Poet! lonely is thy bed,

And the turf is overhead—

Cold earth is thy cover;

But thy heart hath found release,

And it slumbers full of peace

’Neath the rustle of green trees

And the warm hum of the bees,

’Mid the drowsy clover;

Through thy chamber, still as death,

A smooth gurgle wandereth,

As the blue stream murmureth

To the blue sky over.

Three paces from the silver strand,

Gently in the fine, white sand,

With a lily in thy hand,

Pale as snow, they laid thee;

In no coarse earth wast thou hid,

And no gloomy coffin-lid

Darkly overweighed thee.

Silently as snow-flakes drift,

The smooth sand did sift and sift

O’er the bed they made thee;

All sweet birds did come and sing

At thy sunny burying—

Choristers unbidden,

And, beloved of sun and dew.

Meek forget-me-nots upgrew

Where thine eyes so large and blue

’Neath the turf were hidden.

Where thy stainless clay doth lie,

Blue and open is the sky,

And the white clouds wander by,

Dreams of summer silently

Darkening the river;

Thou hearest the clear water run,

And the ripples every one,

Scattering the golden sun,

Through thy silence quiver;

Vines trail down upon the stream,

Into its smooth and glassy dream

A green stillness spreading,

And the shiner, perch and bream

Through the shadowed waters gleam

’Gainst the current heading.

White as snow, thy winding sheet

Shelters thee from head to feet,

Save thy pale face only;

Thy face is turned toward the skies,

The lids lie meekly o’er thine eyes,

And the low-voiced pine-tree sighs

O’er thy bed so lonely.

All thy life thou lov’dst its shade:

Underneath it thou art laid,

In an endless shelter;

Thou hearest it forever sigh

As the wind’s vague longings die

In its branches dim and high—

Thou hear’st the waters gliding by

Slumberously welter.

Thou wast full of love and truth,

Of forgivingness and ruth—

Thy great heart with hope and youth

Tided to o’erflowing.

Thou didst dwell in mysteries,

And there lingered on thine eyes

Shadows of serener skies,

Awfully wild memories,

That were like foreknowing;

Through the earth thou would’st have gone,

Lighted from within alone,

Seeds from flowers in Heaven grown

With a free hand sowing.

Thou didst remember well and long

Some fragments of thine angel-song,

And strive, through want and wo and wrong

To win the world unto it;

Thy sin it was to see and hear

Beyond To-day’s dim hemisphere—

Beyond all mists of hope and fear,

Into a life more true and clear,

And dearly thou didst rue it;

Light of the new world thou hadst won,

O’er flooded by a purer sun—

Slowly Fate’s ship came drifting on,

And through the dark, save thou, not one

Caught of the land a token.

Thou stood’st upon the farthest prow,

Something within thy soul said “Now!”

And leaping forth with eager brow,

Thou fell’st on shore heart-broken.

Long time thy brethren stood in fear;

Only the breakers far and near,

White with their anger, they could hear;

The sounds of land, which thy quick ear

Caught long ago, they heard not.

And, when at last they reached the strand,

They found thee lying on the sand

With some wild flowers in thy hand,

But thy cold bosom stirred not;

They listened, but they heard no sound

Save from the glad life all around

A low, contented murmur.

The long grass flowed adown the hill,

A hum rose from a hidden rill,

But thy glad heart, that knew no ill

But too much love, lay dead and still—

The only thing that sent a chill

Into the heart of summer.

Thou didst not seek the poet’s wreath

But too soon didst win it;

Without ’twas green, but underneath

Were scorn and loneliness and death,

Gnawing the brain with burning teeth,

And making mock within it.

Thou, who wast full of nobleness,

Whose very life-blood ’twas to bless,

Whose soul’s one law was giving,

Must bandy words with wickedness,

Haggle with hunger and distress,

To win that death which worldliness

Calls bitterly a living.

“Thou sow’st no gold, and shall not reap!”

Muttered earth, turning in her sleep;

“Come home to the Eternal Deep!”

Murmured a voice, and a wide sweep

Of wings through thy soul’s hush did creep,

As of thy doom o’erflying;

It seem’d that thy strong heart would leap

Out of thy breast, and thou didst weep,

But not with fear of dying;

Men could not fathom thy deep fears,

They could not understand thy tears,

The hoarded agony of years

Of bitter self-denying.

So once, when high above the spheres

Thy spirit sought its starry peers,

It came not back to face the jeers

Of brothers who denied it;

Star-crowned, thou dost possess the deeps

Of God, and thy white body sleeps

Where the lone pine forever keeps

Patient watch beside it.

Poet! underneath the turf,

Soft thou sleepest, free from morrow,

Thou hast struggled through the surf

Of wild thoughts and want and sorrow.

Now, beneath the moaning pine,

Full of rest, thy body lieth,

While far up in clear sunshine,

Underneath a sky divine,

Her loosed wings thy spirit trieth;

Oft she strove to spread them here,

But they were too white and clear

For our dingy atmosphere.

Thy body findeth ample room

In its still and grassy tomb

By the silent river;

But thy spirit found the earth

Narrow for the mighty birth

Which it dreamed of ever;

Thou wast guilty of a rhyme

Learned in a benigner clime,

And of that more grievous crime,

An ideal too sublime

For the low-hung sky of Time.

The calm spot where thy body lies

Gladdens thy soul in Paradise,

It is so still and holy;

Thy body sleeps serenely there,

And well for it thy soul may care,

It was so beautiful and fair,

Lily white so wholly.

From so pure and sweet a frame

Thy spirit parted as it came,

Gentle as a maiden;

Now it lieth full of rest—

Sods are lighter on its breast

Than the great, prophetic guest

Wherewith it was laden.

* * * * *

SONNET TO MY MOTHER.

BY T. HOLLEY CHIVERS, M. D.

Before mine eyes had seen the light of day,

Or that my soul had come from Heaven’s great King—

A harmless, tiny, helpless little thing—

You loved me!—While my tender being lay

In the soft rose-leaves of your heart at rest,

Like some lone bird within its downy nest,

Beneath the concave of its mother’s wing,

Unborn—your soul came in my heart to dwell,

Like perfume in the flower, each part to bring,

As warmth unto the young bird in its shell,

And built me up to what I was to be,

A semblance of thyself. Thus, being cast

In thy heart’s mould, I grew up like to thee,

And lost in thee my first friend with my last!

* * * * *

BOSTON RAMBLINGS.

BY MISS LESLIE.

PART THE FIRST.

Perhaps there is no place in America where the people continued to cling

so long, and so fondly, to the relics and traditions of the olden time,

as in Boston—their first era being that of the early settlers, their

second that of the revolution. At the commencement of my acquaintance

with Boston and Bostonians, I was particularly struck with the

prevalence of this feeling, having found so little of it in my native

city, Philadelphia. Yet I was sorry to hear from my eastern friends,

that comparatively it was fast subsiding, and that a fancy for modern

improvements (blended with the powerful incentive of pecuniary interest)

was rapidly superseding that veneration so long cherished for the places

and things connected with the history of their “ancient and honorable

town,” and the founders of their country’s freedom. On my second visit

to Boston I missed much that on my first I had found still undesecrated.

On my third, but few vestiges remained of the poetry, the romance, and

the quaintness that, with regard to external objects, had so interested

and amused me in the year 1832. I looked in vain for the “old familiar

faces” of certain antiquated and, perhaps, unsightly structures that I

had delighted to contemplate as the time-honored habitations of men with

undying names. They were gone, and new and more profitable buildings

erected on their site. In many of these instances “I could have better

spared a better house.”

Fortunately the charter of the city specifies that Faneuil Hall is never

to be sold, nor can the ground on which it stands be appropriated to any

other purpose. Except that the market-place in the lower story is now

occupied by shops, the whole edifice still remains nearly as it was when

the walls of its chief apartment resounded with the acclamations of the

people who discussed, at their town meetings, those principles that led

to their self-emancipation from the sway of Britain. Acclamations

elicited by the bold and overpowering eloquence of James Otis, the

enthusiastic outbreakings of the impetuous spirit of Warren, the pure

and self-sacrificing patriotism of Quincy, and the calm but energetic

plain sense of Samuel Adams, backed by the generous liberality of that

wealthy and noble-minded merchant whose name, as president of the first

Congress, leads on the glorious array of signatures appended to the

Declaration of Independence. Did no one think of preserving the pen with

which those names were written?—the sacred quill

“That wing’d the arrow, sure as fate,

Which ascertain’d the rights of man.”

