CHAPTER XI.

_In which the fullness of the Gentiles is accomplished._

Great was the joy of my father and mother, and good little sisters, at

the unexpected appearance of Cousins Pedro and Clara. The money of the

former, it may be recollected, had been brought to Boston in the

Cabot, and placed in my father's hands, and though Pedro could not be

called a rich man, still the sum now paid him by his uncle was very

handsome. This, by advice, was invested in an India venture to send by

the Gentile; and my Cousin Pedro, in consequence of this and my

father's recommendation, was appointed supercargo of that ship by Mr.

Selden, the merchant who had chartered her.

Captain Smith was removed to a new and larger vessel; and the

Gentile's list of officers, when she cleared for Canton, stood thus,

Benjamin Stewart, master; Pedro Garcia, supercargo; Micah Brewster,

1st officer; William Langley, 2nd do.; Frank Byrne, 3rd do. Jack

Reeves was also in the forecastle, but Teddy staid by his old skipper.

It was a very pleasant day when we sailed from the end of Long Wharf;

but we had got nearly under weigh before Captain Stewart came on

board.

"That's always the way with these new married skippers," growled the

pilot, as he gave orders to hoist the maintop-sail.

* * * * *

About a month ago, the senior partner of the firm of Byrne & Co. was

heard to say, that he had in his employ three sea captains who had

each one wooed his wife in broad daylight, in a garden of the city of

Matanzas.

ILENOVAR.

FROM A STORY OF PALENQUE.

A FRAGMENT.

BY WM. GILMORE SIMMS, AUTHOR OF "THE YEMASSEE," "RICHARD HURDIS," ETC.

Weary, but now no longer girt by foes,

He darkly stood beside that sullen wave,

Watching the sluggish waters, whose repose

Imaged the gloomy shadows in his heart;

Vultures, that, in the greed of appetite,

Still sating blind their passionate delight,

Lose all the wing for flight,

And, brooding deafly o'er the prey they tear,

Hear never the low voice that cries, "depart,

Lest with your surfeit you partake the snare!"

Thus fixed by brooding and rapacious thought,

Stood the dark chieftain by the gloomy stream,

When, suddenly, his ear

A far off murmur caught,

Low, deep, impending, as of trooping winds,

Up from his father's grave,

That ever still some fearful echoes gave,

Such as had lately warned him in his dream,

Of all that he had lost--of all he still might save!

Well knew he of the sacrilege that made

That sacred vault, where thrice two hundred kings

Were in their royal pomp and purple laid,

Refuge for meanest things;--

Well knew he of the horrid midnight rite,

And the foul orgies, and the treacherous spell,

By those dread magians nightly practiced there;

And who the destined victim of their art;--

But, as he feels the sacred amulet

That clips his neck and trembles at his breast--

As once did she who gave it--he hath set

His resolute spirit to its work, and well

His great soul answers to the threatning dread,

Those voices from the mansions of the dead!

Upon the earth, like stone,

He crouched in silence; and his keen ear, prone,

Kissed the cold ground in watchfulness, not fear!

But soon he rose in fright,

For, as the sounds grew near,

He feels the accents never were of earth:

They have a wilder birth

Than in the council of his enemies,

And he, the man, who, having but one life,

Hath risked a thousand in unequal strife,

Now, in the night and silence, sudden finds

A terror, at whose touch his manhood flies.

The blood grows cold and freezes in his veins,

His heart sinks, and upon his lips the breath

Curdles, as if in death!

Vainly he strives in flight,

His trembling knees deny--his strength is gone!

As one who, in the depth of the dark night,

Groping through chambered ruins, lays his hands

On cold and clammy bones, and glutinous brains,

The murdered man's remains--

Thus rooted to the dread spot stood the chief,

When, from the tomb of ages, came the sound,

As of a strong man's grief;

His heart denied its blood--his brain spun round--

He sank upon the ground!

'Twas but an instant to the dust he clung;

The murmurs grew about him like a cloud--

He breathed an atmosphere of spirit-voices,

Most sighing sad, but with a sound between,

As of one born to hope that still rejoices,

In a sweet foreign tongue,

That seemed exulting, starting from its shroud,

To a new rapture for the first time seen!

This better voice, as with a crowning spell,

On the chief's spirit fell;

Up starting from the earth, he cried aloud:

"Ah! thou art there, and well!

I thank thee, thou sweet life, that unto me

Art life no longer--thou hast brought me life,

Such as shall make thy murderers dread the strife.

But for thy ear a gentler speech be mine,

And I will wait until the terrible hour

Hath past, and I may wholly then be thine!

Now am I sworn unto a wilder power,

But none so clear, or precious, sweetest flower,

That ever, when Palenque possessed her tower

And white-robed priesthood, wert of all thy race

Most queenly, and the soul of truth and grace;--

Blossom of beauty, that I could not keep,

And know not to resign--

I would, but cannot weep!

These are not tears, my father, but hot blood

That fills the warrior's eyes;

For every drop that falls, a mighty flood

Our foemen's hearts shall yield us, when the dawn

Begins of that last day

Whose red light ushers in the fatal fray,

Such as shall bring us back old victories,

Or of the empire, evermore withdrawn.

Shall make a realm of silence and of gloom,

Where all may read the doom,

But none shall dream the horrid history!

I do not weep--I do not shrink--I cry

For the fierce strife and vengeance! Taught by thee,

No other thought I see!

My hope is strong within, my limbs are free.

My arms would strike the foe--my feet would fly,

Where now he rides triumphant in his sway--

And though within my soul a sorrow deep

Makes thought a horror haunting memory,

I do not, will not weep!"

Then swore he--and he called the tree whose growth

Of past and solemn centuries made it wear

An ancient, god-like air,

To register his deep and passionate oath.

