CHAPTER III.

Oh! wert thou still what once I fondly deemed,

All that thy mien expressed, thy spirit seemed,

My love had been devotion, till in death

Thy name had trembled on my latest breath.

* * * * * * *

Had'st thou but died ere yet dishonor's cloud

O'er that young heart had gathered as a shroud,

I then had mourned thee proudly, and my grief

In its own loftiness had found relief;

A noble sorrow cherished to the last,

When every meaner wo had long been past.

Yes, let affection weep, no common tear

She sheds when bending o'er an honored bier.

Let nature mourn the dead--a grief like this,

To pangs that rend _my_ bosom had been bliss.

MRS. HEMANS.

Florence had been very ill, and a week after the scene in our last

chapter Mr. Hurst removed her down to his old mansion-house on the

Long Island shore. There the associations were less painful than at

his town residence, where the sweetest years of her life had been

spent in unrestrained association with the man who had so cruelly

deceived her. The old mansion-house had witnessed only one fatal scene

in the drama of her love; and here she consented to remain. Her father

divided his time between her and the unpleasant duties that called him

to town; and more than once he was forced to endure the presence of

the man whose very look was poison to him, but after the distressing

night when the error of his daughter was first made known, the noble

old merchant had regained all his usual dignified calmness. No bursts

of passion marked his interviews with the wretch who had wounded him,

but firm and resolute he proceeded, step by step, in the course that

his reason and will had at first deliberately marked out. In three

days time Jameson was to depart for Europe, and forever. It was

singular what power the merchant had obtained over his own strong

passions; always grave and courteous, his demeanor had changed in

nothing, save that toward his child there was more delicacy, more

tender solicitude than she had ever received from him before, even in

the days of her infancy. It seemed that in forgiving her fault, he had

unlocked some hidden fount of tenderness which bedewed and softened

his whole nature. Florence, who had always felt a little awe of her

father when no act of hers existed to excite it, now that she had

given him deep cause of offence, had learned to watch for his coming

as the young bird waits for the parent which is to bring him food. One

night, it was just before sunset, Mr. Hurst entered his daughter's

chamber with a handful of heliotrope, tea-roses, and cape-jesamines,

which he had just gathered. In his tender anxiety to relieve the

sadness that preyed upon her, he remembered her passion for these

particular flowers, and had spent half an hour in searching them out

from the wilderness of plants that filled a conservatory in one wing

of the building. The chamber where Florence sat was the one in which

she had put on her wedding garments scarcely three weeks before. The

old ebony mirror, with the fantastic and dark tracery of its frame,

hung directly before her, and from its depth gleamed out a face so

changed that it might well have startled one who had been proud of its

bloom and radiance one little month before.

The window was open, as it had been that day, and across it fell the

old apple-tree, with the fruit just setting along its thickly-leaved

boughs, and a few over-ripe blossoms yielding their petals to every

gush of air that came over them. These leaves, now almost snow-white,

had swept, one by one, into the chamber, settling upon the chair which

Florence occupied, upon her muslin wrapper, and flaking, as with snow,

the glossy disorder of her hair. With a sort of mournful apathy she

felt these broken blossoms falling around her, remembering, oh, how

keenly, their rosy freshness, when she had selected them as a bridal

ornament. She remembered, too, the single glimpse which that old

mirror had given of her lover--that one prophetic glimpse which had

been enough to startle, but not enough to save her.

Florence was filled with these miserable reminiscences when her father

entered the chamber. She greeted him with a wan smile, that told her

anxiety to appear less wretched than she really was in his presence.

He came close up to her where she sat, and stooping to kiss her

forehead, laid the blossoms he had brought in her lap.

Mr. Hurst little knew how powerful were the associations those

delicate flowers would excite. The moment their fragrance arose around

her Florence began to shudder, and turning her face away with an

expression of sudden pain, swept them to the floor.

"Take them away, oh take them away!" she said. "That evening their

breath was around me while I sat listening to--take them out of the

room, I cannot endure their sweetness."

Mr. Hurst strove to soothe the wild excitement which his unfortunate

flowers had occasioned. It was a touching sight--that proud man, so

cruelly wronged by his daughter, and yet bending the natural reserve

of his nature into every endearing form, in order to convince her how

deep was his love, how true his forgiveness.

"My Florence, try to conquer this keen sensitiveness. Strive, dear

child, to think of these things as if they had not been!"

"Oh, if I had the power!" cried Florence.

"And do you love this man yet?" said Mr. Hurst, almost sternly.

"Father," was the reply, and Florence met her father's gaze with

sorrowful eyes, "I am mourning for the love that has been cast away--I

pine for some action which may restore my own self-respect. The very

thought of this man as I know him makes me shudder--but the

remembrance of what I believed him to be makes me weep. Then the trial

of this meeting!"

"But you shall not see him again unless you desire it."

"True, true--but I will see him if he wishes it. He shall not think

that I am coerced or influenced. It is due to myself, to you, my

father, that he leaves this country knowing how thorough is my

self-reproach for the past, and my wish that his absence may be

eternal. I believe that I do really wish it, but see how my poor frame

is shaken! I must have more strength or my heart will be unstable

like-wise." Florence held up her clasped hands that were trembling

like leaves in the autumn wind as she spoke.

"Florence," said Mr. Hurst gently, "it is not by shrinking from

painful associations that we conquer them."

"But see how weak I am! and all from the breath of those poor

flowers!"

"There is a source from which strength may be obtained."

"My pride, oh, father, that may do to shield me from the world's

scorn, but it avails nothing with my own heart."

"But prayer, Florence, prayer to Almighty God the Infinite. I remember

how sweet it was when you were a little child kneeling by your

mother's lap with your tiny hands uplifted to Heaven. Surely you have

not forgotten to pray, my child?"

"Alas! in this wild passion I have forgotten every thing--my duty to

you--the very heaven where my mother is an angel!" cried Florence, and

for the first time in many days she began to weep.

Mr. Hurst took her hands in his, tears stood in his proud eyes, and

his firm lips trembled with tender emotions. "My child," he said,

pointing to a velvet easy-chair that stood in the chamber, "kneel down

by your mother's empty chair and pray even as when you were a little

child!"

Florence watched her father as he went out through her blinding tears.

The door closed after him, a mist swam through the room, she moved

toward the empty chair, and through the dim cloud which her tears

created its crimson cushions glowed brightly, as if tinged with gold.

A gleam of sunshine had struck them through a half open shutter, but

it seemed to her that the sudden light came directly from the throne

of Heaven.

The next moment Florence fell upon her knees before the chair, her

face was buried in the cushions, broken words and swelling sobs filled

the room; over her fell that golden sunbeam, like a flaming arrow sent

from the Throne of Mercy to pierce her heart and warm it at the same

moment.

The sun went down. Slowly and quietly that wandering beam mingled with

the thousand rays that streamed from the west, spreading around the

young suppliant like a luminous veil; there was blended with the gold

hues of rich crimson and purple, that flashed over the ebony mirror,

wove themselves in a gorgeous haze among the snow-white curtains of

the bed, and fell in drops of dusky yellow over the floor and among

the waving apple-boughs.

But Florence felt nothing of this, her heart was dark, her frame shook

with sobs, and the agony of her voice was smothered in the cushions

where her face lay buried.

It came at last, that still small voice that follows the whirlwind

and the storm. In the hush of night it came as snow-flakes fall from

the heavens. And now Florence lay upon the cushions of her mother's

chair motionless, and calm peace was in her heart, and a smile of

ineffable sweetness lay upon her lips. It might have been minutes, it

might have been hours for any thing that the young suppliant knew of

the lapse of time since she had crept to her mother's chair. When she

arose the moonlight was streaming over her through an open window.

Never did those pale beams fall upon features so changed. A

_spirituelle_ loveliness beamed over them, soft and holy as the

moonlight that revealed it.

Some time after midnight Mr. Hurst went into his daughter's chamber,

for anxiety had kept him up, and the entire stillness terrified him.

She was lying upon the bed, half veiled by the muslin curtains,

breathing tranquilly as an infant in its mother's bosom. During many

nights she had not slept, but sweet was her slumber now; the flowers

inhaling the dew beneath the window did not seem more delicate and

placid.

It was daylight when Florence awoke. A few rosy streaks were in the

sky, and lay reflected upon the water like threads of crimson broken

by the tide. Out to sea, a little beyond the opening of the cove, was

a large vessel with her sails furled, and evidently lying-to. Near a

curve of the shore she saw a boat with half a dozen men lolling

sleepily in the bow. Her heart beat quick with a presentiment of some

approaching event. She felt certain that the boat and the distant ship

were in some way connected with herself. But the thought hardly had

time to flash through her brain when a commotion in the old

apple-tree--a shaking of the limbs and tumultuous rustling of the

leaves--made her start and turn that way. The largest bough was that

instant spurned aside, and Jameson sprung through the open window. He

was out of breath and seemed greatly excited.

"Florence, my wife, come with me!" he said, casting his arms around

her shrinking form. "I will not go without you. See the vessel is

yonder--a boat is on the shore. In half an hour we can be away from

your father, alone, without hindrance to our love. Come, Florence,

come with your husband!"

Ah, but for the strength which Florence had sought from above, where

would she have been then. For a moment her heart did turn traitor; for

one single instant there came upon her cheek a crimson flush, and in

her eyes something that made Jameson's heart leap with exultation; but

it passed away, Florence broke from the arms that were cast around

her, and drew back toward the door.

"Leave me!" she said, mildly, but with firmness, "I am not your

wife--will never be!"