The full-length portrait of Peter Faneuil stands at the upper end of the

hall, looking like its guardian spirit. It is a fine copy of a small

original that was painted in his lifetime. In regarding the likeness of

a person of note (provided always that the painter is a good artist) you

can generally judge of its verisimilitude, by its representing the

features of the mind in conjunction with those of the face. If a well

painted portrait has no particular expression, you may safely conclude

that the sitter had no particular character. When, at the first glance

of a picture, you are struck with the conviction that the original

_must_ have looked exactly so, it is because you at once perceive his

mind in his face. Who that has ever seen it, while it hung so long in

the Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts, does not recollect Berthon’s

admirable and life-like portrait of Buonaparte in the first year of that

consulate. Every beholder was struck with an irresistible conviction of

its perfect and unimpeachable fidelity of character. There, in his gold

embroidered blue coat, his tri-colored sash, and his buff-leather

gauntlets, was the pale, thin, almost cadaverous young soldier, just

returned from the unwholesome regions of the Nile; with his dark,

uncared-for hair shading his thoughtful brow, and his deep-set, intense

eyes, that looked as if they could search into the soul of every man

they saw. So self-evident was the truth of this picture, that it was

unnecessary to be aware of its exact accordance with all the

descriptions given at that time of the republican general, who had just

made himself the chief magistrate of the French people, and was called

only Buonaparte. A few years afterward, when “the hero had sunk into the

king,” and was termed Napoleon, and when, in becoming more handsome, his

face lost much of its original expression, this picture was equally

valuable, as showing how he had looked in the early part of his wondrous

career.

Another picture which we feel at once to be a most faithful

representation, is Greuze’s portrait of Franklin. It was painted by that

excellent artist when the venerable printer, philosopher, author,

statesman (what shall we call him) was living in Paris. The dress is a

coat and waistcoat of dark reddish silk, trimmed with brown fur. The

head is very bald at the top, and he wears his gray locks plain and

unpowdered. He has that noble expanse of forehead which is almost always

found in persons of extraordinary intellect. His eye is indicative of

strong sense and benevolence, enlivened with a keen relish for humor.

His whole countenance exhibits that union of genius and common sense,

shrewdness and kindness, which formed his character. My father had once

in his possession (but lost it by lending) a fine French engraving taken

from this very portrait, and printed in colors. He had known Dr.

Franklin intimately, and he considered it the most admirable likeness he

had ever seen—in fact the very man.

To return to Mr. Faneuil—_his_ portrait also is highly characteristic.

No one can look at this picture of a tall, dignified gentleman, in a

suit of crimson velvet and gold, a long lace cravat, and a powdered wig,

according to the patrician costume of his time, and can view his fine

open countenance, without believing the whole to be a correct

portraiture of the opulent and public spirited merchant who, while he

was yet living, gave its first market-place, with a hall for the

accommodation of public meetings, to the town that had afforded an

asylum to his Huguenot ancestor. The remains of Peter Faneuil, who died

suddenly in 1743, are interred amid the green shades of the Granary

Burying Ground, so called from the town granary having been in its

immediate vicinity. This cemetery is close to the Tremont Hotel, and in

view of another “ancient place of graves,” belonging to the King’s

Chapel, which was founded in 1688, and, in early times, numbered among

its congregation the largest portion of the Boston aristocracy; and many

of their descendants still worship there. It is built of light brown

stone, and is frequently called the Stone Chapel.

The length, thickness, and luxuriance of the grass, (which appears to

require perpetual mowing,) and the closeness of the burial mounds, which

seem almost piled upon each other, make it somewhat difficult to explore

the monumental memorials of the old Boston families, whose first

progenitors are slumbering beneath. A large number of these tombs are

sculptured with armorial bearings, as an evidence that their mouldering

occupants belonged, in their fatherland, to “gentle blood.” Of the

tomb-stones dated after the revolution, I saw few that bore any

indications of “the boast of heraldry, the pomp of power.” The founder

of Boston, John Winthrop, is interred in the northwest corner of this

cemetery, with his daughter, Grace Sears, (from whom the present Sears

family is descended,) and his son, Waitstill Winthrop. The mansion of

Governor Winthrop was a large two-story frame house, surrounded by a

garden, and shaded with aboriginal trees that had been left standing for

the purpose. Its location was near the old South Church, just below

School street. Its site is now covered with stores; the block of

buildings being termed South Row. I have seen an old portrait of this

chief of the Boston colonists. It represents him as a tall, thin,

dark-complexioned man, with an oval face, regular features, and a very

serious countenance. He is habited in “a sad colored suit,” with a white

lawn ruff round his neck, and a black cap on his head. In this burial

ground Cooper has placed the vault of the Lechmere family, at the

entrance of which the mother of Job Pray was found dead; and from the

gallery of the stone chapel the half maniac father of Lionel Lincoln

interrupted the marriage of his son with Cecil Dynevor, as they stood at

the altar. Though reason may reject the interesting associations that

emanate from fiction, feeling and fancy always unconsciously adopt them.

It is this which conducts so many travellers to the shores of Loch

Katrine, and sends them in a boat to the island of Ellen Douglas, though

well aware that the damsel of the lake never in reality existed. I knew

a gentleman who traversed the wilds of Connaught to visit the sea-beaten

castle of Inismore, because it had been the fancied abode of Glorvina,

the Wild Irish Girl, another charming creation of genius. And few will

wonder at his doing so, who are familiar with the work that caused the

flood-tide of Miss Owenson’s fortune, and who have, of course, read and

re-read that beautiful letter in which Horatio describes his first

acquaintance with the castle and its inmates.

I was yet a stranger in Boston, when a few days after my arrival I

accompanied a lady and gentleman who were residents in that city, (and

excellent _ciceroni_) on an exploring walk into what is called the North

End. This is a very old part of the town, extending northerly from Court

street to Lynn street, and bounded on its eastern side by the waters of

the harbor, and on the west by those of the estuary denominated Charles

River. Its extreme point is immediately opposite to Bunker Hill. As it

did not modernize as fast as the other sections of Boston, and as its

old buildings were longer in getting demolished or furbished up, the

_habitans_ of the North End lay under the imputation of being an old

fashioned people, sadly deficient in the organ of go-a-headness, and

pitifully submitting to creep on all fours, while the rest of the

community were making unto themselves wings. There was even a scandalous

story circulated of one of their pastors, (a good old gentleman, whose

nasal elocution had not improved by age,) uttering in his prayer the

words, “Have mercy upon us miserable offenders,” in a manner that

sounded very much like, “Have mercy upon us miserable North-enders.”

To give me an idea of the habitations of the early Bostonians, I was

purposely taken through some of the oldest and crookedest streets;

several of which had pavements so narrow that we had to break rank and

to proceed Indian file; for when we attempted to walk abreast and the

wall was politely ceded to me, the other lady took the curb-stone, and

the gentleman the gutter. Be it known, however, that a Boston gutter is

merely a minor ravine, edged with wild flowers; and not a reservoir of

liquid mud or a conduit for dirty water; all the conduits in that city

being sub-terraneous, and entirely out of sight.

We saw very old houses, some of time-discolored brick, and some of wood

in many instances unpainted, and therefore nearly black; in a few, the

second story projected far over the first. Many of the ancient frame

habitations were very large, and must have been built by people “that

were well to do in the world.” In some, the clap-boards were

ornamentally scolloped; and in many, the window frames instead of being

inserted in the wall, were put on outside, and looked as if ready to

burst forth upon us. There were primitive porches with seats in them,

sheltered by moss-grown pent-houses, some of which would have furnished

a tolerable crop of that roof-loving plant the house-leek. There were

wooden balconies, with close heavy balustrades, of the pattern that

looks like a range of innumerable narrow jugs. In some houses, the

balconies were gone, but the door-windows belonging to them, were still

there all the same; and as they now opened upon nothing, they looked

most dangerous, especially for children or somnambulists to walk out at.

There were street-doors cut horizontally in half, with steps descending

inside instead of ascending outside. Many of the houses that stood alone

had no front entrance, but ingress and egress were obtained through a

small unpretending door in the side. This seemed to be a good plan, when

the front was facing the chill blasts of the northeast. It is very

disagreeable to have your street door blown open by the violence of the

wind.

