with the dust the towers of Troy divine. For fresh
allies had buckled on their armor for the defence of Priam—Memnon, son
of the morning, like his great rival half immortal, with his dark Coptic
hosts, had rushed from the far banks of the giant Nile—ill-fated prince
and hero!—rushed, but to swell the triumphs of the invincible
Thessalian, to water with his life-blood the flowery pastures of the
land he vainly hoped to save. Penthesilea, virgin queen of the
man-defying virgins—fairest of earth’s fair daughters—had left her
boundless plains beside the cold Thermodon—had called her quivered
heroines from warring with the mountain pard, and chasing the huge urus
of the plain, to launch the unerring shaft and ply the two-edged axe
against the sevenfold shield of Salamis, against the Pelian spear. Alas!
not her did her unrivalled horsemanship, in which she set her trust—in
which she might have coped successfully with the world-famed
Bellerophontes—not her did her skill with the feathered reed avail,
against the speed of him who left the winds behind in his career, whose
might was more than human. She too lay prone before him—the dazzling
charms of her voluptuous bosom revealed to the broad sunshine, as he
tore off the jewelled cincture—tore off the scaly breastplate—the
hyacinthine tresses, soiled in the gory dust—tresses wherewith she
might have veiled her form even to the ankles, so copious was their
flow! Oh she was beautiful in death—and avenged by her beauty!—For the
fierce conqueror wept and bore her to his own pavilion, and hung
enamored for long days over those fatal charms; and pressed the cold
form to his fiery heart, and kissed with fervid lips the cold and
senseless eyelids, the mouth that answered not to his unnatural rapture.
The fate of Troy, as on the bravest of her sons, had fallen on the best
of her allies—the fiat of the destinies had long ago gone forth—the
fiat which the dwellers of Olympus, the revellers on Nectar and
Ambrosia,—which Jove himself, although he were reluctant, must obey!
The ancestral curse was on the walls of Ilium, and all who should defend
them. They fell there one by one, valiant, sometimes
victorious—Sarpedon, Cyenus fell—Memnon, Penthesilea! Yet falling they
deferred the ruin which they might not avert—so Troy still stood,
although her mightiest were down—and when the brazen cymbals of Cybele
summoned her sons to battle, they still rushed forth in throngs,
determined to the last and unsubdued; and with Deiphobus to lead—worthy
successor of their mightier hero—they battled it still bravely on the
plain, between the city and the sea.

But now it was all harmony and peace!—the spears were pitched into the
yellow sand beside the Grecian galleys, or hung, each on its owner’s
wall, within the gates of Ilium. The plain, the whole fair plain, was
crowded now—more densely crowded than it had ever showed, when in the
deadliest fight the kindred nations mingled—for now not warriors only,
but the whole population of the camp, the country and the town,
traversed its grassy surface in gay and gorgeous companies. Gray headed
men were there, counsellors and contemporaries of old Priam, eager to
look upon the field whereon such exploits had been done—matrons come
out to weep above the green graves of their sons and spouses, graves
which till then they ne’er had visited, nor decked with votive garlands,
nor watered with a tear—maidens in all the frolic mirth of their blythe
careless youth, panting to gather flowrets from the green banks of
Simois and Xanthus, Phrygian streams, to chase the gaudy butterfly, to
listen to the carol of the bird—to drink in with enchanted ears the
sylvan harmonies from which they had so long been shut within the
crowded walls of the beleaguered city.

It was a wondrous spectacle—Yea! beautiful exceedingly! Men in those
days were indeed images of the immortal—women, types of ideal
loveliness!—many a form was there of youthful warriors, such as were
models unto him who wrought from the inanimate rock of Paros, that
breathing, deathless god, the slayer of the Python—many a girlish shape
such as we worship in the poet’s dream, Psyche, or Hebe, or Europa—many
a full blown figure, ripe in the perfect luxury of womanhood, such as
enchants the eyes, intoxicates the hearts, enthrals the souls, of all
who look upon the Medicean Venus. Then the rich oriental garbs—the half
transparent robes of gauze-like Byssus, revealing _all_ the symmetry,
and _half_ the delicate hues, of the rich charms they seemed to
veil—the jewelled zones and mitres, the golden network, scarce
restraining the downward sweep of the redundant ringlets!—the priests
in stoles of purest snow, sandalled and crowned with gold!—the
sacrificers in their garbs succinct—the spotless, flower-crowned
victims!—the music—and the odors!—and the song! The wild exulting
bursts of the mad Bacchic Dithyramb!—the statelier and more solemn
chant, warbled by hundred tongues of boys and stainless virgins, in
honor of the Pure, Immaculate God—the silver-bowed—the
light-producer—the golden-haired, and yellow-sworded—the healer—the
averter—the avenger!—son of Latona and of Jove—Delian and Thymbrœan
King!—the blast of the shrill trumpets, blent with the deep, deep roll
of the Corybantian drum, loud as the deafening roar of subterranean
thunder, and the sharp clashing of the Cretan cymbal, and the shrill
rattle of the systrum! the chariots and the coursers of the
god!—chariots of polished brass, reflecting every beam of the broad
Asiatic sun till they seemed cars of living flame—coursers of symmetry
unmatched, snow-white, with full spirit-flashing eyes, and nostrils wide
distended, trampling the flowery sod as if they were proud of their
golden trappings, and conscious of the God their owner!

Far in a haunted grove, beneath the towering heights of Ida, where never
yet, during the whole nine years of deadly strife, had the red hand of
war intruded—far in a haunted grove, whither no beam of the broad
day-god pierces even from his meridian height—so densely is it set with
the eternal verdure of the laurel, high over-canopied by green immortal
palm—so closely do the amorous vines embrace both palm and laurel
weaving a vault of solid everlasting greenery—where the perpetual chant
of the nightingale is mingled only with the faint sigh of the breeze
that plays forever among the emerald alleys, and the sweet tinkling
voice of the Thymbrœan rill, cold from its icy cradle on the
cloud-curtained hill of Jove—unvisited by feet of profane visitor,
stands the secluded shrine of the Pure God—a circular vault of whitest
Parian marble, reared on twelve Doric shafts, their pedestals and bases
of bright virgin gold. Beneath the centre of the dome is placed a
circular altar of the same chaste materials, wrought with the most
superb reliefs, descriptive of the birth, the exploits, and the
histories of the great Deity—and in a niche immediately behind it—the
Deity himself—the naked limbs—all grace and youthful beauty—the swell
of the elastic muscles, the life-like, almost breathing protrusion of
the expanded chest—the swan-like curvature of the proud neck, the
scornful curl of the almost girlish lips, the wide indignant nostril,
the corded veins of the broad forehead from which the clustered locks
stream back, waved as it were by some spiritual breath prophetic, the
lightning glance of the triumphant eye shot from beneath the brows half
bended in a frown, proclaimed the Python killer—the Boy-god now in the
flush of his first triumph!— The fierceness kindled by the perilous
strife was not yet faded from the eye—yet he smiles, scornfully smiles,
at the very ease with which he has prevailed over his dragon foe!

A dim religious twilight reigned through that solemn shrine; it would
have been a solemn darkness, but for the pencils of soft emerald-colored
light, which streamed down here and there full of bright wandering
motes, among the tangled foliage—and for the pale transparent glow
soaring up from the marble altar, whereon fed by the richest spices and
the most generous wine, the sacred flame played to and fro, lambent and
imitative of the lights that stud the empyrean.

Splendid, however, as was the picture offered by the interior of the
shrine, decked with all those appliances that operate most strongly on
the mind, or at least on the imaginative portion of the mind of
man—pervading all the senses with a calm, sweet, luxurious
languor—filling the soul with strange voluptuous fantasies—half
poetry, half superstition; yet infinitely were all the splendors, all
the elegance of the spot surpassed by the transcendant majesty of those
who stood around the altar.

On the right hand and left, next to the statue of Apollo, ministered the
chief pontiffs of that solemn and mysterious deed; they were both old,
even beyond the usual old age of mortals, yet perfectly erect and
stately in their forms—their long locks were indeed of perfect silvery
whiteness, their wide expanded foreheads wrinkled with many a line and
furrow, their lips pale as ashes, their whole complexion bloodless!—yet
did their eyes beam out from the deep cavernous recesses of their
sockets with a wild and spirited brilliance that savored not a little of
the unearthly light of inspiration; and their whole air and bearing went
far to denote that their long years had nought diminished the pervading
powers of the soul, though they had wasted not a little the mere mortal
clay; but rather had given freer scope to the far-darting mind, in
limiting the operations of the coarser matter.

Their robes were white immaculate linen, and they wore chaplets of the
green bay tree on their heads, and carried sceptres in their hands of
gold, enwreathed with sprays of laurels, and bound with woollen fillets.
All motionless they stood, and silent; stirring not hand, nor foot, nor
even so much as winking an eyelid, save when they poured the fat spiced
wine from golden pateræ upon the altar, to feed the sacred flame. Behind
them were assembled the ministers, the choristers, and sacrifices of the
temple, waking at times wild harmonies from many a golden lyre, many a
silver flute; while, to fill up the pauses between the bursts of
instrumental music, soft symphonies arose from virgin lips invisible,
singing, “all glory to unshorn Apollo, and her, the sister of his soul,
the unstained goddess of the groves—queen of the silver bow!”

A little way advanced by the right hand of the altar, bowed down by many
years and many sorrows, yet still serene, and dignified, and
king-like—for he was yet a king!—aye, and in after days, when his Troy
sunk in ashes never to rise again, a king he died, right kingly—leaning
on his ivory staff stood the great offspring of Laomedon—good, hapless
Priam. His limbs, which had been framed in the gigantic mould of the old
heroic ages, still larger than the degenerate thews of his descendants,
were all relaxed and nerveless; and the great veins and sinews, which
stood out upon his shrivelled hands like a network of cordage, betokened
the vast strength which once must have dwelt in that large frame, so
sinewless and feeble now—so impotent and helpless. His golden crown was
on his lofty brow, serene and venerable in its polished baldness—a
flowing mantle of rich regal purple, lined with white lambskins, flowed
down from his shoulders and swept the marble pavement with its rich
broidered edge and bullion fringes—a tunic of white linen, gathered
about his waist by a broad belt of golden arabesques, sandals of purple
leather clasped and embossed with gold, completed his attire—while,
ministers of regal state, the god-like heralds stood behind him,
Jalthybius, and Eurybates the sage—messengers of high kings,
interpreters of gods, clad in their mystic garments, and bearing high,
advanced their sacred rods, the emblems of their office—close around
these were gathered the councillors and sages of the city, Antenor, and
Ucalegon, and wise Anchises—reverend and grave seniors, who, having
long laid by the falchion, now governed by their proved experience the
realm which they had formerly protected by their enthusiastic
valor—near these a dozen slaves—slaves of the royal palace, waited
with offerings for the altar; two snow-white lambs, two vases of rich
wine, and frankincense, and myrrh, aloes and cassia—garments of
needle-work, and garlands of rich flowers, and crowns and sceptres of
wrought gold.

Upon the other hand, facing her aged father, was one whom but to look
upon, would have excited the coldest, dullest heart to passionate,
enamored phrenzy—the young, the beautiful Polyxena, the destined bride
of the goddess-born—the bravest of the brave, the noblest of the noble,
victor of victors, unsurpassed of men, magnificent Achilles. He had
beheld her first, before her gallant brother fell, by his hand, beside
the Scæan gates, while with her aged mother, and mad Cassandra and her
train, she was engaged in mystic rites upon the plain—beheld and loved
upon the instant! A few days had elapsed—days of fierce strife between
his patriotism and his passion—and then he had demanded of his good,
gallant enemy, pledge of conciliation and of peace, the hand of his
sweet sister. Oh! demand frantically rejected; oh! pledge of peace madly
refused, and fatally! For fate it was, the damning fate of Troy, that
steeled the heart of Hector!

Achilles had all-honorably proposed peace; Hector demanded
treason—treason to Greece and the confederates, as the sole price of
young Polyxena! The reply of the indignant Greek was renewed war—and
Hector fell, and Troy quailed to its base and tottered! Then Memnon
buckled on his armor for Troy, and he too fell! Penthesilea, and she
likewise!—and now, all her chief captains down, all her allies retired,
Troy was again in her extremity, and again—peaceable and courteous as
he was fierce and valiant in the field—Achilles offered terms, peace
for Polyxena. And now his terms were heard;—for they were old heads now
to whom he made his proffers—heard and accepted. And here, in the
Thymbrœan shrine, they met to plight their faith upon the treaties—to
solemnize the marriage of Achilles.

She was indeed most exquisite in her young loveliness; words cannot tell
her loveliness. Scarce sixteen years of age, yet a mature and perfect
woman; mature in the voluptuous development of her unrivalled person;
mature in the development of her luxurious oriental nature. Tall,
slender, and erect as the graceful palm of her native plains, her figure
was yet admirably moulded; her ample sloping shoulders; her full glowing
bust, tapering downward to a waist scarcely a span in circuit, and
thence the sweeping swell of her full lower limbs down to the sylph-like
ankle and small, delicate foot, that peered out from beneath the golden
fringes of her nuptial robe, constituted, in fact, the very perfection
of ideal female symmetry. Her snow-white, swan-like neck languidly
drooping with a graceful curve, like a white lily’s stalk when the sweet
chalice is surcharged with summer dew, concealed, but could not hide the
beauty of her head and features; the clean and classic outlines of the
smooth brow, from which the auburn hair, parted in two broad, massive
braids, waved off behind the small white ears, and there was clustered
in a full bunch of ringlets, was relieved by the well marked arches of
her dark eye-brows—the eyes themselves could not be seen, for modestly
were they cast down upon the pavement; though now and then a stolen
glance toward her lover would flash out from beneath the long, long
jetty lashes, like the gleam of a war-sword leaping from its scabbard,
or the lightning from the gloom of the thunder cloud. Her cheeks were
pale as the snow on Ida—save when a rich carnation flush, emblem of
overmastering passion, would suffuse brow, and cheeks, and neck, and
bosom—aye, and the moulded curves of those smooth ivory shoulders, with
a transparent transitory glow as rich, and, oh! as evanescent as the
bright hues of sunset touching the top of some heaven-kissing hill! A
wreath of orange flowers, blended with myrtle—sacred plant of
Venus,—even then the bridal wreath—encompassed the fair temples, and
shone out resplendently from the dark tresses of the auburn hair. The
nuptial veil—a tissue as it were, of woven air, gemmed with bright
golden stars—fell off in graceful waves, and floated down her back till
it spread out in a long train upon the marble floor; her robe of the
like gauzy tissue, fastened on either shoulder by a large stud of
brilliants, covered, but veiled not the beauties of her voluptuous
bosom; below her bust, plaited in massy folds, it was confined by the
virgin zone, and thence flowed down five several tunics, each shorter
than that next below it, each fringed with golden tassels, and looped
with golden cords, down to her golden sandals. Behind her stood
Cassandra, clad in one plain, close-fitting stole of linen, with her
dark locks dishevelled, streaming in strange disorder about her rich,
majestic person; a laurel wreath set carefully upon her head, and a
large branch of the same tree in her right hand. Her full dark eye, that
gleamed so often with the intolerable lustre of prophetic phrenzy, was
now suffused with moisture, languid, abstracted, and even sad; but no
such wo-begone expression sat on the brows or on the laughing lips of
the attendant maidens, who clustered, a bright bevy of girlish forms and
lovely nymph-like faces behind the beauteous bride.

Just before the altar, facing the image of the god, scarce less
sublimely beautiful than that unrivalled marble, alone, and unadorned,
and unattended, behold the glorious bridegroom! Language may not
describe the splendor, the almost intolerable glory of his soul-fraught,
enthusiastic eye—the ardor of the warrior; the inspiration of the host,
the _œstrum_ of the prophet when he is fullest of his god, were all
combined in that spirit-flashing feature. You saw that eye, and you saw
all—the chiselled outlines of the nose, the generous expansive nostril,
the proud voluptuous lip, were all unseen, all lost, all swallowed up in
the pervading glory of that immortal eye. His form was such as _must_
have been the form of him who could outstrip the speed of the most fiery
coursers; bounding along all armed, in his full panoply of gold, beside
the four horse chariot; although the mettled chargers strained every
nerve to conquer—although Eumelus drove them. His garb was simple even
to plainness; a short and narrow tunic of bright crimson cloth, leaving
his mighty limbs exposed in their own glorious beauty, was belted round
his waist by a small cord of gold—his head was covered only by its long
silky tresses; sandals of gold were on his feet; he wore no weapons, but
a long oaken sceptre studded with knobs of gold, supported his right
hand.

Such was the glorious group which tenanted the shrine of the Thymbrœan
god on that auspicious day—such was the ceremonial of Achilles’
marriage! Yet was it passing strange that not one of the Grecian chiefs
stood by the bravest of their nation, his comrade and his friend on that
sublime occasion; it was yet stranger that not one of all her noble
brethren, not one of Priam’s fifty sons stood by their lovely sister.
Yet such had been the will of Priam; and with the noble confidence—the
proud contempt, which were a portion of his nature—confidence in his
own dauntless and unrivalled valor, contempt of any mortal peril,
Achilles had acceded to the terms.

And now the rites were finished—the sacrifice complete—the bridal
chorus chanted! The pontiffs slew two lambs; one for the royal
prince—one for the princely bridegroom—and filled two cups of wine,
and they, the sire and son, touched the dead lambs and raised the
wine-cups, and grasped each other’s hand in amity, and swore eternal
peace, eternal amity, and love! They stretched their right hands to the
god, tasted the wine, and poured the red libations over the holy
altar—praying aloud—solemn and awful prayer—“that thus _his_ blood
should flow upon the earth—_his_ own life-blood, his wife’s, his
child’s, and that of all his race—who should the first transgress that
solemn vow and treaty.”

They swore, and it was ended! The hero turned to clasp his blooming
bride—— Whence—what—was that keen twang—keen, shrill, and piercing,
which broke the hush of feeling, that followed on that awful oath sworn
between noble foes, now foes no longer? Why does Achilles start with a
convulsive shudder! He reels, he staggers, he falls head-long—and see
the arrow—fell and accursed deed—buried up to the very feather in the
right heel of the prostrate hero! There was a moment’s pause—_one_
moment’s!—and then, with the bow in his left hand, and the broad
falchion gleaming in his right, forth from among the priests—forth from
the inmost shrine—forth leaped the traitor Paris! Deiphobus, the
warrior—Helenus, the priest, followed!—all armed from head to foot,
all with their weapons bare and ready! There was one frantic cry—the
shriek of the heart-broken bride—and then no other sound except the
clash of the weapons, driven sheer through the body of the hero, against
the desecrated pavement.

“Thus Hector is avenged—thus is Troy freed”—shouted the slaughterers
of the mighty Greek; but if the shade of Hector was so appeased by a
base vengeance, yet so was Troy not freed! For not long afterward, the
flames rolled over it, that even its ruins perished, its site was lost
forever!—and if Polyxena was then snatched from her spouse, yet, when
in after days her living form was immolated on his tomb—their manes
were united, never to part again, in the Elysian fields—the Islands of
the Blessed.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                                 LINES.


    When all a woman’s eye is fire,
      And ev’ry look the passions move,
    The voice as sweet as Nature’s lyre—
      What can a poor man do but love?
    When all his light is in _one_ eye,
      And all his heaven within _one_ breast—
    Oh! blame him not, if he doth sigh
      For light like this to make him blest!

    Then blame him not—oh! blame him not,
      For madness only is his crime,—
    Oh! never will you be forgot,
      While all your image is on time.
    A heart like thine—an eye so bright,
      Will ever all the passions move—
    When gazing on those eyes of light,
      What can a poor man do but love?

                                 J. T.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                        A CHAPTER ON AUTOGRAPHY.


                                   BY


[Illustration: signature of Edgar A. Poe]

[In this, our second “Chapter on Autography,” we conclude the article
and the year together. When we say that so complete a collection has
never been published before, we assert only that which is obvious; and
we are pleased to see that our exertions upon this head have been well
received. As we claim only the sorry merit of the compiler, we shall be
permitted to say that no Magazine paper has ever excited greater
interest than the one now concluded. To all readers it has seemed to be
welcome—but especially so to those who themselves dabble in the waters
of Helicon:—to those and their innumerable friends. The diligence
required in getting together these autographs has been a matter of no
little moment, and the expense of the whole undertaking will be at once
comprehended; but we intend the article merely as an earnest of what we
shall do next year. Our aim shall be to furnish our friends with
variety, originality, and _piquancy_, without any regard to labor or to
cost.]

[Illustration: signature of F W Thomas]

F. W. Thomas, who began his literary career, at the early age of
seventeen, by a poetical lampoon upon certain Baltimore fops, has since
more particularly distinguished himself as a novelist. His “Clinton
Bradshawe” is perhaps better known than any of his later fictions. It is
remarkable for a frank, unscrupulous portraiture of men and things, in
high life and low, and by unusual discrimination and observation in
respect to character. Since its publication he has produced “East and
West” and “Howard Pinckney,” neither of which seem to have been so
popular as his first essay; although both have merit.

“East and West,” published in 1836, was an attempt to portray the
every-day events occurring to a fallen family emigrating from the East
to the West. In it, as in “Clinton Bradshawe,” most of the characters
are drawn from life. “Howard Pinckney” was published in 1840.