"You hate me, then!" exclaimed Jameson, goaded by her manner. "You

still believe what my enemies say against me."

"No, I hate no one--I could not hate you!"

"But you love me no longer."

Florence turned very pale, but still she was firm. "It matters nothing

if I love or hate now," she said, "henceforth, forever and forever,

you and I are strangers. If you have come here in hopes of taking me

from my father, go before he learns any thing of your visit; a longer

stay can only bring evil."

Again Jameson cast himself at her feet; again his masterly eloquence

was put forth to melt, to subdue, even to over-awe that fair girl; but

all that he could wring from her was bitter tears--all that he

accomplished was a renewal of anguish that prayer had hardly

conquered.

"And you will not go! You cast me off forever!" he exclaimed, starting

up with a fierce gesture and an expression of the eye that made her

shrink back.

"I cannot go--I will not go!" she said, in a low voice. "You have

already taught me how terrible a thing is remorse. Leave me in peace,

if you would not see me die!"

"And this is your final answer!" cried Jameson, and his eyes flashed

with fury.

"I can give no other!"

"Then farewell, and the curse of my ruin rest with you," he cried in

desperation, and wringing her hands fiercely in his, he cleared the

window with a bound, and letting himself down by the apple-tree,

disappeared.

The tempter was gone; Florence was left alone, her head reeling with

pain, her heart aching within her bosom. Jameson's last words had

fallen upon her heart like fire; what if this refusal to share his

fate had confirmed him in evil? What if she, by partaking of his

fortunes, might have won him to an honorable and just life. These

thoughts were agony to her, and left no room for calm reflection, or

she would have known that no _human_ influence can reclaim a base

nature; one fault may be redeemed, nay, many faults that spring from

the heat of passion or the recklessness of youth, but habitual

hypocrisy, craft, falsehood--what female heart ever opposed its love

and truth to vices like these, without being crushed in the endeavor

to save.

But Florence could not reason then. Her soul was affrighted by the

curse that had been hurled upon it. Half frantic with these new themes

of torture, she left her room, and hurried down to the cove just in

time to see the boat which contained Jameson half way to the vessel.

Actuated only by a wild desire to see him depart, she threaded her way

through the oak grove, unmindful of the dew, of her thin raiment, or

of the morning wind that tossed her curls about as she hurried on. And

now she stood upon the outer point of the shore, where it jutted

inward at the mouth of the cove and commanded a broad view of the

ocean. High trees were around her as she stood upon the shelving bank,

her white garments streaming in the breeze, her wild eyes gazing upon

the vessel as it wheeled slowly round and made for the open ocean.

Florence remained motionless where she stood so long as a shadow of

the vessel fluttered in sight. When it was lost in the horizon she

turned slowly and walked toward the house, weary as one who returns

from a toilsome pilgrimage. It was days and weeks before she came

forth again.

Years went by--many, many years, and yet that outward bound vessel was

never heard of again. How she perished, or when, no man can tell. The

last ever seen of her to mortal knowledge was when Florence Hurst

stood alone upon the sea-shore, conscious that she was right, yet

filled with bitter anguish as she watched its departure to that

far-off shore from which no traveler returns.

And Florence came forth in the world again more attractive than ever;

a spiritual loveliness, softened without diminishing the brilliancy of

her beauty, and with every feminine grace she had added that of a meek

and contrite spirit. Did she wed again? We answer, No. Many a lofty

intellect and noble heart bent in homage to hers; but Florence lived

only for her father--the great and good man, who was just as well as

proud, and nobly won his child from her error by delicate tenderness,

such as he had never lavished upon her faultless youth, when many a

man, to shield his weaker pride, would have driven her by anger and

upbraiding from his heart, and thus have kindled her warm impulses

into defiance and ruin.

SUMMER.

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

She comes with soft and scented breath,

From fragrant southern lands,

And wakens from their trance of death

The flowers, and breaks the hands

Of fettered streams, that burst away

With joyous laugh and song,

And shout and leap like boys at play

As home from school they throng.

From sunny climes the breeze set free

Comes with an angel strain

Athwart the blue and sparkling sea

To visit us again.

The low of herds is on the gale,

The leaf is on the tree,

And cloud-winged barks in silence sail

With stately majesty

Along the blue and bending sky,

Like joyous living things,

And rainbow-tinted birds flit by

With swiftly glancing wings:

O summer, summer! joyful time!

Singing a gentle strain,

Thou comest from a warmer clime

To visit us again!

DESCRIPTION OF A VISIT TO NIAGARA.

BY PROFESSOR JAMES MOFFAT.

Through the dark night urging our rapid way

We listen to a low, continued sound,

As of a distant drum calling to arms.

It grows with our approach; lulls with the breeze,

And swells again into a bolder note,

Like an AEolian harp of giant string.

Again, the tone is changed, and a fierce roar

Of tumult rises from the trembling earth,

As if the imprisoned spirits of the deep

Had found a vent for that rebellious shout,

Which from ten thousand lips ascends to Heaven.

Voice not to be mistaken--even he

Upon whose ear it comes for the first time

Claims it as known, and bringing to his heart

The boldest fancies of his early days--

Thy thunders, dread Niagara, day and night,

Which vary not their ever-during peal.

Burning impatience, not to be controlled,

Has hurried on my steps until I stand

Within the breath of thy descending wave.

The night conceals thy wonders, but enrobes

Thee with a grandeur, wild, mysterious,

As with thy spray around me, and the wind

Which rushes upward from thy dark abyss,

And thy deep organ pealing in my ear,

Thy mass is all unseen, and I behold

Only the ghost-like whiteness of thy foam.

The morning comes. The clouds have disappeared,

And the clear silver of the eastern sky

Gives promise of a glowing summer sun.

In the fresh dawn, I hasten to the rock

Which overhangs the ever-boiling deep,

And all the wonders of Niagara

Are spread before me--not the simple dash

Of falling waters, which the fancy drew,

But myriad forms of beautiful and grand

Press on the senses and o'erwhelm the mind.

Yon bright, broad waters on their channel sleep

As if they dreamed of the most peaceful flow

To the far-distant sea. But now their course

Accelerates on their inclining path,

Though still 'tis with the appearance of a calm

And dignified reluctance, and the wave

Remains unbroken, till the inward force

Increasingly silently, like that which breaks

The short laborious quiet of the insane,

Bursts all restraint, and the wild waters, tossed

In fiercest tumult, uncontrollable,

Menace all life within their giant grasp;

Leaping and raging in their frantic glee,

Dashing their spray aloft, as on they rush

In wild confusion to the dreadful steep.

An instant on the verge they seem to pause,

As if, even in their frenzy, such a gulf

Were horrible, then slowly bending down,

Plunge headlong where the never-ceasing roar

Ascends, and the revolving clouds of spray,

Forever during yet forever new.

The sun appears. And, straightway, on the cloud

Which veils the struggles of the fallen wave

In everlasting secrecy, and wafts

Away, like smoke of incense, up to Heaven,

Beams forth the radiant diadem of light,

Brilliant and fixed amid the moving mass;

And beauty comes to deck the glorious scene.

For as the horizontal sunbeams rest

Upon the deep blue summit, or unfold

The varying hues of green, that pass away

Into the white of the descending foam,

So colors of the loveliest rainbow dye

Tinge the bright wave, nor lessen aught its pride,

Now joyous companies of fair and young

Come lightly forth, with voice of social glee,

But, one by one, as they approach the brink,

A change comes over them. The noisy laugh

Is hushed, the step is soft and reverent,

And the light jest is quenched in solemn thought--

Yea, dull must be his brain and cold his heart

To all the sacred influences that spring

From grandeur and from beauty, who can gaze,

For the first time, on the descending flood

Without restraint upon the flippant tongue.

If such the reverence Great Invisible,

Attendant on one of thy lesser works,

What dread must overwhelm us when the eye

Is opened to the glories of thyself,

Who sway'st the moving universe and holdst

The "waters in the hollow of thy hand."

SONNET.

BY CAROLINE F. ORNE.

There have been tones of cheer, and voices gay,

And careless laughter ringing lightly by,

And I have listened to wit's mirthful play,

And sought to smile at each light fantasy.

But ah, there was a voice more deep and clear,

That I alone might hear of all the throng,

In softest cadence falling on my ear

Like a sweet undertone amid the song.

And then I longed for this calm hour of night,

That undisturbed by any voice or sound,

My spirit from all meaner objects free

Might soar unchecked in its far upward flight,

And by no cord, no heavy fetter bound,

Scorning all space and distance, hold commune with thee.

AUNT MABLE'S LOVE STORY.

BY SUSAN PINDAR.

"How heartily sick I am of these love stories!" exclaimed Kate Lee, as

she impatiently threw aside the last magazine; "they are all flat,

stale, and unprofitable; every one begins with a _soiree_ and ends

with a wedding. I'm sure there is not one word of truth in any of

them."

"Rather a sweeping condemnation to be given by a girl of seventeen,"

answered Aunt Mabel, looking up with a quiet smile; "when I was your

age, Kate, no romance was too extravagant, no incident too improbable

for my belief. Every young heart has its love-dream; and you too, my

merry Kate, must sooner or later yield to such an influence."

"Why, Aunt Mable, who would have ever dreamed of your advocating love

stories! You, so staid, so grave and kindly to all; your affections

seem so universally diffused among us, that I never can imagine them

to have been monopolized by one. Beside, I thought as you were

never--" Kate paused, and Aunt Mabel continued the sentence.