In an early stage of “our winding way,” we came to the junction of Union

and Marshall streets, and there I saw a large square block of dark brown

stone, on one side of which was painted in white letters the words

“Boston Stone.” Supposing it to be one of the landmarks of the city, and

something memorable, I seated myself for a few moments upon it. I was

told by one of my companions, that this stone had been an object of

great controversy among certain antiquaries of the city. In newspapers a

century old there were advertisements of shopkeepers and mechanics, who,

in giving their locations, made assurance doubly sure, by stating that

they lived near the Boston Stone. Houses were announced for sale or hire

in the neighborhood of the Boston Stone. Street-fights and dreadful

accidents happened not far from the Boston Stone. What then was the

Boston Stone? How came it there, and for what purpose? There was no

mention of it in history. Patriotic picturesque people thought it was

the foundation-stone of a flag staff or a beacon-mast; and it is certain

that the top or upper surface of the block exhibited a slight circular

cavity, evidently made on purpose for something: though practical people

contended that the hollow was not deep enough to hold anything. I

cherished for two or three months the persuasion that the Boston Stone

was either a remarkable relic connected with great events, or else that

it had been placed there when the peninsula was first laid out for a

town, as a mark to designate where some place left off, and another

place began; or perhaps to denote the very centre of the settlement. But

“the shadows, clouds and darkness” that rested upon all my conjectures,

were very prosaically dispelled just before my departure from Boston, by

a most unexciting account obtained through the medium of a grandson of

“the oldest inhabitant” of that neighborhood. The real solution of the

mystery was so very natural, that none but very commonplace people would

believe it. It simply implied that a certain apothecary of the olden

time being in want of a very large mortar, and unable to obtain one

ready made, procured this block of stone and set his boys to hollowing

it out for the purpose. They made a beginning, but soon found that the

stone was too hard and the labor too great; and having taken a spite at

the obdurate block, they shoved it out of doors and left it on the

pavement in front of the shop. From hence no one took the trouble to

remove it, and finding that the neighbors began to date from its

vicinity, the apothecary’s boys made it more _distingué_ by inscribing

it with the title of the Boston Stone—How a plain tale will put us

down.

Shortly after quitting the Boston Stone, we came to a house at the

corner of Union and Hanover streets, which was shown to me as the one in

which Dr. Franklin was born. It is of two stories, and built partly of

brick and partly of wood. The lower part was now occupied by a little

shop, with a blue bell as a sign. Adjoining it in Hanover street was a

dark low grocery store into which you descended by a step. It looked

exactly as if it had been the soap and candle shop of Josiah Franklin.

It was easy to imagine poor Ben. serving customers behind the old

counter; cutting candle-wicks into lengths; and snatching, at intervals,

a few minutes to read a little in hidden books when nobody saw him. An

aged and excellent woman, who had passed her life in this part of the

town, told me at a subsequent period, that she well remembered, when a

little girl, seeing the old corner house (the dwelling part of the

establishment,) pulled down, and the present one erected in its stead.

The original corner house had always been regarded as one of the

habitations of the Franklin family, and the adjoining old one-story shop

(now the grocery) as theirs. It seems to me highly probable that the

elder Franklin _did_ live in Milk street (as is generally believed) at

the time his son Benjamin was born, and that the infant _was_ wrapped in

a blanket and carried over the way to the old South Church to be

christened. His baptism is noted in the register of the church, and the

date is the same as that of his birth. This speedy performance of the

rite of baptism was in accordance with the custom of the times. The Milk

street house was a small two-story frame building, and was accidentally

burnt in 1810. On the spot has since been erected a three-story

furniture warehouse. It is but a few steps from the corner of Washington

street, opposite to the Old South. There was an old printing office just

back of it; and it is said that Josiah Franklin relinquished the Milk

street house to his son James the printer, and removed with his wife and

the younger children to Hanover street, and there carried on the soap

and candle business, in the dark low one-story shop that is still there:

living in the adjoining house at the corner. That the parents of

Franklin were residents of the North End at the time of their death

there can be no doubt, as they were interred in the North Burying Ground

on Copp’s Hill. Many years ago their remains were exhumed, and

transferred to the Granary burial place in Tremont street, at the

expense of several gentlemen of Boston. A neat monument of granite has

been erected upon the mound that covers their ashes; and in the front of

the little obelisk is inserted a slab of slate, a part of the original

grave stone on Copp’s Hill. This humble medallion bears the names of

Josiah Franklin and Abiah his wife, with the date of their deaths. I

regarded this monument with much interest, as reflecting back upon his

lowly but respectable parents a portion of the honor so universally

accorded to the great man their son.

Having diverged from Hanover street to the North Square, we soon found

ourselves in front of two very old and remarkable houses; one of which

had been the residence of Governor Hutchinson, and the other of William

Clarke, a wealthy merchant of the early part of the last century. Both

were large old-fashioned buildings, their sides and chimneys overgrown

with the scarlet-flowering creeper-vine. Above the front-door of the

Hutchinson House, was the wooden balcony from which “Stingy Tommy,” as

he was disrespectfully called by the populace, sometimes addressed the

restive and stiffnecked people whom it was his hard lot to govern; and

by whom he was so much disliked, that whether he did well or ill they

were resolved not to be pleased. Perhaps the primary cause of his

unpopularity may be traced to his parsimonious habits, or at least to

the stories circulated of them. No man that is noted for a mean and

avaricious disposition ever was or ever can be liked, either in private

life or in a public capacity. However he may attempt to disguise it by

an occasional act of liberality, the sordid spirit that is in him will

be always creeping out, and exciting disgust and contempt. Yet (as is

often the case with such persons) Governor Hutchinson spent much upon

show and finery. At the time his house was sacked by the mob (when he

narrowly escaped with his life) from this balcony were thrown the

splendid brocade gowns and petticoats of his wife, with her laced caps,

and numerous ornamental articles of dress and furniture. A bonfire was

made of them in the street before the door.

The gentleman who piloted us on this walk through the North End was

acquainted with the occupants of the Clarke House, (much the most

curious of the two,) therefore we stopped in, and were courteously shown

its principal apartments. It was built by Mr. Clarke, in the time of

Queen Anne, and was after him occupied by Sir Henry Frankland, and

called, for awhile, the Frankland House. It had a large, wide entrance

hall, with a parlor on each side. All the ceilings were much too low for

the taste of the present times; and a low ceiling always causes a room

to look smaller than it really is. The walls of the left hand parlor had

been covered with rich tapestry, over which a modern wall-paper was now

pasted. A small portion of the papering being peeled off, we saw part of

the tapestry beneath. But the other parlor had been evidently the room

of state. The floor required no carpet, for it was _parqueté_ all over

with small square pieces of American wood, comprising, as we were told,

fifty different sorts or specimens; the light-colored pieces forming the

ground-work, and the dark ones the figure or pattern. At the first

glance it resembled an oil-cloth, or rather (to adopt a very homely

comparison) it was not unlike the block-work bed quilts that our

grandmothers took such pains in making. On this floor there was a border

all round: and in the centre the marquetry represented a large swan with

a crown on its head, and a chain round its breast. This was the

cognizance of the Clarke family. Those conversant with heraldry know

that there is always a reason, either historical, traditionary, or

allegorical, for the introduction of certain strange symbols into a coat

of arms. We were told that this tesselated floor had cost fifteen

hundred dollars. The walls of the room were divided into compartments,

edged with rich gilded mouldings; each containing an oil painting,

tolerably good, but very vividly colored. The subjects were beyond our

comprehension. We did not know whether they were what the

drawing-masters call figure-pieces, or whether they were landscapes with

figures in them.

In the room over this parlor the chimney-piece was of marble, decorated

with a rich and admirably executed carving of flowers, fruit, and Indian

corn, beautifully arranged, and descending down the sides as far as the

hearth. Above the mantle-piece was a very _mediocre_ picture, in a

narrow gilt frame, inserted in the wall. This painting represented a boy

and girl, evidently brother and sister. The boy is presenting something

that is either a peach or an apple to the girl, who is dressed in a

ruffled night-gown and sitting on the side of a couch. The young

gentleman is standing upright, habited in a rich suit of blue and gold,

ornamented at the wrist with deep cuffs of white lace. On his legs are

white silk stockings, ascending above his knees, and buskins laced with

gold cord. Neither of the children are looking towards each other, but

both are staring out of the picture, and fixing their very large eyes on

the spectator.

We were told that Cooper had visited this house previous to commencing

Lionel Lincoln. Changing its location to Tremont street, he has

described it as the mansion of Mrs. Lechmere.

Few of our American cities have retained their old family domiciles as

long as the town of Boston, and they attest the opulence of many of its

early inhabitants. However, they are fast disappearing; the large

portions of ground that they occupy, surrounded with their gardens and

lofty trees, having become too valuable to escape being converted to

more profitable purposes. When I first knew Boston, the spacious domain

of Gardiner Green extended along Pemberton Hill, far back of Somerset

street, including garden, shrubbery, and pasture ground, from whence I

was sometimes disturbed at night by the tinkling of a cow-bell, which

seemed to me strange in the very heart of a large city. Near it, on

Tremont street, stood, with its pilasters and tall windows, the mansion

of Jonathan Philips, looking like the residence of an old English

nobleman. It had a smooth green lawn in front, and an elevated terrace,

which was ascended by a lofty flight of stone steps, bordered with vases

of exotics; and among its fine shade trees was the beautiful mountain

ash, with its clusters of light scarlet berries. It was built, and

originally occupied, by Mr. Faneuil, uncle to the gentleman who bestowed

the town-hall on Boston.