Mr. Thomas was, at one period, the editor of the Cincinnati “Commercial
Advertiser.” He is also well known as a public lecturer on a variety of
topics. His conversational powers are very great. As a poet, he has also
distinguished himself. His “Emigrant” will be read with pleasure by
every person of taste.

His MS. is more like that of Mr. Benjamin than that of any other
literary person of our acquaintance. It has even more than the
occasional nervousness of Mr. B.’s, and, as in the case of the editor of
the “New World,” indicates the passionate sensibility of the man.

[Illustration: signature of T. G. Spear]

Thomas G. Spear is the author of various poetical pieces which have
appeared from time to time in our Magazines and other periodicals. His
productions have been much admired, and are distinguished for pathos,
and grace. His MS. is well shown in the signature. It is too _clerky_
for our taste.

[Illustration: signature of R Morris]

Mr. Morris ranks, we believe, as the first of our Philadelphia poets,
since the death of Willis Gaylord Clark. His compositions, like those of
his late lamented friend, are characterised by sweetness rather than
strength of versification, and by tenderness and delicacy rather than by
vigor or originality of thought. A late notice of him in the “Boston
Notion,” from the pen of Rufus W. Griswold, did his high qualities no
more than justice. As a prose writer, he is chiefly known by his
editorial contributions to the Philadelphia “Inquirer,” and by
occasional essays for the Magazines.

His chirography is usually very illegible, although at times
sufficiently distinct. It has no marked characteristics, and like that
of almost every editor in the country, has been so modified by the
circumstances of his position, as to afford no certain indication of the
mental features.

[Illustration: signature of E. Holden]

Ezra Holden has written much, not only for his paper, “The Saturday
Courier,” but for our periodicals generally, and stands high in the
public estimation, as a sound thinker, and still more particularly as a
fearless expresser of his thoughts.

His MS. (which we are constrained to say is a shockingly bad one, and
whose general features may be seen in his signature,) indicates the
frank and naïve manner of his literary style—a style which not
unfrequently flies off into whimsicalities.

[Illustration: signature of Benjn Matthias]

Mr. Matthias is principally known by his editorial conduct of the
“Saturday Chronicle” of Philadelphia, to which he has furnished much
entertaining and instructive matter. His MS. would be generally termed a
fine one, but it affords little indication of mental character.

[Illustration: signature of Geo R Graham]

Mr. Graham is known to the literary world as the editor and proprietor
of “Graham’s Magazine,” the most popular periodical in America, and also
of the “Saturday Evening Post,” of Philadelphia. For both of these
journals he has written much and well.

His MS. generally, is very bad, or at least very illegible. At times it
is sufficiently distinct, and has force and picturesqueness, speaking
plainly of the _energy_ which particularly distinguishes him as a man.
The signature above is more scratchy than usual.

[Illustration: signature of W. L Stone]

Colonel Stone, the editor of the New York “Commercial Advertiser,” is
remarkable for the great difference which exists between the apparent
public opinion respecting his abilities, and the real estimation in
which he is privately held. Through his paper, and a bustling activity
always prone to thrust itself forward, he has attained an unusual degree
of influence in New York, and, not only this, but what appears to be a
reputation for talent. But this talent we do not remember ever to have
heard assigned him by any honest man’s private opinion. We place him
among our _literati_, because he has published certain books. Perhaps
the best of these are his “Life of Brandt,” and “Life and Times of Red
Jacket.” Of the rest, his story called “Ups and Downs,” his defence of
Animal Magnetism, and his pamphlets concerning Maria Monk, are scarcely
the most absurd. His MS. is heavy and sprawling, resembling his mental
character in a species of utter unmeaningness, which lies, like the
nightmare, upon his autograph.

[Illustration: signature of Jared Sparks]

The labors of Mr. Sparks, Professor of History at Harvard, are well
known and justly appreciated. His MS. has an unusually odd appearance.
The characters are large, round, black, irregular, and
perpendicular—the signature, as above, being an excellent specimen of
his chirography in general. In all his letters now before us, the lines
are as close together as possible, giving the idea of irretrievable
confusion; still none of them are illegible upon close inspection. We
can form no guess in regard to any mental peculiarities from Mr. Sparks’
MS., which has been no doubt modified by the hurrying and intricate
nature of his researches. We might imagine such epistles as these to
have been written in extreme haste by a man exceedingly busy among great
piles of books and papers, huddled up around him like the chaotic tomes
of Magliabechi. The paper used in all our epistles is uncommonly fine.

[Illustration: signature of H. S. Legare]

The name of H. S. Legare is written without an accent on the final _e_,
yet is pronounced, as if this letter were accented,—Legray. He
contributed many articles of high merit to the “Southern Review,” and
has a wide reputation for scholarship and talent. His MS. resembles that
of Mr. Palfrey, of the North American Review, and their mental features
appear to us nearly identical. What we have said in regard to the
chirography of Mr. Palfrey will apply with equal force to that of the
present Secretary.

[Illustration: signature of R W Griswold]

Mr. Griswold has written much, but chiefly in the editorial way, whether
for the papers, or in books. He is a gentleman of fine taste and sound
judgment. His knowledge of American literature, in all its details, is
not exceeded by that of any man among us. He is not only a polished
prose writer, but a poet of no ordinary power; although, as yet, he has
not put himself much in the way of the public admiration.

His MS. is by no means a good one. It appears unformed, and vacillates
in a singular manner; so that nothing can be predicated from it, except
a certain unsteadiness of purpose.

[Illustration: signature of George Lunt]

Mr. George Lunt, of Newburyport, Massachusetts, is known as a poet of
much vigor of style and massiveness of thought. He delights in the
grand, rather than in the beautiful, and is not unfrequently turgid, but
never feeble. The traits here described, impress themselves with
remarkable distinctness upon his chirography, of which the signature
gives a perfect idea.

[Illustration: signature of Jos R Chandler]

Mr. Chandler’s reputation as the editor of one of the best daily papers
in the country, and as one of our finest _belles lettres_ scholars, is
deservedly high. He is well known through his numerous addresses,
essays, miscellaneous sketches, and prose tales. Some of these latter
evince imaginative powers of a superior order.

His MS. is not fairly shown in his signature, the latter being much more
open and bold than his general chirography. His hand-writing must be
included in the editorial category—it seems to have been ruined by
habitual hurry.

[Illustration: signature of Fitzgerald Tasistro]

Count L. Fitzgerald Tasistro has distinguished himself by many
contributions to the periodical literature of the day, and by his
editorial conduct of the “Expositor,”—a critical journal of high merit
in many respects, although somewhat given to verbiage.

His MS. is remarkable for a scratchy diminutiveness, and is by no means
legible. We are not sufficiently cognizant of his literary character, to
draw any parallel between it and his chirography. His signature is
certainly a most remarkable one.

[Illustration: signature of H. T. Tuckerman]

H. T. Tuckerman has written one or two books consisting of “Sketches of
Travel.” His “Isabel” is, perhaps, better known than any of his
productions, but was never a popular work. He is a _correct_ writer so
far as mere English is concerned, but an insufferably tedious and dull
one. He has contributed much of late days to the “Southern Literary
Messenger,” with which journal, perhaps, the legibility of his MS. has
been an important, if not the principal recommendation. His chirography
is neat and distinct, and has some grace, but no force—evincing, in a
remarkable degree, the idiosyncrasies of the writer.

[Illustration: signature of Danl Bryan]

Mr. Bryan has written some very excellent poetry, and is appreciated by
all admirers of “the good old Goldsmith school.” He is, at present,
postmaster at Alexandria, and has held the office for many years, with
all the good fortune of a Vicar of Bray.

His MS. is a free, sloping, and regular one, with more boldness than
force, and not ungraceful. He is fond of _underscoring_ his sentences; a
habit exactly parallel with the argumentative nature of some of his best
poems.

[Illustration: signature of L A Godey]

Mr. Godey is only known to the literary world as editor and publisher of
“The Lady’s Book;” but his celebrity in this regard entitles him to a
place in this collection. His MS. is remarkably distinct and graceful;
the signature affording an excellent idea of it. The man who invariably
writes so well as Mr. G. invariably does, gives evidence of a fine
taste, combined with an indefatigability which will ensure his permanent
success in the world’s affairs. No man has warmer friends or fewer
enemies.

[Illustration: signature of John S Du Solle]

Mr. Du Solle is well known, through his connection with the “Spirit of
the Times.” His prose is forcible, and often excellent in other
respects. As a poet, he is entitled to higher consideration. Some of his
Pindaric pieces are unusually good, and it maybe doubted if we have a
better _versifier_ in America.

Accustomed to the daily toil of an editor, he has contracted a habit of
writing hurriedly, and his MS. varies with the occasion. It is
impossible to deduce any inferences from it, as regards the mental
character. The signature shows rather how he can write, than how he
does.

[Illustration: signature of J S French]

Mr. French is the author of a “Life of David Crockett”, and also of a
novel called “Elkswatawa”, a denunciatory review of which in the
“Southern Messenger,” some years ago, deterred him from further literary
attempts. Should he write again, he will probably distinguish himself,
for he is unquestionably a man of talent. We need no better evidence of
this than his MS., which speaks of force, boldness, and originality. The
flourish, however, betrays a certain _floridity_ of taste.

[Illustration: signature of Theo. S. Fay]

The author of “Norman Leslie” and “The Countess Ida”, has been more
successful as an essayist about small matters, than as a novelist.
“Norman Leslie” is more familiarly remembered as “The Great Used Up”,
while “The Countess” made no definite impression whatever. Of course we
are not to expect remarkable features in Mr. Fay’s MS. It has a
wavering, finicky, and over-delicate air, without pretension to either
grace or force; and the description of the chirography would answer,
without alteration, for that of the literary character. Mr. F.
frequently employs an amanuensis, who writes a very beautiful French
hand. The one must not be confounded with the other.

[Illustration: signature of J K Mitchell]

Dr. Mitchell has published several pretty songs which have been set to
music, and become popular. He has also given to the world a volume of
poems, of which the longest was remarkable for an old-fashioned polish
and vigor of versification. His MS. is rather graceful than picturesque
or forcible—and these words apply equally well to his poetry in
general. The signature indicates the hand.

[Illustration: signature of Geo.P.Morris]

General Morris has composed many songs which have taken fast hold upon
the popular taste, and which are deservedly celebrated. He has caught
the true _tone_ for these things, and hence his popularity—a popularity
which his enemies would fain make us believe is altogether attributable
to his editorial influence. The charge is true only in a measure. The
tone of which we speak is that kind of frank, free, hearty _sentiment_
(rather than philosophy) which distinguishes Béranger, and which the
critics, for want of a better term, call _nationality_.

His MS. is a simple unornamented hand, rather rotund than angular, very
legible, forcible, and altogether in keeping with his style.

[Illustration: signature of George H Calvert]

Mr. Calvert was at one time principal editor of the “Baltimore
American,” and wrote for that journal some good paragraphs on the common
topics of the day. He has also published many translations from the
German, and one or two original poems—among others an imitation of Don
Juan called “Pelayo,” which did him no credit. He is essentially a
feeble and common-place writer of poetry, although his prose
compositions have a certain degree of merit.

His chirography indicates the “common-place” upon which we have
commented. It is a very usual, scratchy, and tapering clerk’s hand—a
hand which no man of talent ever did or could indite, unless compelled
by circumstances of more than ordinary force. The signature is far
better than the general manuscript of his epistles.

[Illustration: signature of J Evans Snodgrass]

Dr. Snodgrass was at one time the associate of Mr. Brooks in the
“Baltimore Museum”, a monthly journal published in the City of Monuments
some years since. He wrote for that Magazine, and has occasionally
written for others, articles which possessed the merit of precision of
style, and a metaphysical cast of thought. We like his prose much better
than his poetry.

His chirography is bad—stiff, sprawling and illegible, with frequent
corrections and interlineations, evincing inactivity not less than
fastidiousness. The signature betrays a meretricious love of effect.

[Illustration: signature of J N McJilton]

Mr. McJilton is better known from his contributions to the journals of
the day than from any book-publications. He has much talent, and it is
not improbable that he will hereafter distinguish himself, although as
yet he has not composed anything of length which, as a whole, can be
styled good.

His MS. is not unlike that of Dr. Snodgrass, but it is somewhat clearer
and better. We can predicate little respecting it, beyond a love of
exaggeration and _bizarrerie_.

[Illustration: signature of W. D. Gallagher]

Mr. Gallagher is chiefly known as a poet. He is the author of some of
our most popular songs, and has written many long pieces of high but
unequal merit. He has the true spirit, and will rise into a just
distinction hereafter. His manuscript tallies well with our opinion. It
is a very fine one—clear, bold, decided and picturesque. The signature
above does not convey, in full force, the general character of his
chirography, which is more rotund, and more decidedly placed upon the
paper.

[Illustration: signature of Richard H Dana]

Mr. Dana ranks among our most eminent poets, and he has been the
frequent subject of comment in our Reviews. He has high qualities,
undoubtedly, but his defects are many and great.

His MS. resembles that of Mr. Gallagher very nearly, but is somewhat
more rolling, and has less boldness and decision. The literary traits of
the two gentlemen are very similar, although Mr. Dana is by far the more
polished writer, and has a scholarship which Mr. Gallagher wants.

[Illustration: signature of M McMichael]

Mr. McMichael is well known to the Philadelphia public by the number and
force of his prose compositions, but he has seldom been tempted into
book publication. As a poet, he has produced some remarkably vigorous
things. We have seldom seen a finer composition than a certain
celebrated “Monody.”

His MS., when not hurried, is graceful and flowing, without
picturesqueness. At times it is totally illegible. His chirography is
one of those which have been so strongly modified by circumstances that
it is nearly impossible to predicate any thing with certainty respecting
them.

[Illustration: signature of N C Brooks]

Mr. N. C. Brooks has acquired some reputation as a Magazine writer. His
serious prose is often very good—is always well-worded—but in his
comic attempts he fails, without appearing to be aware of his failure.
As a poet he has succeeded far better. In a work which he entitled
“Scriptural Anthology” among many inferior compositions of length, there
were several shorter pieces of great merit:—for example “Shelley’s
Obsequies” and “The Nicthanthes”. Of late days we have seen little from
his pen.

His MS. has much resemblance to that of Mr. Bryant, although altogether
it is a better hand, with much more freedom and grace. With care Mr.
Brooks can write a fine MS. just as with care he can compose a fine
poem.

[Illustration: signature of Thos H. Stockton]

The Rev. Thomas H. Stockton has written many pieces of fine poetry, and
has lately distinguished himself as the editor of the “Christian World.”

His MS. is fairly represented by his signature, and bears much
resemblance to that of Mr. N. C. Brooks, of Baltimore. Between these two
gentlemen there exists also, a remarkable similarity, not only of
thought, but of personal bearing and character. We have already spoken
of the peculiarities of Mr. B’s chirography.

[Illustration: signature of C.W. Thomson]

Mr. Thompson has written many short poems, and some of them possess
merit. They are characterized by tenderness and grace. His MS. has some
resemblance to that of Professor Longfellow, and by many persons would
be thought a finer hand. It is clear, legible and open—what is called a
rolling hand. It has too much tapering, and too much variation between
the weight of the hair strokes and the downward ones, to be forcible or
picturesque. In all those qualities which we have pointed out as
especially distinctive of Professor Longfellow’s MS. it is remarkably
deficient; and, in fact, the literary character of no two individuals
could be more radically different.

[Illustration: signature of W. E. Channing]

The Reverend W. E. Channing is at the head of our moral and didactic
writers. His reputation both at home and abroad is deservedly high, and
in regard to the matters of purity, polish and modulation of style, he
may be said to have attained the dignity of a standard and a classic. He
has, it is true, been severely criticised, even in respect to these very
points, by the Edinburg Review. The critic, however, made out his case
but lamely, and proved nothing beyond his own incompetence. To detect
occasional, or even frequent inadvertences in the way of bad grammar,
faulty construction, or mis-usage of language, is not to prove impurity
of _style_—a word which happily has a bolder signification than any
dreamed of by the Zoilus of the Review in question. Style regards, more
than anything else, the _tone_ of a composition. All the rest is not
unimportant, to be sure, but appertains to the minor morals of
literature, and can be learned by rote by the meanest simpletons in
letters—can be carried to its highest excellence by dolts who, upon the
whole, are despicable as stylists. Irving’s style is inimitable in its
grace and delicacy; yet few of our practised writers are guilty of more
frequent inadvertences of language. In what may be termed his mere
English, he is surpassed by fifty whom we could name. Mr. Tuckerman’s
English on the contrary is sufficiently pure, but a more lamentable
style than that of his “Sicily” it would be difficult to point out.

Besides those peculiarities which we have already mentioned as belonging
to Dr. Channing’s style, we must not fail to mention a certain calm,
broad deliberateness which constitutes _force_ in its highest character,
and approaches to majesty. All these traits will be found to exist
plainly in his chirography, the character of which is exemplified by the
signature, although this is somewhat larger than the general manuscript.

[Illustration: signature of L. A. Wilmer.]

Mr. Wilmer has written and published much; but he has reaped the usual
fruits of a spirit of independence, and has thus failed to make that
impression on the _popular_ mind which his talents, under other
circumstances, would have effected. But better days are in store for
him, and for all who “hold to the right way,” despising the yelpings of
the small dogs of our literature. His prose writings have all
merit—always the merit of a chastened style. But he is more favorably
known by his poetry, in which the student of the British classics will
find much for warm admiration. We have few better versifiers than Mr.
Wilmer.

His chirography plainly indicates the cautious polish and terseness of
his style, but the signature does not convey the print-like appearance
of the MS.

[Illustration: signature of J.E.Dow]

Mr. Dow is distinguished as the author of many fine sea-pieces, among
which will be remembered a series of papers called “The Log of Old
Ironsides.” His land sketches are not generally so good. He has a fine
imagination, which as yet is undisciplined, and leads him into
occasional bombast. As a poet he has done better things than as a writer
of prose.

His MS., which has been strongly modified by circumstances, gives no
indication of his true character, literary or moral.

[Illustration: signature of H Hastings Weld]

Mr. Weld is well known as the present working editor of the New York
“Tattler” and “Brother Jonathan.” His attention was accidentally
directed to literature about ten years ago, after a minority, to use his
own words, “spent at sea, in a store, in a machine shop, and in a
printing office.” He is now, we believe, about thirty-one years of age.
His deficiency of what is termed regular education would scarcely be
gleaned from his editorials, which, in general, are unusually well
written. His “Corrected Proofs” is a work which does him high credit,
and which has been extensively circulated, although “printed at odd
times by himself, when he had nothing else to do.”

His MS. resembles that of Mr. Joseph C. Neal in many respects, but is
less open and less legible. His signature is altogether much better than
his general chirography.

[Illustration: signature of Andrew McMakin]

Mr. McMakin is one of the editors of the “Philadelphia Saturday
Courier,” and has given to the world several excellent specimens of his
poetical ability. His MS. is clear and graceful; the signature affording
a very good idea of it. The general hand, in fact, is fully as good.

[Illustration: signature of M. St. Leon Loud]

Mrs. M. St. Leon Loud is one of the finest poets of this country;
possessing, we think, more of the true divine _afflatus_ than any of her
female contemporaries. She has, in especial, _imagination_ of no common
order, and unlike many of her sex whom we could mention, is not

    Content to dwell in decencies forever.

While she _can_, upon occasion, compose the ordinary metrical sing-song
with all the decorous proprieties which are in fashion, she yet ventures
very frequently into a more ethereal region. We refer our readers to a
truly beautiful little poem entitled the “Dream of the Lonely Isle,” and
lately published in this Magazine.

Mrs. Loud’s MS. is exceedingly clear, neat and forcible, with just
sufficient effeminacy and no more.

[Illustration: signature of Pliny Earle.]

Dr. Pliny Earle, of Frankford, Pa., has not only distinguished himself
by several works of medical and general science, but has become well
known to the literary world, of late, by a volume of very fine poems,
the longest, but by no means the best, of which, was entitled
“Marathon.” This latter is not greatly inferior to the “Marco Bozzaris”
of Halleck; while some of the minor pieces equal any American poems.

His chirography is peculiarly neat and beautiful, giving indication of
the elaborate finish which characterises his compositions. The signature
conveys the general hand.

[Illustration: signature of Jno C McCabe]

Dr. John C. McCabe, of Richmond, Virginia, has written much and
generally well, in prose and poetry, for the periodicals of the day—for
the “Southern Literary Messenger” in especial, and other journals.

His MS. is in every respect a bad one—an ordinary clerk’s hand, meaning
nothing. It has been strongly modified, however, by circumstances which
would scarcely have permitted it to be otherwise than it is.

[Illustration: signature of Jno Tomlin]

John Tomlin, Esq., Postmaster at Jackson, Tennessee, has contributed
many excellent articles to the periodicals of the day—among others to
the “Gentleman’s” and to “Graham’s” Magazine, and to several of the
Southern and Western journals.

His chirography resembles that of Mr. Paulding in being at the same time
very _petite_, very beautiful, and very illegible. His MSS., in being
equally well written throughout, evince the indefatigability of his
disposition.

[Illustration: signature of David Hoffman]

David Hoffman, Esq., of Baltimore, has not only contributed much and
well to monthly Magazines and Reviews, but has given to the world
several valuable publications in book form. His style is terse, pungent
and otherwise excellent, although disfigured by a half comic half
serious pedantry.

His MS. has about it nothing strongly indicative of character.