"I never married, you would say, Kate, and thus it follows that I

never loved. Well, perhaps not; I may be, as you think, an exception;

at least I am not going to trouble you with antiquated love passages,

that, like old faded pictures, require a good deal of varnishing to be

at all attractive. But, I confess, I like not to hear so young a girl

ridiculing what is, despite the sickly sentiment that so often

obscures it, the purest and noblest evidence of our higher nature."

"Oh, you don't understand me, Aunt Mable! I laugh at the absurdity of

the stories. Look at this, for instance, where a gentleman falls in

love with a shadow. Now I see no substantial _foundation_ for such an

extravagant passion as that. Here is another, who is equally smitten

with a pair of French gaiters. Now I don't pretend to be over

sensible, but I do not think such things at all natural, or likely to

occur; and if they did, I should look upon the parties concerned as

little less than simpletons. But a real, true-hearted love story, such

as 'Edith Pemberton,' or Mrs. Hall's 'Women's Trials,' those I _do_

like, and I sympathize so strongly with the heroines that I long to be

assured the incidents are true. If I could only hear one _true_ love

story--something that I knew had really occurred--then it would serve

as a kind of text for all the rest. Oh! how I long to hear a real

heart-story of actual life!"

Kate grew quite enthusiastic, and Aunt Mable, after pausing a few

minutes, while a troubled smile crossed her face, said, "Well, Kate,

_I_ will tell you a love story of real life, the truth of which I can

vouch for, since I knew the parties well. You will believe me, I know,

Kate, without requiring actual name and date for every occurrence.

There are no extravagant incidents in this 'owre true tale,' but it is

a story of the heart, and such a one, I believe, you want to hear."

Kate's eyes beamed with pleasure, as kissing her aunt's brow, and

gratefully ejaculating "dear, kind Aunt Mable!" she drew a low ottoman

to her aunt's side, and seated herself with her head on her hand, and

her blooming face upturned with an expression of anticipated

enjoyment. I wish you could have seen Aunt Mable, as she sat in the

soft twilight of that summer evening, smiling fondly on the young,

bright girl at her side. You would have loved her, as did every one

who came within the sphere of her gentle influence; and yet she did

not possess the wondrous charm of lingering loveliness, that, like the

fainting perfume of a withered flower, awakens mingled emotions of

tenderness and regret. No, Aunt Mabel could never have been beautiful;

and yet, as she sat in her quiet, silver-gray silk gown, and kerchief

of the sheerest muslin pinned neatly over the bosom, there was an air

of graceful, lady-like ease about her, far removed from the primness

of old-maidism. Her features were high, and finely cut, you would have

called her proud and stern, with a tinge of sarcasm lurking upon the

lip, but for her full, dark-gray eyes, so lustrous, so ineffably sweet

in their deep, soul-beaming tenderness, that they seemed scarcely to

belong to a face so worn and faded; indeed, they did not seem in

keeping with the silver-threaded hair so smoothly parted from the low,

broad brow, and put away so carefully beneath a small cap, whose

delicate lace, and rich, white satin, were the only articles of dress

in which Aunt Mabel was a little fastidious. She kept her sewing in

her hand as she commenced her story, and stitched away most

industriously at first, but gradually as she proceeded the work fell

upon her lap, and she seemed to be lost in abstracted recollections,

speaking as though impelled by some uncontrollable impulse to recall

the events long since passed away.

"Many years since," said Aunt Mable, in a calm, soft tone, without

having at all the air of one about telling a story, "many years since,

there lived in one of the smaller cities in our state, a lady named

Lynn. She was a widow, and eked out a very small income by taking a

few families to board. Mrs. Lynn had one only child, a daughter, who

was her pride and treasure, the idol of her affections. As a child

Jane Lynn was shy and timid, with little of the gayety and

thoughtlessness of childhood. She disliked rude plays, and

instinctively shrunk from the lively companions of her own age, to

seek the society of those much older and graver than herself. Her

schoolmates nicknamed her the 'little old maid;' and as she grew older

the title did not seem inappropriate. At school her superiority of

intellect was manifest, and when she entered society the timid

reserve of her manner was attributed to pride, while her acquaintance

thought she considered them her inferiors."

"This, however, was far from the truth. Jane felt that she was not

popular in society, and it grieved her, yet she strove in vain to

assimilate with those around her, to feel and act as they did, and to

be like them, admired and loved. But the narrow circle in which she

moved was not at all calculated to appreciate or draw forth her talent

or character. With a heart filled with all womanly tenderness and

gentle sympathies, a mind stored with romance, and full of restless

longings for the beautiful and true, possessed of fine tastes that

only waited cultivation to ripen into talent, Jane found herself

thrown among those who neither understood nor sympathized with her.

Her mother idolized her, but Jane felt that had she been far different

from what she was, her mother's love had been the same; and though she

returned her parent's affection with all the warmth of her nature,

there was ever within her heart a restless yearning for something

beyond. Immersed in a narrow routine of daily duties, compelled to

practice the most rigid economy, and to lend her every thought and

moment to the assistance of her mother, Jane had little time for the

gratification of those tastes that formed her sole enjoyment. 'It is

the perpetual recurrence of the little that crushes the romance of

life,' says Bulwer; and the experience of every day justifies the

truth of his remark. Jane felt herself, as year after year crept by,

becoming grave and silent. She knew that in her circumstances it was

best that the commonplaces of every-day life should be sufficient for

her, but she grieved as each day she felt the bright hues of early

enthusiasm fading out and giving place to the cold gray tint of

reality."

"With her pure sense of the beautiful, Jane felt acutely the lack of

those personal charms that seem to win a way to every heart. By those

who loved her, (and the few who knew her well did love her dearly,)

she was called at times beautiful, but a casual observer would never

dream of bestowing upon the slight, frail creature who timidly shrunk

from notice, any more flattering epithet than 'rather a pretty girl,'

while those who admired only the rosy beauty of physical perfection

pronounced her decidedly plain."

"Jane Lynn had entered her twenty-second summer when her mother's

household was increased by the arrival of a new inmate. Everard Morris

was a man of good fortune, gentlemanly, quiet, and a bachelor.

Possessed of very tender feelings and ardent temperament, he had seen

his thirty-seventh birth-day, and was still free. He had known Jane

slightly before his introduction to her home, and he soon evinced a

deep and tender interest in her welfare. Her character was a new study

for him, and he delighted in calling forth all the latent enthusiasm

of her nature. He it was who awakened the slumbering fires of

sentiment, and insisted on her cultivating tastes too lovely to be

possessed in vain; and when she frankly told him that the refinement

of taste created restless yearnings for pursuits to her unattainable,

he spoke of a happier future, when her life should be spent amid the

employments she loved. Ere many months had elapsed his feelings

deepened into passionate tenderness, and he avowed himself a lover.

Jane's emotions were mixed and tumultuous as she listened to his

fervent expressions; she reproached herself with ingratitude in not

returning his love. She felt toward him a grateful affection, for to

him she owed all the real happiness her secluded life had known; but

he did not realize her ideal, he admired and was proud of her talents,

but he did not sympathize with her tastes."

"Months sped away and seemed to bring to him an increase of passionate

tenderness. Every word and action spoke his deep devotion. Jane could

not remain insensible to such affection; the love she had sighed for

was hers at last--and it is the happiness of a loving nature to know

that it makes the happiness of another. Jane's esteem gradually

deepened in tone and character until it became a faithful, trusting

love. She felt no fear for the future, because she knew her affection

had none of the romance that she had learned to mistrust, even while

it enchanted her imagination. She saw failings and peculiarities in

her lover, but with true womanly gentleness she forbore with and

concealed them. She believed him when he said he would shield and

guard her from every ill; and her grateful heart sought innumerable

ways to express her appreciating tenderness."

"Mrs. Lynn saw what was passing, and was happy, for Mr. Morris had been

to her a friend and benefactor. And Jane was happy in the

consciousness of being beloved, yet had she much to bear. Her want of

beauty was, as I have said, a source of regret to her, and she was

made unhappy by finding that Everard Morris was dissatisfied with her

appearance. She thought, in the true spirit of romance, that the

beloved were always lovely; but Mr. Morris frequently expressed his

dissatisfaction that nature had not made her as beautiful as she was

good. I will not pause to discuss the delicacy of this and many other

observations that caused poor Jane many secret tears, and sometimes

roused even her gentle spirit to indignation; but affection always

conquered her pride, as her lover still continued to give evidence of

devotion."

"And thus years passed on, the happy future promised to Jane seemed

ever to recede; and slowly the conviction forced itself on her mind

that he whom she had trusted so implicitly was selfish and

vacillating, generous from impulse, selfish from calculation; but he

still seemed to love her, and she clung to him because having been so

long accustomed to his devotedness, she shrunk from being again alone.

In the mean season Mrs. Lynn's health became impaired, and Jane's

duties were more arduous than ever. Morris saw her cheek grow pale,

and her step languid under the pressure of mental and bodily fatigue;

he knew she suffered, and yet, while he assisted them in many ways, he

forbore to make the only proposition that could have secured happiness

to her he pretended to love. His conduct preyed upon the mind of

Jane, for she saw that the novelty of his attachment was over. He had

seen her daily for four years, and while she was really essential to

his happiness, he imagined because the uncertainty of early passion

was past, that his love was waning, and thought it would be unjust to

offer her his hand without his whole heart, forgetting the

protestations of former days, and regardless of her wasted feelings.

This is unnatural and inconsistent you will say, but it is true."

