CHAPTER III.

It was quite dark before Captain Dunbar reached the cottage of Frederick

Sabb, and he did so in no good humor. Disappointed of his prey, he now

suspected the simple _ruse_ by which he had been deluded, and his first

salutation of Frederica Sabb, as he entered the cottage was in no

friendly humor.

“There are certain birds,” said he, “Miss Sabb, who fly far from their

young ones at the approach of the hunter, yet make such a fuss and

outcry, as if the nest were close at hand, and in danger. I see you have

learned to practice after their lessons.”

The girl involuntarily replied, “But, indeed, Captain Dunbar, I heard

the horse go below.”

“I see you understand me,” was the answer. “I feel assured that you told

me only the truth, but you had first put me in the humor not to believe

it. Another time I shall know how to understand _you_.”

Frederica smiled, but did not seek to excuse herself, proceeding all the

while to the preparations for supper. This had been got in readiness

especially for the arrival of Dunbar and his party. He, with Clymes, his

first officer, had become inmates of the dwelling; but his troopers had

encamped without, under instructions of particular vigilance. Meanwhile,

supper proceeded, Sabb and his _vrow_ being very heedful of all the

expressed or conjectured wants of their arbitrary guests. It was while

the repast was in progress that Dunbar fancied that he beheld a

considerable degree of uneasiness in the manner and countenance of

Frederica. She ate nothing, and her mind and eyes seemed equally to

wander. He suddenly addressed her, and she started as from a dream, at

the sound of her own name, and answered confusedly.

“Something’s going wrong,” said Dunbar, in a whisper to Clymes; “we can

put all right, however, if we try.”

A significant look accompanied the whisper, and made the second officer

observant. When supper was concluded, the captain of the loyalists

showed signs of great weariness. He yawned and stretched himself

amazingly, and without much regard to propriety. A like weariness soon

after exhibited itself in the second officer. At length Dunbar said to

Old Sabb, using a style of address to which the old man was familiar,

“Well, Uncle Fred, whenever my bed’s ready, say the word. I’m monstrous

like sleep. I’ve ridden a matter of fifty miles to-day. In the saddle

since four o’clock—and a hard saddle at that. I’m for sleep after

supper.”

The old man, anxious to please his guest, whom he now began rather to

fear than favor, gave him soon the intimation which he desired, and he

was conducted to the small chamber, in a shed-room adjoining the main

hall, which had been assigned him on all previous occasions. Old Sabb

himself attended his guest, while Lieutenant Clymes remained, for a

while longer, the companion of the old lady and her daughter. Dunbar

soon released his host from further attendance by closing the door upon

him, after bowing him out with thanks. He had scarcely done so, before

he approached one of the two windows in the chamber. He knew the secrets

of the room, and his plan of operations had been already determined

upon. Concealing his light, so that his shadow might not appear against

the window, he quietly unclosed the shutter so as to fix no attention by

the sound. A great fig-tree grew near it, the branches in some degree

preventing the shutter from going quite back against the wall. This

afforded him additional cover to his proceedings, and he cautiously

passed through the opening, and lightly descended to the ground. The

height was inconsiderable, and he was enabled, with a small stick, to

close the window after him. In another moment he passed _under_ the

house, which stood on logs four or five feet high, after the manner of

the country, and took a crouching attitude immediately behind the steps

in the rear of the building. From these steps to the kitchen was an

interval of fifteen or eighteen yards, while the barn and other

outhouses lay at convenient distances beyond. Shade trees were scattered

about, and fruit trees, chiefly peach, rendering the space between

something like a covered way. We need not inquire how long our captain

of loyalists continued his watch in this unpleasant position. Patience,

however, is quite as natural as necessary a quality to a temper at once

passionate and vindictive. While he waited here, his lieutenant had left

the house, scattered his men privily about the grounds, and had himself

stolen to a perch which enabled him to command the front entrance to the

cottage. The only two means of egress were thus effectually guarded.

In a little time the household was completely quiet. Dunbar had heard

the mutterings, from above, of the family prayers, in which it was no

part of his profession to partake; and had heard the footsteps of the

old couple as they passed through the passage-way to the chamber

opposite the dining hall. A chamber adjoining theirs was occupied by

Frederica Sabb; but he listened in vain for her footsteps in that

quarter. His watch was one calculated to try his patience, but it was

finally rewarded. He heard the movement of a light foot over head, and

soon the door opened in the rear of the dwelling, and he distinguished

Frederica as she descended, step by step, to the ground. She paused,

looked up and around her, and then, darting from tree to tree, she made

her way to the kitchen, which opened at her touch. Here, in a whisper,

she summoned to her side a negro, an old African, whom we may, at the

same time, mention, had been her frequent emissary before, on missions

such as she now designed. Brough, as he was called, was a faithful Ebo,

who loved his young mistress, and had shown himself particularly

friendly to her _affaires de cœur_. She put a paper into his hands, and

her directions employed few words.

“Brough, you must set off for Massa Richard, and give him this. You must

creep close, or the soldiers will catch you. I don’t know where they’ve

gone, but no doubt they’re scattered in the woods. I have told him, in

this paper, not to come, as he promised; but should you lose the

paper—”

“I no guine loss ’em,” said Brough, seemingly rather displeased at the

doubt, tacitly conveyed, of his carefulness.

“Such a thing might happen, Brough; nay, if you were to see any of the

tories, you ought to destroy it. Hide it, tear it up, or swallow it, so

that they won’t be able to read it.”

“I yerry, misses.”

“Very good! And now, when you see Massa Richard, tell him not to come.

Tell him better go farther off, across the fork, and across the other

river; for that Mat Dunbar means to push after him to-morrow, and has

sworn to hunt him up before he stops. Tell him, I beg him, for my sake,

though he may not be afraid of that bad man, to keep out of his way, at

least until he gathers men enough to meet him on his own ground.”

The startling voice of Dunbar himself broke in upon the whispered

conference. “Mat Dunbar is exceedingly obliged to you, Miss Sabb.”

“Ah!” shrieked the damsel—“Brough—fly, fly, Brough.” But Brough had no

chance for flight.

“His wings are not sufficiently grown,” cried the loyalist, with a

brutal yell, as he grappled the old negro by the throat, and hurled him

to the ground. In the next moment he possessed himself of the paper,

which he read with evident disappointment. By this time the sound of his

bugle had summoned his lieutenant, with half a dozen of his followers,

and the kitchen was completely surrounded.

“Miss Sabb, you had best retire to the dwelling. I owe you no favors,

and will remember your avowed opinion, this night, for Mat Dunbar. You

have spoken. It will be for me yet to speak. Lieutenant Clymes, see the

young lady home.”

“But, sir, you will not maltreat the negro?”

“Oh! no! I mean only that he shall obey your commands. He shall carry

this note to your favorite, just as you designed, with this difference

only, that I shall furnish him with an escort.”

“Ah!”

Poor Frederica could say no more. Clymes was about to hurry her away,

when a sense of her lover’s danger gave her strength.

“Brough;” she cried to the negro; “you won’t show where Massa Richard

keeps?”

“Never show the tories not’ing, missis.”

The close gripe of Dunbar’s finger upon the throat of the negro, stifled

his further speech. But Frederica was permitted to see no more. The hand

of Clymes was laid upon her arm, and she went forward promptly to save

herself from indignity. She little knew the scene that was to follow.

[_To be continued._

* * * * *

THE SPIRIT LOVERS

AND THE SPIRIT BRIDAL.

BY MISS L. VIRGINIA SMITH.

The twilight deepened—and its dusky shades

Crept through the crimson of the sunset clouds,

To nestle darkly where some shining star

Looped up the gorgeous foldings, as they hung

Like Eden-banners, waving far around

The purple arches of a southern sky.

From the deep forest aisles came up the wind,

Low singing in its wand’ring, with the voice

Of softly chanting waves, and whisp’ring leaves.

The silver moon came floating from the east,

Like a young angel sleeping on the wing,

Whose dream-smile glittered o’er the dewy earth,

And trembling through an open casement, kissed

A brow of maiden beauty slumbering there.

The velvet drapery of her couch was tossed

In crimson waves around her, and above

Fell snowy veilings, bending like a wreath

Of silvery vapor o’er a rosy sea;

Carelessly graceful in her sweet repose,

She rested like a lily on the stream,

When drooping gently ’neath its own perfume.

The dew of early youth was gleaming yet

Upon her pure heart-blossoms, and the first

Faint blush of love within her spirit, wrought

Rich blazonry upon their mystic leaves.

In slumber, through her softly rounded limbs

A radiant soul in bright expression stole,

Like glimpses of the evening star amid

The pure white veiling of a pearly cloud.

She watched the sunlight fade upon the hills,

And star-flames kindle in the dusky sky—

But now she rested in the land of dreams,

To wait the coming of her Spirit-Love.

He came—a vision whose bewildering eyes

Seemed light ineffable in midnight skies—

While plumes of waving frost-work, dashed with flakes

Of golden sunbeams, glittered ’mid the folds

Of woven radiance floating round his form,

Snow-flake and fire-drop wreathing into life,

His gorgeous pinion shadowed o’er his Bride,

His breath upon her cheek—his lightning glance

Stole through the visions of her dreaming soul,

As when the passion of the dying sun

Glows o’er the bosom of a sleeping cloud,

Till love’s wild worship wakes returning flame,

And each in burning blushes dies away!

As a fair volume, and a golden lyre,

Wreathed by the tendrils of an opening rose,

Her Mind, and Soul, and fresh expanding Heart,

Lay bright before his spirit-searching ken,

As one by one he softly laid aside

The crimson petals of that folded heart,

To drink the honied fragrance of its love,

The rose-bud thrilled and trembled into bloom,

Its breeze his sigh—its sun his burning glance—

Its dew-drop life his kisses wild and warm.

He lingered o’er the pure, unsullied leaves

Of Mind’s mysterious volume, and there came,

Where’er he breathed upon the virgin page,

Bright gems of glowing fancy, and deep thought,

As magic characters come stealing forth

In loveliness before the breath of flame!

His being brightened with a God-like smile,

As, closely blended with each pictured thought,

_His_ image, flashing into glorious life,

Smiled back upon him from the glowing page

So truthfully—then with the soft excess

Of dreamy rapture ’wildered, fainting bowed,

And blessed the sweet love-mirror, silently.

Her soul in beauty, an Æolian lyre,

Gleamed forth before him, where the voice of Song

Slept like its spirit in a singing shell.

His light caressing pinion swept its chords,

And Joy’s bird-carol—Hope’s aerial tone—

Pride’s sounding anthem—and the pæan wild

Of young Ambition rolled in glory forth.

He breathed upon it—and anon there swelled

(As tears will gush from rapture-laden hearts)

Her pure religion’s diapason deep;—

Sweet under-tones of dreamy melancholy—

And chords of feeling that erewhile had slept

In voiceless music, and o’er all the theme

An ever-changing, ever-sounding tone,

Was deep, immaculate, immortal _Love_!

THE SPIRIT-BRIDAL.

The Night had closed her eye of softest blue,

And, like a wearied infant, sank to rest

On Nature’s gentle bosom—Silence, pale,

With a white finger on her marble lip,

From which no lightest whisper ever came,

Was bending o’er the dim and murmured death

Of every sound—and even Echo dreamed,

As though a spirit’s wand had charmed her there

To slumber deep as that Creation held

When Night was in the heavens!

Still as the moonlight quivered through the vines

That overhung the casement, it revealed

The rosy couch, beneath its silvery veil,

As by its side the maiden knelt to pray.

Oh! if there be on earth one blessing left—

One leaf from out our faded Paradise—

One ray of glory from the heaven we lost—

It is, that we may pray for those we love!

Without it _man_ may live—his nature knows

No soft dependence—panoplied in self,

His haughty heart may burn to dash aside

The hand that formed it—and he may defy

The love that made him what he is—a god!

But _woman_ never—for her ivy soul

Must have an oak to cling to; proud and high

Its crest may be, or ruined, lightning-scathed,

It matters not—and for it she must pray!

Prayer is her nature’s pure necessity,

To calm the sorrow that with lava streams,

Pours its bewildering torrent o’er the soul,

And when she feels it crushing darkly through

A bosom all too soft to stem its tide

Of bitter, burning waters—then, for power

To “suffer and be still,” that bosom prays.

And oh! when human love has taught her heart

To dream of _one_ and _Heaven_, how pants her soul

To pour that gushing feeling freely forth,

In all its truth and deep intensity, before

The “God of love” who gave it!