[Illustration: signature of S. D. Langtree]

S. D. Langtree, has been long and favorably known to the public as
editor of the “Georgetown Metropolitan,” and, more lately, of the
“Democratic Review,” both of which journals he has conducted with
distinguished success. As a critic he has proved himself just, bold and
acute, while his prose compositions generally, evince the man of talent
and taste.

His MS. is not remarkably good, being somewhat too scratchy and
tapering. We include him, of course, in the editorial category.

[Illustration: signature of R.T. Conrad.]

Judge Conrad occupies, perhaps, the first place among our Philadelphia
_literati_. He has distinguished himself both as a prose writer and a
poet—not to speak of his high legal reputation. He has been a frequent
contributor to the periodicals of this city, and, we believe, to one at
least of the Eastern Reviews. His first production which attracted
general notice was a tragedy entitled “Conrad, King of Naples.” It was
performed at the Arch Street Theatre, and elicited applause from the
more judicious. This play was succeeded by “Jack Cade,” performed at the
Walnut Street Theatre, and lately modified and reproduced under the
title of “Aylmere.” In its new dress, this drama has been one of the
most successful ever written by an American, not only attracting crowded
houses, but extorting the good word of our best critics. In occasional
poetry Judge Conrad has also done well. His lines “On a Blind Boy
Soliciting Charity” have been highly admired, and many of his other
pieces evince ability of a high order. His political fame is scarcely a
topic for these pages, and is, moreover, too much a matter of common
observation to need comment from us.

His MS. is neat, legible, and forcible, evincing combined caution and
spirit in a very remarkable degree.

[Illustration: signature of J. Q. Adams.]

The chirography of Ex-President Adams (whose poem, “The Wants of Man,”
has, of late, attracted so much attention,) is remarkable for a certain
steadiness of purpose pervading the whole, and overcoming even the
constitutional tremulousness of the writer’s hand. Wavering in every
letter, the entire MS. has yet a firm, regular, and decisive appearance.
It is also very legible.

[Illustration: signature of P P Cooke]

P. P. Cooke, Esq., of Winchester, Va., is well known, especially in the
South, as the author of numerous excellent contributions to the
“Southern Literary Messenger.” He has written some of the finest poetry
of which America can boast. A little piece of his, entitled “Florence
Vane,” and contributed to the “Gentleman’s Magazine” of this city,
during our editorship of that journal, was remarkable for the high
ideality it evinced, and for the great delicacy and melody of its
rhythm. It was universally admired and copied, as well here as in
England. We saw it not long ago, _as original_, in “Bentley’s
Miscellany.” Mr. Cooke has, we believe, nearly ready for press, a novel
called “Maurice Werterbern,” whose success we predict with confidence.

His MS. is clear, forcible, and legible, but disfigured by some little
of that affectation which is scarcely a blemish in his literary style.

[Illustration: signature of T R Dew.]

Prof. Thomas R. Dew, of William and Mary College in Virginia, was one of
the able contributors who aided to establish the “Southern Literary
Messenger” in the days of its _débût_. His MS. is precisely in keeping
with his literary character. Both are heavy, massive, unornamented and
_diffuse_ in the extreme. His epistles seemed to have been scrawled with
the stump of a quill dipped in very thick ink, and one or two words
extend sometimes throughout a line. The signature is more compact than
the general MS.

[Illustration: signature of J. Beauchamp Jones]

Mr. J. Beauchamp Jones has been, we believe, connected for many years
past with the lighter literature of Baltimore, and at present edits the
“Baltimore Saturday Visiter,” with much judgment and general ability. He
is the author of a series of papers of high merit now in course of
publication in the “Visiter,” and entitled “Wild Western Scenes.”

His MS. is distinct, and might be termed a fine one; but is somewhat too
much in consonance with the ordinary clerk style to be either graceful
or forcible.

[Illustration: signature of Chas. J. Peterson]

Mr. Charles J. Peterson has for a long time been connected with the
periodical literature of Philadelphia, as one of the editors of
“Graham’s Magazine” and of “The Saturday Evening Post.”

His MS., when unhurried, is a very good one—clear, weighty, and
picturesque; but when carelessly written is nearly illegible, on account
of a too slight variation of form in the short letters.

[Illustration: signature of W E Burton]

Mr. Burton is better known as a comedian than as a literary man; but he
has written many short prose articles of merit, and his quondam
editorship of the “Gentleman’s Magazine” would, at all events, entitle
him to a place in this collection. He has, moreover, published one or
two books. An annual issued by Carey and Hart in 1840, consisted
entirely of prose contributions from himself, with poetical ones from
Charles West Thompson, Esq. In this work many of the tales were good.

Mr. Burton’s MS. is scratchy and petite, betokening indecision and care
or caution. The whole chirography resembles that of Mr. Tasistro very
nearly.

[Illustration: signature of Richard Henry Wilde]

Richard Henry Wilde, Esq., of Georgia, has acquired much reputation as a
poet, and especially as the author of a little piece entitled “My Life
is like the Summer Rose,” whose claim to originality has been made the
subject of repeated and reiterated attack and defence. Upon the whole it
is hardly worth quarrelling about. Far better verses are to be found in
every second newspaper we take up. Mr. Wilde has also lately published,
or is about to publish, a “Life of Tasso,” for which he has been long
collecting material.

His MS. has all the peculiar sprawling and elaborate tastelessness of
Mr. Palfrey’s, to which altogether it bears a marked resemblance. The
love of effect, however, is more perceptible in Mr. Wilde’s than even in
Mr. Palfrey’s.

[Illustration: signature of G.G. Foster]

G. G. Foster, Esq., has acquired much reputation, especially in the
South and West, by his poetical contributions to the literature of the
day. All his articles breathe the true spirit. At one period he edited a
weekly paper in Alabama; more lately the “Bulletin” at St. Louis; and,
at present, he conducts the “Pennant,” in that city, with distinguished
ability. Not long ago he issued the prospectus of a monthly magazine.
Should he succeed in getting the journal under way, there can be no
doubt of his success.

His MS. is remarkably clear and graceful; evincing a keen sense of the
beautiful. It seems, however, to be somewhat deficient in force; and his
letters are never so well written in their conclusion as in their
commencement. We have before remarked that this peculiarity in MSS. is a
sure indication of _fatigability_ of temper. Few men who write thus are
free from a certain vacillation of purpose. The signature above is
rather heavier than that from which it was copied.

[Illustration: signature of Lew Cass]

Lewis Cass, the Ex-Secretary of War, has distinguished himself as one of
the finest _belles lettres_ scholars of America. At one period he was a
very regular contributor to the “Southern Literary Messenger,” and, even
lately, he has furnished that journal with one or two very excellent
papers.

His MS. is clear, deliberate and statesmanlike; resembling that of
Edward Everett very closely. It is not often that we see a letter
written altogether by himself. He generally employs an amanuensis, whose
chirography does not differ materially from his own, but is somewhat
more regular.

[Illustration: signature of James Brooks]

James Brooks, Esq., enjoys rather a private than a public literary
reputation; but his talents are unquestionably great, and his
productions have been numerous and excellent. As the author of many of
the celebrated Jack Downing letters, and as the reputed author of the
whole of them, he would at all events be entitled to a place among our
_literati_.

His chirography is simple, clear and legible, with little grace and less
boldness. These traits are precisely those of his literary style.

[Illustration: signature of Jack Downing]

As the authorship of the Jack Downing letters is even still considered
by many a moot point, (although in fact there should be no question
about it,) and as we have already given the signature of Mr. Seba Smith,
and (just above) of Mr. Brooks, we now present our readers with a
fac-simile signature of the “_veritable Jack_” himself, written by him
individually in our own bodily presence. Here, then, is an opportunity
of comparison.

The chirography of “the veritable Jack” is a very good, honest, sensible
hand, and not very dissimilar to that of Ex-President Adams.

[Illustration: signature of J. R. Lowell.]

Mr. J. R. Lowell, of Massachusetts, is entitled, in our opinion, to at
least the second or third place among the poets of America. We say this
on account of the vigor of his _imagination_—a faculty to be first
considered in all criticism upon poetry. In this respect he surpasses,
we think, any of our writers (at least any of those who have put
themselves prominently forth as poets) with the exception of Longfellow,
and perhaps one other. His ear for rhythm, nevertheless, is imperfect,
and he is very far from possessing the artistic ability of either
Longfellow, Bryant, Halleck, Sprague or Pierpont. The reader desirous of
properly estimating the powers of Mr. Lowell will find a very beautiful
little poem from his pen in the October number of this Magazine. There
is one also (not quite so fine) in the number for last month. He will
contribute regularly.

His MS. is strongly indicative of the vigor and precision of his
poetical thought. The man who writes thus, for example, will never be
guilty of metaphorical extravagance, and there will be found _terseness_
as well as strength in all that he does.

[Illustration: signature of L. J. Cist.]

Mr. L. J. Cist, of Cincinnati, has not written much prose, and is known
especially by his poetical compositions, many of which have been very
popular, although they are at times disfigured by false metaphor, and by
a meretricious straining after effect. This latter foible makes itself
clearly apparent in his chirography, which abounds in ornamental
flourishes, not illy executed, to be sure, but in very bad taste.

[Illustration: signature of T S Arthur]

Mr. Arthur is not without a rich talent for description of scenes in low
life, but is uneducated, and too fond of mere vulgarities to please a
refined taste. He has published “The Subordinate”, and
“Insubordination”, two tales distinguished by the peculiarities above
mentioned. He has also written much for our weekly papers, and the
“Lady’s Book.”

His hand is a common-place clerk’s hand, such as we might expect him to
write. The signature is much better than the general MS.

[Illustration: signature of Jms E. Heath]

Mr. Heath is almost the only person of any literary distinction residing
in the chief city of the Old Dominion. He edited the “Southern Literary
Messenger” in the five or six first months of its existence; and, since
the secession of the writer of this article, has frequently aided in its
editorial conduct. He is the author of “Edge-Hill”, a well-written
novel, which, owing to the circumstances of its publication, did not
meet with the reception it deserved. His writings are rather polished
and graceful, than forcible or original; and these peculiarities can be
traced in his chirography.

[Illustration: signature of Thos H. Chivers]

Dr. Thomas Holley Chivers, of New York, is at the same time one of the
best and one of the worst poets in America. His productions affect one
as a wild dream—strange, incongruous, full of images of more than
arabesque monstrosity, and snatches of sweet unsustained song. Even his
worst nonsense (and some of it is horrible) has an indefinite charm of
sentiment and melody. We can never be sure that there is _any_ meaning
in his words—neither is there any meaning in many of our finest musical
airs—but the effect is very similar in both. His figures of speech are
metaphor run mad, and his grammar is often none at all. Yet there are as
fine individual passages to be found in the poems of Dr. Chivers, as in
those of any poet whatsoever.

His MS. resembles that of P. P. Cooke very nearly, and in poetical
character the two gentlemen are closely akin. Mr. Cooke is, by much, the
more _correct_; while Dr. Chivers is sometimes the more poetic. Mr. C.
always sustains himself; Dr. C. never.

[Illustration: signature of Joseph Story]

Judge Story, and his various literary and political labors, are too well
know to require comment.

His chirography is a noble one—bold, clear, massive, and deliberate,
betokening in the most unequivocal manner all the characteristics of his
intellect. The plain unornamented style of his compositions is impressed
with accuracy upon his hand-writing, the whole air of which is well
conveyed in the signature.

[Illustration: signature of J. Frost]

John Frost, Esq., Professor of Belles Lettres in the High School of
Philadelphia, and at present editor of “The Young People’s Book,” has
distinguished himself by numerous literary compositions for the
periodicals of the day, and by a great number of published works which
come under the head of the _utile_ rather than of the _dulce_—at least
in the estimation of the young. He is a gentleman of fine taste, sound
scholarship, and great general ability.

His chirography denotes his mental idiosyncrasy with great precision.
Its careful neatness, legibility and finish, are but a part of that turn
of mind which leads him so frequently into compilation. The signature
here given is more diminutive than usual.

[Illustration: signature of James F. Otis.]

Mr. J. F. Otis is well known as a writer for the Magazines; and has, at
various times, been connected with many of the leading newspapers of the
day—especially with those in New York and Washington. His prose and
poetry are equally good; but he writes too much and too hurriedly to
write invariably well. His taste is fine, and his judgment in literary
matters is to be depended upon at all times when not interfered with by
his personal antipathies or predilections.

His chirography is exceedingly illegible and, like his style, has every
possible fault except that of the common-place.

[Illustration: signature of J. N. Reynolds]

Mr. Reynolds occupied at one time a distinguished position in the eye of
the public, on account of his great and laudable exertions to get up the
American South Polar expedition, from a personal participation in which
he was most shamefully excluded. He has written much and well. Among
other works, the public are indebted to him for a graphic account of the
noted voyage of the frigate Potomac to Madagascar.

His MS. is an ordinary clerk’s hand, giving no indication of character.

[Illustration: signature of William Cutter]

Mr. William Cutter, a young merchant of Portland, Maine, although not
very generally known as a poet beyond his immediate neighborhood, (or at
least out of the Eastern States) has given to the world numerous
compositions which prove him to be possessed of the true fire. He is,
moreover, a fine scholar, and a prose writer of distinguished merit.

His chirography is very similar to that of Count Tasistro, and the two
gentlemen resemble each other very peculiarly in their literary
character.

[Illustration: signature of David Paul Brown]

David Paul Brown, Esq., is scarcely more distinguished in his legal
capacity than by his literary compositions. As a dramatic writer he has
met with much success. His “Sertorius” has been particularly well
received both upon the stage and in the closet. His fugitive
productions, both in prose and verse, have also been numerous,
diversified, and excellent.

His chirography has no doubt been strongly modified by the circumstances
of his position. No one can expect a lawyer in full practice to give in
his MS. any true indication of his intellect or character.

[Illustration: signature of E. C. Stedman]

Mrs. E. Clementine Stedman has lately attracted much attention by the
delicacy and grace of her poetical compositions, as well as by the
piquancy and spirit of her prose. For some months past we have been
proud to rank her among the best of the contributors to “Graham’s
Magazine.”

Her chirography differs as materially from that of her sex in general as
does her literary manner from the usual namby-pamby of our
blue-stockings. It is, indeed, a beautiful MS., very closely resembling
that of Professor Longfellow, but somewhat more diminutive, and far more
full of grace.

[Illustration: signature of John G Whittier]

J. Greenleaf Whittier, is placed by his particular admirers in the very
front rank of American poets. We are not disposed, however, to agree
with their decision in every respect. Mr. Whittier is a fine versifier,
so far as strength is regarded independently of modulation. His
subjects, too, are usually chosen with the view of affording scope to a
certain _vivida vis_ of expression which seems to be his forte; but in
taste, and especially in _imagination_, which Coleridge has justly
styled the _soul_ of all poetry, he is even remarkably deficient. His
themes are _never_ to our liking.

His chirography is an ordinary clerk’s hand, affording little indication
of character.

[Illustration: signature of Ann S Stephens]

Mrs. Ann S. Stephens was at one period the editor of the “Portland
Magazine,” a periodical of which we have not heard for some time, and
which, we presume, has been discontinued. More lately her name has been
placed upon the title page of “The Lady’s Companion” of New York, as one
of the conductors of that journal—to which she has contributed many
articles of merit and popularity. She has also written much and well,
for various other periodicals, and will, hereafter, enrich this magazine
with her compositions, and act as one of its editors.

Her MS. is a very excellent one, and differs from that of her sex in
general, by an air of more than usual force and freedom.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                         THE SWEET SOUTH WIND.


                         BY LYDIA JANE PIERSON.


    Hark, ’tis the sweet south wind!
        How soft its dewy fingers touch the keys
        Which thrill such melting music through the mind,
        Even the green leaves of the forest trees.

    There is a witchery
        In the soft music, like the voice of love;
        Now gushing o’er the soul deliciously,
        Then sighing a rich cadence through the grove.

    It seemeth to mine ear
        The rustling of some holy creature’s wing,
        Sent from some passionless and sinless sphere,
        Unction of peace unto the soul to bring.

    My temples feel its pow’r,
        Cooling and soothing every throbbing vein;
        My spirit lifts its weary wings once more,
        And bursts the strong clasps of care’s sordid chain,

    And floats all calm and free,
        Blent with the music of the bending wood,
        Fill’d with the light of immortality,
        Even the presence of the Living God.

    Nature is full of Him,
        And every willing spirit feels his pow’r;
        Even as this south wind fills the forest dim,
        And bends with its rich weight each lowly flow’r.

    Oh, may death come to me
        On the soft breath of such a night as this;
        To lift the thin veil of mortality,
        And let me bathe at once in perfect bliss.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                   MISFORTUNES OF A TIMID GENTLEMAN.


                           BY J. ROSS BROWNE.


                     [Continued from Page 123.[2]]


                                Book II.

Being now somewhat advanced in life, I can look back on the past with
that degree of calmness and self-complacency so delightful to age. I
cannot think, with Miss Landon, that a person regards the follies of his
youth with more severity himself than others regard them. Indeed I feel
disposed to believe that those very follies form the chief charm of our
early days; and, as for myself, I can hardly regret that I was not born
a Nestor. So much by way of preface to my Second Book.

The reader who has been kind enough to follow me thus far in the history
of my youth, will recollect that I introduced him to a social circle at
Mrs. Melville’s, one evening in the early part of summer.

Mr. Martagon, the gentleman with the large shoulders, was seated in an
arm-chair, admirably adapted to his proportions. Mr. Pratt was looking
unutterable things at Miss Azile, who, on the present occasion, was
exceedingly unmerciful on love-stricken swains. Miss Emily Melville was
warbling a soft enchanting air, which she accompanied with the guitar;
and Mr. Desmond was wrapt in pleasing thoughts, the consequence thereof.
Mr. Martagon being an ancient admirer of Miss Virginia Melville,
enlisted her attention by a very judicious discourse on the evils of
matrimony; which, of course, induced me to be very busily engaged at
nothing particular.

When the music had ceased, the conversation gradually became general.
Poetry was discussed—fiction voted a great evil—superstition allowed
to be a universal failing—and Sir Walter Scott pronounced the king of
ghost-makers; which latter allusion led to a very edifying description
of the person and character of a certain ghost seen by each individual
present.

Mr. Martagon, who had seen an unusual and pleasing variety of ghosts,
recollected an uncommonly peculiar one which appeared to him during a
twilight ramble in the woods.

This reminded Mr. Pratt of an extraordinary vision which he had once
witnessed in the form of a hog; which prompted Mr. Desmond to relate an
amusing anecdote of his experience in things supernatural.

Various ghost-stories were related by the company, till, by one of those
unaccountable changes which so frequently occur in a lively circle, the
conversation turned to love and courtship. This was a subject upon which
I was very sensitive.

Miss Azile, the satirical young lady, was of opinion that all such
things are highly ridiculous, and much to be regretted; in which opinion
the fair portion of the company generally coincided. The reader who has
read the anecdote of the Persian over whose head a sword was suspended
by a thread, can imagine my anxiety to ascertain the opinion of the
person in whom I was most interested. I did not long remain in
suspense—“She considered it unnatural and improper for a young lady to
love;” which assertion was accompanied by a very significant look at
myself. The philosophy of indifference had ever been my most difficult
study. I could not persuade myself that I was prepared for
disappointment; and, in fact, my hopes were too sanguine to allow for
many thoughts of a gloomy character. All was over now, however; and as I
hurried away as miserable as Jacques, I thought there was a very pretty
end to my day-dreams and night-visions. Byron’s reproach occurred to me
with all its bitterness—

    “Once I beheld a splendid dream—
      A visionary scene of bliss;
    Truth, wherefore did thy hated beam
      Awake me to a world like this?”

Thus ended my first misfortunes, which, being the most serious, I have
dwelt upon at some length. I now turn with a lighter heart to my
subsequent career. To avoid all such affairs in future, I resolved to
visit Texas, where, I was informed, women were uncommonly scarce. This
great inducement balanced all the disadvantages of climate and warfare.
I never wished to look upon a bright eye or a dimpled cheek again.
Texas, therefore, was my destination.

A few months calmed the turbulence of my mind; and I believed I was now
forever qualified to withstand the charms of woman, and exempt from the
troubles of the heart. Experience had taught me that everything is not
gold which glitters. I had also learned to doubt the lauded constancy of
the opposite sex, in that tender passion to which I was so susceptible.
Indeed I had good reason to believe that caprice and fickleness of heart
were their ruling traits; and I fully determined to avoid, in future,
building my hopes of happiness on such baseless foundations. So far I
acted with prudence; and I felt very well satisfied with my embryo
philosophy. During my tour, however, an incident occurred that greatly
altered my opinions on this subject. It effected a wonderful change,
too, in my estimation of woman’s constancy.