"Four years had passed since Everard Morris first became an inmate of

Mrs. Lynn's, and Jane had learned to doubt his love. 'Hope deferred

maketh the heart sick;' and she felt that the only way to acquire

peace was to crush the affection she had so carefully nourished when

she was taught to believe it essential to his happiness. She could not

turn to another; like the slender vine that has been tenderly trained

about some sturdy plant, and whose tendrils cannot readily clasp

another when its first support is removed, so her affections still

longed for him who first awoke them, and to whom they had clung so

long. But she never reproached him; her manner was gentle, but

reserved; she neither sought nor avoided him; and he flattered himself

that her affection, like his own passionate love, had nearly burnt

itself out, yet he had by no means given her entirely up; he would

look about awhile, and at some future day, perhaps, might make her his

wife."

"While affairs were in this state, business called Mr. Morris into a

distant city; he corresponded with Jane occasionally, but his letters

breathed none of the tenderness of former days; and Jane was glad they

did not, for she felt that he had wronged her, and she shrunk from

avowals that she could no longer trust."

"Everard Morris was gone six months; he returned, bringing with him a

very young and beautiful bride. He brought his wife to call on his old

friends, Mrs. Lynn and her daughter. Jane received them with composure

and gentle politeness. Mrs. Morris was delighted with her kindness and

lady-like manners. She declared they should be intimate friends; but

when they were gone, and Mrs. Lynn, turning in surprise to her

daughter, poured forth a torrent of indignant inquiries. Jane threw

herself on her mother's bosom, and with a passionate burst of weeping,

besought her never again to mention the past. And it never was alluded

to again between them; but both Jane and her mother had to parry the

inquiries of their acquaintance, all of whom believed Mr. Morris and

Jane were engaged. This was the severest trial of all, but they bore

up bravely, and none who looked on the quiet Jane ever dreamed of the

bitter ashes of wasted affection that laid heavy on her heart."

"Mr. and Mrs. Morris settled near the Lynns, and visited very

frequently; the young wife professed an ardent attachment to Jane, and

sought her society constantly, while Jane instinctively shrunk more

and more within herself. She saw with painful regret that Morris

seemed to find his happiness at their fireside rather than his own. He

had been captivated by the freshness and beauty of his young wife,

who, schooled by a designing mother, had flattered him by her evident

preference; he had, to use an old and coarse adage, 'married in haste

to repent at leisure;' and now that the first novelty of his position

had worn off, his feelings returned with renewed warmth to the earlier

object of his attachment. Delicacy toward her daughter prevented Mrs.

Lynn from treating him with the indignation she felt; and Jane, calm

and self-possessed, seemed to have overcome every feeling of the past.

The consciousness of right upheld her; she had not given her affection

unsought; he had plead for it passionately, earnestly, else had she

never lavished the hoarded tenderness of years on one so different

from her own ideal; but that tenderness once poured forth, could never

more return to her; the fountain of the heart was dried, henceforth

she lived but in the past."

"Mr. and Mrs. Morris were an ill-assorted couple; she, gay, volatile,

possessing little affection for her husband, and, what was in his eyes

even worse, no respect for his opinions, which he always considered as

infallible. As their family increased, their differences augmented.

The badly regulated household of a careless wife and mother was

intolerable to the methodical habits of the bachelor husband; and

while the wife sought for Jane to condole with her--though she

neglected her advice--the husband found his greatest enjoyment at his

old bachelor home, and once so far forgot himself as to express to

Jane his regret at the step he had taken, and declared he deserved his

punishment. Jane made no reply, but ever after avoided all opportunity

for such expressions."

"In the meantime Mrs. Lynn's health declined, and they retired to a

smaller dwelling, where Jane devoted herself to her mother, and

increased their small income by the arduous duties of daily governess.

Her cheek paled, and her eye grew dim beneath the complicated trials

of her situation; and there were moments when visions of the bright

future once promised rose up as if in mockery of the dreary present;

hope is the parent of disappointment, and the vista of happiness once

opened to her view made the succeeding gloom still deeper. But she did

not repine; upheld by her devotedness to her mother, she guarded her

tenderly until her death, which occurred five years after the marriage

of Mr. Morris."

"It is needless to detail the circumstances which ended at length in a

separation between Mr. Morris and his wife--the latter returned to her

home, and the former went abroad, having placed his children at

school, and besought Jane to watch over them. Eighteen months

subsequent to the death of Mrs. Lynn, a distant and unknown relative

died, bequeathing a handsome property to Mrs. Lynn, or her

descendants. This event relieved Jane from the necessity of toil, but

it came too late to minister to her happiness in the degree that once

it might have done. She was care-worn and spirit-broken; the every-day

trials of her life had cooled her enthusiasm and blunted her keen

enjoyment of the beautiful she had bent her mind to the minor duties

that formed her routine of existence, until it could no longer soar

toward the elevation it once desired to reach."

"Three years from his departure Everard Morris returned home to die.

And now he became fully conscious of the wrong he had done to her he

once professed to love. His mind seemed to have expanded beneath the

influence of travel, he was no longer the mere man of business with no

real taste for the beautiful save in the physical development of

animal life. He had thought of all the past, and the knowledge of what

was, and might have been, filled his soul with bitterness. He died,

and in a long and earnest appeal for forgiveness he besought Jane to

be the guardian of his children--his wife he never named. In three

months after Mrs. Morris married again, and went to the West, without

a word of inquiry or affection to her children."

"Need I say how willingly Jane Lynn accepted the charge bequeathed to

her, and how she was at last blessed in the love of those who from

infancy had regarded her as a more than mother."

There was a slight tremulousness in Aunt Mabel's voice as she paused,

and Kate, looking up with her eyes filled with tears, threw herself

upon her aunt's bosom, exclaiming,

"Dearest, best Aunt Mabel, you are loved truly, fondly by us all! Ah,

I knew you were telling your own story, and--" but Aunt Mabel gently

placed her hand upon the young girl's lips, and while she pressed a

kiss upon her brow, said, in her usual calm, soft tone,

"It is a true story, my love, be the actors who they may; there is no

exaggerated incident in it to invest it with peculiar interest; but I

want you to know that the subtle influences of affection are ever busy

about us; and however tame and commonplace the routine of life may be,

yet believe, Kate," added Aunt Mable, with a saddened smile, "each

heart has its mystery, and who may reveal it."

TO ERATO.

BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.

Henceforth let Grief forget her pain,

And Melancholy cease to sigh;

And Hope no longer gaze in vain

With weary, longing eye,

Since Love, dear Love, hath made again

A summer in this winter sky--

Oh, may the flowers he brings to-day

In beauty bloom, nor pass away.

Sweet one, fond heart, thine eyes are bright,

And full of stars as is the heaven,

Pure pleiads of the soul, whose light

From deepest founts of Truth is given--

Oh let them shine upon my night,

And though my life be tempest-driven,

The leaping billows of its sea

Shall clasp a thousand forms of thee.

Thy soul in trembling tones conveyed

Melts like the morning song of birds,

Or like a mellow paen played

By angels on celestial chords;--

And oh, thy lips were only made

For dropping love's delicious words:--

Then pour thy spirit into mine

Until my soul be drowned with thine.

The pilgrim of the desert plain

Not more desires the spring denied,

Not more the vexed and midnight main

Calls for the mistress of its tide,

Not more the burning earth for rain,

Than I for thee, my own _soul's_ bride--

Then pour, oh pour upon my heart

The love that never shall depart!

THE LABORER'S COMPANIONS.

BY GEORGE S. BURLEIGH.

While pleasant care my yielding soil receives,

Other delights the open soul may find;

On the high bough the daring hang-bird weaves

Her cunning cradle, rocking in the wind;

The arrowy swallow builds, beneath the eves,

Her clay-walled grotto, with soft feathers lined;

The dull-red robin, under sheltering leaves,

Her bowl-like nest to sturdy limbs doth bind;

And many songsters, worth a name in song,

Plain, _homely_ birds my boy-love sanctified,

On hedge and tree and grassy bog, prolong

Sweet loves and cares, in carols sweetly plied;

In such dear strains their simple natures gush

That through my heart at once all tear-blest memories rush.

THE ENCHANTED KNIGHT.

BY J. BAYARD TAYLOR.

In the solemn night, when the soul receives

The dreams it has sighed for long,

I mused o'er the charmed, romantic leaves

Of a book of German Song.

From stately towers, I saw the lords

Ride out to the feudal fray;

I heard the ring of meeting swords

And the Minnesinger's lay!

And, gliding ghost-like through my dream,

Went the Erl-king, with a moan,

Where the wizard willow o'erhung the stream,

And the spectral moonlight shone.

I followed the hero's path, who rode

In harness and helmet bright,

Through a wood where hostile elves abode,

In the glimmering noon of night!

Banner and bugle's call had died

Amid the shadows far,

And a misty stream, from the mountain-side,

Dropped like a silver star.

Thirsting and flushed, from the steed he leapt

And quaffed from his helm unbound;

Then a mystic trance o'er his spirit crept,

And he sank to the elfin ground.

He slept in the ceaseless midnight cold,

By the faery spell possessed,

His head sunk down, and his gray beard rolled

On the rust of his armed breast!

When a mighty storm-wind smote the trees,

And the thunder crashing fell,

He raised the sword from its mould'ring ease

And strove to burst the spell.

And thus may the fiery soul, that rides

Like a knight, to the field of foes,

Drink of the chill world's tempting tides

And sink to a charmed repose.