’Twas for this

The gentle maiden meekly knelt to God

Till each pure love-beam from her violet eye

Seemed melting into passion’s orison.

Warm feeling folded up its starry plumes

To bow before the altar-shrine of faith,

And holy hopes looked from the golden shades

That lay upon her soul, as angels bend

O’er the bright foldings of the summer clouds,

To woo us to the sky, from whence they come.

Her eye grew dreamy, and her bosom heaved,

As though within its cell some pleasant thought

Were singing, and it rose and fell upon

The waves of that delicious melody.

Her loosened hair swept o’er the sacred page,

And, as her soul went forth in whispers low,

It stirred the shadows with the breath of prayer.

She oped the holy book, and as her lip

Trembled upon the words, they sank within

Her woman’s nature as the snow-flake falls

And melts away into the earth’s warm bosom.

Time, as he wandered by, had sighed the hour

Of “twelve,” and for a moment midnight’s hush

Grew tremulous, and echo as it fell,

Swept o’er the tension of her listening ear

Softly and thrillingly, and like to Love’s

First breathings o’er an unawakened heart.

Her voice grew fainter, as a music-vow

Stole sweetly in the cadence of her own—

She felt the glory of an angel-wing

Around her waving, and she knew the hour—

Her Spirit-Lover claimed his Spirit-Bride!

With pinions intertwining, arms enwreathed

And fervid glances bathed in passion’s dream,

They swept along the cloud-land pathway, where

The constellations, from their silver urns,

Poured incense light far down the “Milky-Way,”

And o’er its misty pavement Cynthia flung

A thousand rainbows, like the wreathed bloom

Of bridal blossoms. Still they floated on,

Far through the starry armaments that sweep

In endless circle round the battlements

Of Paradise—an everlasting guard

High flaming round the Infinite;—at length,

Within the presence-chamber of the Blest,

They knelt before the Great Unchangeable,

Whose love and mercy whispered audibly,

“_Forever be ye one—as God is One!_”

* * * * *

STORIES FROM THE OLD DRAMATISTS.

NO. 1.—MASSINGER’S GREAT DUKE OF FLORENCE.

BY ENNA DUVAL.

“I cannot pretend in these succinct narrations to have rivaled

Charles Lamb and his excellent sister in the art of turning

drama into narrative. The “Shakspeare Tales” is an unique book,

the beauty of which all can perceive who are worth pleasing; but

few who have not tried the like, can appreciate the difficulty,

the matchless skill of its execution.”

Hartley Coleridge.

Cozimo, duke of Florence, a noble and virtuous prince had the misfortune

to lose, by death, his duchess, Clarinda, a lady of such rare and

matchless virtues, that, as he said, the whole world could not produce

one worthy to be her second. In her grave he buried all thoughts of

woman.

His courtiers, and ministers of state, repeatedly urged him to a second

marriage, for they feared that after his death, he being childless,

distraction might breed in the state, and cause the downfall of his

noble house. Residing at the court was a beautiful and wealthy orphan,

Fiorinda, duchess of Urbin, the ward of Cozimo, and she was the one that

his counsellors desired him to wed. Kindly, but sadly, he always waived

aside their counsel, telling them, that the lovely Fiorinda should have

a more fitting mate, and that as regarded the welfare of the state, his

princely care would provide one worthy to succeed him.

This “worthy successor,” was his nephew Giovanni, his sister’s son, an

orphan, dependent on his bounty. This youth he loved for his dear

sister’s sake, and he spared no pains or trouble to render him worthy of

his future high position. The more to further this, Cozimo placed

Giovanni under the sole charge of a noble, and highly educated

Florentine gentleman, Carolo Charomonte by name, who lived retired on an

estate five hours distance from Florence. This gentleman discharged, to

the utmost of his power, the duty the duke committed to him, and by

means of his rare experience, using great care, he trained the young

Giovanni up in all those arts, peculiar and proper to future greatness;

therefore it was no wonder, but rather a necessity, that when this young

prince had grown to be a man, he should make good the princely education

he had derived from his accomplished tutor.

His uncle had studiously kept him away from court, during the perilous

season of youth; but as the young Giovanni approached manhood, he gave

such great promise of ability, that Cozimo could no longer withstand his

tender desire for his company. Report filled the duke’s ears with

stories of his nephew, which, if true, would have made him a miracle—a

wonder in arts and arms; and in order to test the verity of this fine

account, he sent his secretary, Contarino, to summon Giovanni to his

presence.

This secretary came to Charamonte’s house, bearing compliments, and

courtly thanks, and promises of munificent reward, from the duke. These

the noble Charamonte received with dignified, courteous gratefulness;

and although it was a sweet thought to him, that nature had so well

aided him in his great duty as to enable him to return to his royal

master a phœnix of grace and goodness, in the person of his nephew, this

very yielding up of his charge, filled his breast with sadness. The

young Giovanni had a disposition so gentle and sweet by nature, that it

won on all appointed to attend him, insomuch that it made them rivals,

even in the coarsest office, to get precedency to do him service; no

wonder then, that his guardian, who had always found him obedient,

loving, and reverential as a son, should have unconsciously permitted

his affections to twine around him with a parent’s fondness. Nor did

Giovanni receive his uncle’s summons with pleasure; as he read the

duke’s letter the frequent changes of his countenance, manifested how

strongly his unwillingness contended with his duty.

He loved his guardian, regarded him with as much respect and service as

would have been due to the one who gave him life; but still more fondly

did he love the good Charamonte’s incomparable daughter—the fair Lidia.

She had been his companion from childhood; the partner of his studies

and his pleasures. The commands of his uncle revealed to him in an

instant the nature of his regard for her; but, at the same time, he felt

the misery and hopelessness of such a love. His high station he felt

would be a barrier to honorable love, and this thought deepened tenfold

his anguish. In sweet, tender words he bewailed his sad fate, when he

bade farewell to her, describing, in touching language, their future lot

had he been born in a more humble state.

“Ah! Lidia,” he exclaimed, “then I might have seen and liked with mine

own eyes, and not as now, with others. I might still continue my

delights with you, that are alone, in my esteem, the abstract of

society. We might walk in solitary groves, or in choice gardens, and in

the variety of curious flowers, contemplate nature’s workmanship and

wonders; then for change, near to the murmur of some bubbling fountain,

I might hear you sing, and from the well tuned accents of your tongue,

in my imagination, conceive the melody of Heaven’s harmony; then with

chaste discourse we would return imp feathers to the broken wing of

time. But all this I must part from—I might after continued innocence

of love and service have been your husband—”

Here Lidia checked him, and reminded him that she was, and ever would be

his servant; that it was far from her, even in a thought, to cherish

such saucy hopes as these. Had she been heir to all the globes and

sceptres, that mankind bows to, then, at her best, she might have

deserved him; but now, in her humble state, she could only wish that he

might find a partner—a princess equal to him, who would make it the

study of her life, with all the obedience of a wife, to please him. For

her own part, she would be content to live and be their humblest

handmaid. So humble and childlike doth love show itself in a pure,

gentle nature.

In this sweet sorrowful manner they parted from each other, and Giovanni

hastened to do his uncle’s bidding; but first he embraced his good old

guardian, saying, farewell, and assured him that should he ever reach

his high destination their fortunes should be shared—then joining the

secretary, he repaired to the Florentine court.

Duke Cozimo had a favorite, Lodovico Sanazarro by name, and he loved him

so dearly that he used to say Sanazarro’s merits were so great that

should he divide his dukedom with him, he would still continue his

debtor. Princes’ favorites are apt to be undeserving men,

notwithstanding they may be set off with all the trim of greatness,

state, and power; for princes are men, not gods, and though they can

give wealth and titles, they cannot give virtues, that is out of their

power. But Duke Cozimo had proved the correctness of his judgment in the

choice of his friend. Sanazarro’s nature was like pure, tried gold, and

any stamp of grace the duke was pleased to give him, to make him current

to the world, did but add honor to the royal bestower. Even the

courtiers felt no envy against him, for he was no lazy drone, but an

industrious bee. He fought the enemies of the state, and displayed great

valor; then, after returning crowned with conquest, he labored in the

service of his royal master, sharing in the cares and burthen of the

government.

Duke Cozimo’s secret design was to wed this favorite with his wealthy

ward, Fiorinda. This noble princess was not averse to this plan, for

Lodovico being a handsome and brave gentleman, had quite won her heart

and she loved to dwell on his exploits in the field, and abilities

displayed in the council. Sanazarro, however, was very modest, and never

dared to lift his thoughts so high as to woo so rich and noble a dame as

the Princess Fiorinda.

Encouraged by her guardian, Fiorinda endeavored by courteous, but

delicate advances, to remove this diffidence. She always received him

with distinction, and took occasion repeatedly to send him gifts, which

he received with the reverent gratefulness of a subject; expressing more

ceremony in his humble thanks, than feeling of the favor—appearing

almost willfully ignorant, and blind to the tender feeling which

prompted these courteous condescensions. But true love is patient, and

forbearing, and as Sanazarro displayed no love for any other lady, she

used to comfort herself with the thought, that it was the light of her

high estate that made him blind, and taxed her woman’s wit for means to

lessen the difference between them. The frequent dangers that he was

exposed to, however, in the service of the state, made her unhappy, and

after the young Prince Giovanni came to court, she took occasion to

interest him in Sanazarro’s favor, begging that he would be suitor to

the duke not to expose this brave, noble gentleman to so much peril, but

rather to command him, after his great labors, to take rest.

Prince Giovanni received this request with delight, for he also had a

boon to ask of the duchess. So great was his love for the fair Lidia

Charomonte, that he could no longer bear the separation from her, and

after describing her with a lover’s colors to the princess, he begged

she would take occasion to ask permission of the duke, to add this

matchless virgin to her train of ladies. She promised to effect his

desire, right quickly; and they parted from each other with bright

hopes.

Soon after Giovanni’s return to court, the secretary who had brought

him, while reporting to the duke an account of his journey, gave an

enthusiastic description of Charomonte’s daughter, and in doing this,

implied that the prince loved her. Straightway, but quietly, the kind

duke conceived the design of securing also his dearly loved nephew’s

happiness, but fearing that this object of his love might not be worthy

of so high a fortune, he resolved to send his trusty favorite,

Sanazarro, to Charomonte’s house, to see this paragon of beauty and

virtue.

This he did without acquainting Sanazarro with his reasons, and the

favorite fulfilled his master’s orders, thinking the duke wished to

contract a marriage with this humble maid. But after seeing the fair

Lidia he was so struck with her beauty, modesty, and wit, that he forgot

his duty to his master and his honor. The recollection of past favors

from the duke, even the beautiful, kind, forbearing Duchess Fiorinda,

seemed as nothing to him, under the influence of this wild infatuation.

He returned to court, resolved to find some means of blinding the duke,

and turning him aside from pursuit of the fair Lidia. The secretary he

knew he could silence, and the Prince Giovanni, the only one who could

disclose his falsehood, he hoped to quiet, by telling him of the duke’s

purpose of marriage, which would of course endanger his prospect of

succeeding to the dukedom.

How weak and wicked are the best of men when exposed to some trials.

Here was this loyal, noble, honorable gentleman, who had withstood the

weakening effects of princes’ favor, yielding truth and allegiance at a

moment when he should have been most strong—at a moment when he felt

most confidence. He forgot the honors and glories by Cozimo’s grace

conferred upon him; he deceived his trust and made shipwreck of his

loyalty. Did he not deserve ruin?

Prince Giovanni received the news of his uncle’s projected marriage with

indifference, answering most nobly, that he had no right, because he had

received benefits from his uncle’s hands, to prescribe laws for his

pleasure. But when he heard who his uncle purposed to wed, then his own

love raised the standard of rebellion in his heart, and he willingly

united with the false Sanazarro in decrying the charms of his loved

mistress. Both singly and together they spoke disparagingly of this

beautiful lady, and Cozimo believed them, although it caused him some

surprise, but, as he said, he had never found them false.

But falsehood in weaving its net, always forgets to leave a loop-hole

for its own escape. Too late Giovanni remembered the favor he had asked

of the Duchess Fiorinda, and he hastened to request her to be silent in

the matter. But while he was seeking her fruitlessly, she was already

with the duke moving him, with all a woman’s eloquence, to command the

presence of Charomonte’s fair daughter at the court, saying, that his

nephew had given her such an abstract of perfection in his description

of this maiden, that she did not wish to employ her as a servant, but to

be by her instructed, and use her as a dear companion.