Next to the house of Governor Philips stood the residence of the

talented and unfortunate Sir Harry Vane, who had come over with the

early settlers, and afterwards been appointed governor of the province

of Massachusetts. He returned to England during the protectorate of

Cromwell; and after the restoration, was committed to the Tower for the

republican principles he persisted in advocating. Charles the Second had

him tried on a charge of high treason, and he was beheaded on Tower

Hill—behaving on the scaffold with the utmost composure and dignity. He

attempted to address the people, but the drums and trumpets were sounded

to drown his voice. This house of Sir Harry Vane was near two centuries

old. It was a large brick building, with a garden at the side. The

antique back casements still retained the small diamond-shaped panes set

in lead; but, when I saw the house, its front windows looked as if they

had been modernized about a century ago.

On my last visit to Boston, about two years since, I found that all the

above-mentioned old mansions had been demolished, and their places

filled with rows of modern structures suited to the utilitarian spirit

of the times. The old Coolidge house, in Bowdoin Square, was still

standing in 1840. It also is a large brick building, the bricks much

darkened and discolored with time and damp. The house is almost hidden

by enormous old trees, which cast their impervious branches so close to

the windows that I wondered how its inhabitants could possibly see to do

anything, unless they burned lamps or candles all day long. The dense

gloominess of shade that environed this mansion, reminded me of the

commencement of one of Moore’s earliest poems.

“The darkness that hung upon Willemberg’s walls

Has long been remember’d with grief and dismay,

For years not a sunbeam had play’d in its halls,

And it seem’d as shut out from the regions of day.”

* * * * *

AUTUMN.

BY ALBERT PIKE.

It is the evening of a pleasant day

In these old woods. The sun profusely flings

His flood of light through every narrow way

That winds around the trees. His spirit clings,

In orange mist, around the snowy wings

Of many a patient cloud, that now, since noon,

Over the western mountains idly swings,

Waiting when night shall come—alas! too soon!

To veil the timid blushes of the virgin moon.

The trees with crimson robes are garmented:

Clad with frail brilliants by the Autumn frost,

For the young leaves, that Spring with beauty fed,

Their greenness and luxuriance have lost,

Gaining new beauty at too dear a cost:

Unnatural beauty, that precedes decay.

Too soon, upon the harsh winds wildly toss’d,

Leaving the naked trees ghost-like and gray,

These leaf-flocks, like vain hopes, will vanish all away.

How does your sad, yet calm and cheerful guise,

Ye melancholy Autumn solitudes,

With my own feelings softly harmonize!

For though I love the hoar and solemn woods,

In all their manifold and changing moods—

In gloom and sunshine, storm and quietness,

By day, or when the dim night on them broods;

Their lightsome glades, their darker mysteries—

Yet the sad heart loves a still, calm scene like this.

Soon will the year like this sweet day have fled,

With swift feet speeding noiselessly and fast,

As a ghost speeds, to join its kindred dead,

In the dark realms of that mysterious vast,

The shadow-peopled and eternal past.

Life’s current deathward flows—a rapid stream,

With clouds and shadows often overcast,

Yet lighted often by a sunny beam

Of happiness, like sweet thoughts in a gloomy dream.

Like the brown leaves, our lov’d ones drop away,

One after one, into the dark abyss

Of Sleep and Death. The frosts of Trouble lay

Their withering touch upon our happiness,

Even as the hoar frosts of the Autumn kiss

The green lip from the unoffending leaves;

And Love and Hope and Youth’s warm cheerfulness

Flit from the heart—Age lonely sits and grieves,

Or sadly smiles, while Youth fondly his day-dream weaves.

Day draweth to its close—night cometh on—

Death standeth dimly on Life’s western verge,

Casting his shadow o’er the startled sun—

A deeper gloom, that seemeth to emerge

From gloomy night—and bending forth, to urge

His eyeless steeds, fleet as the tempest’s blast:

And hear we not eternity’s dim surge

Thundering anear? At the dread sound aghast,

Time hurries headlong, pale with frantic terror, past.

* * * * *

THE BROTHER AND SISTER.

BY MRS. EMMA C. EMBURY.

In the days of my early childhood, the little village of ——, separated

by green hills and broad fields from the busy city, formed one of the

pleasantest summer resorts of the wealthy inhabitants of New York. Many

a stately villa was reared upon the banks of the Hudson, many a neat

country-house sheltered itself within the winding lanes which traversed

the village, for its vicinity to the great mart offered irresistible

temptations to those whose hands were chained to the galley of commerce,

while their hearts were still wedded to nature. One of the fairest

pictures in the “chambers of mine imagery” is that of a large

old-fashioned mansion, seated in the midst of a garden “too trim for

nature, and too rude for art,” where a long avenue of cherry trees threw

a pleasant shade across the lawn, while a rude swing, suspended between

two of these sturdy old denizens of the soil, afforded a cool and

delightful lounge to the studious and imaginative child. My earliest

days were passed in that pleasant home, and my earliest lessons of

wisdom learned in the school of that pretty village; therefore it is

that my thoughts love to linger around those scenes, and therefore it is

that I have fancied others might find something of interest in _one_ of

my reminiscences.

My shortest road to school led through a narrow green lane, rarely

traversed by the gay vehicles which dashed along the main avenues of the

village, and I was delighted to find such a quiet and shady path, where

the turf was always so soft, and the air so fragrant with the breath of

flowers. But I was soon induced to take a wide circuit rather than pass

the solitary cottage which stood within that secluded lane. It was a low

one-story building, with a broad projecting roof, throwing the narrow

windows far into shade; and, as if to add to its sombre appearance, some

former occupant had painted the house a dull lead color, which, by the

frequent washings of the rain, and powderings of wayside dust, had

assumed the grayish tint that gave to the cottage its distinctive

appellation. Every village has its haunted house, and an evil name had

early fallen on the “gray cottage.” Behind it, and so near that three

paces from the little porch would lead a person to its very brink, was a

deep and rocky ravine, forming a basin for the waters of a rapid brook,

which, after flowing in sunshine and music through half the village,

fell with sullen plash into the gloom of this wild dell. Some dark and

half forgotten tale of guilt had added the horrors of superstition to

the natural melancholy of the place, and few of the humbler inhabitants

of the neighborhood would have been willing to stand after sunset on the

brink of the Robbers’ Glen. It was said that the house, in former times,

had been the abode of wicked and desperate men. The earth of the cellar

beneath it was heaved up with hillocks like graves, and supernatural

sounds had been heard to issue from these mysterious mounds. For many

years it had stood untenanted, and the boys of the village often amused

themselves by pelting it, at a cautious distance, with stones.

But a “haunted house” had great attractions for the mind of one who

revelled in fancies of the wild and wonderful. I was exceedingly anxious

to behold the interior of the lonely cottage, which had now become

invested with so much dignity in my eyes, and finding a few companions

of like spirit, we determined to visit it. We accordingly fixed upon a

certain Saturday afternoon, and determined to find some means of ingress

into the barred and bolted cottage. A gay and light-hearted troop were

we, as we scrambled over rail fences, gathered our aprons full of wild

flowers, or chased the bright butterflies which mocked our glad pursuit.

But as we entered the lane our merry shouts of laughter ceased, each

looked earnestly in the face of the other, as if, for the first time,

sensible of the mysterious importance of our undertaking, and, but for

shame, several would have retraced their steps. I believe not one of us

was insensible to the gloom which seemed suddenly to fall upon us, and

as we looked towards the cottage, standing in the deep shadow of a

spreading elm, while all else within the lane was glistening in the

slant beams of the declining sun, we almost feared to approach the

darkened spot. Cautiously advancing, however, and peeping through the

rusted keyhole, we found our curiosity entirely baffled by the total

darkness of the interior. It was proposed that we should climb the fence

and attempt an entrance from the rear of the building, where we should

be less likely to be interrupted or discovered by wayfarers, and after a

brief consultation, held in hurried whispers, we resolved upon the

daring feat. Silently treading the margin of the Robbers’ Glen, we

reached the back porch of the little cottage, and beheld one of the

window shutters open. We looked into the apartment but saw nothing save

the naked walls of the dilapidated room, and as one of our party turned

the latch of the door, to our great astonishment, it yielded to the

touch and allowed us free entrance. Half frightened at our own success,

we stood huddled together in the narrow passage, hesitating to advance,

when suddenly a tall woman, clad in the deepest black, and displaying a

countenance as white and (as it seemed to our excited fancies) as

ghostly and rigid as a sheeted corpse, stood in the midst of us. How we

ever got out of the house I cannot tell. I remember our desperate speed,

the wild and headlong haste with which we threw ourselves over the low

fence, and the total exhaustion we felt when once fairly escaped from

that frightful place. As we lay on the grass, to rest before returning

home, each one told her own story of that terrible apparition. None had

heard a footstep when that fearful woman came among us; none had seen

her approach, and though the sound of our own buzzing voices, and the

fixed attention with which we were just then regarding the door of the

apartment, which we wished yet dreaded to enter, might easily account

for both these circumstances, yet we all came to the conclusion that we

had seen a ghost, or, at the least, a witch.