Hate to the last he swore--a wild revenge,

Such as no chance can change,

Vowed he before those during witnesses,

Rocks, waters and old trees.

And, in that midnight hour,

No sound from nature broke,

No sound save that he spoke,

No sound from spirits hushed and listening nigh!

His was an oath of power--

A prince's pledge for vengeance to his race--

To twice two hundred years of royalty--

That still the unbroken sceptre should have sway,

While yet one subject warrior might obey,

Or one great soul avenge a realm's disgrace!

It was the pledge of vengeance, for long years,

Borne by his trampled people as a dower

Of bitterness and tears;--

Homes rifled, hopes defeated, feelings torn

By a fierce conqueror's scorn;

The national gods o'erthrown--treasure and blood,

Once boundless as the flood,

That 'neath his fixed and unforgiving eye

Crept onward silently;

Scattered and squandered wantonly, by bands,

Leaguered in shame, the scum of foreign lands,

Sent forth to lengthen out their infamy,

With the wild banquet of a pampered mood.

Even as he swore, his eye

Grew kindled with a fierce and flaming blight,

Red-lowering like the sky,

When, heralding the tempest in his might,

The muttering clouds march forth and form on high.

With sable banners and grim majesty.

Beneath his frowning brow a shaft of fire,

That told the lurking ire,

Shot ever forth, outflashing through the gloom

It could not well illume,

Making the swarthy cheeks on which it fell

Seem trenched with scarred lines of hate and hell.

Then heaved his breast with all the deep delight

The warrior finds in promise of the fight,

Who seeks for vengeance in his victory.

For, in the sudden silence in the air,

He knew how gracious was the audience there:

He heard the wings unfolding at the close,

And the soft voice that cheered him once before

Now into utterance rose:

One whispered word,

One parting tone,

And then a fragrant flight of wings was heard

And she was gone, was gone--

Yet was he not alone! not all alone!

Thus, having sworn--the old and witnessing tree

Bent down, and in his branches registered

Each dark and passionate word;

And on the rocks, trenched in their shapeless sides,

The terrible oath abides;

And the dark waters, muttering to their waves,

Bore to their secret mansions and dim caves

The low of death they heard.

Thus were the dead appeased--the listening dead--

For, as the warrior paused, a cold breath came,

Wrapping with ice his frame,

A cold hand pressing on his heart and head;

Entranced and motionless,

Upon the earth he lies,

While a dread picture of the land's distress

Rose up before his eyes.

First came old Hilluah's shadow, with the ring

About his brow, the sceptre in his hand,

Ensigns of glorious and supreme command,

Proofs of the conqueror, honored in the king.

"Ilenovar! Ilenovar!" he cried:

Vainly the chief replied;--

He strove to rise for homage, but in vain--

The deathlike spell was on him like a chain,

And his clogged tongue, that still he strove to teach,

Denied all answering speech!

The monarch bade him mark

The clotted blood that, dark,

Distained his royal bosom, and that found

Its way, still issuing, from a mortal wound,

Ghastly and gaping wide, upon his throat!

The shadow passed--another took his place,

Of the same royal race;

The noble Yumuri, the only son

Of the old monarch, heir to his high throne,

Cut off by cunning in his youthful pride;

There was the murderer's gash, and the red tide

Still pouring from his side;

And round his neck the mark of bloody hands,

That strangled the brave sufferer while he strove

Against their clashing brands.

Not with unmoistened eyes did the chief note

His noble cousin, precious to his love,

Brother of one more precious to his thought,

With whom and her, three happy hearts in one,

He grew together in their joys and fears--

And not till sundered knew the taste of tears;

Salt, bitter tears, but shed by one alone,

Him the survivor, the avenger--he

Who vainly shades his eyes that still must see!

Long troops came after of his slaughtered race,

Each in his habit, even as he died:

The big sweat trickled down the warrior's face,

Yet could he move no limb, in that deep trance,

Nor turn away his glance!

They melt again to cloud--at last they fade;

He breathes, that sad spectator,--they are gone;

He sighs with sweet relief; but lo! anon,

A deeper spell enfolds him, as a maid,

Graceful as evening light, and with an eye

Intelligent with beauty, like the sky,

And wooing as the shade,

Bends o'er him silently!

With one sweet hand she lifts the streaming hair,

That o'er her shoulders droops so gracefully,

While with the other she directs his gaze,

All desperate with amaze,

Yet with a strange delight, through all his fear!

What sees he there?

Buried within her bosom doth his eye

The deadly steel descry;

The blood stream clotted round it--the sweet life

Shed by the cruel knife!--

The keen blade guided to the pure white breast,

By its own kindred hand, declares the rest!

Smiling upon the deed, she smiles on him,

And in that smile the lovely shape grows dim.

His trance is gone--his heart

Hath no more fear! in one wild start

He bursts the spell that bound him, with a cry

That rings in the far sky;

He does not fear to rouse his enemy!

The hollow rocks reply;

He shouts, and wildly, with a desperate voice,

As if he did rejoice

That death had done his worst;

And in his very desperation blessed,

He felt that life could never more be cursed;

And from its gross remains he still might wrest

A something, not a joy, but needful to his breast!

His hope is in the thought that he shall gain

Sweet vengeance for the slain--

For her, the sole, the one

More dear to him than daylight or the sun,

That perished to be pure! No more! no more!

Hath that stern mourner language! But the vow,

Late breathed before those spectre witnesses,

His secret spirit mutters o'er and o'er,

As 't were the very life of him and his--

Dear to his memory, needful to him now!

A moment and his right hand grasped his brow--

Then, bending to the waters, his canoe,

Like some etherial thing that mocks the view,

Glides silent from the shore.

THE LAST OF HIS RACE.

BY S. DRYDEN PHELPS.