Duke Cozimo listened with amazement, and then, almost doubting his

senses, made the princess repeat all that Giovanni had told her. This

she did, using his very words: that she possessed all that could be

wished for in a virgin. That she had rare beauty, her discourse was

ravishing, she had quickness of apprehension, with choice manners and

learning too, not usual with women.

This account was so unlike the report given by Giovanni and Sanazarro to

him, that the duke saw with anger he had been deceived. This wounded him

deeply, for he could not bear the thought of insincerity and falsehood

in his nephew and bosom friend. He felt that he had been trifled with,

and resolved to examine into the matter himself, then, if he found they

had played him false, he would punish them with rigor. But he smothered

his wrath, meaning to act quietly without their knowledge. He told the

duchess her suit was granted; that the fair Lidia should come to her;

but in return he would ask her to go with him the following morning on a

short journey to the country. As he made this request, Giovanni and

Sanazarro entered just in time to hear it. The duke greeted them coldly

and left them. Joyfully the duchess hastened to communicate to Prince

Giovanni her success. He dissembled his confusion awkwardly, and essayed

to thank her for her kindness. She courteously received his thanks, and

then with sweet condescension greeted Sanazarro, begging him to accept

of a diamond from her, and wear it for her sake. Saying this, she bade

them both adieu, and hastened to be in readiness for the duke’s journey.

The young prince and Sanazarro gazed at each other in consternation.

Something must be done, however, and that right quickly, for they both

felt certain that it was the duke’s intention to see Lidia with his own

eyes, and that the journey of the following day was to Charomonte’s

house. Hastily Giovanni decided upon sending his serving man that night

with a letter to Lidia. In this letter he told her that the duke, his

uncle, had heard of her, and her beauty, and was about to seek her he

feared, with unlawful love. “If he see you, as you are, fair Lidia,” he

concluded, “my hoped-for happiness will be changed into an everlasting

night. Let your goodness find some means to prevent my uncle seeing you,

and thus you will save two lives, your own and the honorer of your

virtues, Giovanni.”

Giovanni’s messenger found the young Lidia in the midst of her father’s

household, who with the kind, old Charomonte, were devising all manner

of merry-makings, in order to divert the sadness which had hung over her

since the departure of the young prince. She received the letter with

joy, and retired to read it in secret, that no one might witness her

emotion. So soon as she read his request, the very means of

accomplishing it flashed quickly into her mind. As the duke had never

seen her, she resolved upon presenting to him another in her place. Her

maid, Petronilla, was the person decided upon. This girl was

ill-favored, coarse and rude. The only difficulty she had to surmount,

would be her father’s opposition, but she thought she would contrive

with the servants’ aid, to have Petronilla presented to the duke when

her father was not present. This difficulty the duke unconsciously

relieved her from, for he came to Charomonte’s mansion in anger; and so

soon as he arrived he dismissed his train, desiring to see Charomonte

alone. Then he upbraided him with treason—for he suspected the old man

of dishonor. He feared that Giovanni had become entangled with this

Lidia, and not knowing Sanazarro’s suspicions, he attributed Giovanni’s

double dealings, to a dishonorable illicit connection with this girl,

connived at by her father.

Poor old Charomonte listened to his royal master’s reproaches with angry

amazement. So soon as the duke had ended, he replied with words that

proved how his loyalty and outraged feelings contended for mastery. In

speaking of his daughter, the light of his eyes, the comfort of his

feeble age, he described her so lovingly and tenderly that the duke

commanded she should be shown to him.

“But,” said he, “you shall not prepare her to answer these charges. We

will see her immediately, and to prevent all intercourse, we do confine

thee close prisoner to thy chamber, till all doubts are cleared.”

Lidia was summoned, and in her place came Petronilla, escorted by

Giovanni and Sanazarro, followed by the servants, bearing a sumptuous

banquet. At the sight of her coarse appearance the duke felt that the

manners of her mind must be transcendent to defend so rough an outside.

She received him boisterously, and at the banquet, behaved rudely and

indelicately, and drank so freely of the wine, that she had to be

carried away from the duke’s presence. The imposture, however, was so

gross, that the duke began to suspect some cunning deceit or trick had

been played upon him; but he dissembled this suspicion, and sent out

Giovanni and Sanazarro with his train, saying he would soon join them;

that he wished first to see the Signor Charomonte in private, that he

might, with a few kind words of comfort, take leave of the poor old man.

It appeared to him unlikely that both Charomonte and Contarino, his old

secretary, could be so blinded. “It may be,” he said to himself, “that

the daughter, for some ends unknown, has personated this rude behaviour,

which seems so ridiculous and impossible. Whatever be the riddle,

however, I will resolve it, if possible.”

Charomonte, on being summoned, came to him; but when he heard the duke’s

pitying description of the pretended Lidia, he instantly went to his

daughter’s chamber, where she was feigning illness, and forced her into

the presence of Cozimo. The beautiful Lidia trembling, and in tears,

knelt before him and besought his mercy.

“Ah,” exclaimed the duke, “this is the peerless form I expected to see;”

then turning to Charomonte, he commanded that Sanazarro and his nephew,

Giovanni, should straightway be imprisoned in separate chambers,

guarded, until he should pronounce sentence against them as traitors.

In tender, touching language, Lidia pleaded for the prince, and asked

that whatever punishment he deserved, to inflict it on her, as she was

the sad cause of his offence.

“I know,” she said, “that the prince is so far above me that my wishes

even cannot reach him, and to restore him to your wonted grace and

favor, I’ll abjure his sight forever, and betake myself to a religious

life, where, in my prayers, I may remember him, but no man will I ever

see but my ghostly father. Be not, O sire, like the eagle that in her

angry mood destroys her hopeful young for suffering a wren to perch too

near them.”

Cozimo listened with admiration, and raising her tenderly put her suit

off with courteous compliments, telling her that if she would cheer her

drooping spirits, bring back the bloom of health to her pale cheek, and

let him see the diamond of her beauty in its perfect lustre, there could

be no crime that he would not look with eyes of mercy upon if she

advocated it.

Already in his mind had he thought of a fitting punishment for his

nephew. He resolved to make them all believe that he intended himself to

wed the fair Lidia, and acted accordingly.

Poor Sanazarro, in the solitude of his prison, awakened too late to a

sense of his wicked, disloyal treachery. He remembered the duke’s

kindness and love, in making him almost his second self. The influence

of Lidia’s charms faded away, and he recalled the loving favors he had

received so carelessly from the beautiful Duchess Fiorinda. Now, he

stood without friends, and no one dared or even cared to make

intercession to the duke for him. As he thought of the Duchess

Fiorinda’s love and past kindness, he resolved to appeal to her, and

sent a message to her, begging her mediation in his favor, although he

acknowledged himself most unworthy.

But true love forgetteth and forgiveth all injuries, and so soon as the

lovely Fiorinda heard his sad plight, she repaired to the duke and

entreated of him to be merciful and gracious to his poor servant,

Sanazarro. Cozimo reminded her of his infidelity to him, his kind

master; and then, to move her still more to anger, he recalled how

coldly Sanazarro had always received her courtesies, and how easily he

had yielded to the charms of another, and that other beneath her in

rank.

The poor lady for a moment struggled with her pride, which whispered to

her that, to endure a rival, and one also who was an inferior, betokened

poverty of spirit, but her noble heart obtained the mastery, and she

replied,

“True love must not know degrees or distances. Lidia may be as far above

me in her form as she is in her birth beneath me; and what I liked in

Sanazarro he may have loved in her. Vouchsafe to hear his defense.”

The duke consented, and said that both Sanazarro and the young prince

should have a speedy trial, in which he would not only be judge, but

accuser; and then expressed himself in such courteous, gallant words

about the fair Lidia, that Charomonte and the courtiers stared in

amazement. They could scarcely credit what he wished to make them

believe—that he, the faithful, mourning widower, who had remained

constant so many years, purposed a second marriage with this young

maiden, so unfit for him in station and age.

The trial commenced, and the prisoners, almost hopeless of mercy,

presented themselves, with their lovely advocates, the duchess and

Lidia, before the duke. Cozimo, at the sight of Lidia, professed to

forget every thing in the rapture her beauty caused him; and after

exhausting love’s sweet language in describing her charms, he turned,

with looks of rage, to the prince and Sanazarro, and told them they

knelt too late for mercy. But Lidia and the duchess reminded him he had

promised a gracious hearing to his prisoners, before passing sentence.

Duke Cozimo descended from the chair of state, and placing the two

ladies in his seat, told them they should be his deputies; but they must

listen to his accusation which would justify the sentence he was about

to pronounce on these traitorous heads. First, he reminded Sanazarro of

his cold indifference to Fiorinda’s condescending love, and his

unfaithfulness to her; but the duchess interrupted him, and told him

that charge was naught; she had already heard the count’s confession,

and had freely pardoned him.

The duke courteously bowed, but continued and upbraided Sanazarro with

his treachery to him, his indulgent master. Then he turned to Giovanni

and reminded him of how careful of his interests he had always been; how

he had remained unwedded, to secure to a thankless nephew a throne. “We

made you both,” continued the duke, “the keys that opened our heart’s

secrets, and what you spoke we believed as oracles. But you, in

recompense of this, to us, who gave you all, to whom you owed your

being, with treacherous lies endeavored to conceal this peerless jewel

from our knowledge. Look on her,” he said, pointing to the blushing

Lidia, “is that a beauty fit for any subject? Can any tire become that

forehead but a diadem? Even should we grant pardon for your falsehood to

us, your treachery to her, in seeking to deprive her of that greatness

she was born to, can ne’er find pardon.”

As the duke finished, the ladies quickly descended from the chair of

state, and kneeling, with the prince and Count Sanazarro before him,

besought his mercy, which Charomonte reminded him, was more becoming in

a prince than wreaths of conquest. The courtiers and old councillors

united their entreaties, but the duke remained inflexible. Turning to

Charomonte, he said,

“You, Carolo, remember with what impatiency of grief we bore our Duchess

Clarinda’s death, and how we vowed—not hoping to see her equal—never

to make a second choice. We did not know that nature had framed one that

did almost excel her, and with oaths, mixed with tears, we swore our

eyes should never again be tempted. Charomonte, thou heardest us

sware—are those vows, thinkest thou, registered against us in heaven?”

Charomonte told him that if he were to wed a woman who possessed all

woman’s beauties and virtues united, he had already sworn so deeply,

that the weight of his perjury would sink him.

“This is strong truth, Carolo,” replied the duke, “but yet it does not

free them from treason.”

“But,” answered the good old Charomonte, who began to suspect the duke’s

design, “the prince, your nephew, was so earnest to have you keep your

vows to heaven, that he vouchsafed to love my daughter.”

The duke turned to Lidia, as if for assurance of this, who blushingly

replied, “He told me so, indeed, sire.”

“And the count has averred as much to me,” said the Duchess Fiorinda,

with a playful air and a merry laugh, for she saw by the duke’s manner

that he had only been feigning this stern severity as a punishment to

the young men.

“Ah,” said Duke Cozimo, smiling, “you all conspire to force our mercy

from us.”

Then he placed the gentle, lovely Lidia’s hand in Giovanni’s, and as he

pronounced the pardon of the prince and count, he told them they must

merit their forgiveness by service and love to their mistresses, the

duchess and the beautiful Lidia.

Thus ends this story, courteous reader, and

“May the passage prove,

Of what’s presented, worthy of your love

And favor, as was aimed, and we have all

That can in compass of our wishes fall.”

* * * * *

LINES

WRITTEN AT NIGHT IN CAVE HILL CEMETERY.

BY GEO. D. PRENTICE.

One evening, dear Virginia, in thy life,

When thou and I were straying side by side

Beneath the holy moonlight, and our thoughts

Seemed taking a deep hue of mournfulness

From the sweet, solemn hour, I said if thou,

Whose young years scarcely numbered half my own,

Should’st pass before me to the spirit-land,

I would, on some mild eve beneath the moon,

Shining in heaven as it was shining then,

Go forth alone to lay me by thy grave,

And render to thy cherished memory

The last sad tribute of a stricken heart.

Thine answer was a sigh, a tear, a sob,

A gentle pressure of the hand, and thus

My earnest vow was hallowed. A thin cloud,

Like a pole winding-sheet, that moment passed

Across the moon, and as its shadow fell,

Like a mysterious omen of the tomb,

Upon our kindred spirits, thou didst turn

Thine eye to that wan spectre of the skies,

And, gazing on the solemn portent, weep

As if thy head were waters.

Weary years

Since then have planted furrows on my brow,

And sorrows in my heart, and the pale moon,

That shone around us on that lovely eve,

Is shining now upon thy swarded grave,

And I have come, a pilgrim of the night,

To bow at memory’s holy shrine and keep

My unforgotten vow.