I had stopped to spend a few days in the city of T——. There was
nothing about this place, but its picturesque situation, worthy of a
traveller’s attention. I soon became satiated with the beauties of the
surrounding scenery; and as the accommodations of the hotel were very
limited, I determined to pursue my journey by the first means of
conveyance. To my chagrin I learned that several days would elapse
before I could find a stage for my place of destination. What to do with
myself in the meantime, I could scarcely divine. Society had lost its
charm; public amusements had become nauseous and uninteresting; and I
was heartily tired of rambling about, without a congenial friend to
commune with, or admire what I admired. In this dilemma I chanced to
find, on ransacking my apartment, a neatly bound novel—the “Pilgrims of
the Rhine.” I had read this beautiful romance, with great delight, some
years previously; but I discovered, on opening the present volume, that
there were criticisms and observations on the margin, which offered some
room for studying the mind and character of one of its readers; and I
was induced to peruse it again. The pencilings were in the delicate hand
of a female. Passages, which, for their beauty of diction and refined
sentiment, I recollected having greatly admired, were carefully marked;
and in many instances they elicited acute observations, and eloquent
eulogies from the fair reader. As I progressed, I became as much
interested in these comments, as I had formerly been in the work itself.
They evinced at once a highly cultivated imagination—a depth and
tenderness of feeling—and a visionary turn of mind, extremely
captivating to a young reader. That sympathy, which the author of
Hyperion so eloquently remarks is requisite for the appreciation of
genius, seemed characteristic of the fair unknown. The gradual
development of her history, as gleaned from these scattered thoughts and
opinions, and the general tenor of her mind, interested me far more than
I was disposed to admit, even to myself. That I may not be deemed
unnaturally visionary, or sentimental, I shall quote a few passages,
which, though taken at random, may serve to show the source from which I
drew my deductions. The delicate hand of the commentator had slightly
touched the following:

“Her youth was filled with hope, and many colored dreams; she loved, and
the hues of morning slept upon the yet disenchanted earth. The heavens
to her were not as the common sky; the wave had its peculiar music to
her ear, and the rustling leaves a pleasantness that none, whose heart
is not bathed in the love and sense of beauty, could discern.”

From the remarks that were attached to this, I pictured the sympathising
reader, who so feelingly dwelt upon it, as one, beautiful like Gertrude,
and constituted to love with the same fervency and devotion. She was
evidently young—her thoughts were tender—her sentiments lively and
refined. That she was beautiful, my fancy did not permit me to doubt.

The next passage left rather a disagreeable impression:

“I look upon the world, and see all that is fair and good; I look upon
_you_, and see all that I can venerate and adore.”

She doubtless intended this quotation for one she loved. I began to
experience all the pangs of jealousy; for well convinced that she was
beautiful, young, and gifted, I did not conceive it improbable that I
might have a rival, whose precedence in her affections could not but
materially affect my chances of success, should I ever be fortunate
enough to find her. As soon as I became sufficiently calm, I pursued my
task. The concluding pages were evidently stained with tears. This
greatly excited my curiosity; but I fancied her grief was attributable
to the recollection of some misfortune conjured up by an allusion to the
grave:

“The chords of thought, vibrating to the subtlest emotions, may be
changed by a single incident, or in a single hour; a sound of sacred
music, a green and quiet burial place, may convert the form of death
into the aspect of an angel. And, therefore, wisely, and with a
beautiful love, did the Greeks strip the grave of its unreal gloom;
wisely did they body forth the great principle of rest, and by solemn
and lovely images—unconscious of the northern madness that made a
spectre of repose!”

Here was all I could require. Her lover had died in all the promise of
genius and beauty. His death was simply and solemnly commemorated by a
quiet burial in some sylvan solitude. The allusion, in the passage
quoted, had revived all the poignancy of his loss, and her tears were
evidences of the purity and sincerity of her affection. Although there
now appeared no rival to fear, I was aware that love survives death; but
as I never had much confidence in woman’s constancy, this did not alarm
me.

Forgetting my past experience and my vows of celibacy, I devoted myself
immediately to this new chimera. On the title page of the book, which
had caused such wild fantasies, I perceived the initials—“E. S. C——.”
On examining the page more minutely, I found written in various places,
“Emma,” which I knew must be the name for one of the initials. All
further search proved vain; and I resolved to examine the “traveller’s
register” in hope of procuring more exact information. About a month
back, were written in a bold, free hand, the names of Col. Robert St.
Clair and Sister—at least the surname of Miss St. Clair, and the name
in full of her military brother. My next care was to find out their
destination. With surprise and gratification, I perceived that it was
precisely where I was journeying myself. My plan for an introduction was
quickly made up. I would call on Miss St. Clair and restore her the lost
book. My remarks on her criticisms would of course be flattering; and
she could not avoid entering into a conversation. Common politeness
would induce her to ask me to call again. Thus clear seemed the road to
happiness! Let me now pursue it.

Nothing of interest occurred on my journey to P——. Immediately after
my arrival I made inquiries for Colonel St. Clair. There was little
difficulty in finding his residence. The purport of my mission induced
me to devote more than usual care to my toilet; and as I knocked at the
polished and brass-mounted door of Colonel St. Clair’s house, the
reflection therefrom satisfied me that I was a very passable personage.
I was ushered into the drawing-room. “The Colonel was not at home; but
the white lady would be down directly”—so the servant informed me,
grinning admiration from ear to ear. Who the “white lady” was, I could
not imagine; but her appearance dissipated all suspicion that it might
be Miss St. Clair herself. She was apparently a lady of forty, much worn
and faded by the cares of life. Her countenance was emaciated and
melancholy; but her eyes were still bright and expressive; and her
features were not uninteresting. She might once have been beautiful. Her
form, though somewhat ghastly, was still symmetrical; and her quiet
address and dignified manners proved that she had moved in the best
society. After a few preliminary remarks, I entered on the subject which
was nearest my heart:

“You will pardon my curiosity, madam, when I tell you I have a
particular reason for inquiring if there is a young lady in this house,
who is very fond of reading? I am uncertain about her name, but I shall
give you a brief description, which will enable you to judge whether I
am right in my conjectures respecting her identity. She is, I presume,
about eighteen; and in rather a delicate state of health, I should
imagine, though I will not be certain as to that. She has lately lost a
friend, dearer to her than life, and I am led to believe his death
occasions her the most poignant grief. I will not say she was betrothed
to him. It is not, however, improbable that she was. I have no very
exact recollection of her features; but I can give you an idea of her
mental traits. She is highly imaginative; and takes great delight in
elegant works of fiction. Her taste is remarkably good; and I believe
she has written a great deal—probably contributed to the periodicals of
the day. On so slight an acquaintance, madam, I feel a delicacy in
declaring my motives for the minuteness of my inquiries; but you cannot
avoid perceiving that I feel singularly interested in the history and
identity of the young lady to whom I allude.”

“Really, sir,” she replied, with a lurking smile, “I can scarcely divine
what you are seeking for. However, I am only sorry you have mistaken the
place. There is no young lady here, such as you describe. In fact I am
the only female belonging to the house; and I can hardly conceive how
you were misled.”

“Then,” I observed with a fallen countenance, “_you_ are Miss Emma St.
Clair?”

“That is my name, sir.”

It was evident, now, that I had been laboring under a very serious
mistake. My situation was really embarrassing. It was not at all
unlikely that the elderly spinster would consider me out of my senses,
if I openly avowed the error my imagination had caused me to make. I
therefore feigned as creditable a story as the existing circumstances
would permit; and in conclusion, asked Miss St. Clair if she had lost a
volume containing Bulwer’s romance of the Rhine, during her sojourn at
T——?

“I believe,” she replied, blushing slightly, “my carelessness caused me
to mislay a copy of that work. I regret the loss, not for its value, but
simply because there were some pencillings in it which I did not wish to
be perused.”

I then produced the book, and confessed having read it and the comments
with great delight. This led to a general discussion on the subject of
fictitious literature, in which I discovered Miss St. Clair was deeply
versed; nor did the discernment and susceptibility evinced in her random
pencillings, mislead me as to the character of her mind. The result of
my visit was an invitation to call again. I did not neglect the
opportunity thus afforded, of cultivating the acquaintance of the
accomplished spinster.

In due time I learned many circumstances of her early history. At the
age of eighteen, she had plighted her faith to a young officer in the
navy. Before arrangements could be effected for their marriage, he was
compelled to depart on an expedition to the South Seas. For nearly two
years, Emma St. Clair received occasional letters—all evincing
unchangeable love in her betrothed. After this period he ceased to
correspond. The agony of separation was enhanced by doubts as to his
fate. In a state of mind bordering on distraction, she passed many a
weary year. Time at length soothed her sorrow; but her love was the
true—unchangeable love of woman, and the wounds of a bleeding heart
were never closed. Various offers of marriage were rejected—she could
never love again.

This affecting little sketch brought tears to the eyes of the narrator.
She proved to me, in her melancholy history, that the female heart is
not fickle when it truly loves, and that the constancy of woman “passeth
all understanding.”

No alternative was now left me, but to continue my travels. Having taken
a place in the stage for W——, I set out on my journey, consoling
myself with the reflection that I was destined to be miserable all the
days of my life. My attention, however, was diverted from this gloomy
presentiment, by a young lady of seventeen, who was returning from a
boarding-school in the city, to her parental domicil at W——, and who
unfortunately chanced to be the only passenger beside myself. Taking the
liberty of a fellow traveller, I addressed her with becoming gallantry.

“You are travelling to W——?” I said.

“Yes, sir,” she blushingly replied.

“Have you ever been there?”

“Yes—my parents reside in W——.”

“Indeed!—you have been on a visit, then, to P——?”

“No sir—I have been to school; and I am going home to spend the
vacation. Pa would have come for me, but he could not spare time.”

“Oh,” said I, “you will not be unprotected. Fortunately I am going to
W—— myself.”

“But Pa says I mustn’t talk to strangers.”

“Ah, your Pa is—an old gentleman! My name is Weston—Harry Weston, so I
hope I am no longer a stranger.”

“Indeed—I don’t know sir; I never heard of you before.”

This was very candid, and very discreet. I remained silent; and my fair
companion seemed to be deeply engaged in perusing a little work which
she drew from her reticule.

“What may that be?” I at length ventured to inquire, although I was
pretty well convinced it was the ‘Young lady’s Amaranth,’ or a Pocket
Lacon, containing ‘Good Advice in small Parcels.’

“This book, sir?”

“Yes.”

“A hymn-book, I think—that is, it _is_ a hymn-book, which Mrs.
Wriggleton told me to read on the way.”

“Mrs. Wriggleton is a very accomplished lady,” I observed. By the by, I
had never heard of her before.

“You know her then!” cried my fair young traveller.

“Yes—I am slightly acquainted.”

“Well,—I _think_ I heard her mention your name!”

“Very probably. Yours is Miss Fanny Cullobe.”

“No. Mine is Corinna Wilton.”

As the reader may presume, I had never heard of either names;
nevertheless, I did not like to appear ignorant. In Miss Corinna, I
discovered a transient acquaintance, to whom I had been introduced at a
ball; which reminded Miss Corinna that she had an indistinct
recollection of my features. Not aware that I had made a vow to remain
invincible forever more, she laid siege to my heart during the greater
part of the journey. We soon became quite familiar. I perceived that my
fair acquaintance was quite sprightly and talkative; and did not venture
to remind her of her Pa’s injunction. Eventually she handed me her
hymn-book, with the following passage marked for my perusal:—

    “Thine, wholly thine alone, I am,
    Be thou alone my constant flame!”

Fancying this was a piece of premeditated coquetry, I laughed, and
acknowledged the compliment. My Dulcinea, however, encouraged by the
reception of her first advance, next pointed out, with an almost
irresistible smile, the verse commencing—

    “Pleasure, and wealth, and praise, no more
    Shall lead my captive soul astray;”

which somewhat alarmed me; but I read on—

    “My fond pursuits I all give o’er
    Thee, only thee resolved to obey;
    My own in all things to resign,
    And know no other will but thine.”

Not a little astonished, I looked up in the countenance of the besieger.
She was pretty, and sprightly too; but now all mirth had fled, and I
fancied a bright tear glittered in her eye. At all events she seemed a
good deal agitated. I scarcely knew what to say. I was becoming
incredibly nervous. At this moment, fate for once befriended me. We were
in W——. The stage had stopped; and I stepped out to aid Corinna in a
similar process. As I took her hand, I perceived that she trembled. The
spirit of mischief induced me to ask her how she had enjoyed her
journey.

She answered—“I shall never forget it!”

“Why?” I very innocently asked.

There was an embarrassing pause. She looked at me, and sighed, and I
repeated the question.

“How can I forget it,” she replied, “when it has caused me to meet one
whom I shall never forget?”

This alarmed me considerably; but I could only look sentimental, and
give her a parting squeeze. Before our final farewell, however, she gave
me an invitation to pay her a visit, which I had not the firmness to
resist.

During my rambles round the village for the next few days, I learned
that the Wiltons were a highly respectable family of great wealth, and
that Corinna was an heiress, who had never made her appearance in the
matrimonial market. Though I had not the least intention of taking
advantage of my conquest, I considered myself bound in common
politeness, to pay her the promised visit. After some little attention
to my toilet, I set out for the residence of Mr. Wilton. This personage
had formerly been an officer in the Navy; and I was not surprised to
find that he was precisely such a bluff, hale-looking old gentleman, as
my fancy led me to picture him.

“Sir,” said he, when Corinna had formally introduced me, “I consider you
a great young rascal!”

Thunderstruck at such a reception, I answered—“May I ask, what induces
you to form such an opinion of me?”

“Damme!” cried the old gentleman, “but you _are_ an impudent dog!
Haven’t you stolen my daughter’s heart, without leave or license? But I
forgive you, sir, for I was just such a young scoundrel at your age.
Didn’t I run away with your mother, Corinna, before I was eighteen? Ah,”
continued the ex-officer, “that was a rare adventure! It was, you
scapegrace!—what are you gaping at?”

“Nothing,” I replied.

“You are an impudent dog, as I said before; but I’ll be square with you.
Corinna, you say he is of good family, and all that sort of flummery?”

“Oh, Pa!”

“Don’t _Pa_ me!—you are dead in love with him!”

“Indeed, Papa—”

“Hush! you hussey—don’t I know human nature? See here, younker, you can
take her; and it’s a d—d sight too good a bargain for you!”

“Really, sir,” I stammered, “she mistook my attentions. My sentiments
are entirely—”

“Sentiments, fudge!—none of this palaver! You want to make me believe
you’re the pink of modesty; but I’ve studied human nature. Here she is
with a fortune you’ll not find every day, and I know you love her—so no
more of your sentimental nonsense, but prepare to get spliced to-morrow.
I go in for doing things off-hand, as the skipper of the Long-Tom used
to say, when—”

“My dear, sir,” I interrupted; “this is altogether a misunderstanding.
It is utterly impossible for me to marry your daughter!”

“See here!” cried the venerable gentleman, in a great rage—“I told you
before that I wanted no more fandangling. Be off, sir! and let me see
that your rigging be in order, by to-morrow!—I’ve studied human nature,
sir!”

From the little experience I had in that line myself, I perceived that
argument or remonstrance would not avail; so I bowed myself very
politely out, resolved to leave W——, as soon as possible.

I could not think, however, of leaving Corinna to the desolation of
unrequited love, without a word of excuse or consolation. The result of
“mature consideration” on the subject was the following note:

                                       B——’s Hotel, Tuesday Night,

    _My dear Friend_:—Never till now did I really believe such
    misery as I experience, could be mine. Truly I am the most
    unhappy being on the face of the earth! Without the slightest
    design on my part, it appears that I have won your
    affections—at a time too, when it is utterly impossible I can
    requite them. Your father’s precipitancy prevented an
    explanation that might have saved you the mortification of a
    written avowal respecting my sentiments; but I assure you,
    however desirous I am that you should be as happy as you desire
    to be, I cannot love you. The contemplated union can never be.
    Truly grateful for your good opinion of me, and for the honor of
    the intended alliance,

                                 I remain, if you permit me,
                                     Ever sincerely your friend,
                                                     Henry Weston.
     To Miss Corinna Wilton.

At four o’clock in the morning, I was in the stage, on my way to the
nearest seaport town. I had made up my mind to embark for Europe. The
packet ship A—— was ready to start, and awaited only a fair wind. I
engaged a passage for Bordeaux; and the delay being transient, I was
soon beyond the reach of Captain Wilton, and the wiles of Corinna.

But alas! what hope is there for the unfortunate? I discovered to my
sorrow that new troubles awaited me. As I sat one evening on the
bulwark, brooding over my past career, a female voice of exquisite
pathos, accompanied by the guitar delicately and tastefully touched,
ascended from the ladies’ cabin. I fancied there was something heavenly
in the soft, melancholy strain that was wafted from the lips of the
songstress. The words were beautiful and touching, and entirely in
unison with my feelings. Under any circumstances, the performance would
not have appeared commonplace; but at a moment like this, sounds which
alone were the soul and essence of poetry, borne to my ear so softly, so
unexpectedly, entranced my senses, till I voluntarily exclaimed—

    “Can any mortal mixture of earth’s mould
    Breathe such divine, enchanting ravishment?
    Sure something holy lodges in that breast
    That with these raptures moves the vocal air!”

Not a breath ruffled the calm, swelling ocean. The rays of a departing
sun gilded every object around me, with a mellow lustre. A scene of such
expanse and grandeur completed the effect which the music had wrought
upon me; and I was overpowered with the tenderest emotions. Visions of
Home and its happy associations, came upon me in rapid succession. But
these “thick-coming fantasies” were verging me towards the melting mood.
To hide my weakness, I entered into a sociable dialogue with one of my
fellow passengers.

“Yes—a very delightful voice,” he observed in answer to an observation
of mine.

“Is she ill?—I have not seen her at the dining table,” said I; for I
felt more than ordinary interest in her.

“Delicate, I presume, she prefers the solitude of her cabin.”

“Ah, yes: her voice indicates a pensive disposition.”

“Just hers, exactly, sir.”

“Then you are acquainted with her?” I observed.

“I ought to be,” said my travelling acquaintance.

“Is she young?”

“Yes—about nineteen.”

“And pretty?”

“Beautiful, _I_ think.”

Now I really began to imagine I was deeply in love. This unknown
songstress had created strange sensations in me. I had some thoughts of
asking an introduction; but my acquaintance was almost too slight with
my new friend. After a moment’s thought, I observed—

“I should like to know her.”

“Would you? I shall introduce you, sir, with pleasure,” was the generous
reply.

“In fact,” I whispered, drawing my quondam acquaintance aside, “to tell
you the truth, I am very much in love with her!”

“The devil you are!” cried he, with a hearty laugh.

“Yes—I fancy she is a most fascinating woman.”

“Ah, you may say that,” replied Mr. Templeton, whose name I discovered
on the corner of his pocket handkerchief.

“Shall we go down now?” said I, for I was very anxious to see her.

“Just as you please;” and we were soon in the presence of the fair
unknown. She was quite as beautiful as I expected. Mr. Templeton having
learned my name, presented me with due ceremony—“Mr. Weston, I’ll
introduce you to my wife. Mrs. Templeton, allow me to introduce to you
Mr. Weston.”

I was thunderstruck! Mr. Templeton enjoyed a hearty laugh at my
confusion; but I was too cruelly disappointed to join in it. Making the
best apology in my power, I hurried upon deck to conceal my chagrin. It
is needless to add that during the rest of the voyage I kept aloof from
all company—especially that of the fascinating Mrs. Templeton.

I shall not dwell upon my tour through Europe. I spent the winter in
France; and proceeded thence through Spain to Italy. Nearly a year was
devoted to this part of my continental ramble. After my visit to Italy I
embarked for England, whence I proceeded to the highlands of Scotland. I
spent an adventurous season here; and set sail for America. Three years
of my early life thus glided away. On my journey home, I passed through
W——. Captain Wilton, I learned, had died about a year previously, of
an apoplectic stroke. Corinna had married a country merchant, a month
after my departure. Her fortune was only nominal; the Captain having
deeply involved himself in debt; but she made amends to her disappointed
spouse by presenting him, a few months after their marriage, with a fine
pair of twins. So much for the charms of lucre!

My old friend Desmond informed me of various changes which had taken
place during my absence. I shall only allude to one or two, in which the
reader may feel an interest.

Mr. Martagon, the poet, won the heart of a Southern lady, rich,
accomplished and beautiful. The natural result was marriage; although,
in extenuation, he wrote a poem, in the style of Ovid, showing that such
a course was necessary at a certain period of life.

Miss Emily Melville became a nun; and enjoyed thenceforth the quiet
charms of a life of peace and devotion.

          “——Waking as in sleep,
    She seemed but now a lovely dream;
    A star that trembled o’er the deep,
    Then turned from earth its tender beam.”

My early flame, Miss Virginia Melville, at length found one whose
talents she admired—whose virtues and personal gifts won her affection.
She discovered that love, with all its follies, is neither unnatural or
improper; and in yielding her hand to the possessor of her heart, found
that the greatest source of happiness, in this life, is the pure and
sacred affection of two devoted souls.

And now, kind reader, a word more and we are done. Impressed with the
belief that a faint heart never would procure me a wife, I managed to
get rid of my timidity as age progressed; and popped the question at
various times. But, alas! some objected that my hair was getting
gray—others that my complexion was too dark—and one cruel little
beauty told me I looked better as a bachelor, than I would as a husband.
So here I am, verging to a very uncertain age, with every prospect of a
life of single blessedness. I can only say to those of my fair readers,
who are opposed to bachelorship, that I am not in fault; and that it is
in their power to remedy the evil by addressing me a word of hope.

To all who have found anything amusing or interesting in these memoirs
thus far, I beg leave to remark that when I am snugly settled, enjoying
the sweets of matrimony, I shall present them with the third and last
book, of the Misfortunes of a Timid Gentleman.

-----

[2] See September Number.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                             THE LYRE BIRD.