On the following Sunday we were scarcely less alarmed, for, just as the

services were commencing, the same tall figure, arrayed in deep mourning

and veiled to her very feet, slowly proceeded up the aisle and took her

seat on the step of the altar. My blood ran cold as I looked upon her,

and when I afterwards heard that she had recently become the occupant of

the gray cottage, my dread of her supernatural powers gave place to a

belief that she was in some way or other mysteriously connected with the

guilty deeds of which that cottage had been the scene. I did not trouble

myself to remember that the events which had flung such horror around

the Robbers’ Glen must have occurred at least half a century previous,

and therefore could have little to do with a woman yet in the prime of

life. The curiosity which her presence excited was not confined to the

children of the village. Her tall stature, her sombre garb, her veiled

face, and her singular choice of a place of abode excited the

conjectures of many an older and wiser head. But whatever interest her

appearance had awakened, it was not destined to be satisfied. Those who,

led by curiosity or real kindness, sought to visit her, were repulsed

from the threshold; no one was allowed to enter her house; all prying

inquiries were silenced, either by stern reserve or bitter

vituperations; even the village pastor was refused admittance to her

solitude; and, after months and even years, as little was known of her

as on the day she first appeared. She lived entirely alone; once in each

week she was seen walking towards the city, and on Sunday she was

regularly to be found at the foot of the pulpit—but beyond this nothing

was to be discovered. Few, very few, had ever distinctly seen the face

whose paleness gleamed out from the folds of her thick veil, and, after

some time, the people found other objects of interest, while the

children carefully avoided all approach to the haunted cottage, and

could scarcely repress a shudder of horror as they heard the low rustle

of her dusky garments on each returning Sunday.

Years passed on; circumstances occurred to remove me from the village,

and the various changes which the heart experiences between the period

of joyous childhood and earnest womanhood, had almost effaced from my

mind all recollection of the “black witch,” when I was unexpectedly and

rather strangely made acquainted with her true history. It was a tale of

ordinary trials and sorrows, such as might have befallen many others,

and yet there are peculiarities in the sufferings of every individual as

strongly marked as are the traits of character. There was no

supernatural interest in her story, but it invested her in my mind with

the dignity of unmerited sorrow, and it enables me to open for your

perusal, gentle reader, another of the many strange written pages of

human nature.

* * * * *

For more than twelve years Madeline Graham had been an only child, the

darling of her invalid mother, and the pride of her doting father, when

the birth of a brother opened a new channel for the affections of all

the family. During the earliest period of his infancy the child seemed

feebly struggling for existence, but he gradually acquired strength to

resist the frequent attacks of disease, and though he gave no promise of

robust health, his constitution seemed sufficiently invigorated to

warrant a hope of prolonged life. The most unwearied exertions, however,

were necessary, and his guidance over the very threshold of being was a

task of more difficulty than the lifelong care of a hardy and healthy

child. Yet the anxiety which his precarious state awakened, and the

constant attention which he required, seemed to endear him the more

closely to the little family. He became their idol, the object of their

incessant solicitude, and comfort, happiness, even life itself was

sacrificed to his welfare. Ere he had attained his third year, Mrs.

Graham, who had long been in declining health, sank beneath the fatigue

and anxiety she had endured, while, with her dying breath, she enjoined

upon Madeline the most devoted attention to her darling boy. Madeline

scarcely needed such admonition, for, from his very birth, her brother

had been the object of her passionate love; but such a charge, given at

such a solemn moment, sank deep into the heart of the young and

sensitive girl. Falling on her knees beside her mother, she uttered a

solemn vow that no earthly affection and no other duty should ever

induce her to place her brother’s interests secondary to her own. A

smile of grateful tenderness lit up the face of the dying woman, and her

last glance thanked Madeline for the self-sacrifice to which she had

thus unconsciously pledged herself.

From that hour the young Alfred became his sister’s especial charge.

Young as she was, her father knew that he could trust her latent

strength of character, and when she took her brother, even as a child,

to her bosom, he felt assured that his boy would never need a mother’s

care.

Madeline Graham was no common character. Though she had scarcely counted

her fifteenth summer, she had grown up tall and stately, with a face

almost severe in its fixed and classical beauty, while her manners, calm

almost to coldness, were scarcely such as are usually found connected

with youthful feeling and girlish simplicity. Educated solely by her

parents, Madeline had acquired some of the characteristic traits of

both. To her mother’s morbid sensibility and enthusiasm she united her

father’s reserve and fixedness of purpose. She possessed strong

passions, but an innate power of repressing them seemed born with them.

Her love for truth was unbounded; even the common courtesies of society

seemed to her but as so many fetters on the limbs of the goddess of her

idolatry, and, therefore, even in her girlhood, her manners had become

characterized by a sincerity almost amounting to _brusquerie_. Her

talents were of the highest order, and her habits of reflection, which

were singularly developed in one so young, enabled her to reap a rich

harvest of knowledge from her father’s careful culture. She was one to

be admired, and praised, and wondered at, but she was scarcely

calculated to awaken affection. The spontaneous gush of feeling, the

guileless frankness of a heart that knows no evil and dreads no danger,

the warm sympathy of a youthful nature, the sweet susceptibility which,

though dangerous to its possessor, is yet so winning a trait of girlish

character—all these attributes, which seem to belong to the spring-time

of life, even as the buds and blossoms are inseparably connected with

the renewed youth of the visible creation, were wanting to Madeline.

But it was from the religious opinions of her parents that the deepest

tint of coloring was imparted to the mind of Madeline. Mrs. Graham, a

lineal descendant of one of the sternest and most intolerant of the

puritans, had early united herself to one of the strictest of strict

sects, and had been accustomed to practise a system of self-denial as

rigid, if not quite as visible, as the penances of cloistered austerity.

The impulses of innocent gaiety, the promptings of harmless vanity, the

wanderings of youthful fancy were regarded by her only as evidences of a

sinful nature, which ought to awaken remorse as keen as that which

visits the penitent bosom of deep-dyed guilt. In the enthusiasm of her

early zeal she seemed lifted above the weaknesses of humanity, and even

the gray-headed members of the Christian community looked upon her as a

chosen servant of the truth. But her excitement had been too great; the

hour of reaction came, and it was when lukewarmness and weariness had

taken full possession of her feelings for a season, that she first met

with her future husband. Ever in extremes, an earthly passion now

absorbed the heart which had consumed its energies in zeal without

knowledge, and she married Mr. Graham without allowing herself to look

upon the broad line of separation which lay between them. Had she ever

made religion a question she would have learned the fact; for if good

taste forbade him to obtrude his opinions upon others, yet love of truth

prevented him from seeking to conceal them. Mr. Graham was a skeptic.

The great truths of revealed religion were to him but as fables to amuse

the multitude; and while in the works of creation he recognised the hand

of a Deity, he read not in the hearts of men the necessity of a

Redeemer. Mrs. Graham was horror-stricken when she discovered that her

husband was not a Christian, and in proportion as the ardor of youthful

passion faded into the tender light of conjugal affection, the terrible

abyss which yawned between them became more painfully visible to her

sight. The attempt to change his opinions again awakened her slumbering

zeal, and with all the penitence of one who was conscious of having

fallen from a state of elevated piety, she endeavored to make amends for

her temporary alienation by renewed devotion. But her system of ascetic

severity was little calculated to make religion attractive to her

husband. The “beauty of holiness” was hidden beneath the sackcloth and

ashes with which her mistaken judgment endued it, and Mr. Graham learned

to look upon her piety as the _one defect_, rather than the _crowning

grace_, in his wife’s character. Her sincere affection, and a desire to

preserve domestic harmony, at length compelled her to give up all

attempts to change her husband’s opinions, and she was therefore doomed

to cherish a secret sorrow which wasted her very life away. The ascetic

devotion which seemed so unlovely to the husband, produced a very

different effect upon the imagination of Madeline. Accustomed to regard

her mother as the best of human beings, she early learned to reverence

and imitate her fervent zeal. Her reserve of character induced her to

conceal her impressions even from the mother who labored to deepen them,

and no one suspected the severe self-discipline which, even in

childhood, she practised in imitation of her parent’s example. Her

father, who, while despising Christianity, yet paid it the involuntary

homage of considering it a very proper safeguard for women and children,

did not attempt to interfere in her religious education. He contented

himself with cultivating the field of mind, and left her mother to sow

her moral nature with the tares of prejudice along with the seed of true

piety.