'Twas to a dark and solitary glen,

Amid New England's scenery wild and bold,

A lonely spot scarce visited by men,

Where high the frowning hills their summits hold,

And stand, the storm-beat battlements of old--

Returned at evening from the fruitless chase,

Weary and sad, and pierced with autumn's cold

And laid him mournful in his rocky place,

The grief-worn warrior chief--last of his once proud race.

He wrapt his mantle round his manly form,

And sighed as on his cavern floor he lay;

His bosom heaved with passion's varying storm,

While he to melancholy thoughts gave way,

And mused on deeds of many a by-gone day.

Scenes of the past before his vision rose--

The fearless clans o'er whom he once held sway,

The bloody battle-field and vanquished foes,

His wide extended rule, which few had dared oppose.

He sees again his glad and peaceful home,

His warlike sons and cherished daughters dear;

Together o'er his hunting-grounds they roam,

Together they their honored sire revere;

But trickles down his cheek the burning tear,

As fades the spectral vision from his eye:

Low at his shrine he bows with listening ear,

And up to the Great Spirit sends a cry,

To bear him to his rest, and bid his sorrows die.

Tired of the lonely world he longs to go

And join his kindred and the warrior band,

Where fruits for him in rich luxuriance grow,

Nor comes the pale-face to that spirit-land:

Ere he departs for aye, he fain would stand

Again upon his favorite rock and gaze

O'er the wide realm where once he held command,

Where oft he hunted in his younger days,

Where, in the joyful dance, he sang victorious lays.

Up the bold height with trembling step he passed,

And gained the fearful eminence he sought;

As on surrounding scenes his eye was cast,

His troubled spirit racked with frenzied thought,

And urged by ruin on his empire brought,

He uttered curses on the pale-faced throng,

With whom in vain his scattered warriors fought

And on the sighing breeze that swept along,

He poured the fiery words that filled his vengeful song:

Fair home of the red man! my lingering gaze

On thy ruin now rests, like the sun's fading rays;

'Tis the last that I give--like the dim orb of day,

My life shall go down, and my spirit away.

Loved home of the red man! I leave thee with pain,

The place where my kindred, my brothers were slain;

The graves of my fathers, whose wigwams were here;

The land where I hunted the swift-bounding deer.

No longer these hills and these valleys I roam,

No more are these mountains and forests my home,

No more, on the face of the beautiful tide,

Shall the red man's canoe in tranquillity glide.

The pale-face hath conquered--we faded away,

Like mist on the hills in the sun's burning ray,

Like the leaves of the forest our warriors have perished;

Our homes have been sacked by the stranger we cherished.

May the Great Spirit come in his terrible might,

And pour on the white man his mildew and blight

May his fruits be destroyed by the tempest and hail,

And the fire-bolts of heaven his dwellings assail.

May the beasts of the mountain his children devour,

And the pestilence seize him with death-dealing power;

May his warriors all perish and he in his gloom,

Like the hosts of the red men, be swept to the tomb.

Scarce had the wild notes of the chieftain's song

Died mournful on the evening breeze away,

Ere down the precipice he plunged along

Mid ragged cliffs that in his passage lay:

All torn and mangled by the fearful fray,

Naught save the echo of his fall arose.

The winds that still around that summit play,

The sporting rill that far beneath it flows,

Chant, where the Indian fell, their requiem o'er his woes.

DECAY AND ROME.

Methinks I see, within yon wasted hall,

O'erhung with tapestry of ivy green,

The grim old king Decay, who rules the scene,

Throned on a crumbling column by the wall,

Beneath a ruined arch of ancient fame,

Mocking the desolation round about,

Blotting with his effacing fingers out

The inscription, razing off its hero's name--

And lo! the ancient mistress of the globe,

With clasped hands, a statue of despair,

Sits abject at his feet, in fetters bound--

A thousand rents in her imperial robe,

Swordless and sceptreless, her golden hair

Dishevelled in the dust, for ages gathering round! R. H. S.

THE LITTLE CAP-MAKER.

OR LOVE'S MASQUERADE.

BY MRS. CAROLINE H. BUTLER.

PART I.

Fair Ursula sits alone in an apartment which seems fitted up for the

reception of some goddess. She is not weeping, but her dark eyes are

humid with tears. An air of melancholy rests on her young face, like a

shadow on a rose-leaf, while her little hands are folded despairingly

on her lap. The hem of her snowy robe sweeps the rich surface of the

carpet, from out which one dainty little foot, in its fairy slipper of

black satin, peeps forth, wantonly crushing the beautiful bouquet

which has fallen from the hands of the unhappy fair one.

Every thing in this inviting apartment is arranged with the most

exquisite taste and elegance. On tables of unique pattern are

scattered the most costly gems of art and _vertu_--choice paintings

adorn the walls--flowers, rare and beautiful, lift their heads proudly

above the works of art which surround them, and in splendid Chinese

cages, birds of gorgeous plumage have learned to caress the rosy lips

of their young mistress, or perch triumphantly on her snowy finger.

Here are books, too, and music--a harp--a piano--while through a half

open door leading from a little recess over which a _multaflora_ is

taught to twine its graceful tendrils, a glimpse may be caught of rosy

silken hangings shading the couch where the queen of this little realm

nightly sinks to her innocent slumbers.

Eighteen summers have scarce kissed the brow of the fair maid, and

already the canker worm of sorrow is preying upon her heart-strings.

Poor thing, so young and yet so sad! What can have caused this

sadness! Perhaps she loves one whose heart throbs not with answering

kindness--perhaps loves one faithless to her beauty, or loves where

cruel fate has interposed the barrier of a parent's frown!

No--her heart is as free and unfettered as the wind.

Ah! then perhaps her bosom friend, the chosen companion of her

girlhood has proved unkind--some delightful project of pleasure

perhaps frustrated, or, I dare say she has found herself eclipsed at

Madame Raynor's _soiree_ by some more brilliant belle--no, no, none of

these surmises are true, plausible as they appear! Then what is it?