                            BY N. C. BROOKS.


    The _Menura Superba_, a species of the Bird of Paradise, is also
    called the Lyre Bird, from the perfect resemblance of the tail
    to an ancient lyre. Its powers of song are very great. It
    commences singing in the morning, and gradually ascends some
    eminence as it sings.—_Shaw’s Zoology._

      Bird of the forest, thy form is fair
    As a summer cloud on the evening air,
    And the golden plumage upon thee lies
    In tintings rich as a rainbow’s dyes;
    Yet fairer wert thou when thy form, at first
    From the hands of God like a sunbeam burst,
    When the velvet shades of the forest glooms
    Were lit with the light of thy golden plumes,
    And angel eyes as they passed were turned
    To the place where thy plumy glory burned.
    But Sin, that with curse upon all hath lain,
    Has dimmed thy gloss with many a stain;
    And the summer’s heat, and the winter’s storm
    Have blighted and blasted thy early form.

      Bird of the forest, thy song is sweet
    As breezes that summer wavelets greet,
    And thy liquid notes melt into one,
    Like hearts of lovers in unison.
    Yet sweeter far were thy tones that broke
    The spell of silence when Eden woke,
    And angel forms on their plumes delayed,
    To list to thy notes ’mid the garden shade;
    And, ceasing to sweep their chords of fire,
    In wonder gazed on thy mimic lyre.

      Since the eve when the stilly grove was stirred
    By the voice of God in the garden heard,
    And the cherubs waved the fiery sword
    At Eden’s gate ’gainst its banished lord—
    Since the brow of the guilty Earth was bent
    ’Neath the sentence of sin’s dread punishment,
    A spell of woe on thy heart has lain,
    Sorrow has saddened thy dulcet strain;
    And the grief of the exile that pines alone
    Is heard in the breathing of every tone.

      Still pour thy song; and still mount higher
    With the day-god. Bird of the plumy lyre!
    And know as thou pourest thy saddened strain,
    That the meek heart is purified by pain,
    And at length will rest on a palmy shore,
    Where grief and suffering are no more.
    In that sweet land from all sorrow free,
    There’s a place of bliss, lone bird, for thee;
    With the beasts of the field and the birds of the shade,
    Immortal as first when God had made.
    There shall the strains of thy music flow
    In a ceaseless stream, without note of woe;
    And the gloss of thy pinions forever play
    In the glorious beams of eternal day.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                               THE IDEAL.


                  GERMAN LITERATURE, AND A LOVE STORY.


                            BY C. G. FOSTER.


I perceive with regret that it has of late become fashionable among the
critics and mediocre authors, on both sides of the water, to decry
German literature. Having rifled the gems—and bright and precious are
they—the casket is now to be kicked aside as useless lumber. Even
Blackwood—so long an oracle almost of the literary world—even Kit
North himself, than whom a better man or truer poet never existed—has
turned cynic and snarler in his old age, and after having marched side
by side with Scott, Göethe, Byron, Coleridge, Schiller, Schlegel, and
Shelley, through the brightest era of literature that has dawned and
blazed upon the world since Johnson, has at last sunk to the level of a
literary parvenu, and laughs at German literature! _He_ should not have
done it! I tell you, Christopher, that the inspiration of a century was
concentrated in a few mighty brains, which, within the last century,
have returned to dust. For another hundred years to come, human
intellect will seldom rise above the mere practical concerns of
life—railroads, manufactures, and machinery. Practical science and
natural philosophy will progress; but not that sublime and immediate
gift of God, the embodying of the Ideal Perfect. The old world is
exhausted. Greece, and her mouldering monuments of classic beauty—Rome,
and her magnificent mementos of the shadowy past—Spain with her high
romance, and Asia with her gorgeous grandeur—who will venture again to
explore? Chateaubriand, Byron, De Stäel, Moore, Rogers—are not such
names barriers to frighten all aspirants? No—not till America—the new
world—becomes rich and settles herself down in quiet grandeur—not till
her thousand mountains, her mighty lakes, her stupendous cataracts, and
her boundless prairies, become invested with the magic of intellectual
association—not until history begins to lose itself in dreamy and
indistinct fable, to cast a vague interest over every charmed spot—will
the bright-winged Ideal rouse from her sleeping nest. She shrinks from
every thing practical, palpable, and common-place, as the rainbow loses
its hues as it approaches the earth.

Let us then cherish and protect the thoughts and aspirations which these
mighty minds have bequeathed us. Never did I think to find Wilson
depreciating German literature. He is old, and should almost fear that
posterity will retort upon him! A remnant of the old worshippers of the
Ideal yet remain, haunting the ploughed fields of modern improvement,
like the scattered and timid deer which are sometimes seen bounding
along the margin of civilization. Like the White Lady of Avenel, they
are year by year fading away—the golden zone which binds their misty
drapery is becoming smaller and smaller—the clack of the useful mill,
or the clashing of machinery, drowns their voices at their favorite
fountains; and they are forced to shut up the beautiful visions which
haunt their breasts, in the deep sources of emotion which glow and
bubble in silence.

The source of our most exquisite happiness is the cause of our keenest
sufferings. The constant and feverish search after perfection soon
disgusts the seeker. Expecting every thing for which the heart panteth,
we rush onward from disappointment to despair. Hope’s false mirror is
reversed; and pleasure appears as much diminished as it was before
enlarged.

He who is blest with an organization in which Ideality holds a
conspicuous place, will be sure to form a complete system of
metaphysics, graduated upon its impulses. If he be permitted to inhale
the odor of the German Ideology, or of Platonism in its sublime beauty,
he will thence be satisfied; and will yield up his own dreamings to the
more powerful enchantments which the beautiful dead have thrown around
him—for Ideality is the least conceited of the feelings. It is only
proud of its _capacity to enjoy_.

It was my fortune to be born and educated on the banks of the Hudson,
where the noble river makes a long sweep westward, affording now an
excellent landing for steamboats; but which, when I first snuffed up the
free mountain air, resounded to nought but the wild warbling of the
merry birds, or the occasional halloo of the far-off husbandman, as he
urged his reluctant plough through the rich soil. There is now a
nail-factory on the very spot where I used to stand, watching the
glorious sunrise as its golden light filtered through the trees which
crowned the eastern hill, and lit up the joyous brook which danced at my
feet—while I _felt_ that the broad and whirling river at my back, was
leaping and quivering in the gleam. Each tiny grot and harbor which my
young imagination erst peopled with denizens from the land of dreams,
now resounds to the uncouth “clink of hammers,” or the sacrilegious
wheezing of a steam-engine! When I last visited my native village—’tis
ten years ago—to seek once more the remembered haunts of childhood, I
found a railroad dépôt on the very spot where the church in which I was
christened once stood, and a cotton factory on my former bathing-ground
by the margin of my dear old lake.

Vexed and disappointed, I flung myself along an old heap of logs which
had escaped the demon of improvement, and were still in their old
position, crumbling quietly and decently to dust. Here I lay until the
sun clambered awkwardly down the western sky, and the shadows of evening
came out from their hiding places to meet the bat and owl, and hold
their nightly revels in the moonshine. Gradually I sunk into a new and
pleasing state of existence. I had been reading “Undine,” a literary gem
of so pure and perfect a form and structure, that the only wonder is how
it should have been created by the mere spontaneous working of the
imperfect human brain. It is now ten years since I read it—nor have I
presumed to look into a modern “translation,” of which I have heard—and
yet you shall see how well I remember it.

Undine is the favorite child of a water-goddess, and like all fairies
with whom I was ever acquainted, holds her ethereal attributes only at
the expense of her natural affections, and becomes mortal at the touch
of man. Well—her mother being an exception of a fairy woman, has no
small degree of _curiosity_ in her composition, and places this darling
daughter of hers under the protection of an old anchorite who lived in a
beautiful green island, all alone, as he thought; but he was mistaken,
as you shall see: for this very island was the most frequent haunt of
the fairies, gnomes, salamanders, and other such grave and respectable
people—a sort of coffee-house, in fact, where they met nightly to talk
over the politics of Elfinland, criticise the Queen’s last head-dress,
laugh at Puck’s latest epigram, toss off their bumper of “mountain dew,”
and stagger soberly to bed under the violet.

And so, in this wild, fragrant solitude—unknown to vulgar eyes and
therefore unsoiled and untrampled upon—grew up this flower in all the
luxuriant beauty of mortality, softened and spiritualized by her yet
immortal nature. And, as the grape is most luscious and tempting the
very moment ere it is tainted by the sun’s unhallowed kisses, and drops,
a disgusting thing, from the green and immortal vine, so she grew ripe
with loveliness and so intense in beauty, that, Narcissus like, she fell
enamored of her own sweet image, as it was reflected in the pure spring
sacred to the innate Ideal which bubbled within her own bosom. The old
hermit marked anxiously and tenderly the growth of his young charge: and
when, in the evening time—when the rose’s bosom swelled and panted
beneath the night wind’s passionate embrace—she came and kissed his
brow and nestled her beautiful curly head in his bosom, the old man was
wild with joy, and his heart beat again as it did in youth, like the
sleeping tide awakened to convulsions by the gentle moon.

But anon a brave and beautiful knight—whose ancestral castle still
frowns above the Rhine, parting reluctantly, like a decaying beauty, one
by one, year after year, with its fair proportions—came dashing through
the foam to our dainty islet. He had been hunting in the forest; and a
terrible storm coming up—no doubt set on foot by the mischievous
fairies, who, like all other supernatural beings, are accused of
frequently overturning the economy of a whole world to advance some
particular whim of their own—he rode wildly through the intricate
labyrinths of the woods for some hours to no purpose, and at length gave
up the reins to his noble steed, who bore him wherever he would: and,
landing on our beautiful island, the knight saw the twinkle of the
anchorite’s torch, which he had lighted to tell his rosary at the
midnight hour. The stranger was kindly welcomed, and the hermit’s homely
fare cheerfully set before him.

And now, out peeped Undine—the little rogue—from her fairy slumbers,
with her night-dress scarce hanging about her beautiful shoulders, and
her large eyes dazzling and sinking into shade like the opal. Such
visions may have broken upon Guido’s dreams, ere yet his hand had been
trained by art to grasp the impalpable lightning of his mind, and chain
it to the canvas. In vain the old man pleaded and expostulated—nay once
in an angry tone _commanded_ her to go back instantly. I wish you could
have seen her then. It was like the uncoiling of a beautiful snake,
disturbed in its playfulness by the rash intruder’s foot. With eye-balls
darting fire—throat swelling and falling with beautiful rage—and every
movement indicating the contortions of a fiend, who had in vain
endeavored to disguise himself in the robes of spiritual beauty—she
rudely pushed the old man aside, sprung lightly into the room, and
stood, in an attitude of wild and timid repose, directly in front of the
stranger knight.


                              CHAPTER II.

And the knight, being entranced with the supernatural beauty of Undine,
rushed eagerly towards her with his arms extended, as if he would clasp
her to his bosom; but she shrunk from his approach like the sensitive
plant, which thrillingly feels, yet dares not meet, man’s touch—and the
eager knight embraced the empty air.

When I was a little child, I once tried to catch a beautiful bird that
sat singing in a green bush; but when my hand, certain of its victim,
closed to grasp it, a gleam of loveliness shot across my eyes—a wild
burst of joyous melody smote my ears—and that bird like a midnight
dream, passed from my sight forever. Hope ceased her guardian watch, and
as she turned her face from me, threw deep black shadows far into my
heart. So felt the strange knight, as he stood with extended arms
motionless and eyes gazing wildly in the direction whence Undine had
vanished, until the good old hermit came and laid his hand upon the
youth’s shoulder, and spoke kindly to him—for he knew that his guest
was in a charmed spell, and could no more control his thought.

So he led the knight, as he would have done a child, to a beautiful
arbor at the bottom of the garden, where the moon-beams had stolen
through the vine leaves, and were dallying with the dew—for the tempest
had suddenly ceased, and the majestic night had come forth uncovered, to
hold her starry court—and pointed to a rustic bed made of dry leaves
and moss. Then he blessed him and departed—and the stranger slept
sweetly beneath the sheltering wings of night. But it was his body alone
that slumbered: for no sooner had he closed his eyes than a thousand
faces, radiant with smiles and witching tenderness, clustered around
him—and, oh rapture! among them was Undine, who came joyously towards
him, and flung herself confidingly into his arms; and, as she looked up
in his face, he thought he had passed the cloudy shadows which separate
earth from heaven, and was already in the abode of immortal bliss.

But I will not protract my story. The knight fell impetuously in love
with the little fairy girl, who told him that she had sacrificed her
immortality out of pure love for him, and promised him every delight
that physical or intellectual longing could possibly conceive—so long
as he was faithful to her: and the little witch kept her word, and had
told him the truth, too, as you shall presently see—for her father,
Kuhleborn, and all the rest of her fairy acquaintances, gradually
forsook her, and she held no more communion with the winged spirit of
the ideal world, save with that _one_ who is ever near the object of her
anxiety and love—her mother! Aye, that fairy mother, in the still
star-light, when Undine slept like a rose upon the bosom of her lord,
would come and fan her with her musical wings, and breathe fragrance
over her, and spangle her hair with tears of love and fondness—and then
the knight would wake and kiss them up, and fold her more closely to his
breast; and the mother would glide noiselessly away, and sit in pleasant
sadness by the river’s bank, until the garish day-light frightened her
back to her haunts in the deep forest.

Well—this lasted for some time; the old hermit sanctioning with his
smiles the endearments of the fond pair; for he knew that Undine’s only
chance of happiness was in the constancy of the stranger knight—for she
had forfeited her immortal nature, and trusted all her rich treasure of
hope and happiness to a human love! How precious the cargo! how frail
the bark! what a little tempest will shatter this slight vessel, and
strew the glittering fragments of its freight upon the sands!

Anon came a gallant array of knights from his father’s court, to conduct
our bewildered lover back to life. Congratulations upon his safety, and
the evident joy which dwelt upon the features of his friends, at length
subdued him, and he consented to return to the gay world. He sought once
more his Undine in her favorite bower; and as he approached, a strain of
most exquisite music stole upon his ear. He listened, and heard the
voice of his own—his beloved—pour forth her soul:

    “Farewell, farewell! ye dreams which were my being,
      And are no more—at least, no more to me;
    I see ye dimly from my presence fleeing—
      I know—I know—ye never more can be
    Solace or joy of mine! How weak to trust
    Undying love like mine to mortal formed of dust!

    “Farewell, farewell! ye bright-winged sister spirits,
      Immortal in your beauty and your truth!
    I cannot envy ye—my soul inherits
      A dowry dearer than immortal youth,
    E’en from the fulness of my present joy,
    While yet I linger near my beauteous island-boy!

    “Ah! for one thrill of love to wring with bliss
      The delicate fibres of a heart like mine,
    I’d pay again the price I pay for this!
      And, though for me no more the stars shall shine,
    Or flowers around their odorous breath distil,
    Or nightly revels on the moon-lit hill

    “Awake me with their echoes—yet the _sense_
      _Of human love_, and that I _was_ adored
    With warm and human energy, shall dispense
      Fragrance immortal o’er me, when I’ve poured
    The essence of my being out, and died—
    The victim of immortal love and mortal pride!”

Wildly he rushed into the arbor, and clasped the fairy woman over and
over to his breast—swearing and protesting most vehemently that he
would only go and see his father and receive his blessing, and his
mother’s kiss, and his sister’s farewell embrace, and then straightway
return to the island and his fairy bride. And so, he again pressed her
little bosom to his own, and kissed her lips, and she, poor thing!
believed him—for she was nothing but a woman then, and had lost her
fairy sagacity—and twining her beautiful limbs around him, as if she
would grow there forever, she flooded his bosom with her pure warm
tears; and gently removing her now insensible form to a green bank,
strown with violets, and calling the good old hermit from the hut, he
rushed out, and mounting his gallant steed, dashed wildly across the
Rhine, and bent his way to his father’s castle.

And now I must let you into a very important secret; which is, that our
gallant knight had already wooed and won the daughter of a powerful
nobleman, whose castle was on the opposite bank of the river to his
father’s,—and the marriage contracts and settlements had all been made
and ratified by the old people. The lady was a pretty, unmeaning,
blue-eyed girl, and knew no better than to fall in love according to law
and the command of her father; and she therefore made no opposition, but
merely waited in listless indifference, till her husband should release
her virgin bosom from its bursting boddice, and lead her to the nuptial
chamber. Of what _that_ was, she had no possible idea—or, if she had,
nobody was ever the wiser of it.

And so the knight dashed onwards, outstripping all his friends, until he
arrived breathless at his father’s castle, scarce knowing where he was
or where he had been. But all question or surmise was smothered in the
joy occasioned by his return. Feasts and festivals were the order of the
day—and our knight was eternally stuck alongside of the blue-eyed girl
he was to marry. But he thought of nothing but a pair of large black
orbs that used to dart lightning into his soul, when he was on the
little island; and he never heard his intended bride utter a word
without thrilling, by contrast, all over, with the memory of that fairy
music which soothed him in Undine’s bower. And he saw her in his
dreams—and even when he was wide awake, his soul still lingered round
that charmed spot, hallowed by the presence of immortal love. But
earthly ties are more palpable than the air-wrought links of the soul’s
affections, and find a stronger hold in our gross and earthly nature;
and so, day after day, the dream of his sweet Undine became dimmer and
more fleeting; and at last, like one intoxicated with glorious wine who
sinks to sleep dreamless, he tumbled listlessly back to earth, and his
fairy bride was remembered no more. The day for his marriage was fixed,
and the time was spent in a continual round of feasting and merry
making.

Where was Undine all this time? What did she? Tell us all about her. In
good time you shall hear the whole sad story.


                              CHAPTER III.

Have you ever, dear reader, journeyed in the hot sun-shine, your brain
literally broiling in the heat, and the dust driving, like a
sleet-storm, into your face, filling your eyes, ears and throat with
minute particles, which irritated you almost to phrenzy—and, when
almost ready to drop down dead with fatigue, thirst and despair,
suddenly seen, upon turning an abrupt angle in the path, a fair smiling
woodland lawn stretching before you, and a cool, limpid stream of water
gushing out from among the flowers, and a whole orchard of birds singing
gaily in the branches? So, after the dusty and perplexing toils of life,
return we to Undine and her strange fortunes.

Ah, she was a guilty thing—that beautiful and fairy girl! for what
right had she to sacrifice her celestial nature, and become a mere thing
of earth for worms to feed upon, just for a few mortal kisses? True,
true—but those kisses! oh, what rapture lies hidden in the spell of
that hour when the divine soul, with its cold immaculate brightness,
yields to the warmer thrillings of terrestrial love, and melts away in
ecstasy beneath the glance of passion-lighted eyes—the pressure of warm
sweet lips! Immortals live in a bright round of perpetual purity and
lustre. No o’erwrought heaving of the breast—no momentary thrilling of
agonising bliss—no melting climax of joy, concentrating in its burning
focus a whole life of hope and aspiration—repays the weary soul for all
her watchings. Undine had drunk of the intoxicating draught till her
lips grew to the goblet.

Ah, who can blame her? Who has not tasted moments of earthly bliss so
intense that were immortality’s brightest visions spread palpably before
him, he would spurn them all?

Soon after the knight left the little island, our good old hermit, upon
going to Undine’s apartment, as was his wont, saw her not. He searched
every where—the garden, the river bank, the thicket which surrounded
his little plantation, were all examined in vain. She had fled away upon
the wings of love, and, panting with toil and exhaustion, came at last
to her knight’s castle, and ran like lightning through the court. What
saw she? Lights were glancing in every niche,—loud and boisterous
noises of merriment and gaiety echoed through the passages—and, bracing
her little heart with the strength of despair, Undine rushed wildly to
the great saloon, and saw the knight—her own beloved—him for whose
love Heaven and its joys she had lightly thrown away—leading the pretty
blue-eyed German girl to the altar. The white-robed priest was
there—and, as he completed the ceremony, he raised his unconscious
hands and blessed them in the name of the virgin. And the harp and
tambour struck up their wild music—and away fled the bride and
bride-groom with the joyous throng of revellers to the dance.

Undine was not yet _all_ a woman. Revenge, as it were the dying spark of
her immortal nature, burst brightly up in her bosom; and, rushing wildly
out into the forest, she fell upon her knees and cried vehemently for
her mother. She was at her side, and gazing wistfully and fondly upon
her, ere the echoes had ceased whispering in the woods.

“Execute me this first and only prayer, dear, dear mother!” said
Undine—“and forever I release you from the charge of your most
miserable child!”

“What would you, sweet?”

“Strike _him_ dead!—aye! but wait——” and her eyes flashed and her
whole form seemed convulsed with demoniac passion—“wait till he enfolds
her to his heart, as he has done _me_ so often—and kisses her—hell and
furies! as he has kissed _me_ so many thousand times—_then_ strike him,
mother—let him wither in her arms, like a dead viper, until they shall
both sink in base, earthly corruption together. Mother! mother! grant me
this, as you love your child!”

On went the marriage feast—and never had Rhine’s blue waters wafted
gayer notes or wilder revelry than echoed from the old baronial castle,
where our young knight was immolating the beauteous dove that had
nestled in his bosom on the altar of worldly pride and miscalled duty.