Madeline had scarcely attained her twentieth year when a sudden and

violent illness deprived her of her father, and left her the sole

guardian of her young brother. Upon looking into Mr. Graham’s affairs,

it was found that his profession had only procured for him a comfortable

subsistence, and, as his income died with him, the orphans were almost

penniless. The small house which they had long occupied, together with

its furniture and a library of some value, were all that remained. To

convert these into money was Madeline’s first care, and her next step

was to invest the amount thus obtained in the name of her brother, as a

fund for his education and future subsistence. For herself she seemed to

have no anxieties, and with a degree of disinterestedness, as rare as it

was praiseworthy, she determined to derive her own maintenance from the

labor of her hands. With characteristic energy she made all her

arrangements without consulting any one, or asking the advice of her

father’s best friends. The bold self-reliance which formed her most

striking and least amiable trait was now fully developed, and she felt

no need of other aid than that of her own strong mind. She had a deep

design to work out in future—a darling scheme to mature—a hope, which

in her stern nature assumed the form of a determination to compass, and

all sacrifices seemed light which could aid her to a successful issue.

Need I add, that her brother was the object of all her future

aspirations.

Alfred Graham had already given evidence of precocious genius which

seemed fully to justify Madeline’s ambition. Nature in his case had

displayed her usual compensating kindness, and since she had bestowed on

him a dwarfed and diminutive form, a delicate and fragile body, made

amends by giving him a countenance of almost feminine beauty, and a mind

filled with the most exquisite perceptions. He was born a poet. His

fervid feelings, his nervous temperament, his delicate sense of beauty

in the moral and physical world—even the very fragility of constitution

which shut him out from the rude conflicts of real life, and confined

him within the limits of the fairyland of reverie—all seemed to point

out his future vocation. Too young to frame in numbers the fancies of

his childish hours, he yet breathed into his sister’s ear the eloquent

words of pure and passionless enthusiasm, and Madeline’s heart thrilled

with high hopes of his future glory. But she did not suffer nature to

direct his course. Long ere the child had seriously commenced the work

of education, she had destined him to become an apostle of Christianity

to the benighted world of paganism. Imaginative, high minded, stern, and

self-sacrificing, Madeline was just such a woman as in the olden time

might have embroidered the cross upon the mantle of her best beloved

one, and sent him forth to fight the battles of the holy church. But the

missionary of modern days has a far more difficult and therefore far

nobler office to perform. Amid belted knights and men-at-arms to do

battle with myriads of the Paynim foe is a lighter task than that which

falls upon him, who goes forth alone and single handed to face the more

insidious foes of ignorance and sin amid the blinded and perverse

heathen. Yet such was the high and holy duty to which Madeline destined

her brother, while her own ambition was limited to the hope of being the

companion of his toils and his labors. She looked forward to the time

when they should go forth hand in hand into the howling wilderness of

superstition, with the gospel as a light to their feet and a lamp to

their path, while they scattered the blessings of truth among the

benighted idolaters of distant lands.

As Alfred advanced in life he learned the full extent of his sister’s

sacrifices for his welfare. He saw her relinquishing all the

intellectual pleasures she had once enjoyed, and devoting herself day

and night to the humble labors of the needle. He noticed her attention

to his most trifling wishes, and he did not fail to observe that while

his dress was of the neatest and finest texture, and his food of the

delicate kind which best suited the capricious appetite of an invalid,

Madeline practised the strictest economy in all that affected only her

own individual comfort. Yet Alfred did not love Madeline with the entire

affection which could alone repay her devotedness. There was too much

awe, too much fear blended with his feelings towards her. Her strong

mind and stern integrity seemed ever ready to rebuke the vacillating

temper and morbid sensibility of the youth. Superior to temptations

which had no power over herself, she had little charity for the failings

of another; and the boyish errors, often but the earliest trial of

principles which the world will hereafter put to a far more severe

test—were regarded by her as heavy sins. Educated in the seclusion of

home, she could not imagine the dangers which beset a boy from his first

entrance into the miniature world of a large school. Instead of

rewarding with her approbation the first struggles of principle with

passion in the youthful heart, she seemed only shocked and mortified

that any conflict should have been necessary, and was more keenly

sensible to the weakness which had required defence, than to the

strength which had offered resistance. Such mistaken views of character

soon checked the flow of confidence between them. Alfred could not open

his whole heart to one who was incapable of comprehending all his

feelings, and though he never needed a mother’s care, he early learned

the want of a mother’s sympathy.

Madeline had seen sufficient proofs of Alfred’s facile temper and

instability of purpose to dread his introduction into scenes of greater

temptation, and, vainly fancying that he would be safer any where than

in the busy city, she preferred that he should enter a distant college.

At the age of seventeen he was removed from his sister’s influence to

enter upon his new course of studies, and although at first truly

unhappy at this separation from his only relative, it was not long

before the absence of her keen eye and stern rebuke became a positive

relief to him. Hitherto his life had passed amid the sombre shades of

domestic life, and with all Madeline’s noble traits of character, she

lacked the tact, so truly feminine, which enables a woman to throw

sunshine around the humblest home. The cheerful song, the pleasant jest,

the merry voice, the bright smile, the buoyant step—all the lighter

graces without which a woman’s character, however elevated and noble, is

but as a Corinthian column without its capital, or as a rose without its

perfume—were wanting to the unbending nature of Madeline. The world was

to her a scene of probation and preparation, and to waste a thought upon

enlivening its grave duties seemed to her as idle as planting flowers

around a sepulchre. When therefore Alfred found himself amid a throng of

young men from every part of the country—some ambitious of renown, some

fond of study for its own sake, some utterly careless of present duties,

some slothful and indifferent to honor, but all equally alive to

pleasurable excitement and equally eager in the pursuit of amusement, he

felt as if he had suddenly been transported to a world of which he had

never dreamed. His susceptible temper rendered him an easy prey to the

lures of gay society. Intellectual enjoyments mingled their pure odors

with the fumes of the wine cup, and the refinements of elegant taste

served to veil the native deformity of vice, until, long before he had

learned the danger of his position, he was bound in the strong toils of

sensual indulgence. Full of intellect, and wonderfully acute in his

perceptions, he soon became distinguished for his genius, and the heart

of his sister was often gladdened by tidings of his success. But she

knew not that he was drinking from more turbid waters than those which

flow from the fountain of wisdom—she dreamed not that the offering

which she hoped to bring pure and unpolluted to the altar of Heaven was

already blemished and unworthy to be presented.

Alfred Graham was not designed by nature to be a votary of evil.

Temptation had found him weak to resist, but conscience was still true

to her charge, and the youth was as free from habitual vice as he was

destitute of unsullied virtue. When the vacations brought him to his

quiet home, the better feelings of his nature were ever aroused; he

respected the virtue of his sister’s character, and when surrounded by

that pure atmosphere which envelopes real goodness, he forgot even to

harbor a sinful thought. But day by day the profession to which he was

destined became more repugnant to his feelings, and after deferring as

long as possible the announcement of his wishes, he at length summoned

courage to reveal the truth to his sister. The blow fell upon Madeline

with almost stunning violence. He had just left college crowned with

honors and flushed with success, and Madeline was exulting in the hope

of his future usefulness, when he revealed to her his change of purpose.

The first intimation of his unwillingness to devote himself to the

church, almost drove her to frenzy. All the violence of her secret

nature broke forth in the fearful threats of temporal and eternal

punishment which she predicted for such apostacy, and Alfred’s feeble

temper was actually crushed beneath the weight of her indignation. He

trembled at the storm which he had raised, and when, after days of

entreaty and expostulation, Madeline, the stern, proud Madeline, even

knelt at his feet, and implored the child of her affections to listen to

the voice of God, speaking by the lips of her who had ever been as a

mother to his heart, the weak youth yielded to her prayers and promised

what he well knew he could not conscientiously perform. His was not the

free-will offering of talents and time and health and strength in the

service of the Redeemer. He entered the sanctuary as one driven onward

by irresistible force, not as one drawn by the cords of love and piety.

Time passed on and taught Alfred a lesson of deep hypocrisy. His timid

and feeble nature could neither resist the influence of evil nor brave

its consequences, and therefore it was that the fair face of the youth

became more and more characterized by sanctity in proportion as his

heart became less susceptible of its influences. Happy is it for mankind

that the eye rarely pierces beneath the veil which conceals the hideous

depravity of the heart. Who but would have shrunk from the delicate

beauty of Alfred’s gentle countenance—who but would have shuddered at

the contemplation of those clear blue eyes, that feminine complexion,

the delicate rose tint of his thin cheek, and the exceeding loveliness

of his chiselled and flexible lips, if the dark mass of evil thoughts

which lay beneath that fair seeming, could have been discerned. Yet

Alfred was far from being happy. Unstable as water, he had no power over

his own impulses, and remorse preyed upon him, even while he sought to

drown his senses in indulgence. Conscience was his perpetual tormentor,

and yet a constant course of sinning and repenting left him neither time

nor will to struggle effectually with his errors.