Dear, parted one,

Friend of my better years, dark months have passed

With all their awful shadows o’er the earth,

Since this green turf was laid above thy rest,

’Mid sighs and streaming tears and stifled groans,

But oh! thy gentle memory is not dim

In the deep hearts that loved thee. We have set

This sweet young rose-tree o’er thy hallowed grave,

And may the skies shed their serenest dews

Around it, may the summer clouds distil

Their gentlest rains upon it, may the fresh

Warm zephyrs fan it with their softest breath,

And daily may the bright and holy beams

Of morning greet it with their sweetest smile,

That it may wave its roses o’er thy dust,

Dear emblems of the flowers that thou so oft

In life didst fling upon our happy hearts

From thy own spirit’s Eden. Yet we know

’Tis but an humble offering to thee,

Who dwellest where the fadeless roses bloom,

In heaven’s eternal sunshine.

To our eyes

Thy beauty has not faded from the earth;

We see it in the flowers that lift their lids

To greet the early spring-time—in the bow

The magic pencil of the sunshine paints

Upon the flying rain-clouds—in the stars

That glitter from the blue abyss of night—

And in the strange mysterious loveliness

Of every holy sunset. To our ears

The music of thy loved tones is not lost;

We hear it in the low, sweet cadences

Of wave and stream and fountain, in the notes

Of birds that from the sky and forest hail

The sunrise with their songs, and in the wild

And soul-like breathings of the evening wind

O’er all the thousand sweet Eolian lyres

Of grove and forest. Yet no sight or sound

In all the world of nature is as sweet,

Dear, lost Virginia, as when thou wast here

To gaze and listen with us. The young flowers

And the pure stars seem pale and cold and dim,

As if they looked through blinding tears—alas!

The tears are in our eyes. The melodies

Of wave and stream and bird and forest-harp,

Borne on the soft wings of the evening gale,

Seem blended with a deep wail for the dead—

Alas! the wail is in our hearts.

Lost one!

We miss thee in our sadness and our joy!

When at the solemn eventide we stray,

’Mid the still gathering of the twilight shades,

To muse upon the dear and hallowed past

With its deep, mournful memories, a voice

Comes from the still recesses of our hearts

“_She is not here!_” In the gay, festive hour,

When music peals upon the perfumed air,

And wit and mirth are ringing in our ears,

And light forms floating round us in the dance,

And jewels flashing through luxuriant curls,

And deep tones breathing vows of tenderness

And truth to listening beauty, even then,

Amid the wild enchantments of the hour,

To many a heart the past comes back again,

And, as the fountain of its tears is stirred,

A voice comes sounding from its holiest depths,

“_Alas! she is not here!_” The spring-time now

Is forth upon the fresh green earth, the vales

Are one bright wilderness of blooms, the woods,

With all their wealth of rainbow tints, repose,

Like fairy clouds upon the vernal sky,

And every gale is burdened with the gush

Of music, free, wild music, yet, lost one,

Through all these wildering melodies, that voice

As from the very heart of nature comes,

“_Alas! she is not here!_” But list! oh, list!

From the eternal depths of yonder sky,

From where the flash of sun and star is dim

In uncreated light, an angel strain,

As sweet as that in which the morning stars

Together sang o’er the creation’s birth,

Comes floating downward through the ravished air,

“_Joy! joy! she’s here! she’s here!_”

’Tis midnight deep,

And a pale cloud, like that whose shadow fell

Upon our souls on that remembered eve,

Is passing o’er the moon, but now the shade

Falls on one heart alone. I am alone,

My dear and long-lost friend. Oh! wheresoe’er

In the vast universe of God thou art,

I pray thee stoop at this mysterious hour

To the dark earth from thy all radiant home,

And hold communion with thy weeping friend

As in the hours departed.

Ah, I feel,

Sweet spirit, thou hast heard and blessed my prayer!

I hear the rustling of thy angel-plumes

About me and around—the very air

Is glowing with a thousand seraph thoughts,

Bright as the sparkles of a shooting star—

A hand from which the electric fire of heaven

Seems flashing through my frame is clasped in mine—

Thy blessed voice, with its remembered tones

Softened to more than mortal melody,

Is thrilling through my heart, as ’twere the voice

Of the lost Pleiad calling from its place

In the eternal void—and our two souls

Blend once again as erst they used to blend—

The heavenly with the earthly!

Fare thee well!

Sweet spirit, fare thee well! the blessed words

That thou, this night, hast whispered to me here,

Above the mound that hides thy mortal form,

Will purify my soul, and strengthen me

To bear the ills and agonies of life,

And point me to an immortality

With thee in God’s own holy Paradise.

* * * * *

A SONG FOR A DOWN-TRODDEN LAND.

BY WILLIAM P. MULCHINOCK.

Air—“Some love to roam o’er the dark sea-foam.”

Fill high to-night, in our halls of light,

The toast on our lips shall be

“The sinewy hand, the glittering brand,

Our homes and our altars free.”

Ho! ho! ho! etc.

Though the coward pale, like a girl may wail,

And sleep in his chains for years,

The sound of our mirth shall pass over earth

With balm for a nation’s tears.

Ho! ho! ho! etc.

A curse for the cold, a cup for the bold,

A smile for the girls we love;

And for him who’d bleed, in his country’s need,

A home in the skies above.

Ho! ho! ho! etc.

We have asked the page of a nobler age

For a hope secure and bright,

And the spell it gave to the stricken slave

Was in one strong word—“Unite.”

Ho! ho! ho! etc.

Though the wind howl free o’er a single tree

Till it bends beneath its frown—

For many a day it will howl away

Ere a _forest_ be stricken down.

Ho! ho! ho! etc.

By the martyred dead, who for Freedom bled,

By all that man deems divine,

Our patriot band, for our own dear land,

Like brothers shall all combine.

Ho! ho! ho! etc.

Then fill to-night, in our halls of light,

The toast on our lips shall be—

“The sinewy hand, the glittering brand,

Our homes and our altars free.”

Ho! ho! ho! etc.

* * * * *

LUCY LEYTON.

BY MRS. CAROLINE H. BUTLER.

I have been induced to a brief series of heart-histories by a remark of

Longfellow, in Kavanagh. In speaking of the ever sanguine yet irresolute

schoolmaster, who was “forced to teach grammar when he would fain have

written poems,” he says, “Mr. Churchill never knew that while he was

exploring the Past for records of obscure and unknown martyrs, in his

own village, ——, the romance he was longing to find and record, had

really occurred in his neighborhood, among his own friends.” Again,

Emerson says, “Every roof is agreeable to the eye until it is lifted,

and then we find tragedy, and moaning women, and hard-eyed husbands, and

deluges of lethe.”

There is truth in this. Beneath every roof-tree some romance is at

work—some heart-history compiling. The evening lights twinkle from

cottages sleeping peacefully upon the hill-sides and valleys—music and

mirth break on the air from brilliantly illuminated dwellings—then the

night wears on—the cottage-lights no longer gleam—silence wraps the

abode of wealth—and from out the majesty of the heavens encircling all,

the gentle moon and bright, flashing stars look down alike on sheltered

cot or marble dome. Yet, “lift the roof,” lay bare the heart which

pulsates in every bosom, and we shall find each has its own tale of

romance woven from life’s mingled threads of grief, of love, of

happiness—perhaps of shame.

Let me, then, from out the “simple annals” of a quiet country town,

sketch, with a faithful pen, these heart-histories—these romances from

real life.

The little village to which they may be traced, I must forbear to name.

That it does not exist merely in the imagination, let it suffice the

incredulous reader. There are bright, dancing rills spangling its broad

meadows—the “sweet south wind” plays over innumerable fields of billowy

grain, and the tinkle of the cow-bell is heard within the sweet-scented

pine forests which crown the summit of each rising hill. The roots, some

of which I am about to “lift,” cover no costly edifices. They are for

the most part humble and unpretending, yet so embosomed among fruit and

forest-trees as to render each cottage of itself a coup d’œil of beauty.

There are, to be sure, two or three exceptions; the large, three-story

brick house of Judge Porter, for instance, with its long, winding

avenues, and, as Mrs. Malaprop would say, its “statutes” placed in awful

frigidity about the grounds, frightening the children of the

neighborhood as so many sheeted ghosts. The beautiful villa, too, of Dr.

Bartine, (these names are, of course, fictitious,) which stands on a

gentle eminence somewhat remote from the village. It was built by a

gentleman of wealth and cultivated taste, who lived only to see it

completed. It was then knocked down under the hammer of Tom Pepper, the

village auctioneer, to the highest bidder, a worthy farmer, with as many

children as barn-door fowl. For six months, droning spinning-wheels, and

rattling looms, made music in the classic rooms—squashes and

red-peppers hung on the frescoed walls, while the conservatory, with its

marble fount, served admirably for the dairy of the notable Mrs.

Grimes—pots of butter, and round, yellow cheeses, taking the place of

rhododendrons and fragrant jessamines. Fortunately for the preservation

of this tasteful dwelling, at the end of six months, it was purchased by

young Doctor Bartine, who, after putting it in complete repair, and

removing the unseemly pig-stye and other excrescences from the face of

the beautiful lawn, brought hither his pretty young bride. There is the

parsonage sequestered from the street by elms a century old; and the

venerable church, from whose well-worn portals a narrow foot-path

conducts to that peaceful spot where, “when life’s fitful fever ended,”

the villagers come one by one and lie down to their dreamless rest.

There all is hushed. The wind, as it softly sweeps the pliant willow,

seems to whisper a requiem for the peaceful dead; a few birds flit

noiselessly about, but no song of gladness trills from their little

throats, their notes are low and plaintive, as if they mourned for the

hand which once fed them, but will never feed them more.

Such are the prominent local features of the little village, into whose

quiet precincts I have wandered. And there are many such primitive towns

nestling among our hills and valleys, some even less pretending; and

there are lone cottages scattered by the road-side, and huts of squalid

poverty, and the thrifty homestead of the farmer, all of which have

their heart-histories.

Love’s autocrasy must form the theme of my first romance from the real;

and, indeed, if the truth was known, there are but few heart-histories

in whose compilation that troublesome little sprite has not more or less

interfered.

Lucy Leyton, with that bright, roguish eye of hers, and her sunny smile

shall attest the truth of my words.

The proprietor of the great Leyton farm which covers more than a hundred

acres of the richest land in New England, is a true specimen of her

stalwort sons, her independent, industrious farmers—a noble race,

uniting integrity, sound sense, and a high standard of moral worth,

under manners the most plain and unpretending—keenly sensitive for the

public weal, hospitable, kind, and thrifty—not over generous, not over

prodigal of their means, yet far removed from that selfish avarice which

would refuse a helping hand to those who would rise in the world if they

had the means to start with, (and how many such there are,) or close

their doors upon the weary wayfarer, vagrant though he might be. Of this

class is Andrew Leyton.

A few words upon the domestic economy of Leyton farm. Mr. Leyton is a

widower, and my little heroine, Lucy, his only child. People wondered,

as people always will, why such a young-looking, hale, hearty man as

Andrew Leyton, did not take a second wife; but when asked about it, he

always had two answers ready—first, he was too much hurried about his

farm-work to spend time in courting and marrying; second, old Dinah, who

had lived with his father before him, though she was old, was a

first-rate manager; and Heaven forbid he should unloose her tongue by

talking about bringing a second Mrs. Leyton into the house. And so year

after year old Dinah stood her ground, holding undisputed sway in

kitchen and hall, doing pretty much as she pleased with her master,

looking, in fact, upon the strong, athletic, six-foot Andrew Leyton as a

mere child, “_the boy_,” as she termed him, when speaking to her

cronies; and as for Lucy, she would have held her in leading-strings to

this day probably, if Mr. Leyton had not sent her from home to acquire

more advantages of education than the village-school could offer.

Lucy was a bright, darling little child, saying and doing a thousand

witty things; and Mr. Leyton made up his mind that she was a perfect

prodigy even at four years old—parents are pretty apt to imagine just

such things—so he determined, from the time she could first lisp her

letters, that she should have the very best education his means would

afford; and when in process of time she came to know more than the

schoolmaster, (in farmer Leyton’s opinion,) he resolved to part with his

darling for a little while, that she might have the benefit of a

fashionable boarding-school. In selecting the establishment of Mrs.

Tracy, situated some thirty miles from Leyton farm, he proved himself

more fortunate than many who send forth their children to gather “apples

of wisdom,” but who return with thistles.