But when the feast was over, and the bride was led blushing to her
chamber, a strange thrill shot through the bosom of the knight as he was
about to follow, and he almost staggered into the room. The bride,
frightened at his convulsive motions, ran and put her naked arms about
him, and he unconsciously leaned his head upon her bosom—when suddenly
a terrific burst of thunder shook the castle to its foundation, and the
face of the knight became livid and distorted—and, even as Undine had
prayed, he withered away ghastily in his bride’s arms, and they both
fell shrieking to the earth.

The morning sun rose clear and beautiful over the old ivy crowned
castle—but there were mourning and tears beneath that venerable roof;
and when the sun slanted across the sighing forest tops at evening, they
bore the young and noble knight to his peaceful home, and laid him to
rest among the flowers of the green valley—and when all had departed
with sorrowful footsteps from the spot, and the stealthy moon came with
her bright limbs scantily clad in gauzy clouds, to meet her lover on the
hill, she looked upon the celestial form of Undine, bending in sorrow
and repentance o’er her lover’s grave—and the dew and the star-light
mingling together, dissolved her frail and beautiful outline, until it
mixed with the invisible odors that played above the flowers—and the
next day there was bubbling a bright spring at the knight’s head, the
waters of which, diverging into two graceful channels, clasped like
loving arms the form of him Undine so fatally had loved.

And now, thou beautiful spirit, farewell forever! In thy companionship
have we found solace from the weight of mortality’s burthen—and while
sympathising with thy unhappy and yet blissful fate, have learned to
feel that to preserve an immortal nature, it is necessary to forget that
we have mortal passions.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                          LINES TO A PORTRAIT.


                          BY A. C. AINSWORTH.


    It must be life which sits upon that brow
      So calm—so full of mind’s nobility:
    For I do gaze with homage even now,
      As if _her_ living lustre beamed on me.
    There sleep the folds of her unrivalled hair—
      There bloom those lips whose charm no words may speak,
    And her divinest smile, which mocks at care,
      Blends sweetly with the tints which clothe her cheek.

    Rich rooms were lighted, and I wandered long,
      Seeking a solace with the fair and bright;
    But ever, as I moved amid the throng,
      Thy large eyes haunted with their gentle light.
    Ev’n through my fevered sleep, in wildest dreams,
      Those features all seem’d over me to brood:
    Alas! when midnight fails to hide those gleams,
      How vainly seeks the heart a solitude!

    But _she_ was there—thy _living_ counterpart:
      Why gaze on _thee_, when I might look on her?
    Ah, often in this world, the mourning heart
      Seeks least, thro’ _fear_, the things it would prefer!
    For when unto my lip there rose the jest,
      And I seemed coldest, to the throng around,
    Then _most_ love burned within my wearied breast,
      And strongest, with its chain, my heart was bound.

    As o’er Italian seas the “Vesper Hymn”
      Comes gently:—so her voice in music stole;
    My tongue did falter, and mine eyes grew dim;
      For fainting joy was throned within my soul.
    I all forget the end; how we did part;
      Or if she frowned on me—or if she smiled;
    I slept with her bright image in my heart,
      And the fair morning found me chained—beguiled!

                 *        *        *        *        *




                                 LINES.


                             BY J. E. DOW.


    Ask not for life, ’tis vain at best,
    A period fraught with bitter woe,
    A gaudy fiction when ’tis blest,
    A constant struggle here below;
    But Death! it bears the weary home,
    Where sin and sorrow cannot come.

    To die in youth, to ’scape the pain
    That like a shadow marks our way,
    To die, aye ’tis to live again
    In brighter regions far away;
    Where unknown glories ceaseless roll
    Their floods of pleasure o’er the soul.

    We weep above the early dead,
    And crown the scanty grave with flowers;
    We feel affliction when we tread
    Amid the churchyard’s silent bowers:
    But could we hear the spirits’ song
    How blithely should we move along?

    Free’d from the mockery of earth,
    In the Almighty’s glory drest,
    How mean appears their spot of birth?
    How beautiful their place of rest?
    Their voices ring ’mid angel choirs,
    And love in sweetness tunes their lyres.

    Then ask not life, but joy to know
    That sinless they in heaven shall stand;
    That death is not a cruel foe
    To execute a wise command.
    ’Tis ours to ask, ’tis God’s to give.—
    We live to die—and die to live.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                    THE RESCUE AT THE ELEVENTH HOUR.


        BY J. MILTON SANDERS, AUTHOR OF “THE MIAMI VALLEY,” ETC.


                  I have a tale thou hast not dream’d—
                  If sooth—its truth must others rue.
                                                Byron.

It was one of those lovely autumnal days of which we all often dream,
and so fondly wish to enjoy, when lying upon the bed of sickness; such a
day as we love to dwell upon in imagination, when we are closely housed
and sitting by a sparkling fire during the long freezing winter nights.

Well, it was such a day as this that my friend Ned K—— and I started
through the rich country which lies north of Dayton. The sun was just
rising, glorious and unobscured by cloud or mist, his early rays dancing
gaily upon the parti-colored foliage, like millions of those little
bright elfins which people the glowing imagination of the oriental
improvisitore.

Feeling the influence of the early morning air upon our spirits, we
pricked forward our steeds; and as the noble animals danced over the
earth, our hearts leaped to our lips, and we gave forth their joyousness
in the glowing language which the poets numbered before us.

We gazed up into the deep blue vault of heaven above us; we saw the moon
sailing along in cloudless majesty, and the stars peeping through their
lingering drapery of darkness, and we raised our voices, and in gladness
and lightness of heart, we shouted aloud. And the birds—those ceaseless
lutes of the summer morning air—warbled a response.

We soon became short of breath; our lungs had expanded too freely, and
our blood was too fiery after its slow and even circulation during the
lethargy of the late night—our spirits boiled over, and like everything
which boils over, they soon sank into a contrasting calmness, and we
discovered that we were riding side and side with all of the sedateness
of a Quaker preacher when he arrived in sight of the meeting house.

“How far does your old uncle reside from here?” I asked anxiously of my
friend Ned.

“Be patient, my good fellow, and we will soon get there.”

“I wish we were there now, I am so anxious to see the old hero. You say
he was an active participator in some of the principal incidents of our
revolution?”

“He was, and that old musket which I showed you yesterday, accompanied
him in many of his adventures. From the first bloodshed at Lexington
till the final capture at Yorktown, did that hero bare his breast to the
storm of the revolution. His blood has bathed the soil of many a
battle-field, and innumerable are the hair-breadth perils which he has
passed through. You are partial to these tales of perils, L——, and you
shall now be gratified to your heart’s content.”

My heart leaped with joy, and I began already to calculate the time and
expense which it would require to write a volume of his adventures; and
what edification it would be to the devourers of omnivorous literature.

“Is he a great talker?” I immediately asked, for, but a short time
previous I had made several trips to see pioneers solely for the purpose
of committing to paper their adventures; and others, after much trouble
I had reached their domicils, I found as uncommunicative as a Saracenic
mute.

“He loves to talk, and nothing pleases him more than to have such
patient and willing listeners as you are; with you he will talk from
morning till night.”

I rubbed my hands with delight; the volume which had danced before my
imagination for a few minutes past, now swelled in size from an octavo
to a folio; and my impatience to see the hero, almost became
insupportable.

“There is one failing which my old uncle has,” continued my friend, “and
that is, he possesses a very exuberant imagination.”

“So much the better,” I exclaimed, “then his recitation will not
continue on that dead level, which gives such prolixity to a narrative;
now and then a flight of the imagination adds a marvellous spice to such
things; a single narration, you know, only draws the picture and shades
it—it is left for imagination to paint it.”

“But you do not precisely understand me; I mean that my uncle—who is
getting old now, you know—is in the habit, if allowed to commence in
that way, to dwell for hours together upon the most marvellous
adventures, which he draws solely from imagination, and confounds with
his real ones; but leave this to me, and I will set him on the right
track; by the way, there is one incident connected with his very mutable
life which I must prevail upon him to relate; I call his imagined
adventures yarns—so let us ride forward, for yonder is the house.”

We dashed down the long lane—lined on each side with towering poplar
trees, whose pointed tops reached far above the surrounding trees—and
we soon stood at the door of the old soldier’s house.

We dismounted, and giving our horses to an attendant, we entered the
house, and the first person that we saw was the old veteran himself. He
hurried towards us—by aid of a stout cane—and bade us welcome.

Truly was the old man’s appearance equal to my ideal of him; his
form—though somewhat bent with age—had once, I could easily perceive,
been tall and sinewy; and his limbs still retained a degree of that
muscular power, which had so repeatedly contributed to bring him safe
from _melées_, where weaker men had perished. The old man’s hair was
white as the snow, and accumulating years had continued to thin it, till
only two small locks were left.

With sparkling eyes and animated features, the veteran grasped our
hands, and gave us a true soldier’s welcome; and then leading us to a
small room, he introduced us to his sister—a venerable and corpulent
matron of fifty—and then to what was still more pleasurable, a smoking
breakfast.

After partaking of as luxuriant a _déjeuner_ as ever caused an epicure’s
eyes to dance, we wandered around the farm—the old soldier limping
along with us—and after bestowing the necessary eulogiums upon the fine
appearance of his Berkshire pigs, his imported stallion, and his Durham
cattle, we returned to the house; and then partaking of a glass of cider
wine, (which excellent fluid needs but a high price to become as regal
as champaigne) we got the old man seated.

“This young friend of mine,” began my cautious companion, “is
passionately fond of revolutionary tales, and as he is now engaged in
writing sketches embodying all the adventures of the revolution,” here
Ned gave me a meaning look, “he wishes to hear a few of your adventures;
couldn’t you gratify him, uncle?”

The veteran propped his rheumatic leg upon a chair, and laid aside his
cane.

“Ha! he wishes to hear tales of the wars, does he? Well, then, ’spose I
tell him about the death of poor old Joshua Brews——”

“Oh, no, uncle! I think something less melancholy will please him.”

“I don’t like melancholy tales,” I said.

“Then, ’spose I tell him about the fight that Ben Bunker and me had——”

“That I _know_ wouldn’t please him,” and Ned quickly whispered in my ear
“a _yarn_.”

“Ah, I have it now; tell him about ‘The Rescue at the Eleventh Hour.’”

“I hate to tell that; my blood freezes whenever I think of it.”

“’Tis surprising,” thought I, “how compatible it is for old men to
delight in lies.”

“Which of the tales mentioned would you rather hear; we will leave the
decision to you, won’t we, uncle?”

“Certainly, my son; but recollect that the fight which Ben Bunker and me
had _is mighty_ entertaining.”

“I have no doubt of it, sir; still, as I have taken a fancy to ‘The
Rescue at the Eleventh Hour,’ you would oblige me by relating that.”

The old veteran bowed, swallowed a glass of wine, and commenced the
tale.

“The days of which I now speak, my son, were pregnant with perils. When
we retired to our beds at night, we knew not what the morning might
bring forth. We might hear of the death of a father, mother, or sister,
by the ruthless hand of a British forager, or equally sanguine tory. Or
else our ears would be greeted with the wail of some outcast, who had
travelled all night to flee the ravagers of his property. Every hour was
pregnant with news, either in favor or against the interests of our
country. The British, at the time of which I speak, were overrunning the
land, devastating the fairest farms, and murdering or making captive
their inhabitants.

“I was then young—but twenty years had passed over my head, and, of
course, I possessed all the sanguine nature of youth: added to which, my
soul was kindled to anger by the horrid accounts which reached us daily
of British brutality. My father, who had fought in the old French and
Indians wars, had taught me to despise oppression, but to worship
freedom.

“Early impressions seldom fade from the mind, but become more vivid with
the increase of our years, and so had the sentiments which my father had
taught me.

“The next farm to that of my father’s, belonged to Charles Worthington,
who had but one child, a daughter, about three years younger than I was.
Even yet, after a lapse of fifty years, the blood bounds through my
veins, and my heart heaves with an unusual emotion, as I think of that
fair girl. Ah, she was surpassing fair, but yet her beauty was rivalled
by her goodness of heart and her amiability. With a skin of the fairest
white, deep blue eyes, forehead high and expansive, and features
altogether classical, she was one whom any one could love; and, excuse
me, my son, for indulging in reflections which may be of no interest to
you, but these pictures, when they do arise in the memory, are still
intensely vivid, while their being so long ago enacted, gives each small
incident an interest with me, which to you may appear unworthy of a
single thought.

“Lucy Worthington and I met, and we _loved_, and it was that deep love
which casts its hue over all our future actions. It was the first
love—when those whirlwind passions of the mind are first awakened to
activity, and, like the sun rising over the landscape, throws its hues
upon every object, and tinges them of its own peculiar color.

“For months Lucy and I were almost inseparable companions—we consumed
the greater part of our days wandering in the fields and woods,
gathering flowers and listening to each other’s words; and my greatest
ambition was to please her, my only thoughts to elicit a smile of love
from her bright eye. Thus passed away the days till the destroyer came.

“It was a bright morning in summer. The sun had just risen, and I was
gazing upon its early rays, as they threw the shadows of the dancing
foliage through the window upon the opposite wall; when I heard a
distant crack of a gun, which was immediately followed by another, then
another, and then others, in such quick succession that I could not
count them.

“Suspecting that all was not right at our neighbor’s house, I sprang out
of bed, hurriedly drew on my clothes, and, without speaking to any of
our family, hastened over to Worthington’s. Before I reached the house I
saw a blue smoke hanging over it; but not a human being was to be met;
all was as lonely as a city of the dead. I leaped the fence and hurried
to the house, and, oh! what a scene was suddenly presented to my sight!
The father, the mother, and their only child, were stretched on the
floor and weltering in their blood. The parents were dead, but the
daughter—although evidently dying—still retained her speech and
consciousness.

“Language would convey but a very faint impression of the agony which
tortured my breast. I threw myself by her body and groaned aloud. It was
the first misery which I had ever experienced, and it came upon me as
the long accumulating avalanche upon the family of the mountaineer, and
I was suddenly and unexpectedly overwhelmed with misery; and in the
poignancy of the moment I cried like a child. But that poor
girl—although gradually dying—whispered hope into my ear, and pointing
to heaven, she bade me gaze there, where we would, ere long, meet to be
separated no more. And for the first time in my life, did I direct my
thoughts to the footstool of the everlasting throne, and addressed a
prayer to its King for the gentle soul which was about to be placed in
his hands.

“‘Charles,’ she exclaimed faintly, as she observed my agony, ‘I am
dying: let all this pass, for I forgive those who committed the deed, as
I hope to be forgiven myself in heaven. Do not seek to retaliate upon
those deluded soldiers, who know nothing but to obey the behests of
their king; why this useless grief? You see that I do not weep, although
the pale face of my poor old mother lies at my side,’ and she placed her
pale hand upon the rigid face of her parent, and, despite her efforts to
prevent it, a tear forced itself from under her eyelid, and rolled down
her cheek, as she gazed upon those dear features, now calmed in death.

“‘Charles, I am going—I forgive—forgive—’ and thus she expired. I
threw myself on her body and groaned aloud, but in a moment a thought
flashed through my mind, and immediately I was as calm as a statue. I
arose and then sinking on one knee, I swore a solemn oath, and I prayed
that the Dispenser of life might grant me mine together with health,
till I should have fulfilled that oath, and so long as life lasted, I
vowed to devote all my energies and means to its consummation; and then,
with a pale face but a calm brow, I hastened home. Knowing that those
who had committed this diabolical deed, would travel rapidly for fear of
that just retribution which they knew would follow them, I hurriedly
seized my rifle, and taking with me but a few bullets, I rapidly
followed the tracks of the murderers. I ran at my greatest speed during
the whole of that day. Their tracks led me into the depths of a thinly
settled country, but the soil being loose, I could trace the deep
impressions of their horses’ feet with the greatest ease. At dark I had
not overtaken them, but with all the indefatigableness of one seeking
revenge for a deadly and vital injury, I now groped my way over a rocky
country, often stooping to examine whether I was still on their tracks.
Finally the country became so rocky that I entirely lost all traces of
my victims, and with a brain burning from disappointed revenge, I
prepared to pass the night under a ledge of rocks which protruded in the
road.

“I had heard the name of the leader of this party, and although I could
not seek reparation at the present, yet I prepared to lie down with a
stern determination to follow him to the four corners of the earth
before I would forego the revenge I had in store for him. With a heart
aching with grief and disappointment, I prepared to throw myself upon my
flinty bed, when, casting my sight to the left, I observed a lurid hue
dwelling upon the tops of some tall trees below me, and plainly
indicating that a fire was burning beneath them. This fire might have
been kindled by the very person whom I sought. I immediately shouldered
my rifle, and, in my eagerness to reach the spot, nearly ran over the
brow of a high precipice, down which had I fallen, I would have been
dashed to atoms against the rocks below. Avoiding the impending danger
by deviating to the right, I reached the level country, where travelling
was comparatively easy, and started at a rapid gait for the distant
light.

“The country—now so thickly settled—was almost a wilderness, and still
abounded with wild and savage animals, which—as I was aware—seek their
prey by night. I observed the strictest caution, lest some lurking
panther should pounce upon me; and then, being necessitated to shoot it,
I would alarm my enemies. By the greatest exertion, I avoided one of
these animals, and in the course of several hours, I approached the
fire. The country was studded thickly with giant oaks, whose matted
branches and thick foliage cast a deep gloom beneath them; but from this
contrast the fire appeared more brilliant, and shot far out into the
surrounding darkness, a gleam of brightness.

“I neared the fire unobserved, but what were my sensations upon
perceiving arrayed around it the very persons I sought. For the first
time since morning, I felt a degree of hope swell my breast, as I gazed
upon the murderers of all I loved.

“Ten horses were hobbled close by me, and scenting me if they did not
see me, they snorted and gazed in the direction where I was hid, but
their masters were so busily engaged in conversing and boasting over
their day’s exploits, that they heard not these never-failing omens,
that danger was nigh.

“The spirit of revenge grew strong in me as I beheld those whom I had
labored all day to see; and that wish which troubled me now was, that I
had not brought along with me a party sufficiently formidable to have
taken them all prisoners, and thus revenge would be gratified by
piece-meal. I was not long in deciding what to do. Observing the officer
who commanded the party sitting among the rest, I singled him out as the
first victim to be offered upon the altar of my vengeance. I cautiously
cocked my gun, and taking a deliberate aim at his breast, I pulled the
trigger—but the sparks missed the pan, and the gun did not go off. The
men heard the noise, and several saw the sparks fly, and in a moment
every man was on his feet, and gazing intently at the spot where I
stood; but in a second of time I had re-cocked my gun, and taking
another aim, I fired. The officer sprang up, screamed, and fell upon his
face. With curses, several of the soldiers rushed forward towards the
spot where I lay, but with superior woodsmanship I evaded them and fled
into the depths of the woods, and taking a circuitous route, I came to
the fire again at the other side. Every man had left in pursuit of me
but two, who were busily stripping off the coat of the officer. I again
fired and one of the soldiers fell. With a yell and a fearful oath, I
was met as I turned to flee, by one of the soldiers who had been
pursuing me.

“I drew a knife, the soldier drew his bayonet, and we engaged in a
desperate encounter. Knowing that the noise we made would soon guide
others to the spot, and that I would assuredly be captured, I commenced
a retrograde movement for the purpose of effecting my escape, when I was
clinched by an iron hand from behind, and the person missing at the same
time a firm foot-hold, he fell to the earth, bearing me with him.

“Oh, how I struggled! how fearfully I wielded my knife! but it was not
that I feared dying—what was life to me then? It was that I feared
being foiled in my revenge, and with this fear uppermost in my mind, I
hurled my knife about me with giant energy; with the maddened and
thoughtless desperation of the panther, when she struggles for her
screaming young, did I battle for my revenge; but now they rushed up
upon every side—they threw themselves upon me—they bore me again to
the earth, but this time senseless, and when I became conscious, I was
lying on my back, and bound hands and feet.

“The soldier whom I had shot, died a few moments after receiving his
wound; but the officer still survived, although mortally wounded—the
ball having broke, in its course, the sternum and ribs, and passed
directly through his lungs.

“The soldiers soon gathered around the spot where I lay—their eyes
gleaming hate, and their rough features expressing all the atrocity of
their nature.

“‘Accursed Yankee!’ exclaimed one, ‘would to God you were possessed of
nine lives, that we might glut our hatred of you, by depriving you of
each by inches,’ and the monster ground his teeth, and kicked me with
such force as to nearly deprive me of breath.

“‘Depraved and blood-thirsty rebel!’ thundered another, ‘what fiend from
hell tempted you to this diabolical act?’

“‘The same fiend which tempted you to murder my family,’ I answered.

“Immediately the man’s gaze of hatred began to soften in its expression,
and my keen eyes detected a slight emotion dwelling, for an instant,
upon his features, as he turned to the first speaker and muttered:

“‘I told you not to commit that murderous deed; still you would persist,
and now you see how speedily retribution has winged its flight to you.
By heaven, this man has served you justly, and ought not to perish for
it.’

“‘No power save that of heaven can prevent his dying this day,’ muttered
the other through his clenched teeth.

“‘Beware how you speak to me, sir,’ said the other; the man made an
inclination of the head, and walked off.

“The young man—for he appeared to be no older than myself—again cast
his glance upon me, and what a change was there in the expression of his
eyes! It was like the mother’s glance when her sleeping infant lies upon
her lap; or the father’s, as he looks for the last time upon his
condemned son, who was the hope and the pride of his declining years.

“‘What age are you?’ he kindly asked.