The warmth of the generous heart of youth

Will die in the frozen breast--

The look of Love and the voice of Truth

Be charmed to a palsied rest!

In vain will the thunder a moment burst

The chill of that torpor's breath;

The slumbering soul shall be wakened first

By the Disenchanter, Death!

KORNER'S SISTER.

BY ELIZABETH J. EAMES.

Close beside the grave of the Soldier-Poet is that of his only sister,

who died of grief for his loss, only surviving him long enough to

sketch his portrait and burial-place. Her last wish was to be laid

near him.

Lovely and gentle girl!

In the spring morning of thy beauty dying--

Dust on each sunny curl,

And on thy brow the grave's deep shadows lying.

Thine is a lowly bed.

But the green oak, whose spreading bough hangs o'er thee,

Shelters the brother's head,

Who went unto his rest a little while before thee.

A perfect love was thine,

Sweet sister! thou hadst made no other

Idol for thy soul's shrine

Save him--thy friend and guide, and only brother.

And not for Lyre and Sword--

His proud resplendant gifts of fame and glory--

Oh! not for _these_ adored

Was he, whose praise thou readst in song and story.

But't was his presence threw,

O'er all thy life, a deep delight and blessing;

And with thy growth it grew,

Strengthening each thought of thy young heart's possessing.

Amid each dear home-scene

That thou and he from childhood trod together,

Thou hadst his arm to lean

Upon, through every change of dark or sunny weather.

And when he passed from Earth,

The rose from thy soft cheek and bright lip faded;

Gloom was on hall and hearth--

A deep voice in thy soul, by sorrow over-shaded.

Joy had gone forth with _him_;

The green Earth lost its spell, and the blue Heaven

Unto thine eye grew dim;

And thou didst pray for Death, as for a rich boon given!

_It came_!--and joy to know,

That from _his_ resting-place _thine_ none would sever,

And blessing God didst go,

Where in his presence thou shouldst dwell forever.

Thou didst but stay to trace

The imaged likeness of the dear departed;

To sketch his burial-place--

Then die, O, sister! fond and faithful hearted.

THE MAN WHO WAS NEVER HUMBUGGED.

BY A. LIMNER.

It was a standing boast with Mr. Wiseacre that he had never been

humbugged in his life. He took the newspapers and read them regularly,

and thus got an inkling of the new and strange things that were ever

transpiring, or said to be transpiring, in the world. But to all he

cried "humbug!" "imposture!" "delusion!" If any one were so bold as to

affirm in his presence a belief in the phenomena of Animal Magnetism,

for instance, he would laugh outright; then expend upon it all sorts

of ridicule, or say that the whole thing was a scandalous trick; and

by way of a finale, wind off thus--

"You never humbug me with these new things. Never catch me in

gull-traps. I've seen the rise and fall of too many wonders in my

time--am too old a bird to be caught with this kind of chaff."

As for Homeopathy, it was treated in a like summary manner. All was

humbug and imposture from beginning to end. If you said--

"But, my dear sir, let me relate what I have myself seen--"

He would interrupt you with--

"Oh! as to seeing, you may see any thing, and yet see nothing after

all. I've seen the wonders of this new medical science over and over

again. There are many extraordinary cures made _in imagination_. Put a

grain of calomel in the Delaware Bay, and salivate a man with a drop

of the water! Is not it ridiculous? Doesn't it bear upon the face of

it the stamp of absurdity. It's all humbug, sir! All humbug from

beginning to end. I know! I've looked into it. I've measured the new

wonder, and know its full dimensions--it's name is 'humbug.'"

You reply.

"Men of great force of mind, and large medical knowledge and

experience, see differently. In the law, _similia similiabus

curanter_, they perceive more than a mere figment of the imagination,

and in the actual results, too well authenticated for dispute,

evidence of a mathematical correctness in medical science never before

attained, and scarcely hoped for by its most ardent devotees."

But he cries,

"Humbug! Humbug! All humbug! I know. I've looked at it. I understand

its worth, and that is--just nothing at all. Talk to me of any thing

else and I'll listen to you--but, for mercy's sake, don't expect me to

swallow at a gulp any thing of this sort, for I can't do it. I'd

rather believe in Animal Magnetism. Why, I saw one of these new lights

in medicine, who was called in to a child in the croup, actually put

two or three little white pellets upon its tongue, no larger than a

pin's head, and go away with as much coolness as if he were not

leaving the poor little sufferer to certain death. 'For Heaven's

sake!' said I, to the parents, 'aint you going to have any thing done

for that child?' 'The doctor has just given it medicine,' they

replied. 'He has done all that is required.' I was so out of patience

with them for being such consummate fools, that I put my hat on and

walked out of the house without saying a word."

"Did the child die?" you ask.

"It happened by the merest chance to escape death. Its constitution

was too strong for the grim destroyer."

"Was nothing else done?" you ask. "No medicines given but homeopathic

powders?"

"No. They persevered to the last."

"The child was well in two or three days I suppose?" you remark.

"Yes," he replies, a little coldly.

"Children are not apt to recover from an attack of croup without

medicine." He forgets himself and answers--

"But I don't believe it was a real case of croup. It couldn't have

been!"

And so Mr. Wiseacre treats almost every thing that makes its

appearance. Not because he understands all about it, but because he

knows nothing about it. It is his very ignorance of a matter that

makes him dogmatic. He knows nothing of the distinction between truth

and the appearances of truth. So fond is he of talking and showing off

his superior intelligence and acumen, that he is never a listener in

any company, unless by a kind of compulsion, and then he rarely hears

any thing in the eagerness he feels to get in his word. Usually he

keeps sensible men silent in hopeless astonishment at the very

boldness of his ignorance.

But Mr. Wiseacre was caught napping once in his life, and that

completely. He was entrapped; not taken in open day, with a fair field

before him. And it would be easy to entrap him at almost any time, and

with almost any humbug, if the game were worth the trouble; for, in

the light of his own mind, he cannot see far. His mental vision is not

particularly clear; else he would not so often cry "humbug," when

wiser men stopped to examine and reflect.

A quiet, thoughtful-looking man once brought to Mr. Wiseacre a letter

of introduction. His name was Redding. The letter mentioned that he

was the discoverer of a wonderful mechanical power, for which he was

about taking out letters patent. What it was, the introductory epistle

did not say, nor did Redding communicate any thing relative to the

nature of the discovery, although asked to do so. There was something

about this man that interested Wiseacre. He bore the marks of a

superior intellect, and his manners commanded respect. As Wiseacre

showed him particular attention, he frequently called in to see him at

his store, and sometimes spent an evening with him at his dwelling.

The more Wiseacre saw of him, and the more he heard him converse, the

higher did he rise in his opinion. At length Redding, in a moment of

confidence, imparted his secret. He had discovered perpetual motion!

This announcement was made after a long and learned disquisition on

mechanical laws, in which the balancing of and the reproduction of

forces, and all that, was opened to the wondering ears of Wiseacre,

who, although he pretended to comprehend every thing clearly, saw it

all only in a very confused light. He knew, in fact, nothing whatever

of mechanical forces. All here was, to him, an untrodden field. His

confidence in Redding, and his consciousness that he was a man of

great intellectual power, took away all doubt as to the correctness of

what he stated. For once he was sure that a great discovery had been

made--that a new truth had dawned upon the world. Of this he was more

than ever satisfied when he was shown the machine itself, in motion,

with its wonderful combinations of mechanical forces, and heard

Redding explain the principle of its action.

"Wonderful! wonderful!" was now exchanged for "Humbug! humbug!" If any

body had told him that some one had discovered perpetual motion, he

would have laughed at him, and cried "humbug!" You couldn't have hired

him even to look at it. But his natural incredulity had been gained

over by a different process. His confidence had first been won by a

specious exterior, his reason captivated by statements and arguments

that seemed like truth, and his senses deceived by appearances. Not

that there was any design to deceive him in particular--he only

happened to be the first included in a large number whose credulity

was to be taxed pretty extensively."

"You will exhibit it, of course?" he said to Redding, after he had

been admitted to a sight of the extraordinary machine.

"This is too insignificant an affair," replied Redding. "It will not

impress the public mind strongly enough. It will not give them a truly

adequate idea of the force attainable by this new motive power. No--I

shall not let the public fully into my secret yet. I expect to reap

from it the largest fortune ever made by any man in this country, and

I shall not run any risks in the outset by a false move. The results

that must follow its right presentation to the public cannot be

calculated. It will entirely supercede steam and water power in mills,

boats, and on railroads, because it will be cheaper by half. But I

need not tell you this, for you have the sagacity to comprehend it all

yourself. You have seen the machine in operation, and you fully

understand the principle upon which it acts."

"How long will it take you to construct such a machine as you think is

required?" asked Wiseacre.

"It could be done in six months if I had the means. But, like all

other great inventors, I am poor. If I could associate with me some

man of capital, I would willingly share with him the profits of my

discovery, which will be, in the end, immense."

"How much money will you need?" asked Wiseacre, already beginning to

burn with a desire for a part of the immense returns.

"Two or three thousand dollars. If I could find any one willing to

invest that moderate sum of money now, I would guarantee to return him

four fold in less than two years, and insure him a hundred thousand

dollars in ten years. But men who have money generally think a bird in

the hand worth ten in the bush; and with them, almost every thing not

actually in possession is looked upon as in the bush."

Mr. Wiseacre sat thoughtful for some moments. Then he asked,

"How much must you have immediately?"

"About five hundred dollars, and at least five hundred dollars a month

until the model is completed."