Perhaps--but you will never guess, and you will laugh incredulously

when I tell you that poor, poor dear darling Ursula weeps

because--because--

_She is an heiress!_

That is it--yes, weeps because she is the uncontrolled mistress of one

hundred thousand dollars in houses, lands and gold, bright gold!

Poor little dear--looking upon fortune as a serious misfortune, and

even envying those whose daily toil can alone bring them the

necessaries of life; for, have they friends--they are true

friends--there is no selfishness in the bond which unites them--while

she, unhappy child that she is, owes to her rank and riches her

thousand friends and the crowd of satellites worshiping before her!

What a foolish notion to enter her little head! True, it is foolish.

Lovers, too, in plenty sigh at her feet, and in the soft moonlight the

air is tremulous with sighs and music, as from beneath her window

steals the soft serenade. But Ursula curls her lip disdainfully, and

orders her maid to shut out the sweet sounds. Ever that hateful gold

comes between her and her lovers, and then she wishes her lot was

humble, that she might be loved for herself alone!

Do you wish a portrait of the unhappy little heiress? Behold her then:

A perfect little sylph, resting on the tiniest of feet, with hands so

charming that you would feel an almost irresistible desire to fold

them caressingly within your own--the rich complexion of a brunette

with the bloom of Hebe on her cheek--her hair like burnished jet--eyes

large, lustrous and black--but (alas that there should be a _but_!)

poor Ursula had an unfortunate cast in her left eye--in others words

she squinted--yes, absolutely squinted!

Dear, dear what a pity!

Yet stop, don't judge the little heiress too hastily, for after all it

was not a bad squint--indeed, if you knew her, you would say it was

really a becoming squint, such a roguish, knowing look did it give

her! Nevertheless, it was a squint, and poor Ursula, notwithstanding

the bewitching form and features her mirror threw back, fancied this a

deformity which cast aside all her graces. And here again the _gold_

jaundiced her imagination and whispered, "were it not for _me_ what a

horrible squint you would have in the straight forward eyes of the

world!"

When her parents died Ursula Lovel was but an infant, yet as tender

and affectionate as parents had been the good uncle and aunt to whose

love and guardianship she was bequeathed. They had no children, and

gladly took the little orphan to their bosoms with pity and love--and

Ursula required all their watchful care, for she was ever a feeble

child, giving no indications of that sprightly beauty and perfect

health she now exhibited. Then indeed the squint was truly a

deformity, for her thin, sallow countenance only made it far more

conspicuous.

People should be more guarded what they say before children. One good

old lady by a careless remark instilled into the mind of little

Ursula a jealousy and distrust, which, but for the good sense maturer

years brought to bear against such early impressions, would have

rendered her unhappy for life. Propped up by pillows, she sat at a

small table amusing herself by building little card houses, and then

seeing them tumble down with all the kings and queens of her little

city, when she heard her name mentioned in accents of pity by an old

lady who had come to pay her aunt a morning visit.

"She is very plain--is not she? What a great misfortune that her

father should have left her so much money! Poor thing, it will only

prove a curse to her, for if she lives she will doubtless become the

prey of some fortune-hunter."

Now what was meant by "fortune-hunter"--whether some giant or horrid

ogress--the little girl could not tell, but that it was some dreadful

thing waiting to devour her because she had money, haunted her mind

continually. She was a child of fine capacity, and at school generally

ranked the highest in her class--how many times her envious mates

would say: "Well, well, it is a fine thing to be rich--it is your

money, Miss Lovel, makes you so much favored--our teachers are both

deaf and blind to your foibles!" What wonder, then, poor Ursula began

to distrust herself, and to impugn the kindness of her teachers and

friends, who really loved her for her sweet disposition, and were

proud of her scholarship.

But don't think that she has been hugging such unhappy thoughts to her

bosom ever since, because you have just found her lamenting that she

is an heiress!

You shall hear. As childhood passed, health bloomed on her cheek, and

shed its invigorating influence over the mind, and it was only when

something occurred to arouse the suspicion of early childhood that she

indulged in such feelings. She was intelligent and accomplished. Sang

like a bird, painted to nature, and danced like a fairy. But there was

something more than all this which contributed to her happiness--it

was the power of doing good--a power which she possessed, and, through

the judgment of her aunt, practiced. This excellent woman had taught

her that money was not given her to be all lavished on self--that it

was her duty, and ought to be her delight, to loose her purse-strings

to the cries of the poor, and to scatter its glittering contents

through the homes of the needy. And this did Ursula do--and was

rewarded by the blessing of those she had relieved, and the happy

consciousness of having mitigated the sorrows of her fellow mortals.

But now this particular evening when you have seen little Ursula

drooping under the weight of gold which Fortune it appears has so

thanklessly showered upon her, she has met with an adventure which

brings before her with all its tenacity the impression so early

engendered. And now, as she sits there so sad and sorrowful, she is

sighing to be loved for herself alone, and wishes her lot had been

humble, that she might trust to professions, and not be forever

reminded of that wealth which she fears will always mask the sincerity

of those around her.

Silly little girl! She would even exchange all the elegancies and

luxuries of life to feed on love and roses!

This unlucky evening she had shone as the most brilliant belle in the

crowded assemblage of the fair and fashionable whom Madam Raynor had

gathered into her splendid rooms. Tired at length with the gay scene

around her, she had strolled off alone into the conservatory, and

leaning against a pillar watched from a distance the giddy whirl of

the waltz--the waving of feathers, the flashing of jewels, and the

flitting of airy forms through those magnificent apartments. A few

moments before she left the crowd, she had observed a stranger of very

dashing air attentively regarding her, and then joining a friend of

hers appeared to request an introduction. But young Allan was just

about to join the dance, and ere it was finished Ursula had stolen

away.