“‘Had you not murdered all I held dear on earth, I would next autumn be
twenty years old; as it is, I never expect to be older than nineteen
years and nine months.’

“‘So young, and yet so determined and brave! It must not be; they shall
not deprive you of life, when you might make such a powerful auxiliary
to our cause. Listen to me, young stranger. Would you be willing to
repudiate all your rebel prejudices and join the cause of your king, if
you could obtain your freedom?’

“Life is sweet, and who would not at that age dissemble a little and
play the hypocrite for such a precious boon? I pretended to undergo a
great internal emotion, and spoke long of the glory and righteousness of
our cause; but my policy at last made me a proselyte to his arguments,
and I yielded to his proposal; and the young man left me. My eyes sought
him constantly after that, and several times I discovered him in earnest
conversation with the wounded officer. Towards noon the young man
obtained an opportunity to speak with me.

“‘I have been trying,’ said he, ‘to prevail upon our officer to release
you upon the conditions which I proposed this morning, but he
obstinately refuses, and persists in making you the victim of his
revenge; but be of good cheer. I think he cannot last long, his
countenance momentarily changes, and when he dies I will free you at all
hazards,’ and with these words he left me.

“An hour had not passed away when the young man’s suspicions were
fulfilled. The officer was seized with the most violent paroxysm; his
features worked fearfully, and it required several men to hold down his
writhing limbs. Strange as it may appear to the tender-hearted, there
was one who gazed upon that man’s terrible throes with feelings
partaking of pleasure, although the sufferer was my fellow mortal. Under
any other circumstances, I would have stood by that man’s side with
tearful eyes, but the cause of my present stoicism is evident. The
officer soon expired, and immediately after his burial I was set at
liberty; and soon afterwards signed my name to an instrument binding me
a liege subject and soldier of his Majesty King George.

“What a change was there now in the conduct of these soldiers towards
me! Instead of the brutal language and fearful threats which they had
hurled at me, they were now declared friends and ready to share with me
their last morsel. We ate together, we drank each other’s health, and we
slept upon the same blanket.

“The deeds which I had perpetrated, and which had deprived two of their
number of life, were apparently forgotten, for they looked upon me now
as a formidable addition to their party.

“Many an expression which dwells upon the risible faculties, belies the
secret thoughts of the breast, and it was so with the glad expression
which mantled my features as I travelled along with them, externally
appearing joyful, but heavy and sad within.

“I did not neglect the oath which I had made; I had not forgotten the
pale serene features of one whom I had ever worshipped, as they lay in
the calmness of death; but whenever I closed my eyes those mild and
fading eyes were before me, with their love and holy resignation vividly
expressed, and their glow rapidly fading.

“‘The time will soon arrive,’ I thought as I looked upon my reckless
comrades, ‘when you will all be stiffened in death, pale monuments of
the revenge of one whom you have so vitally injured—thoughtless fools!
do you imagine that I am but as a brute which perishes, that I can so
soon forget the misery which you have caused me?’ And in the secret
chambers of my breast there was a wild orgie of passions, in
anticipation of the rich feast which my revenge would soon enjoy.

“The next morning we started over a mountainous country, committing
several depredations on the way. With the rest I fired several valuable
barns, for all of which I afterwards remunerated their owners. This
depraved spirit upon my part gave great joy to my companions, and when
we reached a section of the royal army under command of Cornwallis, I
received a smile of approbation from the general, as reward for my
loyalty.

“Now the wishes of my heart were about to be gratified. I was dispatched
on a secret service, in company with several of the murderers of Lucy
Worthington, and now I determined to put into execution that revenge,
whose flame could no longer lie smothered in my breast.

“About sunset we arrived in a deep gorge—the bed of many a mountain
torrent—where we prepared for our night’s lodging. At midnight I
cautiously arose; the fire had died away to embers, and every thing
around was wrapped in gloom. The deep and regular breathing of the
sleepers promised me an uninterrupted opportunity for the execution of
my purpose. I seized a pistol; the principal murderer lay locked in
total unconsciousness of his fate. I cautiously drew near him, and
placed the muzzle of the pistol against his temple, and even then the
poor wretch smiled! Perhaps at that moment he was wandering in his dream
to the home of his parents, and beheld the smiles of a glad mother, and
felt upon his lips the warm kiss of a welcoming sister; or, perhaps, he
imagined that he held in his arms the fragile form of some loved one,
and smiled as he gazed upon the glow of her welcoming eye, and felt the
sealing kiss of her love. Is it not happier to leave the world under
these bright illusions than when the mind is awake, and cold judgment
already calculating the chances of an immortal and happy future?

“I pulled the trigger; the loud explosion started every man to his feet,
but with a yell of the wildest joy I cleared the spot, and soon was
buried among the tangled bushes, which grew plentifully around.

“Now the deep-mouthed bay of a blood-hound, which we had brought with
us, reverberated among the old rocks in the gorge, and soon I heard the
voices of those who were following the animal, close by my lurking
place. At once I comprehended my danger—that the dog was on my track,
and with my teeth clenched, with desperate determination I rushed from
my place of concealment, closely followed by the excited and enraged
animal. In a few moments the dog reached me, and springing, seized me by
the coat collar. I grasped him by the throat, and with all the nervous
energy of one in my circumstance, I throttled him; but the furious
animal—as if he was aware of the importance of his grip—retained his
firm hold, despite my powerful efforts to free myself.

“The soldiers rushed up, and with many a fearful oath and rude blow,
they forced my hands behind my body and securely bound them in that
position; and then with furious cries of exultation they dragged me back
to camp.

“In the morning I was unanimously condemned to be shot, but in all the
plenitude of their mercy, they granted me two hours to make my peace
with heaven.

“Now I was left alone with but my own thoughts for company. I was
condemned and must die in two hours—but two short hours had I left, to
take my leave of this world, and prepare for a voyage, I knew not
where—to leave this world which had ever been before but a garden of
roses. Then the dreadful truth at once flashed on my mind! to leave all,
my father, mother, sisters, friends, and all those who had ever met me
with a smile; whose roughest words were blessings, whose prayers were
ever my own. Ah, how hard it is to die when the bright clouds of youth
cluster around our horizon; when the mind is yet young and free from the
diseases which the experiences of a rude world engender! When the
physical faculties are all active, and most capable of contributing to
our enjoyment; and when death appears but a monster to the young mind
whose riper faculties teach us to hope for a glorious future.

“It is hard indeed, and the rapid approach of my last moments only
enhanced my agony. The time drew nigh and I saw no hope of succor; and
it was _now_ that the dreadful thought intruded itself, that there was
no longer hope—that I _must_ die, and before many minutes more be but a
pale bleeding corpse. My heart ached, my feelings grew insupportable,
and I groaned aloud in the bitterest agony. Ah! the horrors of that
moment! All the most poignant sufferings of a life time, if converged in
one breast, could not have tortured more.

“While in this state of horror, I chanced to look towards the top of the
rocks which lined the gorge, and with surprise I beheld the same young
man who had previously saved my life. He caught my glance, and with his
hand motioned me to silence, and then instantly disappeared. What could
this mean? We had left that individual in the army when we left it. Let
it mean what it might it augured well, and immediately a complete
reaction of feelings took place in my breast. I became calm and
apparently careless of my fate, for I felt that I had a friend close by,
who was willing and able to save me.

“The time for the execution of my sentence arrived, and with a file of
soldiers as a guard, I was led to the fatal tree. A bandage was brought
forward, but I refused it, and bade them with a loud voice hurry with
the execution. The file of soldiers, with loaded muskets, were drawn in
a line fronting me, and I was bade to kneel.

“Now all was a deep silence; you might have heard a pin drop, and then
was heard the voice of the one in command—‘Attention, men! make ready,
take aim—fire’—and I rolled on the earth a bleeding corpse——.”

“What!”

“That is one of my uncle’s _yarns_,” said my friend Ned.

“Pshaw!”

                 *        *        *        *        *




                         THE CHOICE OF HEARTS.


                          BY THOMAS G. SPEAR.


    Ye laughing nymphs! ye bright-ey’d girls!
        Triumphing in your beauty,
    Who blush beneath the shining curls
    That round your brows the zephyr furls,
        What kind of hearts will suit ye?

    “True Valor’s heart,” says one anigh,
        “Upon his war-horse dashing—
    That rous’d to fight will never fly,
    With sword, and plume, and ardent eye,
        In battle brightly flashing.”

    “Soft Pleasure’s heart,” another’s word,
        “Alive to each emotion—
    That can be blythesome as a bird,
    Caress or sigh, and oft be heard
        Proclaiming its devotion.”

    “Ambition’s heart,” one maiden says,
        “That loves in strife to riot—
    That spurns control in every place—
    That rushes on its daring race,
        And rules ’midst life’s disquiet.”

    “The generous heart,” says one fair elf,
        “That thrives amidst confusion—
    That never hoards or life or pelf,
    But gives its all, then gives itself,
        And revels in profusion.”

    “The cheerful heart,” doth one declare,
        “With sense and wit united—
    That joys in music, laughs at care,
    Still pleased and mirthful every where,
        And never undelighted.”

    “Proud Honor’s heart!” another cries,
        “That brooks no man’s dictation—
    That’s quick to seek the hero’s prize,
    And stand, though with the deed it dies,
        ’Gainst wrong and usurpation.”

    “The constant heart!” says one fair maid,
        While blushes crown her beauty:—
    “To ask for more I am afraid,
    But take the heart that thus is swayed,
        And trust it for its duty!”

    Sweet girls! If I might dare express,
        A word for your discretion,
    ’Twould be, that you should favor less
    The flatterer’s, gamester’s, rake’s address,
        And man of mere profession.

    Men’s lives are in their daily deeds—
        Thought oft disguises action.
    Choose then the heart that clearly reads
    Its glory where its duty leads,
        Amidst the world’s distraction.

    To such resign’d, of that fair band
        Of daughters fit to cherish,
    Each shall be cheer’d in heart and hand,
    And feel love’s holy fires expand
        Till lost to things that perish.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                          REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.


    _Poetical Remains of the late Lucretia Maria Davidson, Collected
    and Arranged by her Mother: with a Biography by Miss Sedgwick.
    Lea and Blanchard: Philadelphia._

Some few months since, we had occasion to speak of “The Biography and
Poetical Remains of the late Margaret Miller Davidson”—a work given to
the public by Washington Irving. In common with all who read, we had
been deeply interested in the narrative set forth. The portrait of the
young and beautiful enthusiast, simply yet most effectively painted by
one who touches nothing which he does not adorn, could not have failed
to excite our warmest sympathies; and we dwelt upon the pleasing yet
melancholy theme with a lingering delight. Of the biographical portion
of the book we said, indeed, what every one says, and most justly—that
nothing could be more intensely pathetic. In respect, however, to the
“Poetical Remains,” the _tone_ of our observations was not fully in
accordance with that of the mass of our contemporaries. Without calling
in question the extreme _precocity_ of the child—a precocity truly
wonderful—we were forced, in some slight measure, to dissent from that
extravagant eulogium, which had its origin, beyond doubt, in a
confounding of the interest felt in the poetess and her sad fortunes,
with a legitimate admiration of her works. We did not, in truth,
conceive it to be either honest or necessary, to mislead in any degree
the public taste or opinion, by styling “Lenore,” as it exists, a fine
poem, merely because its author _might_ have written a fine poem had she
lived. We emphasize the “might”; for the history of all intellect
demonstrates that the point is a questionable one indeed. The analogies
of Nature are universal; and just as the most rapidly growing herbage is
the most speedy in its decay—just as the ephemera struggles to
perfection in a day only to perish in that day’s decline—so the mind is
early matured only to be early in its decadence; and when we behold in
the eye of infancy the soul of the adult, it is but indulging in a day
dream to hope for any farther proportionate development. Should the
prodigy survive to ripe age, a mental imbecility, not far removed from
idiocy itself, is too frequently the result. From this rule the
exceptions are rare indeed; but it should be observed that, when the
exception does occur, the intellect is of a Titan cast even to the days
of its extreme senility, and acquires renown not in one, but in all the
wide fields of fancy and of reason.

Lucretia Maria Davidson, the subject of the memoir now before us, and
the elder of the two sweet sisters who have acquired so much of fame
prematurely, had not, like Margaret, an object of poetical emulation in
her own family. In her genius, be it what it may, there is more of
self-dependence—less of the imitative. Her mother’s generous romance of
soul may have stimulated, but did not instruct. Thus although she has
actually given less _evidence_ of power (in our opinion) than
Margaret—less written proof—still its _indication_ must be considered
at higher value. Both perished at sixteen. Margaret, we think, has left
the better poems—certainly the more precocious—while Lucretia evinces
more unequivocally the soul of the poet. In our August number we quoted
in full some stanzas composed by the former at eight years of age. The
latter’s earliest effusions are dated at fourteen. Yet the first
compositions of the two seem to us of nearly equal merit.

The most elaborate production of Margaret is “Lenore,” of which we have
just now spoken. It was written not long before her death, at the age of
fifteen, after patient reflection, with much care, and with all that
high resolve to do something for fame with which the reputation of her
sister had inspired her. Under such circumstances, and with the early
poetical education which she could not have failed to receive, we
confess that, granting her a trifle more than average talent, it would
have been rather a matter for surprise had she produced a worse, than
had she produced a better poem than “Lenore.” Its _length_, viewed in
connexion with its keeping, its unity, its adaptation, and its
completeness (and all these are points having reference to artistical
_knowledge_ and perseverance) will impress the critic more favorably
than its fancy, or any other indication of poetic power. In all the more
important qualities we have seen far—very far finer poems than “Lenore”
written at a much earlier age than fifteen.

“Amir Khan,” the longest and chief composition of Lucretia, has been
long known to the reading public. It was originally published, with
others, in a small volume to which Professor Morse, of the American
Society of Arts, contributed a Preface. Partly through the Professor,
yet no doubt partly through their own merits, the poems found their way
to the laureate, Southey, who, after his peculiar fashion, and not
unmindful of his previous _furores_ in the case of Kirke White,
Chatterton, and others of precocious ability, or at least celebrity,
thought proper to _review_ them in the Quarterly. This was at a period
when we humbled ourselves, with a subserviency which would have been
disgusting had it not been ludicrous, before the crudest critical
_dicta_ of Great Britain. It pleased the laureate, after some squibbing
in the way of demurrer, to speak of the book in question as
follows:—“In these poems there is enough of originality, enough of
aspiration, enough of conscious energy, enough of growing power to
warrant any expectations, however sanguine, which the patrons and the
friends and parents of the deceased could have formed.” Meaning nothing,
or rather meaning anything, as we choose to interpret it, this sentence
was still sufficient (and in fact the half of it would have been more
than sufficient) to establish upon an immovable basis the reputation of
Miss Davidson in America. Thenceforward any examination of her true
claims to distinction was considered little less than a declaration of
heresy. Nor does the awe of the laureate’s _ipse dixit_ seem even yet to
have entirely subsided. “The genius of Lucretia Davidson,” says Miss
Sedgwick in the very volume now before us, “has had the meed of far more
authoritative praise than ours; the following tribute is from the London
Quarterly Review.” What this lady—for whom and for whose opinion we
still have the highest respect—can mean by calling the praise of
Southey “more authoritative” than her own, is a point we shall not pause
to determine. _Her_ praise is at least honest, or we hope so. Its
“authority” is in exact proportion with each one’s estimate of her
judgment. But it would not do to say all this of the author of
“Thalaba.” It would not do to say it in the hearing of men who are sane,
and who, being sane, have perused the leading articles in the “London
Quarterly Review” during the ten or fifteen years prior to that period
when Robert Southey, having concocted “The Doctor,” took definitive
leave of his wits. In fact, for any thing that we have yet seen or heard
to the contrary, the opinion of the laureate, in respect to the poem of
“Amir Khan,” is a matter still only known to Robert Southey. But were it
known to all the world, as Miss Sedgwick supposes with so charmingly
innocent an air;—we mean to say were it really an honest opinion,—this
“authoritative praise,”—still it would be worth, in the eyes of every
sensible person, only just so much as it demonstrates, or makes a show
of demonstrating. Happily the day has gone by, and we trust forever,
when men are content to swear blindly by the words of a master,
poet-laureate though he be. But what Southey says of the poem is at best
an opinion and no more. What Miss Sedgwick says of it is very much in
the same predicament. “Amir Khan,” she writes, “has long been before the
public, but we think it has suffered from a general and very natural
distrust of precocious genius. The versification is graceful, the story
beautifully developed, and the orientalism well sustained. _We think it
would not have done discredit to our most popular poets in the meridian
of their fame; as the production of a girl of fifteen it seems
prodigious._” The cant of a kind heart when betraying into error a
naturally sound judgment, is perhaps the only species of cant in the
world not altogether contemptible.

We yield to no one in warmth of admiration for the personal character of
these sweet sisters, as that character is depicted by the mother, by
Miss Sedgwick, and by Mr. Irving. But it costs us no effort to
distinguish that which, in our heart, is love of their worth, from that
which, in our intellect, is appreciation of their poetic ability. With
the former, as critic, we have nothing to do. The distinction is one too
obvious for comment; and its observation would have spared us much
twaddle on the part of the commentators upon “Amir Khan.”

We will endeavor to convey, as concisely as possible, some idea of this
poem as it exists, not in the fancy of the enthusiastic, but in fact. It
includes four hundred and forty lines. The metre is chiefly
octo-syllabic: At one point it is varied by a casual introduction of an
anapæst in the first and second foot; at another (in a song) by seven
stanzas of four lines each, rhyming alternately; the metre anapæstic of
four feet alternating with three. The versification is always good, so
far as the meagre written rules of our English prosody extend; that is
to say, there is seldom a syllable too much or too little; but long and
short syllables are placed at random, and a crowd of consonants
sometimes renders a line unpronounceable. For example:

    He loved,—and oh, he loved so well
    _That sorrow scarce dared break the spell_.

At times, again, the rhythm lapses, in the most inartistical manner, and
evidently without design, from one species to another altogether
incongruous; as, for example, in the sixth line of these eight, where
the tripping anapæstic stumbles into the demure iambic, recovering
itself, even more awkwardly, in the conclusion:

    Bright Star of the Morning! this bosom is cold—
      I was forced from my native shade,
    And I wrapped me around with my mantle’s fold,
      A sad, mournful Circassian maid!
    And I then vow’d that rapture should never move
      _This changeless cheek, this rayless eye_,
    And I then vowed to feel neither bliss nor love,
      _But I vowed I would meet thee and die_.

Occasionally the versification rises into melody and even strength; as
here—

    ’Twas at the hour when Peris love
    To gaze upon the Heaven above
    Whose portals bright with many a gem
    Are closed—forever closed _on them_.

Upon the whole, however, it is feeble, vacillating, and ineffective;
giving token of having been “touched up” by the hand of a friend, from a
much worse, into its present condition. Such rhymes as floor and
shower—ceased and breast—shade and spread—brow and wo—clear and
far—clear and air—morning and dawning—forth and earth—step and
deep—Khan and hand—are constantly occurring; and although, certainly,
we should not, _as a general rule_, expect better things from a girl of
sixteen, we still look in vain, and with something very much akin to a
smile, for aught even approaching that “_marvellous ease and grace of
versification_” about which Miss Sedgwick, in the benevolence of her
heart, discourses.

Nor does the story, to our dispassionate apprehension, appear
“beautifully developed.” It runs thus:—Amir Khan, Subahdar of
Cachemere, weds a Circassian slave who, cold as a statue and as
obstinately silent, refuses to return his love. The Subahdar applies to
a magician, who gives him

                        a pensive flower
    Gathered at midnight’s magic hour;

the effect of whose perfume renders him apparently lifeless while still
in possession of all his senses. Amreeta, the slave, supposing her lover
dead, gives way to clamorous grief, and reveals the secret love which
she has long borne her lord, but refused to divulge because a slave.
Amir Khan hereupon revives, and all trouble is at an end.

Of course, no one at all read in Eastern fable will be willing to give
Miss Davidson credit for _originality_ in the conception of this little
story; and if she have claim to merit at all, as regards it, that claim
must be founded upon the manner of narration. But it will be at once
evident that the most naked outline alone can be given in the compass of
four hundred and forty lines. The tale is, in sober fact, told very much
as any young person might be expected to tell it. The strength of the
narrator is wholly laid out upon a description of moonlight (in the
usual style) with which the poem commences—upon a second description of
moonlight (in precisely the same manner) with which a second division
commences—and in a third description of the hall in which the entranced
Subahdar reposes. This is all—absolutely all; or at least the rest has
the nakedness of mere catalogue. We recognize, throughout, the poetic
sentiment, but little—very little—of poetic _power_. We see occasional
gleams of imagination: for example—

    And every crystal cloud of Heaven
    Bowed as it passed the queen of even.

    Amreeta was cold as the marble floor
    That glistens beneath the nightly shower.

    At that calm hour when Peris love
    To gaze upon the Heaven above,
    Whose portals bright with many a gem
    Are closed—forever closed _on them_.

    The Subahdar with noiseless step
    Rushed like the night-breeze o’er the deep.

We look in vain for another instance worth quoting. But were the fancy
seen in these examples observable either in the general conduct or in
the incidents of the narrative, we should not feel obliged to disagree
so unequivocally with that opinion which pronounces this clever little
production “_one which would not have done discredit to our most popular
poets in the meridian of their fame_!”