"Perhaps I might do it," said Wiseacre, after another thoughtful

pause.

"I should be most happy if you could," quickly responded Redding.

"There is no man with whom I had rather share the benefits of this

great discovery than yourself. Whosoever goes into it with me is sure

to make an immense fortune."

Wiseacre no longer hesitated. The five hundred dollars were advanced,

and the new model commenced. As to its progress, and the exact amount

it cost in construction, he was not accurately advised, but one thing

he knew--he had to draw five hundred dollars out of his business every

month; and this he found not always the most convenient operation in

the world.

At length the model was completed. When shown to Wiseacre, it did not

seem to be upon the grand scale he had expected; nor did it, to his

eyes, look as if its construction had cost two or three thousand

dollars. But Mr. Redding was such a fair man, that no serious doubts

had a chance to array themselves against him.

Two or three scientific gentlemen were first admitted to a view of the

machine. They examined it; heard Redding explained the principle upon

which it acted, and were shown the beautiful manner in which the

reproduction of forces was obtained. Some shrugged their shoulders;

some said they wouldn't believe their own eyes in regard to perpetual

motion--that the thing was a physical impossibility; while others half

doubted and half believed. With all these skeptics and half-skeptics

Wiseacre was out of all patience. Seeing, he said, was believing; and

he wouldn't give a fig for a man who couldn't rely upon the evidence

of his own senses.

At length Redding's great achievement in mechanics was announced to

the public, and his model opened for exhibition. Free tickets were

sent to editors, and liberal advertisements inserted in their papers.

The gentlemen of the press examined the machine, and pretty generally

pronounced it a very singular affair certainly, and, as far as they

could judge, all that it pretended to be. Gradually that portion of

the public interested in such matters, awoke from the indifference

felt on the first announcement of the discovery, and began to look at

and enter into warm discussions about the machine. Some believed, but

the majority either doubted or denied that it was perpetual motion. A

few boldly affirmed that there was some trick, and that it would be

discovered in the end.

Toward the lukewarm, the doubting, and the denying, Wiseacre was in

direct antagonism. He had no sort of patience with them. At all times,

and in all places, he boldly took the affirmative in regard to the

discovery of perpetual motion, and showed no quarter to any one who

was bold enough to doubt.

Among those who could not believe the evidence of his own senses, was

an eminent natural philosopher, who visited the machine almost every

day, and as often conversed with Redding about the new principle in

mechanics which he had discovered and applied. The theory was

specious, and yet opposed to it was the unalterable, ever-potent force

of gravitation, which he saw must overcome all so called self-existant

motion. The more he thought about it, and the oftener he looked at and

examined Redding's machine, and talked with the inventor, the more

confused did his mind become. At length, after obtaining the most

accurate information in regard to the construction of the machine, he

set to work and made one precisely like it; but it wouldn't go.

Satisfied, now, that there was imposture, he resolved to ferret it

out. There was some force beyond the machine he was convinced.

Communicating his suspicions to a couple of friends, he was readily

joined by them in a proposed effort to find out the true secret of the

motion imparted to the machine. He had noticed that Redding had

another room adjoining the one in which the model was exhibited, and

that upon the door was written "No admittance." Into this he

determined to penetrate--and he put this determination into practice,

accompanied by two friends, on the first favorable opportunity.

Fortunately, it happened that the door leading to this room was

without the door of the one leading into the exhibition-room. While

Redding was engaged in showing the machine to a pretty large company,

including Wiseacre, who spent a good deal of time there, the explorers

withdrew, and finding the key in the door, entered quietly the

adjoining room, which they took care to fasten on the inside. The only

suspicious object here was a large closet. This was locked; but as the

intention had been to make a pretty thorough search, a short, strong,

steel crow-bar was soon produced from beneath a cloak, and the door in

due time made to yield. Wonderful discovery! There sat a man with a

little table by his side, upon which was a dim lamp, a plate of bread

and cheese, and a mug of beer. He was engaged in turning a wheel!

The machine stopped instantly and would not go on, much to the

perplexity and alarm of the inventor. Wiseacre was deeply disturbed.

In the midst of the murmur of surprise and disapprobation that

followed, a man suddenly entered the room, and cried out in a low

voice,

"It's all humbug! We've discovered the cause of the motion! Come and

see!"

All rushed out after the man, and entered the room over the door of

which was written so conspicuously "No admittance." No, not

all--Redding passed on down stairs, and was never again heard of!

The scene that followed we need not describe. The poor laborer at the

wheel, for a dollar a day, had like to have been broken on his wheel,

but the crowd in mercy spared him. As for poor Wiseacre, who had never

been humbugged in his life, he was so completely "used up" by this

undreamed of result, that he could hardly look any body in the face

for two or three months. But he got over it some time since, and is

now a more thorough disbeliever in all new things than before.

"You don't humbug me!" is his stereotyped answer to all announcements

of new discoveries. Even in regard to the magnetic telegraph he is

still quite skeptical, and shrugs his shoulders, and elevates his

eyebrows, as much as to say, "It'll blow up one of these times, mark

my word for it." Nobody has yet been able to persuade him to go to the

Exchange and look at the operation of the batteries there and see for

himself. He doesn't really believe in the thing, and smiles inwardly,

as the rough poles and naked wires stare him in the face while passing

along the street. He looks confidently to see them converted into

poles for scaffolding before twelve months pass away.

THE SISTERS.

BY G. G. FOSTER.

[SEE ENGRAVING.]

Nay, look not forth with those deep earnest eyes

To catch the gleaming of your lovers' plumes;

A dearer, surer, trustier passion lies

In sisters' hearts than lovers' cheeks illumes.

Man worships and forsakes; and as he flies

From flower to flower their beauty he consumes;

Then leaves the wasted heart and faded flower

To die forgotten in their sunless bower.

But sisters' love, like angels' sympathies,

Is as the breath of Heaven and cannot change

No earthly shudder taints its sinless kiss.

No sorrow can your loving hearts estrange;

No selfish pride destroy the priceless bliss

Of loving and confiding. Oh exchange

Not love like this, so heavenly and so true.

For all the vows that lovers' lips e'er knew

[Illustration: W. Drummond. A.C. Thompson

THE SISTERS

Engraved Expressly for Graham's Magazine.]

BRUTUS IN HIS TENT.

BY WM. H. C. HOSMER.

How ill this taper burns!--hah! who comes here? SHAKSPEARE.

On wall-girt Sardis weary day hath shed

The golden blaze of his expiring beam;

And rings her paven walks beneath the tread

Of guards that near the hour of battle deem--

Whose brazen helmets in the starlight gleam;

From tented lines no murmur loud descends,

For martial thousands of the battle dream

On which the fate of bleeding Rome depends

When blushing dawn awakes and night's dark curtain rends.

Though hushed War's couchant tigers in their lair

The tranquil time to _one_ brings not repose--

A voice was whispering to his soul--"Despair!

The gods will give the triumph to thy foes."

Can sleep, with leaden hand, our eyelids close

When throng distempered fancies, and depart,

And thought a shadow on the future throws?

When shapes unearthly into being start,

And, like a snake, Remorse uncoils within the heart?

At midnight deep when bards avow that tombs

Are by their cold inhabitants forsaken,

The Roman chief his wasted lamp relumes,

And calmly reads by mortal wo unshaken:

His iron frame of rest had not partaken,

And doubt--dark enemy of slumber--fills

A breast where fear no trembling chord could waken,

And on his ear an awful voice yet thrills

That rose, when Caesar fell, from Rome's old Seven Hills.

A sound--"that earth owns not"--he hears, and starts,

And grasps the handle of his weapon tried;

Then, while the rustling tent-cloth slowly parts,

A figure enters and stands by his side:

There was an air of majesty and pride

In the bold bearing of that spectre pale--

The crimson on its robe was still undried,

And dagger wounds, that tell a bloody tale

Beyond the power of words, the opening folds unveil.

With fearful meaning towers the phantom grim,

On Brutus fixing its cold, beamless eye;

The face, though that of Julius, seems to him

Formed from the moonlight of a misty sky:

The birds of night, affrighted, flutter by,

And a wild sound upon the shuddering air

Creeps as if earth were breathing out a sigh,

And the fast-waning lamp, as if aware

Some awful shade was nigh, emits a ghostly glare.

Stern Brutus quails not, though his wo-worn cheeks

Blanch with emotion, and in tone full loud

Thus to the ghastly apparition speaks--

"Why stand before me in that gory shroud,

Unwelcome guest! thy purpose unavowed;

Art thou the shaping of my wildered brain?"

The spectre answered, with a gesture proud,

In hollow accents--"We will meet again

When the best blood of Rome smokes on Philippi's plain."

TO VIOLET.

BY JEROME A. MABY.

Years--eventful years have passed

Sweet sister! since I met thy smile;

I'm thinking now what change they've cast

Upon your form and mine the while;

Thy girlhood's days with them are flown--

A calmer light must fill thine eye;

Thy voice have now an added tone;

Thy tresses fall more dark and free.

Yet, in my dreams of thee and home,

A slight, pale girl I ever see,

Whose smiles to her mild lip do come,

Like stars in heaven--tremblingly!

For with thy young heart's lovingness

There aye seemed blent a troubled fear,

As if it knew _all_ tenderness

Must see its worship perish here!

And oh, the prayers I poured to Heaven,

That time prove not to _thee_ how golden links are riven!