While engaged as before described, she observed the same gentleman

leaning on the arm of Allan strolling toward the conservatory.

Concealed by the shadow of a large orange-tree, they passed her

unobserved--they then paused in their walk, when Ursula suddenly heard

her own name mentioned, and then the following conversation

unavoidably fell on her ear:

"Why she squints, Allan!"

"Well, what of that--those that know her best never think of it."

"Pardon me, I consider it a very great defect, and slight as this

blemish appears in Miss Lovel, her money could never blind me to the

fact if I knew her ever so well."

"I do not mean to imply," answered Allan, "that being an heiress

renders the blemish imperceptible--no, it is her truly amiable

disposition, her goodness, and engaging manners which makes her so

beautiful to her friends."

"O, a pattern woman!" cried the other, "worse yet!"

"What do you mean by a pattern woman?"

"Why, one of those shockingly amiable, running round into dark alleys,

charity-dispensing beings--patting white-headed beggar boys, and

kissing dirt-begrimed babies--who speak in soft, lisping tones of duty

and benevolence--read the Bible to sick paupers, go to sewing meetings

and work on flannel--and--"

"There, that will do, Fifield," interrupted Allan, "making some

allowance, you have drawn Miss Lovel's character to the life. Shall I

introduce you?"

"O certainly, a cool hundred thousand outweighs all my objections

against pattern women--I could swallow a sermon every morning with the

best grace in the world, and even were she as ugly as Hecate, I could

worship at her feet, and wear the yoke for the sake of the golden

trappings!"

The young men now passed on, leaving poor Ursula wounded to the quick

by the heartless remarks of the fortune-hunter. She did not join the

gay assembly again, but requesting a servant to call her carriage,

immediately returned home. Now can you wonder at the cloud on her

brow?

But see, even while we are looking at her, it is clearing away--like

a sunbeam, out peeps a smile from each corner of her rosy mouth, and

hark! you may almost hear her merry laugh as clapping her bands she

exclaims--

"Yes, yes, I'll do it! What a capital idea--excellent, excellent!"

Then rising and bounding lightly to the inner door she threw it wide,

saying--

"Here, Hetty, I have something to tell you--come quick."

And at the summons a pretty young girl, seemingly about her own age,

made her appearance from the chamber.

"There, Hetty, I am better now," said Ursula, "how silly I am to let

the remarks of such a person have power to move me! But I have such a

grand project to tell you--come, while you are platting my hair, and,

in the words of that same amiable youth, taking off all these

_trappings_, I will let you into my secret."

Hetty took the comb and thridded it through the long tresses of her

young lady, which, released from the silver arrow so gracefully

looping them on the top of her head, now fell around her nearly to the

floor.

"Hetty," exclaimed Ursula, suddenly throwing back her head and looking

archly at the girl, "Hetty, do you want to see your mother?"

"O, Miss Ursula," cried Hetty, the tears springing to her eyes,

"indeed, indeed I do!"

"Very well, I promise you then that in less than a week you shall be

in her arms."

"O, my dear Miss Ursula, do you really mean so?" said Hetty, bending

over and kissing the glowing cheek of her mistress.

"Yes, I really mean so--but dear, dear, you have run that hair-pin

almost into my brain--never mind--only be quiet now--there, sit down,

and I will tell you all about it." There was a roguish expression on

Ursula's face as she continued: "Yes, you shall go home, and what's

more, Hetty, I am going with you, and mean to live with you all

summer, perhaps longer."

"Why, Miss Ursula!"

"Yes I do. And now you must assist me--you must promise me not to

reveal to any one, not even to your mother, that I am the rich lady

with whom you live. Remember I am a poor girl--poor as yourself--a

friend of yours come into the country for--for her health--ha, ha, ha,

Hetty, look at me--you must contrive to make me look paler, or shall

this be a _hectic_?"

"But, Miss Ursula--it will never do--you who have always had every

thing so beautiful around you--you can never live in our humble way!"

"Try me, try me, Hetty--for I am determined to lest my own individual

merits, and see how far they may gain me the love and esteem of others

when unsupported by the claims of wealth. Let me see, Hetty, I must

have some employment aside from helping you to milk the cows and feed

the pigs. Ah, I have it!" she cried, springing up and turning a

pirouette--"listen--I will be a _milliner_! you know, aunt thinks I

have a great knack at cap-making--O excellent idea--I will turn

milliner for all the farmer's wives and daughters far and near." And

catching up her embroidered mouchoir she began folding it into a

turban, and then placing it gracefully on her little head, she turned

to the laughing girl: "See there now--is not it exquisite--why my caps

and turbans will turn the heads of all the swains in the village. You

shall have one first, Hetty--you shall set _your_ cap, and heigh-ho

for a husband!"

"But your uncle and aunt, Miss Ursula?"

"O, I shall tell them candidly my project. They will laugh at me, I

know, and try, perhaps, to dissuade me; but, after all, they will let

me do as I please."

_Twelve_! chimed a beautiful Cupid running off with Time, which,

exquisitely wrought in gold and pearl, stood on the dressing-table.

In a few moments Hetty had drawn the rose-colored curtains around the

couch of her young mistress, and left her to dreams as rosy.

PART II.

And now will you follow me to another scene--an apartment more

spacious, and even more elegant, than the one we have just left, save

that it savors more of the "sterner sex." For instance, we may see a

brace of pistols, superbly mounted, crossed over the mantel-piece--a

flute upon the table--a rifle leaning against the wall, and, I

declare, fishing-tackle thrown carelessly down, all among those

delicate knackeries so beautifully arranged on yonder marble

slab--just like the men!