“As the work of a girl of sixteen,” most assuredly we _do not_ think it
“_prodigious_.” In regard to it we may repeat what we said of
“Lenore,”—that we have seen finer poems in every respect, written by
children of more immature age. It is a creditable composition; nothing
beyond this. And, in so saying, we shall startle none but the brainless,
and the adopters of ready-made ideas. We are convinced that we express
the unuttered sentiment of every educated individual who has read the
poem. Nor, having given the plain facts of the case, do we feel called
upon to proffer any apology for our flat refusal to play ditto either to
Miss Sedgwick, to Mr. Irving, or to Mr. Southey.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _The Seaman’s Friend; Containing a Treatise on Practical
    Seamanship, with Plates; A Dictionary of Sea Terms; Customs and
    Usages of the Merchant Service; Laws Relating to the Practical
    Duties of Masters and Mariners. By_ R. H. Dana, Jr. _Author of
    “Two Years Before the Mast.” Little and Brown: Boston. Carey and
    Hart: Philadelphia._

The publishers of this neat little volume have very prudently
stereotyped it; anticipating an extensive and continuous demand. In
truth, the work belongs to the class of the obviously needful, and its
circulation and appreciation are matters of certainty. Ever since men
“went down to the sea in ships,” there has been a difficulty in
procuring exact, compact, and universally intelligible information on
the very topics which Mr. Dana now discusses. The necessary knowledge
was to be gleaned, imperfectly and superficially, from amid a mass of
technical jargon, diffused over a world of questionable authority. Books
on Seamanship are extant, to be sure—works of the highest scientific
merit and ability—and the writings of Captain Basil Hall give,
incidentally, a vast fund of intelligence on naval subjects; but the
true _desideratum_ was a work which could only be written by an
individual placed exactly in the circumstances which surrounded Mr.
Dana. It is well known that he is a man of talent and well educated;
that ill-health induced him to try a sea-voyage in the capacity of
common sailor; and that thus he has been enabled to combine the
advantages of theoretical and practical science. His “Two Years Before
the Mast” was, very deservedly, one of the most popular books ever
published, and proved immensely profitable—at least to his booksellers.
It gave, in a rich strain of philosophical observation, all the racy
_spirit_, as the present volume conveys all the exact _letter_ of the
sea.

There is only one improvement which we could wish to suggest. An
appendix, we think, should be added; embracing, first, in as popular,
that is to say, in as untechnical a form as possible, the philosophy of
latitude and longitude—the general principles of which may be rendered
intelligible to almost any understanding—and, secondly, the formulæ
employed in the application of these principles to navigation, with
concise rules for the use of the sextant and chronometer, and for solar,
lunar, and stellar observations.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _The Miser, or the Convicts of Lisnamona. By_ William Carleton,
    _Author of “Traits and Stories of the Irish Peasantry.” Two
    Volumes. Carey and Hart: Philadelphia._

This story originally appeared in the “Dublin University Magazine,”
under the title of “Fardorougha, or The Miser.” It was much copied and
admired, and has all the _Irish_ merit for which its author is so
famous.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Fragments From German Prose Writers. Translated by_ Sarah
    Austin. _With Biographical Sketches of the Authors. D. Appleton
    and Company. New York._

This is a book about which little can be said, except in the way of
general and pointed commendation. Its title fully explains its
character; although the fair authoress is at the trouble of enlarging
upon the nature of the fragmentary contents. These _scraps_ embody
specimens of every variety of the prose literature of Germany—convey,
_in petto_, its whole soul. The lives of the authors are invaluable. The
volume is, in point of mechanical appearance, one of the most beautiful
ever issued, even by the Appletons.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Confession; Or the Blind Heart. A Domestic Story. By the Author
    of “The Kinsmen,” “The Yemassee,” “Guy Rivers,” etc. Two
    Volumes. Lea and Blanchard: Philadelphia._

In general, Mr. Simms should be considered as one giving _indication_,
rather than _proof_ of high genius. He puts us in mind of a volcano,
from the very darkness issuing from whose crater we judge of the fire
that is weltering below. So far, with slight exceptions, he has buried
his fine talent in his themes. He should never have written “The
Partisan,” nor “The Yemassee,” nor his late book (whose title we just
now forget) about the first discovery of the Pacific. His genius does
not lie in the outward so much as in the inner world. “Martin Faber” did
him honor; and so do the present volumes, although liable to objection
in some important respects. We welcome him home to his own proper field
of exertion—the field of Godwin and Brown—the field of his own rich
intellect and glowing _heart_. Upon reading the first few pages of
“Confession,” the stirring words of Scott arose to our lips—“My foot is
on my native heath, and my name is McGregor.”

It is our design to speak in full of the volumes before us; but we have
left ourselves no space for the task, and must defer it, perforce, until
the new year.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Cecil; Or The Adventures of a Coxcomb. A Novel. Two Volumes.
    Lea and Blanchard: Philadelphia._

This work is an obvious but very spirited and excellent imitation of the
Pelhams and Vivian Greys. It abounds, even more than either of these
works, in point, pungency and vivacity, but falls below them in true
wit, and in other higher qualities. Altogether, it is richly
entertaining, and will meet with success. The theme is a good one well
managed.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                            SECRET WRITING.


The annexed letter from a gentleman whose abilities we very highly
respect, was received, unfortunately, at too late a period to appear in
our November number:

     Dear sir:

    I should perhaps apologise for again intruding a subject upon
    which you have so ably commented, and which may be supposed by
    this time to have been almost exhausted; but as I have been
    greatly interested in the articles upon “cryptography,” which
    have appeared in your Magazine, I think that you will excuse the
    present intrusion of a few remarks. With secret writing I have
    been practically conversant for several years, and I have found,
    both in correspondence and in the preservation of private
    memoranda, the frequent benefit of its peculiar virtues. I have
    thus a record of thoughts, feelings and occurrences,—a history
    of my _mental_ existence, to which I may turn, and in
    imagination, retrace former pleasures, and again live through
    by-gone scenes,—secure in the conviction that the magic scroll
    has a tale for _my_ eye alone. Who has not longed for such a
    confidante?

    Cryptography is, indeed, not only a topic of mere curiosity, but
    is of general interest, as furnishing an excellent exercise for
    mental discipline, and of high _practical_ importance on various
    occasions;—to the statesman and the general—to the scholar and
    the traveller,—and, may I not add “last though not least,” to
    the _lover_? What can be so delightful amid the trials of absent
    lovers, as a secret intercourse between them of their hopes and
    fears,—safe from the prying eyes of some old aunt, or it may
    be, of a perverse and _cruel_ guardian?—a _billet doux_ that
    will not betray its mission, even if intercepted, and that can
    “tell no tales” if lost, or, (which _sometimes_ occurs,) if
    _stolen_ from its violated depository.

    In the solution of the various ciphers which have been submitted
    to your examination, you have exhibited a power of analytical
    and synthetical reasoning I have never seen equalled; and the
    astonishing skill you have displayed,—particularly in
    deciphering the cryptograph of Dr. Charles J. Frailey, will, I
    think, crown you the king of “secret-readers.” But
    notwithstanding this, I think your opinion that the construction
    of a _real cryptograph_ is impossible, not sufficiently
    supported. Those examples which you have published have indeed
    not been of that character, as you have fully proved. They have,
    moreover, not been sufficiently accurate, for where the key was
    a phrase, (and consequently the same character was employed for
    several letters,) different words would be formed with the same
    ciphers. The sense could then only be ascertained from the
    context, and this would amount to a probability—generally of a
    high degree, I admit—but still not to a positive certainly.
    Nay, a case might readily be imagined, where the most important
    word of the communication, and one on which the sense of the
    whole depended, should have so equivocal a nature, that the
    person for whose benefit it was intended, would be unable, even
    with the aid of his key, to discover which of two very different
    interpretations should be the correct one. If necessary, this
    can easily be shown; thus, for example, suppose a lady should
    receive from her affianced, a letter written in ciphers,
    containing this sentence, “4 5663 967 268 26 3633,” and that _a_
    and _n_ were represented by the figure 2,—_e_, _m_, and _r_ by
    3,—_i_ by 4,—_l_ by 5,—_o_, _s_, and _v_ by 6,—_u_ by
    7,—_w_ by 8,—and _y_ by 9; a moment’s inspection will show
    that the sentence might either be “I love you now as ever,” or
    “I love you now _no more_.” How “positively shocking,” “to say
    the least of it;” and yet several of the ciphers that you have
    published, have required a greater number of letters to be
    represented by one character, than any to be found in the
    example before us. It is evident, then, that this is not a very
    desirable system, as it would scarcely be more useful than a
    lock without its key, or with one that did not fit its wards.

    I think, however, that there are various methods by which a
    hieroglyphic might be formed, whose meaning would be perfectly
    “hidden;” and I shall give one or two examples of what I
    consider such. A method which I have adopted for my own private
    use, is one which I am satisfied is of this nature, as it cannot
    possibly be solved without the assistance of its key, and that
    key, by which _alone_ it can be unlocked, exists only in my
    mind; at the same time it is so simple, that with the practice
    in it which I have had, I now read it, and write it, with as
    much facility as I can the English character. As I prefer not
    giving it here, I shall be compelled to have recourse to some
    other plan that is more complicated. By a CRYPTOGRAPH, I
    understand—a communication which, though _clearly_ ascertained
    by means of its proper key, cannot possibly be without it. To
    most persons, who have not thought much upon the subject, an
    article written in simple cipher, (by which I mean with each
    letter uniformly represented by a single distinct character,)
    would appear to be an impenetrable mystery; and they would
    doubtless imagine that the more complicated the method of
    constructing such a cipher, the more _insoluble_—to use a
    chemical expression—would be the puzzle, since so much less
    would be the chance of discovering its key. This very natural
    conclusion is, however, erroneous, as it is founded on the
    supposition that possession must first be obtained of the key,
    in order to unravel the difficulty,—which is not the case. The
    process of reasoning employed in resolving “secret writing” has
    not the slightest relation to the form or description of the
    characters used, but refers simply to their succession, and to a
    comparison of words in which the same letters occur. By these
    means any cipher of this nature can be unriddled, as experience
    has fully shown. A very successful method of avoiding detection,
    would be to apply the simple cipher to words written backwards
    and continuously. This, I conceive, might be called a perfect
    cryptograph, since from the want of spaces, and consequently the
    impossibility of comparing words, it would utterly perplex the
    person attempting to discover its hidden import, and yet with
    the help of the key, each letter being known, the words could
    easily be separated and inverted. I give a short specimen of
    this style, and would feel much gratified with your opinion of
    the possibility of reading it.

    [Illustration: a cryptograph]

    Should this not be considered _perfect_, (though I suspect it
    would puzzle even the ingenious editor to detect its meaning,) I
    shall give another method below, which I can show _must_ be, and
    if I am successful I think you will do me the justice to admit
    that “human ingenuity” has contrived “a cipher which human
    ingenuity cannot resolve.” I wish to be distinctly understood;
    the secret communication above, and the one following, are not
    intended to show that you have promised more than you can
    perform. I do not take up the gauntlet. Your challenge, I am
    happy to testify, has been more than amply redeemed. It is
    merely with an incidental remark of yours, that I am at present
    engaged, and my object is to show that however correct it may be
    generally,—it is not so universally.

    Agreeably to a part of my foregoing definition, _that_ cannot be
    a proper cryptograph, in which a single character is made to
    represent more than one letter. Let us for a moment see what
    would be the result if this was reversed,—that is, if more than
    one cipher were used for a single letter. In case each letter
    were represented by two different characters, (used alternately
    or at random,) it is evident that while the certainty of reading
    such a composition correctly, by help of the key, would not be
    at all diminished, the difficulty of its solution without that
    help, would be vastly increased. This then is an approach to the
    formation of a secret cipher. If, now, the number of the
    characters were extended to three or four for each letter, it
    might be pronounced with tolerable certainty that such a writing
    would be “secret.” Or, to take an extreme case, a communication
    might be made, in which no two characters would be alike! Here
    all reasoning would be entirely baffled, as there would
    evidently be no objects of _comparison_; and even if half a
    dozen words were known, they would furnish no clue to the rest.
    Here, then, is a complete _non plus_ to investigation, and we
    have arrived at a perfect cryptograph. For, since any given
    cipher would stand for but one letter in the key, there could be
    but a single and definite solution; and thus both conditions of
    my definition are fully satisfied. In the following specimen of
    this method, I have employed the Roman-capital, small letter,
    and small capital, with their several inversions, giving me the
    command of 130 characters, or an average of five to each letter.
    This is to “make assurance doubly sure,” for I am satisfied that
    were an average of three characters used for each letter, such a
    writing would be emphatically secret. If you will be so kind as
    to give my cipher a place in your interesting Magazine, I will
    immediately forward you its key. Hoping that you will not be
    displeased with my tedious letter,

                                    I am most respectfully yours.
                                                       W. B. TYLER.

    To Edgar A. Poe, Esq.

[Illustration: a cryptograph]

The difficulty attending the cipher by key-phrase, viz: that the same
characters may convey various meanings—is a difficulty upon which we
commented in our first article upon this topic, and more lately at
greater length in a private letter to our friend F. W. Thomas. The
key-phrase cryptograph is, in fact, altogether inadmissible. The labor
requisite for its elucidation, _even with the key_, would, alone, render
it so. Lord Bacon very properly defines three _essentials_ in secret
correspondence. It is required, first, that the cipher be such as to
elude suspicion of being a cipher; secondly, that its alphabet be so
simple of formation as to demand but little time in the construction of
an epistle; thirdly, that it shall be absolutely insoluble without the
key—we may add, fourthly, that, with the key, it be promptly and
_certainly_ decipherable.

Admitting, now, that the ingenious cryptograph proposed by our
correspondent be absolutely what he supposes it, impenetrable, it would
still, we think, be inadmissible on the first point above stated, and
more so on the second. But of its impenetrability we are by no means
sure, notwithstanding what, at a cursory glance, appears to be the
_demonstration_ of the writer. In the key-phrase cipher an arbitrary
character is sometimes made to represent five, six, seven, or even more
letters. Our correspondent proposes merely to reverse the
operation:—and this simple statement of the case will do more towards
convincing him of his error than an elaborate argument, for which we
would neither have time, nor our readers patience. In a key-phrase
cryptograph, equally as in his own, each discovery is _independent_, not
_necessarily_ affording any clue to farther discovery. Neither is the
idea of our friend, although highly ingenious, philosophical, and
unquestionably original with him, (since he so assures us,) original _in
itself_. It is one of the many systems tried by Dr. Wallis and found
wanting. Perhaps no good cipher was _ever_ invented which its originator
did not conceive insoluble; yet, so far, no impenetrable cryptograph has
been discovered. Our correspondent will be the less startled at this,
our assertion, when he bears in mind that he who has been termed the
“wisest of mankind”—we mean Lord Verulam—was as confident of the
absolute insolubility of his own mode as our present cryptographist is
of his. What he said upon the subject in his _De Augmentis_ was, at the
day of its publication, considered unanswerable. Yet his cipher has been
repeatedly unriddled. We may say, in addition, that the nearest approach
to perfection in this matter, is the _chiffre quarré_ of the French
Academy. This consists of a table somewhat in the form of our ordinary
multiplication tables, from which the secret to be conveyed is so
written that no letter is ever represented twice by the same character.
Out of a thousand individuals nine hundred and ninety-nine would at once
pronounce this mode inscrutable. It is yet susceptible, under peculiar
circumstances, of prompt and certain solution.

Mr. T. will have still less confidence in his hastily adopted opinions
on this topic when we assure him, from personal experience, that what he
says in regard to writing backwards and continuously without intervals
between the words—is all wrong. So far from “utterly perplexing the
decipherer,” it gives him no difficulty, legitimately so called—merely
taxing to some extent his patience. We refer him to the files of
“Alexander’s Weekly Messenger” for 1839—where he will see that we read
numerous ciphers of the class described, even when very ingenious
_additional_ difficulties were interposed. We say, in brief, that we
should have little trouble in reading the one now proposed.

“Here,” says our friend, referring to another point, “all reasoning
would be entirely baffled, as there would evidently be no objects of
_comparison_.” This sentence assures us that he is laboring under much
error in his conception of cipher-solutions. _Comparison_ is a vast
_aid_ unquestionably; but not an absolute _essential_ in the elucidation
of these mysteries.

We need not say, however, that this subject is an excessively wide one.
Our friend will forgive us for not entering into details which would
lead us—God knows whither. The ratiocination actually passing through
the mind in the solution of even a simple cryptograph, if detailed step
by step, would fill a large volume. Our time is much occupied; and
notwithstanding the limits originally placed to our cartel, we have
found ourselves overwhelmed with communications on this subject; and
must close it, perforce—deeply interesting as we find it. To this
resolution we had arrived last month; but the calm and truly ingenious
reasoning of our correspondent has induced us to say these few words
more. We print his cipher—with no promise to attempt its solution
ourselves—much as we feel inclined to make the promise—and to keep it.
Some of our hundred thousand readers will, no doubt, take up the
gauntlet thrown down; and our pages shall be open for any communication
on the subject, which shall not tax our own abilities or time.

                 *        *        *        *        *

In speaking of our hundred thousand readers (and we can scarcely suppose
the number to be less), we are reminded that of this vast number, one
and only one has succeeded in solving the cryptograph of Dr. Frailey.
The honor of the solution, is however, due to Mr. Richard Bolton, of
Pontotoc, Mississippi. His letter did not reach us until three weeks
after the completion of our November number, in which we should,
otherwise, have acknowledged it.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                           THE CLOSING YEAR.


Perhaps the editors of no magazine, either in America or Europe, ever
sat down, at the close of a year, to contemplate the progress of their
work with more satisfaction than we do now. Our success has been
unexampled, almost incredible. We may assert without fear of
contradiction that no periodical ever witnessed the same increase during
so short a period. We began the year almost unknown; certainly far
behind our cotemporaries in numbers; we close it with a list of
twenty-five thousand subscribers, and the assurance on every hand that
our popularity has as yet seen only its dawning. But if such is the
orient, what will our noonday be? Nor, if we may for once play the
egotist, is this success wholly undeserved. Everything that talent,
taste, capital, or energy could do for “Graham’s Magazine” has been
done, and that too without stint. The best typography, the choicest
engravers, the finest writers, the most finished artists, and the utmost
punctuality in our business department, have lent their aid to forward
our enterprise; and what neither could have done singly, all combined
have effected. Nothing has been spared. The splendor of our
embellishments has never been equalled: the variety and richness of our
literary matter are not to be surpassed. We not only present a choicer
list of contributors than any other magazine in the country, but we
rejoice in more than one writer whom we alone have been able to tempt
from their retreats, and who cannot be induced to contribute to any
cotemporary. We have secured the exclusive services of Sartain, and have
made a permanent engagement with Sadd. Our Fashion Plates have become
the standards in that department, and the line engravings we have
furnished have been universally cited as superior to those of the
richest Annuals. In literary rank we are assigned the first place of our
class, and our criticisms on books are deferred to as the best in the
country. We may speak thus boldly, because, although we may be only Snug
the Joiner, yet whenever we roar as now, it is in the character of the
lion. Reviewing, therefore, our past success, and taking it—and why
not?—as an earnest for the future, we can afford, we opine, to sip our
cup of choice Mocha at ease, and if not to “shoulder our crutch,” at
least to “tell how fields were won.”

We shall begin the new year determined to surpass even what we have
done. As we have introduced a new era into magazine history we shall not
pause until the revolution is complete. We shall not follow the
namby-pamby style of periodical literature, but aim at a loftier and
more extended flight. For this purpose we shall increase the amount of
our reading matter, although, at the same time, our embellishments shall
even be superior in beauty to what they are at present. We have made
arrangements by which the graceful pens of two lady-editors will be
added to our strength. Our editorial list will then be as follows:

                            Geo. R. Graham,
                           Chas. J. Peterson,
                           Mrs. E. C. Embury,
                          Mrs. A. S. Stephens,
                             Edgar A. Poe.

Our Prospectus will show the number of American writers, in addition to
the editors, enlisted in the work. With such a _corps_ we may make any
promises.

To ensure a supply of the best original engravings we have, in addition
to Messrs. Sartain and Sadd, procured the aid of Messrs. Rawdon, Wright,
Hatch and Smillie, and Mr. Dick,—all well known for the elegance of
their work. Our chief illustrations shall, however, be as heretofore,
mezzotinto engravings,—they being decidedly the most effective,
elegant, rare, and desirable. This field we shall enjoy without even an
attempt at serious competition, it being impossible for any other like
magazine to bring out the same or equal talent in this way.

And now, as the play is over and we have spoken the epilogue, we will
draw the curtain with a single wish: “a happy new year, and many of
them, to our subscribers.”

                 *        *        *        *        *

Transcriber’s Notes:

Table of Contents has been added for reader convenience. Archaic
spellings and hyphenation have been retained. Obvious punctuation and
typesetting errors have been corrected without note. Other errors have
been corrected as noted below. For the text only version of this eBook,
in the article “A Chapter on Autograpy”, the various signatures which
were given in other formats as an illustration, are represented in the
text version as text with variable spacing and punctuation representing
the way in which the particular signature is handwritten.

page 259, remark of the gentleman ==> remark of the gentlewoman

[End of _Graham’s Magazine, Vol. XIX, No. 6, December 1841_, George R.
Graham, Editor]

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 65235 ***