And I--oh, sister! _I_ am changed--

You scarce would know the dreaming boy;

For all too far his steps have ranged

Through wildering ways of Strife and Joy

Oh! falcon-eyed Ambition's schemes--

The thrill that comes on mounting wings--

Have left no love for quiet dreams,

And learned contempt for tamer things!

And Pleasure to my youthful cheek

So many a hot, wild flush has won,

That to her foils I've grown too weak--

Some nerve must still be passion-spun!

And if 'mid scenes all bravery--glow--

The night has found me proud and blest,

Stern, mournful things--that make life's wo--

Have struck sad music from my breast!

And when at times Thought leaves me calm,

And boyhood's memories float by,

_Then_ well I know how changed I am--

And a strange weakness dims my eye!

Oh! sister, on this heart of mine

Weight--stain--have come, since last I met that smile of thine!

"THINK NOT THAT I LOVE THEE."

A BALLAD.

MUSIC COMPOSED AND ARRANGED FOR THE PIANO FORTE BY

J. L. MILNER,

_AND RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED TO HIS FRIEND, J. G. OSBOURN, ESQ._

P. DOLCE.

[Illustration: music]

[Illustration: music

SECOND VERSE.

Think not that I love thee,

Alluring coquette,

The vows you have broken

I too can forget;

The love that I gave thee,

Thou ne'er could'st repay,

So affection for thee

Has passed away.]

REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.

_The Life of Oliver Cromwell. By J. T. Headley. New

York: Baker & Scribner. 1 vol. 12mo_.

This volume is elegantly printed, and contains the most characteristic

portrait of Cromwell we have seen. In regard to thought and

composition it is Mr. Headley's best book. Without being deficient in

the energy and pictorial power which have given such popularity to his

other productions, it indicates an advance in respect to artistic

arrangement of matter and correctness of composition. It is needless

to say that the author has not elaborated it into a finished work, or

done full justice to his talents in its general treatment. We do not

agree with Mr. Headley in his notion of Cromwell, and think that his

marked prepossession for his hero has unconsciously led him to alter

the natural relations of the facts and principles with which he deals;

but still we feel bound to give him credit for an extensive study of

his subject, and for bringing together numerous interesting details

which can be found in no other single biography of Cromwell. Among his

authorities and guides we are sorry to see that he has not included

Hallam. The portion of the latter's Constitutional History of England

devoted to the reign of Charles I., the Commonwealth and the

Protectorate, deserves, at least, the respectful attention of every

writer on those subjects. Indeed we think Hallam so much an authority

that a deviation from him on a question of fact or principle should be

accompanied by arguments contesting his statements. Of all the

historians of the period we conceive him to be almost the only one who

loses the partisan in the judge. The questions mooted in the

controversy between Charles and his Parliament are still hotly

contested, and are so calculated to inflame the passions, that almost

every historian of the time turns advocate. Mr. Headley's passionate

sensibility should have been a little cooled by "fraternizing" with

Mr. Hallam's judicial understanding.

The leading merit of Mr. Headley's volume is his description of

Cromwell's battles; Marston Moor, Preston, Naseby, Dunbar and

Worcester, are not mere names, suggesting certain mechanical military

movements to the reader of the present book. The smoke and dust and

blood and carnage of war--the passions it excites, and the heroism it

prompts, are all brought right before the eye. Many historians have

attempted to convey in general terms a notion of the kind of men that

Cromwell brought into battle, but it is in Mr. Headley's volume that

we really obtain a distinct conception of the renowned Ironsides. He

has just enough sympathy with the soldier and the Puritan to reproduce

in imagination the religious passions which animated that band of

"braves." As a considerable portion of Cromwell's life relates to his

military character, Mr. Headley has a wide field for the exercise of

his singular power of painting battle-pieces.

As the present biography, of all the lives of Cromwell with which we

are acquainted, is calculated to be the most popular, we regret that

the author has not taken a Juster view of Cromwell's character and

actions. It is important in a republican country, that the popular

mind should have just notions of constitutional liberty, and every

attempt to convert such despots as Napoleon and Cromwell into

champions of freedom, will, in proportion to its success, prepare the

way for a brood of such men in our own country. In regard to Mr.

Headley, we think that his sympathy with Cromwell's great powers as a

warrior and ruler has vitiated his view of many transactions vitally

connected with the principles of freedom. Compared with Carlyle,

however, he may be almost considered impartial. He is frank and

fearless in presenting his opinions, and does not confuse the mind by

mixing up statements of fact with any of the trancendental Scotchman's

sentimentality.

The English Revolution of 1640 began in a defense of legal privileges

and ended in a military despotism. It commenced in withstanding

attacks on civil and religious rights and ended in the dominion of a

sect. The point, therefore, where the lover of freedom should cease to

sympathize with it is plain. It is useless for the republican to say

that every revolution of the kind must necessarily take a similar

course, for that is not an argument for Cromwell's usurpation, but an

argument against the expediency of opposing attacks by a king, on the

rights and privileges of the people. The truth is that the English

Revolution was at first a popular movement, having a clear majority of

the property, intelligence and numbers of the people on its side. The

king, in breaking the fundamental laws of the kingdom, made war on the

community, and was to be resisted just as much as if he were king of

France or Spain, and had invaded the country. It is easy to trace the

progress of this resistance, until by the action of religious bigotry

and other inflaming passions, the powers of the opposition became

concentrated in the hands of a body of military fanatics, commanded by

an imperious soldier, and representing a small minority even of the

Puritans. The king, a weak and vacillating man, made an attempt at

arbitrary power, was resisted, and after years of civil war, ended his

days on the scaffold; Cromwell, without any of those palliations which

charity might urge in extenuation of the king, on the ground of the

prejudices of his station, took advantage of the weakness of the

country, after it had been torn by civil war, usurped supreme power,

and became the most arbitrary monarch England had seen since William

the Conqueror. No one doubts his genius, and it seems strange that any

one should doubt his despotic character.

The truth is that Cromwell's natural character, even on the hypothesis

of his sincerity, was arbitrary, and the very opposite of what we look

for in the character of a champion of freedom. It seems to us

supremely ridiculous to talk of such a man as being capable of having

his conduct determined by a parliament or a council. He pretended to

look to God, not to human laws or fallible men, for the direction of

his actions. In the name of the Deity he charged at the head of his

Ironsides. In the name of the Deity he massacred the Irish garrisons.

In the name of the Deity he sent dragoons to overturn parliaments. He

believed neither in the sovereignty of the people, nor the sovereignty

of the laws, and it made little difference whether his opponent was

Charles I. or Sir Harry Vane, provided he were an opponent. In regard

to the inmost essence of tyranny, that of exalting the individual will

over every thing else, and of meeting opposition and obstacles by pure

force, Charles I. was a weakling in comparison with Cromwell. Now if,

in respect to human governments, democracy and republicanism consist

in allowing any great and strong man to assume the supreme power, on

his simple assertion that he has a commission from Heaven so to do; if

constitutional liberty is a government of will instead of a

government of laws, then the partisans of Cromwell are justified in

their eulogies. It appears to us that the only ground on which the

Protector's tyranny is more endurable than the king's, consists in the

fact that from its nature it could not be permanent, and could not

establish itself into the dignity of a precedent. It was a power

depending neither on the assent of the people, nor on laws and

institutions, but simply on the character of one man. As far as it

went, it did no good in any way to the cause of freedom, for to

Cromwell's government, and to the fanaticism which preceded it, we owe

the reaction of Charles the Second's reign, when licentiousness in

manners, and servility in politics succeeded in making virtue and

freedom synonymous with hypocrisy and cant.

In regard to Cromwell's massacres in Ireland, which even Mr. Headley

denounces as uncivilized, a great deal of nonsense has been written by

Carlyle. The fact is that Cromwell, in these matters, acted as Cortez

did in Mexico, and Pizarro in Peru, and deserves no more charity. If

he performed them from policy, as Carlyle intimates, he must be

considered a disciple of Machiavelli and the Devil; if he performed

them from religious bigotry, he may rank with St. Dominic and Charles

the Ninth. We are sick of hearing brutality and wickedness, either in

Puritan or Catholic, extenuated on the ground of bigotry. This bigotry

which prompts inhuman deeds, is not an excuse for sin, but the

greatest of spiritual sins. It indicates a condition of mind in which

the individual deifies his malignant passions.

We are sorry that Mr. Headley has written his biography with such a

marked leaning to Cromwell. We believe that a large majority of

readers will obtain their notions of the Protector from his pages, and

that they will be no better republicans thereby. The very brilliancy

and ability of his work will only make it more influential upon the

popular mind.

_A Supplement to the Plays of William Shakspeare.

Comprising Seven Dramas which have been ascribed to his

Pen but are not included with his Writings in Modern

Editions. Edited, with Notes, and an Introduction to

each Play, by William Gilmore Simms. New York: Geo. F.

Cooledge & Brother. 1 vol. 8vo._

The public are under obligations to Mr. Simms, not only for reprinting

a series of dramas which are objects of curiosity from their

connection with the name of Shakspeare, but for the elegant and

ingenious introductions he has furnished from his own pen. With regard

to the question whether Shakspeare did or did not write these plays,

our opinion has ever inclined to the negative, and a careful perusal

of Mr. Simms's views has rather confirmed than shaken our impression.

The internal evidence, with the exception of passages in the Two Noble

Kinsmen, is strongly against the hypothesis of Shakspeare's

authorship, and the external evidence appears to us unsatisfactory.