Reclining upon a sofa of crimson satin, wrought with gold thread,

wrapped in an elegant dressing-robe, with his feet thrust into

embroidered slippers, is a young man of very pleasing exterior, whom

we should judge to be about five-and-twenty. The long, slender fingers

of one hand are half buried in the rich mass of dark-brown hair which

waves over his temples, the other, hanging over the back of the sofa,

seems to partake of the disturbance of its master, for it beats and

thrums the silken covering most unmercifully. See how he knits his

fine brow, and now waves his arm menacingly in the air--what can be

the matter!

Ah! you will laugh again when I tell you here is another discontented

heir of wealth.

There! now he suddenly starts up as if distracted. "_Yelp_, _yelp_!"

Ah! poor Fido! although your master seems evidently out of humor, he

would not have kicked your beautiful spotted coat had he seen you!

There, he caresses you--so fold back your long ears, and wag your tail

complacently, while we hear what this impatient youth has to say, as

he strides so rapidly hither and thither.

"Well, no doubt wealth is a very fine thing, if the world would let

one enjoy it peaceably; but to be thus forever dined, and teaed, and

courted, and flattered, and smiled at, and bowed at, and winked at,

when, if it were not for my fortune, I very much doubt whether one of

these, my exceeding good friends, would give me a dinner to save me

from starvation. Why I had rather be the veriest boor that holds a

plough, or a cobbler at his last, than to be, as Shakspeare says, 'the

thing I am.' I am heartily sick of it, and could almost turn my back

upon the world, and lead a hermit's life. To be always a mark for

managing mothers, with great grown-up daughters; aimed at, like a

target, by scores of black, grey, and blue eyes; to be forever forced

to waltz with this one, and sing with another--and, ere I know it,

find myself entrapped into a close _tete-a-tete_ with a third. I wish

I _was_ married; then one-half at least of my troubles would be

over--for I should shake off this swarm of female fortune-hunters!

_Married_! ah! I wish I was! But where can I find one who will love me

for myself alone, and not for the standing my wealth would give her?

_Married_! ah! how delightful to come home and find a dear little wife

waiting with open arms to welcome me, and the rosiest and sweetest of

lips coaxingly pressed to mine; all my cares forgotten, all my

vexations subdued by her soothing caresses and tender words. And then

how enchanting as she warbles like a linnet for my ear alone; how

enchanting to lean her bewitching little head on my shoulder, and

inhale the balmy fragrance of her breath. O! I wish I was married!"

And now, so enraptured does this reasonable youth seem with the

picture he has sketched, that not having any thing else, you see, to

hug, he throws his arms most lovingly around himself. There, now he

frowns again, and--hark what more he has to say.

"In fact, I am not sure I have a real friend in the world, for, gild a

fool or a monkey, and mark what a troop of flatterers fawn around and

follow admiringly at his heels! And as for choosing a wife, why, were

I toothless, one-eyed, or deaf as a post, the magic of gold would

transform me into an Adonis!"

Now stopping before a full-length mirror, he appears to console

himself for such suppositions, by very complacently regarding his

truly elegant figure and classic countenance.

A tap at the door, and an arch face, already shaded by the night-coif,

peeps in.

"What, not yet gone to bed, brother--why what are you studying, to be

up so late?"

"Studying human nature, Helen--a book with great pretensions to

excellence, but--"

"Hush, hush, Frank! not a word more," exclaimed Helen, placing her

little hand over his mouth, "not a word more--you read with defective

vision! I proclaim the book of human nature to be charming, every page

teeming with interest, every line traced by the hand divine, a lesson

for a lifetime. Ah! Frank, remove the film of distrust from your eyes,

and read this book as it ought to be read, therein you will find

truth, goodness, and beauty!"

"Would I could think as you do, Helen. I tell you candidly, I am sick

of the world as I find it, and would gladly give all my wealth and

expectations to be sure there was one heart that truly loved me--loved

me for myself alone."

"A very pretty theory, indeed! Well, you must get married, Frank; I

see no other way to cure you--then you will have a dear little book of

your own to study--a choice edition of human nature, traced by the

feather of Cupid."

"Ah! the very thing I was thinking of; but tell me, Helen, where can

I find that same beautiful work?"

"Where you please, brother--there is no danger that you can sue in

vain; there is sweet Anna De Kay, roguish little Laura C----, the

pensive Sarah--"

"O! don't mention them--pray don't name any more of these city

belles!"

"Well, Frank, human nature is most lovely in the simplicity of country

life--you must seek some village maid to grace the name of Leland."

"Helen," says Frank, taking her hand, and looking into the large blue

eyes sparkling so mirthfully, "Helen, I tell you if I could find an

amiable girl, brought up in all the beautiful simplicity of the

country, no matter how unskillful in the world's ways--one who,

ignorant of my wealth and standing, would unite her fate to mine for

better or for worse--then, Helen, I could fall at her feet, and

worship her as the star of my life and love."

"Pray, remember, my sentimental brother, ere you squeeze my hand so

devoutly, that I am not your artless country maid," exclaimed Helen,

laughing; then, after a moment's pause, she cries, gayly, "ah! I have

it, Frank; you must masquerade a little, that's all--win your bride

under false colors, as a sailor would say."

"Helen, you witch, you darling sister," says Frank, kissing her, "I

will do it--yes, to-morrow I will set forth, like Coelebs, in search of

a wife! Now you must help me farther with your lively imagination; you

must choose me a profession to masquerade under. I must, of course,

for the attainment of my object, sport the character of a poor

gentleman, struggling with honest poverty to gain a livelihood. Come,

what shall I be--school-master--singing-master--drawing-master--or--"

"O, the last, by all means!" interrupted Helen. "You will have such a

fine opportunity of developing the tastes of your fair scholars--ha!

ha! ha! Frank, methinks I already see thee helping some blushing

milk-maid, with her pail, or, perhaps, leaning against a rail-fence,

sketching her, as with bare feet and scanty skirt, she trips through

the morning dew to feed her feathery brood."