At the end of two years Lucy was pronounced “finished,” and returned

home. If Mr. Leyton had thought her a prodigy at four years old, what

must he have considered her at seventeen, for she had contrived to store

away a goodly amount of knowledge in her little head, even if she was at

times a little flighty. Yes, and notwithstanding she must have been so

hurried at Mrs. Tracy’s with her algebra, and her French, and her

philosophy, and her history, she had somehow managed to commence a

little heart-history of her own; but then she did not let any one read

it, not she. Farmer Leyton himself never knew a word about this

unbargained for accomplishment.

* * * * *

One day when Lucy had been at home about a week, Mr. Leyton had occasion

to go down into the village with a load of his renowned potatoes for

Judge Porter.

“Dear father, will you please see if there is not a letter in the

post-office for me?” cried Lucy, running out to the gate.

“Ha! ha!—a letter for you! that’s a new idea! Yes, but come and kiss

me.”

And poising one little foot upon the hub of the cart-wheel, Lucy sprang

lightly to the side of her father, gave him a hearty smack upon each

sunburned cheek, and then alighted again like a bird upon the soft,

green turf.

Now the farmer was no great scribe. Unless to announce a marriage or a

death, it was a rare thing for him either to indite or receive a letter.

The post-office revenue of Uncle Sam was but little benefitted by Andrew

Leyton. He was somewhat pleased, therefore, that his Lu should expect a

letter; so, after unloading, he brought his team to a stand-still in

front of the tavern, which, beside offering entertainment for man and

beast, served also for the post-office. Sure enough, there was a

letter—a very thick one too—for “Miss Lucy Leyton,” directed in an

elegant flowing hand—a gentleman’s hand.

“Hum!—What does this mean!” thought Farmer Leyton, turning the letter

over and over, and looking at the seal,—“_L’Amour_,” “_Fidelité_.”

Lucy was watching for his return; and as soon as she saw the well-known

team rise the hill, she flew swiftly along the road to meet it. Her

father held up the letter. Ah! what a bright, happy face was hers, as

she caught it from his hand; and seating herself under a shady tree by

the road-side, she eagerly tore off the envelope, and pressed the

insensible chirography to her lips.

“Hum!—what does this mean!” again thought the farmer, eyeing Lucy

keenly. “Gee-haw, Darby—Gee-up, Dick!” he cried, sweeping his cart-whip

above the sleek hides of his oxen, yet all the time noting uneasily the

bright blush, the happy smile of Lucy, all absorbed as she was in the

contents of her letter.

In less than a week there came another.

“Hum!” said Mr. Leyton, putting it in his pocket, “I must see what this

means.”

He went home, foddered the cattle, and then walked into the house.

“Come here Lu, sit down by me.”

Lucy laid aside her work, and drawing a low foot-stool to the side of

her father, folded her dimpled hands upon his knees, and looked up

smiling into his face.

“Well, Lu, you had a nice time, didn’t you, at Mrs. Tracy’s?” said Mr.

Leyton, smoothing back the long, golden curls from her white upturned

brow.

“Indeed I did, my dear father. I am sure, although I was so anxious to

see you, I was sorry to come away.”

“Hum! Mrs. Tracy used to keep you pretty strict, I suppose—never let

you go out, did she?”

“O yes, we walked every day—an hour in the morning, and an hour after

school at night; it was very pleasant, sometimes Mrs. Tracy would go

with us, and sometimes—O, it was _so_ pleasant!” and Lucy heaved a sigh

as she concluded.

“I take it for granted you never saw any boys there, Lu, did you?”

Lucy blushed, and wondered what in the world possessed her father to

talk so; at last she answered, very demurely:

“Why, father, it was a school for girls you know; it would have been

very strange, I am sure, to have seen a set of rude boys in our pleasant

school-room.”

“That is not what I mean, you little puss you—did any young men ever

visit at Mrs. Tracy’s?”

“Mercy, no, Mrs. Tracy would not even let Edward invite—”

“Edward—who is Edward?”

“Mrs. Tracy’s nephew, father,” replied Lucy, stooping to tie her little

slipper, which just at that particular moment it seemed necessary for

her to attend to.

“Hum—and I suppose Edward walked with you, didn’t he?” said Mr. Leyton.

“Yes, father, when Mrs. Tracy could not go.”

“I thought so. Who is he? What is he? What is his name—this Edward?”

Poor Lucy, how she tried not to blush, and yet what a glow instantly

suffused the tell-tale countenance she averted from the scrutinizing

glance of her father.

“His name is Bartine—Edward Bartine—he is a very fine young man,

father—every body loves him.”

“Hum!”

“All the girls loved him, just like a brother.”

“And you loved him just like a brother, I suppose.”

“Sir.”

“Hum—well go on—what was this very fine young man doing at a young

ladies’ boarding-school?”

“He only came up from New Haven to pass a few months with Mrs. Tracy,

and to pursue his studies with Dr. Heber—he is going back to college

very soon, I suppose.”

“Going back to college! Ah, I understand, I understand—some wild

scapegoat, I’ll be bound, suspended for misdemeanor—never will be worth

a straw—never will be good for any thing, not he—wasting the money

which his father has toiled hard to earn, I’ll warrant you!”

“No, indeed, father, Edward Bartine is no such person, indeed he is

not!” eagerly interposed Lucy.

“How do you know? I tell you he is. See here Lu—who is this from?” and

putting his hand in his ample coat-pocket Mr. Leyton drew forth the

letter, holding it up, however, at arm’s length.

“O, dear, dear father, please give it to me, please do—that’s a dear

father!” cried Lucy, springing up, her face radiant with joy, and

extending her hand for the precious missive.

“Not so fast, little Miss Lucy Leyton—sit down again—there is your

letter—now open it and read it to me,” said Mr. Leyton, passing his arm

around her waist to prevent her flight.

“O, father, please let me go—indeed I cannot read it to you!” urged

Lucy, the tears trembling like dew-drops on her long fringed eye-lids.

“Well, then, I’ll read it myself—it must be very fine; I should like to

read a letter from such a nice young man,” said Mr. Leyton, attempting

to take it.

“Father, please don’t, it is only about—about—”

“Never mind, I will see what it is about. Lucy, you must either give me

the letter or read me the contents—_I must know them_!” and this time

Mr. Leyton spoke sternly.

The poor girl dared not disobey. With a trembling hand she broke the

seal, and, in a voice scarcely audible, read:

“My dearest, sweet Lucy.”

“Hum—puppy! go on.”

“My dearest, sweet Lucy—To-morrow—to-morrow I leave for—for—” Lucy

could proceed no further, but covered with blushes hid her face in her

father’s bosom.

“Well, well Lu, don’t cry; I don’t want to hear any more of such silly

stuff. There give me the letter, it will serve nicely to light my pipe,”

said Mr. Leyton, twisting it in his fingers.

“Father, wont you let me have the letter—wont you, father?” pleaded

Lucy.

“No, Lucy. Now go and get pen, ink, and paper; this must be answered.”

Quite pale and frightened, Lucy brought her little desk and placed it on

the table.

“Are you ready?” said Mr. Leyton, “well then, begin, Mr. Edward—what’s

his name—Bartine—”

“Yes, sir.”

“You are a base designing young man—”

“Must I say so, father? indeed, he is no such thing!” interrupted Lucy,

looking up all in tears.

“I say he is—go on—‘you are a base designing young man, so, although I

am but a farmer’s daughter, never presume to address another letter to

me.’ Have you wrote that—very well, now add, ‘My father desires his

compliments, and would like to try the strength of his new raw-hide upon

your shoulders.’”

Lucy sobbed aloud.

“Now, say, ‘Respectfully, very, Lucy Leyton.’”

Mr. Leyton took up the blotted page, read it, sealed and directed it,

and put it in his pocket. Then taking Lucy in his arms and kissing her,

he said:

“My darling, I would not grieve you for the world; what I am doing is

for your good, my child, though I know you think me very cruel, but you

will thank me one of these days. There—now go to your chamber and lie

down awhile; kiss me, dear Lu.”

Lucy pressed her lips to his with a loud sob, and then hastening to her

little chamber, she bolted the door, and throwing herself upon the bed,

gave way to her affliction—for the first time a tear had blotted her

heart-history!

* * * * *

“What the mischief ails the girl I wonder? she don’t eat—she don’t

sleep, and half the time there are tears in her pretty eyes; her rosy

cheeks are all gone, and every now and then she sighs enough to break

one’s heart! Hang me if I can stand it! she thinks I don’t see it—when

I am by she tries to smile and sing as she used to—she thinks I haven’t

any eyes—but I have. Confound that fellow—I wish I had kept her at

home—well, well, poor Lu—something must be done, or else she’ll die!”

Thus soliloquized Andrew Leyton, a few weeks after the scene just

related. Now, Mr. Leyton was neither a severe nor an obstinate

man—there was never a more tender father, nor a kinder master. He was

little connusant of the great world, it is true, but enough so to render

him keenly apprehensive for his daughter. He knew there were

unprincipled young men enough, who solely from vanity, and for

self-gratulation would not scruple to win the affections of a young,

artless girl like Lucy, and his jealous fears imputed the same unworthy

motive to the professions of young Edward Bartine. Thus it was his love

for his only child, amounting almost to idolatry, which had caused him

to take the perhaps somewhat hasty step he had done—he was a father,

and who can blame him? Yet it cut him to the heart when he saw how

deeply poor Lucy suffered from his well meant kindness.

“Something must be done!” again exclaimed Mr. Leyton, slowly pacing to

and fro the little porch, and watching, with a sad, perplexed

countenance, the slight figure of Lucy strolling pensively through the

garden, and at length the “something” took upon itself a shape which

mightily pleased his fancy.

Mr. Leyton had one sister who, in his boyhood, had emigrated, together

with almost every member of the Leyton family, to the far west. She had

married there, but had been early left a widow, with one son. Andrew had

several times offered her a home in his house; but the distance was

great—new friends and associations had been formed to supplant earlier

ties, and the widow, though grateful for her brother’s kindness,

preferred the banks of the Ohio to the fertile vale of the Connecticut.

Now, Mr. Leyton had no son, and a vague idea had now and then seized him

to unite Lucy to his sister’s child. Thus the great Leyton farm would be

continued in the family, when he was dead and gone. True, he had never

seen him—but what of that—he was certain he must be a fine fellow, a

good honest lad, for all the Leytons were so from the beginning.

“Yes, I will write this very night!” said Mr. Leyton, stopping suddenly

in his walk, as this bright thought suggested itself. “I’ll just invite

Reuben to come on and see the old homestead, where his grandfather, and

his great grandfather lived and died, and then if he only takes a fancy

to Lu, which of course he cannot fail of doing, I shall be happy as a

lord—he will soon drive this college scape-grace from her mind!”

“Lu, how do you like your Cousin Reuben?” said Mr. Leyton, knocking the

ashes from his third evening pipe.

Lucy looked up from her work and smiled faintly, as she replied:

“My dear father, you know I have never seen him.”

“True, true, neither have I, but I tell you what, Lu, I am going to

write out to Reuben to come on and make us a visit, and bring his mother

too, if she will; how should you like it?”

“Very much, indeed, I shall be delighted to see Aunt Richards, whom you

have so often talked to me about.”

“And Cousin Reuben too?”

“Yes, of course I should.”

“Well, Lu, I hope you will like Reuben, for do you know I have quite set

my heart upon having him for a son-in-law—what say you?” said Mr.

Leyton, abruptly.

Lucy at once burst into tears, and went on to protest, in the most

earnest manner, that she should never marry—she would not marry for the

world, she could never love anybody—she wished her father would not

talk so—she was very happy as she was—O, very happy, indeed!

However, Mr. Leyton wrote the letter, and it took him three good hours

to do so. Then in the morning, as he was very busy, for it was haying

time, he told Lucy he wished she would walk down into the village and

put it in the post-office.

What could have put it into Lucy’s little head to do as she did, I am

sure I don’t know. I will not pretend to exculpate such a piece of

mischief, not I, I will only state facts.

“_Dear Mr. Edward Bartine_,—I have thought of you a great many

times since I wrote those few lines to you, which you must have

considered very strange. My father made me write them, for he

does not know you, or I am sure he would never have done so. You

will forgive him, wont you? If you would like to come here

during the vacation, as you said you should, I shall be very

happy to see you, and I dare say my dear father will like you

very much; I don’t see how he can help it. If you have a wish to

come, please take a hint from the enclosed letter to my Cousin

Reuben Richards.

“Lucy Leyton.”