But a still darker change came upon his character. His health, which had

several times required a suspension of his studies, began again to fail,

a short time before the period fixed upon for his ordination, and he

eagerly seized the opportunity of deferring the dreaded ordeal. The

physicians ordered perfect relaxation from all mental labors, and

unfortunately for his future peace, the listlessness of unwonted

idleness led him to examine a chest of old papers, the accumulated

records of many years, where he accidentally met with a catalogue of his

father’s library. Alfred was so young at the time of his father’s death

that he retained little recollection of him, and Madeline had carefully

kept him in ignorance of those skeptical opinions which had so grieved

both mother and daughter. It was with no little surprise, therefore,

that Alfred found the names of so great a number of infidel works among

his father’s books. He pondered long upon the subject, and at length

conjectured the truth. This excited his interest, and a vague curiosity,

awakened rather by a belief in his sister’s desire to conceal from him

his father’s opinions, led him secretly to procure the prohibited

volumes. Upon the feeble mind of one who was “blown about by every wind

of doctrine,” and who yearned after worldly pleasures while he shrunk

with unutterable disgust from religious duties, the subtleties of the

skeptics had a most fatal effect. He had never been well grounded in the

faith, and the doubts now suggested to his mind were exactly such things

as in his present state of feeling he would gladly have adopted as

truths. These six months of respite from theological studies were spent

in the careful perusal of all skeptical writings, and when Alfred

resumed his former pursuits the plague spot of infidelity had already

given evidence of the fatal disease which was spreading over his moral

nature.

If my tale were designed only for the eye of the student of human

nature, I might dwell long upon the strange incongruity of feeling and

action, the wonderful contrariety between principle and practice, and

all the complicated workings of a wayward heart, which characterized the

deceptive course of the young student. With his usual timid hypocrisy he

concealed every real feeling, every genuine impulse. His conduct was

apparently irreproachable, his principles seemed unimpeachable, and he

even schooled himself to come forward and enrol himself beneath the

banner of the cross, when he was but too conscious that he had already

trampled the holy emblem beneath his feet. Why did he carry his deceit

to such an awful extent? Alas! who can tell just where the waves of sin

may stay their whelming force? He feared the world’s dread laugh at his

apostacy, he shrunk from the scorn of all good men, and, above all, his

mind absolutely cowered at the thought of his sister’s bitter wrath. So

he buried his secret within his own bosom, and trusting to some future

chance to rescue him from the irksome duties of his profession, prepared

himself for the ceremony of ordination. But he was not yet sensible of

the terrible power of Conscience.

The day came, and, as usual, crowds were assembled to witness the

dedication of the youthful candidates. The two young men—for Alfred had

a companion, a pious, humble-minded, meek-hearted youth—stood before

the altar to offer their vows. Madeline, the weeping but happy

Madeline—who had sacrificed her youth and health and beauty, aye and

the hopes ever dearest to a woman’s heart, to this one darling hope—was

there too, and as she looked on her brother bending before the altar,

while his bright curls just caught one straggling sunbeam which shed a

glory around his youthful brow, she was heard to murmur “Lo, here am I,

Lord, and the child which thou hast given me.”

The services commenced—the prayers of the congregation had arisen to

Heaven, the incense of praise had floated upward on the solemn melody of

the organ, the exhortation to the candidates had been affectionately

uttered by an aged pastor, and the moment came when the presentation of

the two was made to the Bishop by the officiating clergyman. The solemn

appeal was then uttered—

“_Brethren, if there be any of you who knoweth any impediment or any

notable crime on either of these persons for the which he ought not to

be admitted to the holy office, let him come forth in the name of God

and show what the crime or impediment is._”

At these words a sudden terror seemed to seize upon Alfred Graham. His

frame shook with suppressed emotion, his countenance became livid, and

his fine features were strangely contorted as if some sudden pang had

convulsed him. The next instant he uttered a faint cry and fell

prostrate to the ground, while his very life-blood was poured at the

foot of the altar which he had dared to touch with polluted hands.

He was borne to his home in utter insensibility. The sting of conscience

had finished the work which disease had long since begun, and the

rupture of a blood-vessel in the lungs had been the consequence of his

unnatural excitement and self-command. All that medical skill could

effect was tried, but without success, and ere the lapse of another day

it was known that Alfred Graham was sinking into the arms of death.

There was no time for repentance—no time to combat prejudices and

awaken better impulses. He lay as if in the deep torpor of

insensibility, until aroused by some cordial administered by his

physician, when his strength seemed to rally, and raising himself on his

pillow, he addressed his sister in words which fell like molten lead

upon her heart. With all the eloquence of passion he poured forth a wild

confession of his errors and his doubts, and then, in language equally

fervid but far more bitter, he reproached her—_her_ who had devoted her

whole life to his welfare—as the cause of all his guilt. He accused her

of having crushed his timid spirit by sternness and unbending rigor—of

having taught him hypocrisy by her fierce contempt for his

weaknesses—of having killed him by forcing him to a profession which he

hated and contemned.

“I am not mad, Madeline,” he exclaimed, in a hoarse voice, broken by his

difficult and long-drawn breath, “I am not mad, but so surely as I am

now stretched upon the bed of death, so surely has your ambition and

your mistaken zeal laid me here to die. I seek not to excuse myself, and

may God forgive me my many secret sins; but never, never would my soul

have been so deeply stained had it not been for your unrelenting

indignation at my boyish follies, and your determined will in the choice

of my future destiny. I forgive you, Madeline, but you will not forgive

yourself.”

The exertion of uttering these terrible words was too great, and ere the

sounds yet died upon the ear of the horror-stricken sister, the spirit

of the misguided youth had gone to its dread account.

From that hour Madeline was utterly and entirely changed. Whatever were

her feelings she shared them with none, but shrunk alike from question

and sympathy. Those dying reproaches, unjust as she felt them to be,

were yet engraven in ineffacable characters upon her heart, and with a

feeling akin to the mistaken austerity which punishes the body for the

sins of the soul, she resolved to make her future life a penance for her

involuntary error. Lonely and desolate, she took up her abode in a place

well suited to her embittered and almost misanthropic feelings. For more

than ten years the gray cottage was her abode, and the labors of the

seamstress furnished her scanty subsistence. During all that period not

a creature was ever admitted beyond the threshold of her door, and all

curiosity about her had quite subsided long before the termination of

her lonely career. At length she was missed from her usual lowly seat in

church. A second Sabbath came, and still the black and veiled form of

the recluse was not seen. Common humanity demanded some inquiry into her

fate, and after several vain attempts to procure admission into the

cottage, the door was forced. Upon a truss of straw, in one corner of

the desolate chamber, lay the emaciated form of the unfortunate

Madeline, stiff, and cold, and ghastly, as if days had passed since the

spirit had escaped from its clay tenement. She died as she had lived,

lonely, and unknown, for it was not until years had elapsed that I heard

the story of the brother and the sister from the lips of one who had

known them in early days; while other incidental circumstances enabled

me to identify Madeline Graham with the tall “_weird woman_” who had so

terrified my childish fancy.

The erring brother sleeps beneath the shadow of the sanctuary, in ground

still consecrated by holy usage, but all trace of the hapless sister has

vanished from the earth. The village graveyard is now a populous

highway, bordered by tall houses and traversed by busy feet, while the

green hillock which once marked the burial place of Madeline Graham has

long since been crushed beneath the weight of pavements, echoing to the

noisy tread of many a thoughtless wayfarer.

Alas, for human love! and, alas, for human error! How dreary and

desolate would seem many a scene of unmerited suffering did we not know

that there is a brighter world, where all tears shall be wiped from all

eyes, and where there shall be no sorrow nor sighing through an eternity

of happiness!

* * * * *

TO AN INFANT IN THE CRADLE.

BY REV. GEORGE B. CHEEVER.

Thou lovely miniature of Nature’s painting!

Thy beauty mingles care with my delight.

These colors are to grow: not like the fainting,

Soft, dying hues, that mark the eve’s twilight—

But evermore renewed, as if the dawn,

With its deep rosy tinge, instead of fading,

Ran hand in hand with the bright dewy morn,

The sky by sunlight with all colors shading.

These colors are to grow, from where, an infant,

Thou sleepest cradled by thy mother’s side,

On through thy childhood’s beauty, every instant,

To maiden loveliness—thy mother’s pride.