"Well, you may laugh as much as you please," replies Frank, nothing

daunted, "I am firm in my determination."

"And when, most romantic Coelebs, do you set forth?"

"To-morrow, or next day at furthest. We will talk this over again in

the morning, it is too late now--so good night, dear Helen, and

pleasant dreams!"

"Good night. Frank!" and gayly kissing her hand, Helen trips out of

the room.

Frank Leland laid his head upon his pillow within the walls of a large

brick mansion, where the hum of city life penetrated, even through the

thick plate-glass and rich window-hangings. But a miracle; no sooner

did soft sleep seal his eye-lids, than he found himself in Arcadian

scenes--shepherdesses tripped gracefully before him with their flocks;

beautiful maidens led him through flowery fields and shady groves;

and the little birds _up_ in the trees, and the little romantic fishes

_down_ in the brooks, all sang of love and happiness.

PART III.

Sit down with me under this spreading tree, and let us view the

charming scene which surrounds us. O, never mind the cows, this is

their pasture-ground; and see, mid-leg the brook yonder, just released

from plough, stands the patient ox. Ah! the ducks and geese seem to

dispute his right. Observe how they shake their wings, as if in

defiance, and dip their beautiful crests within the sparkling ripples;

now, how proudly they plume their feathers, and float with head erect

so gracefully down the silver stream. Do you see yonder old

farm-house, so old that it seems bending under the weight of years?

Look at its low, brown eaves, its little narrow windows, half-hidden

by ivy and honey-suckle; see the old-fashioned double door, and the

porch, with its well-worn seats. Do you see the swallows skimming

around the chimney; and don't you hear the hum of the bees--there,

under that old elm you may see their hives, filled, too, with luscious

honey. There is the well, with its old sweep, and the "moss-covered

bucket," too; and look at the corn-crib, and the old barn--and what a

noisy set of fowls around it, cackling, clucking and crowing, as if

they owned the soil; and how the pigs are scampering through the

clover-field; ah! the little wretches, they have stolen a march, or

rather a caper; at them, old Jowler, at them, my fine fellow, you will

soon turn them back to their pen, obstinate as they are.

Do you not admire those venerable trees which seem to shelter the old

house from the rude assaults of the tempest, and to keep out the glare

of the sun-beams from its chambers. Through what a thicket of

currant-bushes, and rose-bushes, and lilacs, and snow-balls, the path

winds from the porch to the little gate--is it not a most charming

spot? Now look over the brow of the hill--there, you can see the spire

of the village church; and if you will walk a few paces further to

yonder green knoll, you will see a cluster of pretty dwellings, and

comfortable farm-houses, scattered through the valley.

"Hark! don't you hear a merry laugh? so merry and joyous that it can

only proceed, I am sure, from a happy heart. Keep still--for here

comes two laughing country-girls--no, as I live, one of them is--no,

it can't be--yes, it is, the rich young heiress, Ursula Lovel! quick,

draw behind the tree, and let us hear what she says.

"And so, Hetty, your mother thinks I am the most awkward child she

ever saw, and wonders where I was brought up, not to know how to knead

bread, and churn, and milk;" and again that merry laugh goes ringing

through the air.

"Yes, Miss Ursula; and she wishes--I declare I can hardly keep from

laughing--she wishes you would stick to your cap-making, and not

attempt to bake again, for you burned up three loaves."

"Yes, and burned my fingers, too. Well, it is too bad; let me see,

yesterday I let a pan of milk fall on the old cat, and fed the hens

with beans, and old Jowler with meal and water; then, this morning I

beat the eggs and put them into the bread, and the yeast into the

pumpkin-pies. Too bad! too bad! Why at this rate, Hetty, I shall cost

your good old parents a fortune!"

"Never mind, Miss Ursula, for mother says, and so does father, that

you are the dearest, prettiest, and best girl they ever knew; and they

already love you almost as well as they do me--only they feel sorry

for you; and mother says if you could not make caps, she don't know

what _would_ become of you, you are so dreadful shiftless."

Ursula clapped her hands and fairly danced with mirth.

"After all, Hetty, your good mother is right. Let my fortune take

wings, and with all my accomplishments to aid me, I feel I should be

illy prepared for the reverse. Now if your mother would only have

patience to instruct me a little--suffer me to spoil several batches

of bread--(the pigs would like it, you know,)--burn up a few pounds of

cake, and waste a quart or two of her rich cream, I declare, I think I

should learn to be a nice little farmer's maid. What pleases you,

Hetty--what are you smiling at?"

"Nothing, only farmer Smith's oldest son is coming to see you--_a

courting_, Miss Ursula; and Esquire Tompkins told father he hoped to

see you before long the mistress of his beautiful new house; for he

did not think he should disgrace himself by marrying such a girl as

you, even if you was only a milliner."

"Why the dear old soul! Come, my false impressions begin to wear away.

I find I can be loved without the glitter of gold about me. Now let us

go back to the house, for I have that cap to finish for Mrs. Jones;

and mind, Hetty, you don't call me _Miss_ Ursula again, in the

presence of your mother; and don't look so distressed when she chides

me--it is all for my good, you know."

Now, there they go into the old farm-house, and at the window you may

see the demure face of Ursula, listening to the good dame, who, with

snowy cap, and spectacles, seems to be giving her a lecture, while the

hands of the little milliner are busily trimming a cap placed on the

block before her.

Over the brow of the hill, and down into the gentle sloping meadow, a

youth comes walking leisurely. He has a portfolio under his arm, and a

slight walking-stick in his hand, while the cool linen blouse and

large straw hat shading him from the sun, bespeak an air of comfort

really quite refreshing this warm summer day.

What! don't you know him! Ah, yes--I see you recollect Frank Leland,

our modern Coelebs.