Mr. Simms's idea is that they were the productions of Shakspeare's

youth and apprenticeship, and on this supposition he accounts for

their obvious inferiority to the acknowledged plays. Now it seems to

us that the juvenile efforts of the world's master-mind would give

some evidence of his powers, however imperfect might be the form of

their expression; and especially that they would not resemble the

matured products of contemporary mediocrity. Of the plays in the

present volume, the only one which has the character of youthful

genius is the tragedy of Lecrine, and this is the youth of Marlowe

rather than of Shakspeare. The London Prodigal and the Puritan, Lord

Cromwell and Sir John Oldcastle, have no trace of youthful fire or

even rant. They are the offspring of sober, contented, irreclaimable,

unimprovable mediocrity, with a decided tendency to the stupid rather

than the sublime. They were probably the journey-work of some of the

legion playwrights connected with the London theatres, and cannot be

compared with the dramas of Jonson, Deckar, Middleton, Fletcher,

Marston, Tourneur, Massinger and Ford. They lack the vitality, the

_vim_, which burns and blazes even in the works of the second class

dramatists of the time. The Yorkshire Tragedy bears the stamp of

Middleton rather than Shakspeare. With regard to the Two Noble

Kinsmen, perhaps the greatest play included in the collection of

Beaumont and Fletcher, we think that the Shaksperian passages might

have been imitations of Shakspeare's manner, and we have a

sufficiently high opinion of Fletcher's genius to suppose that this

imitation was not beyond his powers. The general character of the play

shows that Shakspeare, at any rate, merely contributed to it. It is

conceived and developed in the hot and hectic style of Fletcher, and

abounds in his strained heroics and gratuitous obscenities. The

Jailor's Daughter, a coarse caricature of Ophelia, is one of the

greatest crimes against the sacredness of misery which a poet ever

perpetrated.

Schlegel said of Thomas Lord Cromwell, Sir John Oldcastle, and A

Yorkshire Tragedy, that they were not only Shakspeare's, but in his

opinion deserved to be classed among his best and maturest works. This

is the most ridiculous judgment which a great critic ever made, and

coming as it does, after the author's profound view of Shakspeare's

genius, is as singular as it is ridiculous.

_Pilgrimage to the Holy Land. By Alphonse de Lamartine.

New York: D. Appleton & Co. 2 vols. 12mo._

Lamartine is a man of fine genius and great courage, but both as an

author and politician is a sentimentalist. His characteristic mental

quality, that of seeing all external objects through a luminous mist

exhaling from his heart and imagination, is as prominent in the

present volume of travels as in his political speeches and state

papers. He sees nothing in clear, white light; every thing through a

personal medium. To use a distinction of an ingenious analyst, he

tells you rather of the beauty and truth of his feelings than the

beauty and truth he feels; and accordingly his sentimentality is

closely allied to vanity. This absence of clear perception is not the

result of his being a poet, but of his being a poet of the second

class. Homer, Dante, Shakspeare, even Milton, would not fail in

politics from a similar lack of seeing things as they are. We believe

that Homer and Shakspeare might have made better statesmen than

Pericles and Bacon. The great poet fails in practical life not from

seeing things through a distorting medium, but from viewing them in

relation to an ideal standard. This was the case with Milton. Now

Lamartine is in the habit of _Lamartinizing_ the whole world in his

writings. The mirror he holds up to life and nature simply reflects

himself. He cannot pass beyond his own individuality--he has no

objective insight.

We will guarantee that every reader of the present volumes will rise

from their perusal with a knowledge of the author rather than the

subject. He will obtain no information of men, scenery, or remarkable

places, such as he might receive from a common tourist, deficient

equally in sentiment and imagination; neither will he carry away such

clear pictures and representations as Scott or Goethe might stamp upon

his memory. He will simply be informed of the thoughts, fancies,

opinions, and varying moods of Lamartine, as awakened by the objects

which met his eye. These objects, which a great poet would consider

of the first importance, are with the Frenchman only secondary to the

exhibition of himself. If this mingled egotism and vanity were

affected, it would disgust the reader, but as it is the natural action

of the author's mind, and is accompanied with much eloquence and

beauty of composition, it is more likely to fascinate than to offend.

At the present moment, when the author is with the public a more

important object than Athens or Jerusalem, the present volumes will

probably be the more eagerly read on account of their leading defect.

_The Falcon Family; or Young Ireland. By the author of

the Bachelor of the Albany. Boston: T. Wiley, Jr._

We should judge the author of the present amusing work to be a young

lawyer, extensively read in miscellaneous literature, and disposed to

make the most of his wit, rhetoric and acquirements. His style of

thinking and composition is that of a first rate magazine writer

rather than novelist. He is a brilliant sketcher and caricaturist,

without any hold upon character, and with little power of conceiving

or telling a story. He is ever sparkling and clever, without weight or

depth. But he has many elements of popularity, and unites a good share

of shrewdness with an infinite amount of small wit. The object of the

present work is to ridicule Young Ireland in particular, and Young

Europe in general, including hits at Young England, Young Israel, (the

children of Israel,) and _La Jeune France_. All of these, Mitchell,

D'Iraeli, Moncton Milnes and the rest, are classed under the common

term of _boyocracy_, a very good phrase to denote the ridiculous

portions of the young creed. Though the author has no view of this

class of sentimental or termagant politicians except on their

ludicrous side, he exposes that side with a brilliant remorselessness

which is refreshing in this age of universal cant. Though something of

a coxcomb himself, he has no mercy on the fop turned politician and

theologian. The mistake of his satire on Young Ireland consists in

overlooking the reality of the wrongs under which that country groans,

and the depth and intensity of the passions roused. In regard to style

the author is a mannerist. The present novel reads like a continuation

or reproduction of the Bachelor of the Albany.

_Researches on the Chemistry of Food, and the Motion of

the Juices in the Animal Body. By Liebig, M. D. Lowell:

Daniel Bixby & Co. 1 vol. 12 mo_.

This volume is edited by Professor Horsford, of Harvard University. It

is an acute and profound work of science, worth all the common books

on the subject put together. The author considers his investigation,

as recorded in the present volume, the most important he ever made.

His theory is this: "The surface of the body is a membrane from which

evaporation goes uninterruptedly forward. In consequence of this

evaporation, all the fluids of the body acquire, in obedience to

atmospheric pressure, motion toward the evaporating surface. This is

obviously the chief cause of the passage of the nutritious fluids from

the blood-vessels, and of their diffusion through the body. We know

now what important functions the skin (and lungs) fulfill through

evaporation. It is a condition of nourishment, and the influence of a

moist or dry air upon the health of the body, or of mechanical

agitation by walking or running, which increases the perspiration, is

self-evident." It will be readily seen that this discovery has an

important bearing upon the preservation of health.

_The Wanderings and Fortunes of Some German Emigrants

By Frederick Gerstacker. Translated by David Black. New

York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 12mo._

We have often desired to see a book of this character, giving the

first views and impressions of foreigners coming to settle here, as

they made their way from the Atlantic to the West. The present volume

is curiously minute in detailing the course and incidents of the

journey, and apart from its interest as a narrative, contains not a

little matter which should attract the attention of the statesman. In

respect to the merit of composition or description the book hardly

rises above mediocrity.

_Caesar's Commentaries on the Gallic War. With English

Notes, a Lexicon, Indexes, &c. By Rev. J. A. Spencer,

A. M. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 12mo._

This is the best edition of Caesar we have ever seen, and to the young

student it is invaluable. Every assistance is given to the complete

comprehension of the Commentaries; and few can rise from the diligent

perusal of the volume without having understood and almost exhausted

one at least of the classics.

_Gramatica Inglesa de Urcullu. Edited by Fayette

Robinson. Grammar of the Spanish Language. By Fayette

Robinson._

These two books, by an accomplished linguist scholar, fill a want

which has long been felt. Most of the works previously published are

too diffuse and elaborate for the purposes of schools, or too

contracted to give any thing more than a skeleton of the tongue. Mr.

Robinson has adopted a system eminently practical, and made two books

which entitle him to the thanks of pupil and teacher. As he states,

grammatical legislation is abandoned and example substituted for

rules. Extensive tables of verbs, prepositions and idioms, have been

prepared, which do away with almost all of the difficulties connected

with the study of that tongue a monarch called the language of the

gods. The paradigms of the verbs have been prepared evidently with the

greatest care, and a new form given to what grammarians call the

conditional and subjunctive moods, so as to adapt the Castilian to the

English language. Tables of dialogues are also added, which are pure

and classical in both English and Spanish.

Mr. Robinson has, in editing the English Grammar of Urcullu, made

great improvements by the addition of what he modestly calls

"_notillas_," (little notes,) but which greatly add to the perfectness

of the book. The important table of the verbs of the language by

Hernandez and the officers of the Spanish academy, and the chapter on

terms of courtesy in the United States, are most valuable additions.

This book is most valuable as a supplement to the Spanish Grammar, and

the moderate price at which the two are sold, renders it most

desirable and convenient to purchase them together.

Though we detect some typographical inaccuracies they are merely

literal accidents, and the books reflect credit on author, publishers,

and stereotyper. We most cordially recommend them.

_History of the French Revolution of 1789. By Louis

Blanc. Translated from the French. Phila.: Lea &

Blanchard._

The popularity acquired by M. Blanc from his "History of Ten Years,"

as well as the fact of his having been for a time a member of the

Provisional Government of the French Republic, will doubtless cause

this book to be widely read. It is always interesting, but seldom

impartial.

Transcriber's Note:

Certain unusual instances of spelling and grammar have been retained.

Errors in punctuation and obvious printer's errors have been corrected

without remark.