“P. S. If you have no use for the enclosed, please forward it to

the address.”

Just think, now, of Lucy Leyton writing such a letter—but she did! And

then she neatly folded it, and enclosing the one designed for Mr. Reuben

Richards, with a glowing cheek, and palpitating bosom, she directed it

to Mr. Edward Bartine, Yale College, New Haven, and putting on her

bonnet and shawl, tripped fleetly to the office and deposited it.

“Ah, she’ll come round—all right yet!” said Mr. Leyton, a few days

after, as he overheard Lucy caroling one of her lively songs.

* * * * *

In due time, allowing for the speed of steam-boats, rail-cars, and

stages all the way from the Ohio, a young man, with a ponderous leather

trunk, alighted at Mr. Leyton’s gate. It was after dinner, and the

farmer was enjoying his afternoon pipe, while Lucy, sitting very quietly

by his side, was reading the village news. But all of a sudden, as she

saw the young man approaching, she sprung up in the strangest confusion

and ran into the house. Mr. Leyton rose up, put down his pipe, and

hastily advanced to meet the youth.

“This must be my dear nephew, Reuben!” he said, extending his hand; “I

know the true Leyton look. I am glad to see you, my lad!”

“Thank you, Uncle Leyton, how are you—how is Lucy?” replied the

stranger, warmly shaking hands.

“She is well, Reuben, and will be very glad to see you; come into the

house—you must be weary after such a long journey. Lucy! Lucy! why

where has she flown to? Lucy! O, here she comes. Well Lu, we have got

him at last—this is your Cousin Reuben—give her a kiss—that’s right.”

Lucy turned very pale when she first cast her eyes upon her cousin, who,

with very red hair and a somewhat limping gait, advanced to salute her,

then a rosy blush, and an arch smile, but half suppressed, stole over

her pretty face. But she blushed still deeper, and drew back timidly

from the tender embrace her young relative would fain have bestowed upon

her.

“My own, dear Lucy!” was softly whispered in her ear.

“So your mother wouldn’t venture with you,” said Mr. Leyton, “well, I am

sorry, for it is many a long year since we met; I hope she is strong and

healthy, Reuben.”

“Not very, she is greatly troubled with the rheumatism.”

“That’s bad. And how are all the rest of the folks—how is Uncle Bill,

and Deacon Gracie?”

“Dead.”

“Bless me, dead! you don’t say your poor Uncle Bill is dead!” exclaimed

Mr. Leyton, aghast at such news of an only brother.

“N—not exactly dead—half killed with the rheumatism, I mean, and the

deacon, O, the deacon has gone to California.”

“What! Deacon Gracie gone to California—well that beats all! I’ll

warrant old Mr. Stubbs is living!”

“Dead, a year ago.”

“Dead, is he? what killed him? I should like to know, for I thought him

good for a hundred years.”

“Rheumatism, uncle.”

“Rheumatism again! what in the world do you live in such a climate for?

Well, Reuben, how do you like your Cousin Lucy’s looks? I think she is

some like your mother, who resembled the Darlings more than the

Leytons.”

“I think Lucy is a decided Darling!” replied Cousin Reuben, with a

mischievous glance at the fair object in question.

“But you look more like the Leytons, all but your hair; none of the

Leytons ever had red hair!” continued the farmer, “and, excuse me, but I

must say I could never abide it; however, I guess you will reconcile me

to it. What makes you limp so, nephew, nothing serious I hope.”

“O, no, nothing but rheumatism, Uncle Andrew.”

“Good gracious, rheumatism again! Now make yourself at home, will you,

for I must go and look after my men. Lucy take good care of your cousin,

I will soon be back.”

“Don’t hurry, uncle, I am quite at home!” and as Mr. Leyton closed the

door, Cousin Reuben sprung to the side of Lucy, and stealing his arm

around her waist, imprinted a kiss upon her blushing cheek.

“I say, nephew, we must bathe your rheumatics in beef-brine,” said Mr.

Leyton, re-opening the door. Then hastily closing it again, he snapped

his fingers, exclaiming, “Ah, it will do! it will do! he is a fine young

fellow, I see, only that confounded red hair—he got that from the

Richards.”

A week and more passed on. Lucy and her cousin agreed wonderfully, and

Mr. Leyton was in perfect ecstasy at the recovered bloom and spirits of

his daughter.

“Ah, Lu,” said he one day, slyly pinching her cheek, “what do you think

of Cousin Reuben now; a’nt he worth a dozen of your college fellows?”

and Lucy protested she really liked Reuben just as well as she had ever

done Mrs. Tracy’s nephew.

Cousin Reuben, who was now perfectly domesticated, made himself not only

very agreeable, but useful to his Uncle Leyton in various ways, and the

farmer regretted more and more every day that he had not known him

before. Reuben was a geologist, and he explained to Mr. Leyton how some

portions of his farm, which he had thought the most unproductive, might

be made to yield good crops; he was an architect, and he drew the plan

of the new house which Mr. Leyton designed to erect in the spring. He

was a botanist, a geometrician, an astromer,

“And Latin was no more difficile,

Than for a blackbird ’tis to whistle.”

“Why, how in the world did you pick up so much learning out West? I

should think you had been to college by the way you talk!” said Mr.

Leyton, one evening, addressing his nephew, who had just been expounding

some knotty point.

“Yes, uncle, and I have just taken my degree,” replied Reuben, looking

at Lucy.

“_You_, the deuce you have. Why where did your mother raise the money to

send you to college?”

“My education was provided for by my grandfather’s will.”

“It was, eh! well, I am glad of it, and so the Richards family were a

good stock after all. I am sure I never dreamed you had been to college,

though I thought from the first you knew considerable for your years.”

“Thank you, Uncle Andrew.”

“And what are you going to do now?”

“My dear uncle, I shall soon receive my diploma for the practice of

medicine; then, if you will give me dear Lucy for a wife, I will buy

that pretty cottage at the foot of the hill, and commence business.”

“You buy it! No, no, I am able to buy it myself, and give it to Lucy on

her wedding-day. I am sorry you don’t like the farm better, for I had

set my heart upon seeing you settled upon the old family estate, but no

matter. Come here Lu, will you marry your Cousin Reuben? Ah, I see you

will; here take her nephew she is yours—God bless you!”

Lucy burst into tears, and for a moment her lover also appeared much

agitated. He then took Mr. Leyton’s hand:

“Then you really like me, uncle?”

“First rate, lad.”

“And you don’t know of any one else whom you would prefer for a

son-in-law!”

“Always had my eye upon you, Reuben.”

“But suppose you have been imposed upon; suppose that I am not your

nephew after all!”

“Ho, ho! imposed upon—not my nephew! don’t talk to me—imposed upon,

pooh, don’t I know the Leyton look—all but the red hair—I wonder where

you got that from!”

“I bought it of Frizeur and Frizette, French barbers, Broadway, New

York, it is a capital wig, don’t you think so?” replied the young man,

coolly taking it off, and handing it for the inspection of Mr. Leyton.

“Hey! why, what’s all this—who are you—what does this mean?” exclaimed

Mr. Leyton, starting up in astonishment, wig in hand, and staring at the

fine looking youth with dark-brown locks, who was now bending so

tenderly over Lucy.

“Mr. Leyton, why should I hesitate to confess who I am,” was the answer,

“since you have already assured me of your affection, and of your

willingness to bestow upon me this dear hand. My name is Edward

Bartine.”

“Bartine—Bartine—why, that is the same fellow—”

“That you was going to try your new raw-hide upon, my dear sir!”

“Hum, and if I had it here I would try it now!”

“O, no, you wouldn’t, father!” interposed Lucy.

“Grant me your patience a moment, Mr. Leyton,” resumed Edward, “with

your prejudice against me, I was very certain you would never allow me

to visit Lucy. You must believe me, when I assure you that the

imposition I have practiced upon you has been most repugnant to me, and

nothing but the hope of gaining your favor, under the guise of your

nephew, could have tempted me to act the part I have.”

“My nephew! but how did you know any thing about my nephew? Lucy, did

you—”

“Yes, sir.”

“Say, Mr. Leyton, will you forgive me, will you still confer upon me

your dear Lucy, may I, as Edward Bartine, again receive the priceless

gift you but now bestowed upon ‘Cousin Reuben?’”

“You have deceived me, young man,” replied Mr. Leyton, “although I

acknowledge I was wrong to harbor such prejudice against a stranger.

Would there was not so much depravity in the world as to warrant my

suspicions—but so it is, and upright, noble-minded young men must

sometimes suffer for the unprincipled libertinisms of those who best

serve the devil by beguiling the purest and fairest of God’s creatures!

But I forgive the deception. You were no less a stranger to me as Edward

Bartine than as Reuben Richards, and I have learned to love you. Yes,

you shall have Lucy, and the pretty white cottage to boot. Once more I

give her to you, and again I say, God bless you and make you both happy,

my dear children!”

In a few moments Lucy raised her head from her father’s shoulder, and

looking archly in his face, said:

“Dear father, here is that letter for Cousin Reuben, shall we send it?”

“Ah, you little jade, now I understand! send it, yes, and we will have

them all here to the wedding; if—_the rheumatism will permit_! ha, ha,

what a lame concern you made of them, _eh_!”

“Yes, my dear sir, but the plot has not proved a lame one!” replied

Edward, laughing.

* * * * *

Dr. Bartine and the charming Lucy, reside in the beautiful villa noticed

in the commencement of this sketch, which, however, Edward insisted upon

purchasing himself.

Mrs. Richards, and her son Reuben, accepted the invitation of Andrew

Leyton, and now reside altogether at the farm. Reuben is a great

favorite with his uncle, who, however, acknowledges that Edward pleases

him best for a son-in-law. It is said Reuben will soon be married to a

pretty girl in the neighbourhood, and will, without doubt, succeed to

the Leyton farm.

* * * * *

TO JENNY LIND:

ON SEEING HER PORTRAIT FOR GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

BY J. R. FRY.

World-worshiped Jenny! if this counterfeit

Of woman be not only Art’s ideal;

If when in ecstasy we gaze on it

We know that all its loveliness is real—

That in this face, by guileless rapture lit,

We see the reflex of thy living features;

And if thy voice this seraph-face befit,

No marvel ’tis that over genial natures

Thy power is felt as more than of the earth—

A gift, among the myriads of God’s creatures,

To prove how much may spring from human birth

Of attributes, which faith or fancy blendeth

With visions only of celestial worth!

Not impiously then the warm heart bendeth

In homage at the altar of thy fame,

Where Virtue jealous of thy smile attendeth,

To watch the burning of its vestal flame

And share with Art the honors of thy name!

* * * * *

[Illustration: EDITOR OF GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE

_Geo. R. Graham_

Engraved by W.G. Armstrong from a painting by T.B. Read]

* * * * *

GEORGE R. GRAHAM

[WITH A PORTRAIT.]

BY CHARLES J. PETERSON.

When a man, left a friendless orphan in boyhood, overcomes every

obstacle of fortune, and rises to wealth and station, we justly conclude

that he is possessed of no common abilities. But when the same

individual, beggared by unforeseen events, retains still the confidence

of his fellow men, and finally conquers fate a second time, and resumes

his lost position, we do not exaggerate if we call him an extraordinary

man. Yet such, unless the partiality of friendship deceives us, is

George R. Graham.

The father of Mr. Graham was a gentleman of education and fortune,

resident in Philadelphia, where he was known, about thirty years ago, as

an enterprising shipping merchant. At one period he was a partner of the

late Robert Fleming, then carrying on an active trade between Charleston

and Ireland. Subsequently he entered largely into commerce on his own

account, but disastrous times approaching, he shared in the general

ruin, and ultimately, not only his fortune, but his life sunk under the

blow. He left two children, of whom the eldest, the subject of our

memoir, was born on the 18th of January, 1813. The early death of the

father materially affected the interests of the son. Mr. Graham had been

designed for the bar, and all his studies were directed to that end; the

preliminary arrangements had even been made for him in the office of the

Hon. Charles Jared Ingersoll; but the reverses and death of the parent

frustrated the scheme, and the young orphan, who had been born

apparently to a life of comparative ease, was left penniless and almost

friendless, to carve his way to distinction alone.

But, even at this early age, he did not despair. Of a sanguine

temperament and determined will, he resolved to re-construct the

shattered fortunes of his family. He had been placed, on his father’s

death, and when only fifteen years of age, with his maternal uncle, Mr.