And she will guide the pencil, hers the art

To deepen Nature’s lineaments, or alter:

To image Heaven or Earth upon the heart—

What if her love should err, her pencil falter!

O! ’tis a sacred, sweet and fearful duty

To train these earth-born spirits for the skies!

To keep this household flower green in its beauty,

Till it in Paradise transplanted rise.

May He, who took the nurslings in his arms,

Keep thee and thine, his richest grace revealing,

Hid, as his Pilgrims, from the world’s alarms,

Where quiet brooks in pastures green are stealing!

* * * * *

WILL NOBODY MARRY ME?

A COMIC SONG.

BY GEORGE P. MORRIS.

Heigh-ho! for a husband!—heigh-ho!

There’s danger in longer delay!—

Shall I never again have a beau?

Will nobody marry me, pray?

I begin to feel strange, I declare!

With beauty my prospects will fade!—

I’d give myself up to despair

If I thought I should die an old maid!

I once cut the beaux in a huff!—

I thought it a sin and a shame

That no one had spirit enough

To ask me to alter my name!

So I turned up my nose at the short,

And rolled up my eyes at the tall;

But then I just did it in sport,

And now I’ve no lover at all!

These men are the plague of my life!—

’Tis hard from so many to choose!—

Should one of them wish for a wife,

Could I have the heart to refuse?

I don’t know—for none have proposed!

Oh, dear me!—I’m frightened, I vow!

Good gracious!—whoever supposed

That I should be single till now?

* * * * *

TROPICAL BIRDS.

BY PARK BENJAMIN.

Beautiful are the Birds of the Tropics. Bright, clear, sparkling,

brilliant is their plumage. It is steeped in “all the hues that gild the

rainbow.” I seek in vain for epithets by which to convey a thought of

their surpassing beauty. Had I, dear reader, the pencil of Audubon, I

might show you what they are in repose; but repose does not display

their loveliness in its perfection. They are most charming to behold

when in motion—when their many vivid colors contrast with the deep

green of the forests, in which they live and hold their jocund revels.

Not many years ago, I passed a winter—or, I might better say, the first

months of the year—in the Northern part of South America, where these

birds abound. There, was I often delighted by these “exquisite, gay

creatures of the element.” They seemed to me like so many winged jewels,

as they glanced about in the rays of a dazzling sun. But let me not

indulge too much in fanciful allusions, lest I should reluctantly enter

upon the real purpose I have in view in preparing this article: which is

to offer some account of Tropical Birds, so that the reader may be

attracted to the study of their Natural History. It appears to me that

our American periodicals have too much of the _dulce_ and too little of

the _utile_. It is well, sometimes, to mingle the useful with the

agreeable even in works of taste: I may fail in my attempt to do so in

this place, but I shall at least deserve the credit of having made the

attempt.

Doubtless many of my readers have in their possession certain glass

cases in which specimens of birds with variegated plumage, having

undergone the art of the taxidermist, are arranged on artificial trees

or bushes as ornaments for the drawing room. There are many persons in

Guiana, who make it their business to kill and prepare these birds, so

that they may adorn the halls of Natural History Societies or private

cabinets. Some birds, which fly about the houses or plantations, are

easily obtained; but those, upon which most value is set, live in

distant wilds and woods, and are procured with great difficulty and only

by individuals long practised in the art. Great caution must be observed

in approaching, and greater skill in shooting them; for they must be

slain so skilfully that their feathers shall not be torn nor their color

spoiled by an effusion of blood from the wound. When one, who is

unskilful, tears or disfigures his birds, he makes up one specimen out

of two or more individuals of the same species. Thus, upon a close

examination, you may often detect the wings of one bird joined to the

body of another, or, perhaps, an old head upon young shoulders. But the

worst piece of trickery, and one which renders the specimen wholly

valueless to an ornithologist, is the altering of the natural color of

the bird by fire. I have seen many a brilliant specimen exceedingly

admired, which obtained a false lustre in this manner.

There seems to be no limit to the wonderful varieties of these birds.

Every day brings to view some new species, which outvies its compeers in

the grace of its form and the brilliancy of its plumage. The adventurous

bird-seeker will penetrate deeper and deeper into the solitudes of those

vast forests, which, in primitive grandeur, lift up their leafy columns

and form umbrageous temples in the heart of the Southern continent.

Those lovely and still unexplored domains are the probable haunts of

thousands and thousands of birds of dazzling beauty. The clear beams of

the sun, glinting through the leaves of mighty trees, play among colors,

as various and as shifting as those of gems. No human eye, save that of

some Indian hunter who may have lost his homeward way, has gazed upon

these strange, bright creatures; and the most fantastic imagination may

vainly endeavor to paint those tribes of the air which have lived in

their safe retreats, undisturbed save by one another and the war of the

elements, since light first dawned upon creation.

Among the various little birds, black, yellow and red, which may be

observed in the midst of the sugar canes and in the many trees of

orange, mango and lemon, there is a tribe, called Tyrants, which is very

extensive. Great numbers are constantly seen. They are about the size of

our robin. One species is called “the butcher bird,” and most

appropriately, since it pounces upon and slaughters its prey with

tyrannical cruelty. It is said to be of service to the planter in

destroying grubs and insects, upon which it seizes in the manner of a

hawk. It first strikes its prey with its _bill_ (like a dun) and then

grasps it in its claws so instantaneously afterward, that the most acute

observation alone can enable one to decide on the priority of the

action. Its bill is of moderate length (unlike a tailor’s) compressed

and sharp. Its head is black and all its body is white, save the outer

feathers of the wings and tail, which are black. This family of

“Tyrants,” of which the butcher bird is an influential member, has very

extensive connections; but as they are distinguished neither for beauty

nor behavior (“handsome is that handsome does”) and can be very easily

“got round,” no great consequence is attached to their possession.

The next most numerous tribe is one whose habits and characteristics are

widely dissimilar—the Parrots. These exhibit plumage of the most

diversified hues; but the predominating is bright green. This is often

set off and contrasted by black, lilac, pink, orange, violet and blue.

It is impossible to tell how many species have been discovered; for our

traveller refers the specimen which he has obtained to some former

description, and then points out the differences. “This,” says one, “is

the _blue_ parrot; our specimens, however, are bright _lilac_, with

_red_ spots on the back, between the wings”—a remark which, were it

made by a native of the Emerald Isle, would be called a bull; but the

fact, nevertheless, may be as true as the somewhat notorious one that

“black-berries are red when they are green.”

The parrots are of all sizes from the macaw or ava, down to the smallest

paroket. The common green parrot, which is known in the United States,

and taught to speak, is of the medium size. The best and clearest

whistle is uttered by the homely brown parrot, which is brought from

Africa. It is likewise the most docile. These birds resemble humanity in

other respects besides the faculty of speech; some are hopelessly

stupid, while others take to learning very kindly. Curious stories are

told of their powers of articulation. The smallest kind, which cannot

live in our climate, are sometimes very successfully educated. The

manager of a plantation, which I visited, owned a little parrot, which

used to reside in a cage at the door of his house. As I rode up, I was

agreeably astonished by hearing the polite bird very considerately sing

out, “Boy, take the gentleman’s horse—boy, why the deuse don’t you take

the horse!”

The largest kind is the macaw. It is a huge, clumsy _thing_, with a head

out of all proportion to its body, (“great head, little wit;”) its

plumage is for the most part red, interspersed with green and blue. The

noise which it makes is most horribly discordant; and its loudest yell

is very like an Indian war-whoop, (one of Mr. Cooper’s;) yet is this

monster a great favorite in the West Indies, and, as you pass the

residences of the inhabitants, you often see three or four of these ugly

wretches clambering awkwardly up the piazzas, and uttering their hoarse,

scolding cries, ten times more grating to the ear than the objurgations

of a Xantippe, heard above the shrieks of her castigated offspring. The

hardihood of these birds is surprising. There was one of them on board

of a small vessel, in which it was my ill fortune to voyage from the

mainland to the island of Barbadoes. Mr. Macaw, like a militia major in

red and blue uniform, would strut about on the lower rigging, and, as

soon as he could get near enough to the ear of a sailor, would utter one

of his shrillest and most appalling yells. Jack Tar, in his summary

method of dealing vengeance, would fetch him a blow with a handspike,

that would send him flapping to the quarter-deck; perhaps, with an utter

disregard of decorum and discipline, into the very face and eyes of the

surly old captain, who, in his rage, would beat him soundly; yet would

the valiant and stalwart feathered marine regard those lusty strokes no

more than would a pet goldfinch the taps of his lady’s fan.

Some species of parrots exist in almost every region; the smallest and

most beautiful, however, are found only in tropical countries. They are

seldom seen near thickly populated places, but can be procured with

facility in the woods adjacent, where they live in tolerable fellowship

with their mischievous neighbors, the monkeys.