George Rex, an opulent farmer of Montgomery County, Pennsylvania, after

whom he had been named; and with this gentleman, and in the country he

remained until he was nineteen. The time, however, was not lost. On the

contrary, it was to this period of his life he is indebted for that

robust constitution which afterward enabled him to endure the severe

application to which he addressed himself. During these four years he

omitted no opportunity to improve his mind. He read every thing that

came in his way. But books, fortunately, were not so abundant then as

now, so that what he read he digested, and thus acquired habits of

correct thought, so rare among the hasty students of the day.

In 1832, Mr. Graham returned to the city, and commenced to learn the

trade of a cabinet-maker. But he had already resolved that he would yet

be a lawyer, as his father had intended; and accordingly, to effect this

object, he now addressed himself with that untiring energy which has

ever characterised him. His first object was to discipline his mind, to

improve his tastes, and to enlarge his stores of knowledge. For this

purpose he began a course of literary study, and, for three years,

prosecuted it with undiminished ardor, exhibiting, during the entire

period, a perseverance amid difficulties which entitles him to a high

place among self-taught men. His trade requiring his attention for ten

or twelve hours daily, he had but a short interval to spare for

recreation and sleep, but having resolved to devote six hours out of the

twenty-four to literary pursuits, he rigidly adhered to his plan,

gaining the time, when necessary, by rising before dawn.

At the age of twenty-two he made the acquaintance of a son of the late

Judge Armstrong, of Philadelphia, and by him was introduced to the

judge, who at once arranged to receive him as a student. For the three

years, during which he studied law, he continued laboring at the bench,

devoting the early morning hours and the evening to Coke and Blackstone.

By the regulations of the Pennsylvania courts, the last year of a

student’s course has to be spent in the office of some practicing

attorney; and this he was enabled to effect by rising at four o’clock in

the morning, laboring until nine, then visiting the office, and often

returning to the bench in the evening. The writer of this happened to be

a student with the same preceptor at this period, and writes of facts to

which he was an admiring eye-witness.

The natural bent of the mind, in all well-balanced natures, triumphs in

the end over the plans of parents and the exigencies of circumstances

alike. Under the influence of a commendable pride, Mr. Graham had

resolved notwithstanding his early misfortunes, to fulfill his father’s

wish, and become a member of the bar; but now, he discovered that his

tastes led him toward a literary life. He accordingly began to

contribute a series of papers to the Philadelphia press, which, at once

attracted attention by the vigor of their thought, not less than the

freshness of their style. He persisted, however, in his intention of

entering the bar, and, in 1839, was admitted to practice.

His inclination for literature continuing instead of diminishing, he

resolved to abandon the active pursuits of his profession, and embark in

avocations more suitable to his tastes. Accordingly, in the same year he

became editor of the Saturday Evening Post, a well-known weekly journal,

at that time published by Samuel C. Atkinson. In the following year, he

became joint proprietor as well as editor. He continued, in connection

with his partners, to publish this journal for several years, but

finally, in 1846, parted with his entire interest in it.

It is as a magazine editor and publisher, however, that Mr. Graham has

made himself especially famous. In 1839, at the time he became editor of

the Post, he purchased of Mr. Atkinson the Casket, a monthly magazine of

respectable ability and circulation. This periodical he continued to

publish, under its old name, until December, 1840, when he bought the

list of the Gentleman’s Magazine, and united the two monthlies as

Graham’s Magazine, issuing the first number in January, 1841. The

success of this new enterprise was unprecedented. Having spared no

expense to procure able writers and elegant embellishments, the result

was that he produced a periodical of unexampled merit and beauty; and,

at once, thousands were added to his list. A new spirit was infused into

magazines. Before this period, the monthlies had been filled with

second-hand English stories, or indifferently written original tales;

while their poetry, except what was taken from well-known authors, was

such as “both gods and men abhor.” The illustrations were few and

indifferent.

The freshness, beauty, and ability of Graham’s Magazine at once placed

it before all others in the popular favor, and though its rivals

hastened to imitate the example it had set, it continued to maintain,

and maintains to this day, the supremacy.

The success of Mr. Graham’s Magazine was such, that, by January, 1842,

it had attained a circulation of more than thirty thousand. Meantime no

expense was spared to increase its excellence, both literary and

pictorial. Mr. Sartain, the celebrated engraver, was kept busily

employed in furnishing mezzotints for it: and some of the engravings

then executed by that artist, and by Smillie, Rawdon and Tucker, have

certainly never been since surpassed. The most eminent authors in the

United States were, at the same time, sought for its pages. At first,

these writers were incredulous that any American magazine could afford

them adequate remuneration; but the success which had already attended

Mr. Graham’s improvements convinced him that the public would sustain

him in his effort to raise the character of our periodical literature,

and accordingly he persevered in his design. No sooner were Longfellow,

Bryant, Cooper, and others of our leading authors, discovered to be

permanent contributors to Graham’s Magazine, than thousands, who had

heretofore looked with contempt on an American monthly, hastened with

their subscriptions, to encourage the enterprising publisher. The

benefit thus done to popular literature cannot be calculated. But it was

such that it will be long, perhaps, before any one man will have it in

his power to do again as much.

The demand of a large business, and the watchfulness necessary to keep

the lead, left Mr. Graham but little time for literary composition. He

had, however, increased his own reputation as a writer, of occasional

articles contributed to his newspaper and magazine, but principally to

the latter. Thoroughly read in Bolingbroke, Addison, Burke, and others

of the classic authors of the language, his style was distinguished by a

finish, yet an idiomatic force such as is rarely found among the

careless writers of the day. A clear, sound thinker; with a fervid

imagination; possessing a keen sense of the ridiculous; and having a

great command over the resources of language, he always wrote to the

point, in a racy, nervous style, mingling eloquence and satire by turns,

and never, as hackneyed writers so often do, drowning the idea with

“excess of words.” His choice of terms was singularly felicitous. He

wrote the language as the translators of the Bible wrote it, with a

large mixture of Saxon derivations, yet with purity. In invective, as in

sarcasm, he was especially powerful. A series of editorial articles

contributed to the newspaper under his management, and still remembered,

are instances of the former: his letters to Jeremy Short, are examples

of the latter. In a word, as a terse, and even eloquent writer, Mr.

Graham holds a high rank. As a critic his judgment is always generous,

but just.

In 1846, Mr. Graham purchased the North American, a daily newspaper of

standing and influence in Philadelphia. He had no sooner embarked in

this new enterprise than it exhibited proofs of his energy and tact:

and, in a very short while, the ability with which the journal was

conducted made it a name throughout the entire Union. In 1847, he still

further extended the influence and reputation of his newspaper, by

purchasing, in connection with his partners, the United States Gazette,

and consolidating it with the North American. But he had now attained,

at least for awhile, the summit of his successes. Having been induced to

engage in certain stock speculations, he entered into them with all the

ardor of his character, and though for a time successful, eventually

impaired his fortune to such a degree that he was forced to part

temporarily with the Magazine and North American. This misfortune

happened in July, 1848. A man of his energy, however, could not be kept

down: fortune might depart, but failed to overcome him. He continued to

edit his Magazine, even after parting with the proprietorship of it,

until March, 1850, when circumstances having induced the retirement of

Samuel D. Patterson, he succeeded in regaining his interest in his

favorite periodical; and from that period has added the duties of

publisher to those of editor. This restoration to his old position is

the result of indomitable energy, which he possesses in a degree that is

as rare as it is praiseworthy. With men of his stamp nothing is

impossible.

As a man Mr. Graham inspires general affection. The warmth of his heart,

and the frankness of his manners make for him friends wherever he goes.

Generous to a fault, forgetful of injuries, conciliating in his

deportment, he is one to be alike popular with the many and loved by the

few. His faults, where he has them, are those of a noble nature. His

sense of honor is keen. He could do no man wrong intentionally. In all

his actions, even to the most trivial, the energy of his character, and

the kindness of his heart are equally discernible.

* * * * *

THE GENIUS OF BURNS.

BY HENRY GILES.

In a cottage on the banks of Doon, near the town of Ayr, in Scotland, in

1759, Robert Burns, one of the world’s sweetest poets, first saw the

light of life. The peasant-child soon learned to know existence in toil

and sorrow; torn at an early age from study to labor, grief went hand in

hand with glory through his remaining years. We find him amidst the wild

eccentricities of an irregular youth, without any settled aim, as he

himself declares, but with some stirrings of ambition, that were only as

the blind gropings of Homer’s Cyclops around the walls of his cave. With

characteristic ardor, and with more zeal than wisdom, he mingled in the

theological and political squabbles of the times, and by the destructive

boldness of his satire, and the shafted power of his ridicule, he

created many enemies whom it was easier to provoke than to propitiate.

Nor must we hold him blameless. In the prodigality of wit, and the

wildness of laughter; in the madness of merriment, and the pride of

genius, he treated opinions and persons with an unsparing levity which a

more thoughtful experience would have taught him to regard with

reverence or forbearance. That his genius went too frequently in company

with his passions, and that the glory of the one was sometimes wrecked

in the delirium of the other, it is not allowed us to deny; but these

follies had their penalties; and if it were possible, they were better

now forgotten in the ashes of his early grave. Burns was a man that

sinned, and one that suffered; but he was not a man that sinned

callously, or that suffered meanly; and it is not for the living to

write in marble errors which the departed repented in tears.

Incidents of romance and anguish checker the opening of his poetic fame

with sadness as well as sunshine. His “Highland Mary,” the love of his

youth, and the dream of his life is wrenched from his heart by death.

Then comes the melancholy episode of his attachment to Jean Armor, with

its heavy retribution of wretchedness. His name has begun to gather

honor among his native hills; the small provincial edition of his poems

is hailed with proud enthusiasm; but yet, with poverty and a bleeding

spirit, he looks across the ocean to foreign exile. Suddenly his purpose

is turned aside, and we behold him in Edinburgh among the exclusives and

magnates of the land. There, as at the plough, we find him still the

true and sturdy man. In the throng of Highland chieftains and border

barons, in the full blaze of pride and beauty, he felt within him a

humanity beyond the claim of titles; genius had given him a

superscription more impressive than device of heraldry; the patent of

nobility was written with fire in his heart, and the proud ones of earth

became poor before the aristocrat of heaven. In that day of classic

propriety, a poet from the plough, full of passionate earnestness, must

have been in Edinburgh a startling phenomenon. But nature made herself

heard in the very citadel of art; cavil was silent, and admiration

offered willing homage. The wealthy marveled at the inspired peasant;

and wherever the eloquent ploughman appeared, there were the nobles

collected together. Dukes gave him their silken hands; duchesses

received him with sweetest smiles; earls pledged him in the wine-cup;

and for the moment, the haughty and the high-born recognized the

presence of a greatness superior to their own. But Burns was not a man

to hold popularity long in circles such as these. He was too stoutly

individual for the apathy of elegant mediocrity, and he was too sternly

independent for the sensibility of patronizing grandees: he saw nothing

to venerate in a title when it was but the nickname of a fool; and he

was undazzled by a star when it glittered on the breast of a ruffian or

a dunce. But though Burns escaped the danger of aristocratic delusion,

he did not escape the danger of aristocratic feasts. These were the

times of night-long carousals, and pottle-deep potations. Burns had

neither the firmness to resist such dissipation, nor the constitution to

endure it; and he carried from it impaired health and impaired

habits—an irritable discontent with his condition, and an instability

of purpose fatal to a life of labor. Having placed a tomb over the

neglected remains of poor Ferguson, the poet, he retired to the country,

shared his success with his brother Gilbert, met his mother steeped in

tears of honest joy, married his Jean, and gave peace to a wounded

spirit.

From this era of light in his course; from this day, bright with fame

and conscious virtue, we trace him along a path devious and clouded. We

follow him through the toil of a profitless farm, to the struggles of a

country gauger, and from these to a destitute death-bed. In all his

follies and his sufferings, we behold him true to a manly nature, loyal

to noble principles; and however seamed and deformed may have been the

surface of his life, virtue remained unshaken in the centre of his soul.

With a large family, and only seventy pounds a year, he had an open hand

for the poor, and a hospitable roof for stranger and for friend; and

although he died owing no man any thing, yet he has been stigmatized as

a prodigal and a spendthrift. He gave the world his immortal songs

without money and without price; and with the generosity of benignant

genius, he sympathized with every effort of the humble men around him

for a nobler life, he ministered to their intellectual wants, and he

aided their intellectual struggles. Accordingly, we observe him at a

time when he was harassed with cares and overcome with toil on a barren

farm, establishing a book club in his neighborhood, forming its rules,

and directing its operations. To estimate this in the true spirit, we

must remember that it was sixty years ago, when as yet there had been no

“Mechanics’ Institutions” in the land, and when Lyceums were not; when

cheap editions of standard works had not arisen even on a printer’s

dream, and “Societies for the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge” were

enfolded, as the poets say, in the mighty womb of futurity. Dr. Currie,

of Liverpool, a genial and eloquent (though patronizing) biographer of

Burns, in narrating this portion of his life, questions the utility of

literary studies for the great masses of the people. Strange questioning

this, in a life of Burns—the cottage-boy, whom the little knowledge of

a rustic school awakened for eternity; raised from the clods of the

valley to a place among the stars, a burning and imperishable light; and

who, but for that little knowledge, might have been as nameless clay as

any that nurtures the grass of a village church-yard.

The ideas of Currie have almost vanished with his times; still even yet

we occasionally hear some small-souled cynic, some snail-shell

philosopher, who thinks himself of those sages with whom wisdom is to

perish, sneer scornfully at popular knowledge. Popular knowledge, it is

true, is not the wisdom of Solomon; it has not the depth of Bacon, or

the sublimity of Newton; still, so far as it goes, it is a good, and

though the pedant may deride, the philanthropist will rejoice. And what,

after all, is the ground of Mr. Pedant Wiseacre’s pride? Perhaps some

learned investigation on the contraction of the Greek kai, or the tail

of the Greek gamma. Seriously, the critic and the scholar, when true to

their noble office, deserve our admiration and our gratitude; but those

who grub merely for withered roots, which never produce either fruits or

flowers; and, then, with insect vanity, give themselves airs of scorn,

are themselves saved from contempt, only because all creatures have

their uses. It is well for society that there should always be men of

great and solid learning; and evil would be the day when slight

acquirement should be a substitute for laborious thought; but it is also

desirable that these accumulated treasures should be widely and

bountifully distributed. It is good to have deep fountains in our

munitions of rocks, but it is not good that these fountains should waste

themselves in darkness; it is not good that they should merely feed the

gorgeous river, and the mighty cataract, they should also steal along in

the sunny streamlet, and give beauty to the secluded nook. Let there be

rich men, and let them rejoice in their riches; let there be great men,

and let them exult in their greatness; let there be men of strong

intellect, but let them in their strength be merciful; it is not,

however, the great, the noble, or the strong, that are ever of

destructive nature; it was the lean kine of Egypt that became the

devourers—and yet were as skinny as before; so there are poor, lean,

hungry animals of the critic species—unproductive as they are

voracious, that are naturally the most unsparing and the most ferocious.

When Burns went first to Edinburgh he was the rage, and homage to him

became the cant of certain circles. But it is seldom that such homage

survives a season. Poor Burns lived not long; but he lived long enough

to understand in bitterness the hollowness of drawing-room applause. On

a second visit to the Scottish metropolis, the enthusiasts of the first

had disappeared. It is ridiculous enough now to us to think of any lord

or lady of bedizened mediocrity supposing they could do honor by their

notice to such a man as Robert Burns; but ridicule deepens to contempt,

when we read of paltry provincials in Dumfries looking ascant at their

mighty townsman, our indignation chokes our laughter at the record of

treatment which small fashionables could offer to a great poet. Mr.

Lockhart gives an anecdote from a gentleman who told him that he was

seldom more grieved than when riding into Dumfries, one fine summer’s

evening, to attend a country ball, he saw Burns walking alone on the

shady side of the principal street of the town, while the opposite side

was gay with successive groups of gentlemen and ladies, all drawn

together for the festivities of the night—not one of whom appeared

willing to recognize him. The horseman dismounted and joined Burns, who,

on his proposing to him to cross the street, said, “Nay, nay, my young

friend, that’s all over now,” and quoted, after a pause, some verses of

Lady Grizzle Baillie’s pathetic ballad.

Burns, amidst poverty and sorrow, when needful comforts had almost

failed him in his sickness, and his children nearly wanted bread, in the

thirty-eighth year of his age, quitted a world that was not soon to look

upon his like again. Burns, the gladdener of so many hearts, was at last

outwrestled, and the mighty fell—Burns, who had so deeply felt the

rapture of genius, and the misery of life.

The retribution with which the errors of Burns chastised him, holds out

impressive warning to all who are capable of drawing wisdom from

example. If happiness could have found a resting-place in one of the

most honest hearts that ever struck against a manly bosom; if happiness

had been with noble poetry, with an eloquence that never failed, with an

imagination rich as the breast of nature, and bright as the stars in

heaven; if happiness could have been brought down from the sky by lofty

and aspiring sentiments, or fixed upon earth by generous and gentle

affections; then happiness would have been the lot of Burns. But Burns

had contracted habits to which peace soon becomes a stranger; and he who

has such habits, be he bard, or be he beggar, has already entered on the

evil day; he may say in all the bitterness of his soul, “Farewell the

tranquil mind.” It would seem as if Burns pictured by anticipation his

own sad fate when he wrote the Bard’s Epitaph. “Whom did the poet

intend?” asks Wordsworth, as quoted by Allan Cunningham, “who but

himself—himself anticipating the too probable termination of his own

course. Here is a sincere and solemn avowal—a public declaration from

his own will—a confession at once devout, poetical and human—a history

in the shape of a prophesy!” What more was required of the biographer

than to have put his seal to the writing, testifying that the foreboding

had been realized, and the record was authentic.

Is there a whim-inspired fool,

Owre fast for thought, or hot to rule,

Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool,

Let him draw near;

And owre this grassy heap sing dool,

And drap a tear.

Is there a bard of rustic song,

Who, noteless, steals, the crowds among,

That weekly this area throng,

O, pass not by,

But with a frater-feeling strong,

Here heave a sigh.

Is there a man whose judgment clear,

Can others teach the course to steer,

Yet runs himself life’s mad career,

Wild as the wave;

Here pause, and through the starting tear,

Survey this grave.

The poor inhabitant below

Was quick to learn, and wise to know,

And keenly felt the friendly glow,

And softer flame,

But thoughtless follies laid him low,

And stained his name.

Reader, attend, whether thy soul

Soars fancy’s flights beyond the pole,

Or darkly grubs this earthly hole,

In low pursuit,

Know prudent, cautious, self-control

Is wisdom’s root.

Thus much I thought I might venture on our poet’s life; I shall now

proceed to offer some remarks upon his genius.

Burns was a true child of nature; thence his growing power, and thence

the promise of his lasting fame. But though the child of nature, he was

not the offspring of mere rude or uncultivated nature. The Scottish

peasantry were a class of men among whom such a mind as that of Burns

could perhaps receive its most fitting development. Without the

refinement which tends to repress spontaneous expression, they had

sufficient of moral and intellectual education to give that expression

variety and strength. Their country, their history, and their religion,

were all such as to train a serious and reflective imagination.

Therefore it is that no peasantry have furnished so much to national

literature as the Scottish, and especially to national poetry. Within a

period by no means extensive in their annals, they have given to the

world such writers as Ferguson, simple and full of music; Allan Ramsay,

in his “Gentle Shepherd,” the very genius of pastoral poetry; Tannahill,

a lowly spirit of melody and pathos, a sweet voice of truth and

tenderness; Hogg, the glorious wizard of the mountains, coming down from

his shepherd’s wilderness, his memory peopled with all olden legends,

and his fancy teeming with all fairy dreams. Burns, then, though

mightiest, is but one of an honorable family; though greatest and

grandest among them, they are his kindred; of some he is the heir, of

others, he is the progenitor.

Burns is a poet true, as I have said, to nature, and therefore true to

art. Burns is not mechanically artificial, but he is patiently

artistical. He had none of that indolent vanity which shrinks from

careful preparation, which trusts all to sudden excitement, and

undigested emotions. He looked, as every man of genius does, to the

ideal; he knew it was not to be comprehended in a passing glance, or

reached in a rapid bound, or embodied in a single effort; and he knew

that in the endeavor to unfold it, no execution could be too thoughtful,

and no labor too great. It is not the consciousness of power, but the

conceit of vanity, which relies presumptuously upon momentary impulse,

which mistakes the contortions of a delirious imbecility for the

movements of celestial agitation. The very creation of God, which

required but the will and word of Omnipotence for instant and perfect

existence, has been gradually constructed—the earth on which we stand,

so fair to look upon, so robed with beauty, so radiant with life and

light, has been evolved from chaos through innumerable formations and

even the thunder so astounding in its crash, and the lightning so sudden

in its stroke, have long been generating in the womb of heaven. The man

of genius, the man of creative power, is at once inspired and

industrious; at once a man of passion and a man of patience; at once a

constructor and analyser, a man of enthusiasm, but also a man of wisdom.

Genius is not intoxication, and it is even more than rapture; it is

capacity subject to the law of truth and beauty; the intense action of

the soul, exalted, harmonious, and illuminated. The dash of noble

thoughts may come suddenly on the brain; the torrent of enkindled

feeling may rush upon the heart, but the spirit of order and of art must

move over the face of this brilliant chaos, ere it is shaped into that

perfection which the world does not willingly let die. All mighty souls

know this; the rustic Burns knew it, not less than the godlike Milton.

The genius of Burns is now, by that instinctive appreciation which forms

the supreme tribunal, placed in the highest order. Whence is this? All

he has written may be contained in a moderately sized volume. If

quantity of production therefore were needed to exalt a writer, which it

is not, Burns should remain in the region of mediocrity. Neither has he

composed as critics would seem to require, a work of elaborate and

faultless excellence; for he has not even attempted a tragedy or an epic

poem. But critics cannot decide this point, and that common heart which

decides for all has decided for Burns. The depth and extent of his

humanity has gained him his distinction, and it is that humanity which

gains distinction for any who outlive their age. It is this spirit of

love and sympathy which evinces the kindred that all men recognize; it

is this spirit that reaches the truth of nature below all changes,

custom and convention; below all colors which climates paint upon the

skin; it is this which outlives all facts and fashions, and abides

forever in the immortal heart. Whoever has this spirit must live;

whoever has it not must die; whoever has this spirit must live, defiled

though he may be with many evils; whoever has it not must die, no matter

how excellent he may be besides; no matter what his brilliancy, his

sagacity, his talent, the generations will outlast them all; will give

them to as deep oblivion as they do the tongues of Babel. The world

cherishes Boccacio, notwithstanding the offences of his tales; so it

likewise preserves Chaucer; Rabelais and old Montaigne continue in

literature despite of their impurities; and to think of Shakspeare dying

would be to conceive the extinction of letters or our race. All these

men are deathless brothers, and Burns is amongst them. His poetry is

thoroughly human; a poetry which reproduces as we read it all the

feelings of our wayward nature; which shows how man was made to be

merry, and how he was made to mourn; which enters the soul on its sunny

or its gloomy side, expands the heart with laughter or chastens it with

melancholy.

In knowledge of man, Burns strikes us with wonder unspeakable, when we

consider the narrow circle in which he lived, and the early age at which

he died. A single song is like a compressed drama; and within the circle

of these songs we have impulses from every stage of life, from the

perturbations of youth to the chill of age. To every shade of sentiment

and affection; to every change and turn of inward experience, to every

oddity and comicality of feeling, he has given a voice of musical and

energetic utterance.

Man, and man directly—man in the play of all his passions, is, with

Burns, the great object of interest. The descriptive and the picturesque

for their own sake have therefore no place in his writings. A picture

with him is never more than the drapery of a passion. The chivalric past

has none of his veneration; and the past, in any form, only kindles him

when he associates it with the movements of humanity or the struggles of

liberty. The conflicts of feudalism, the rivalry of dynasties, the

gorgeous falsehoods of departed ages, had no enchantment to warm his

fancy or to rule his pen. In this respect, the writings of Scott and

those of Burns are as opposite as are their characters. The brilliancy

of descriptive narrative glows over the poems of Scott—the strong life

of passion throbs in those of Burns. Even in the record of a tour this

contrast is observable. Scott has the eye of an antiquarian and a

map-maker united. Burns glances along as if space were a tiresome

obstruction to his fiery nature: Scott surveys every baronial castle,

and notes all its chronicles. Burns raves with inspired fury on the

field where the invader was struck down, where “tyrants fell in every

blow.” Scott imagined that genius owed homage to rank; Burns gave the

obligation another version, and conceived that rank should do reverence

to genius. Peasant-born, he was too proud in his humanity to covet

titles: almost morbidly jealous of individual independence, hereditary

aristocracy was not to him poetically impressive; its outward glare

provoked his scorn, and its deeper abuses sickened his imagination.

Two most _human_ qualities in all poets are pre-eminent in Burns—I mean

pathos and humor.