He seems struck by the appearance of the old farm-house; its repose

is, no doubt, delightful to him; and now, choosing a favorable

position within the shade of a fine old tree, opens his portfolio, and

commences to sketch the charmingly rural scene. And, indeed, so intent

is he upon his task that the sun has already sunk behind the trees,

and gentle twilight steals on with her starry train ere he rests from

his employment. Then the old farmer comes out on the porch to take

his evening pipe; and the good dame sits by his side with her

knitting, and the sweet voice of Ursula warbles a simple ballad to

please the ears of the aged pair. The young man bares his brow to the

delicious breath of evening, and carefully placing his sketch within

the portfolio, saunters on toward the little gate. And now Ursula

hushes her song, and the old man advances with friendly greeting,

"Walk in, stranger--walk in. I should think you might be the young man

I heard tell of to-day in the village--a teacher of something--I

forget the name."

"A teacher of drawing," said Leland, smiling, as he took a seat on the

bench by the side of the old man.

"Drawing, _eh_! And what may that be, young sir--some new-fangled

notion, I'll be bound."

"This may, perhaps, explain better than I can tell you," replied

Leland, placing the sketch he had just taken in the hand of the old

man.

"Why, wife--why, bless my soul! why, if I should not think this was

our old house! Why, stranger, if ever I see any thing so like in my

born days!"

"Goody gracious preserve me, if it an't, sure enough!" said the dame,

putting on her spectacles, and eagerly looking over the old man's

shoulder. "My stars and garters, Hetty, look here--for all the world

just like it--did you ever!"

The more practiced eye of Ursula detected at once a master-hand in the

sketch before her; and looking admiringly upon it, she could not

refrain from exclaiming, "How beautiful!" while Hetty gazed with

silent wonder upon the stranger who by the magic of his pencil thus

portrayed the home of her childhood.

The contents of the portfolio were now spread out upon the grass, and

our masquerading _millionaire_ was greatly amused at the _naivete_ the

old people displayed, and not a little flattered by the pleasure with

which _one_ at least of the young girls appeared to look over his

collection.

"Am I mistaken," said he, at length, "in thinking I heard singing, as

I came over the meadow?"

"Well, I reckon not," said the old lady, "come, 'Sula, child, go on

with your song--maybe the young man would like to hear you; it was Old

Robin Gray she was singing."

Ursula was at length prevailed on to repeat the ballad, which she did

in a style so simple and unaffected, that, ere she had finished, the

young artist had made up his mind, that listening to a sweet voice by

moonlight, beneath a wide-spreading elm, with the stars peeping down

between the dancing leaves, and the soft evening breeze fanning his

temples, was far more delightful, than to recline in his

soft-cushioned box at the Opera, listening even to the delicious notes

of a Pico, with bright jewels, and still brighter eyes flashing around

him, and his cheek kissed by the inconstant air wafted from the

coquettish fan in the hands of smiling beauty. And, moreover, that the

book of human nature, to be studied in the country, certainly opened

very beautifully.

The evening passed off pleasantly. Leland confided to the old man his

poverty, and desire to obtain scholars in his art sufficient to

enable him to pay his board while in the village; that he had been

employed by several gentlemen to sketch scenes from nature, and that

having heard much of the beautiful views in the neighborhood, he had

been induced to visit the village.

But the old man thought he had much better turn farmer, and offered to

hire him for eight dollars a month, as he needed a hand in haying

time. This offer, however, the young man could not accept, being, as

he said, already engaged to complete the drawings. Then the old man

told how his fathers had lived there before him, and how by hard labor

he had been able to keep the old homestead his own; and that his

daughter, Hetty, had been living with a great heiress, who was very

fond of her, and who had given her leave to spend the summer at home;

and how she had come, and brought a poor girl with her, who made caps,

and such gim-cracks, and that (in a whisper) his old woman thought she

had never had any bringing-up, poor thing!"

When Leland returned to his lodgings, in the village, he thought over

his evening adventure with great pleasure. The simplicity of the old

people charmed him; Hetty he thought a modest, pretty girl; but it was

the little cap-maker who somehow or other dwelt most forcibly in his

mind.

"She is certainly quite handsome, notwithstanding she is a little, a

very little, cross-eyed--it is a pity!" And Leland leaned out the

window, and whistled "Auld Robin Gray." "How pathetically she warbled

the line,

But she looked in my face 'til my heart was like to break;"

and Leland threw off one slipper, and stopped to hum it over again.

"Her voice only wants a little cultivation"--off goes the other

slipper, and out goes the head into the moonlight, and in it comes

again. "Well, I must teach her to draw--her own patterns, at any rate.

Pleasant old couple; the idea of hiring _me_ for eight dollars a

month--capital!" and in a fit of laughter he threw himself upon the

bed. "What a roguish pair of eyes, after all, the little cap-maker

has!"

Again the dreams of our hero were all Arcadian, and every shepherdess

was a little cross-eyed, and warbled "Auld Robin Gray."

In the bright moonlight, which, glancing through the flickering

leaves, streams across the chamber-floor, filling it with her softened

radiance, sits Ursula. But why so pensive; is it the influence of the

hour, I wonder--has the gentle moon thus power to sadden her, or--

"Hetty, he has a very fine countenance."

There, you see her pensiveness has found a voice.

"Who, Miss Ursula?"

"Why, this young stranger. He has a fine figure, too; and his manners

are certainly quite refined."

"Yes, and what pretty pictures he makes."

"True, Hetty, very pretty; he certainly has a genius for the art." A

long silence. "What a pity he is poor."

"What's a pity, Miss Ursula?" cries Hetty, half asleep.

"O, nothing, nothing--go to sleep, Hetty."

But Ursula still sits in the moonlight, and thinks of the handsome

young artist. Her generous little heart has already smoothed his path

to eminence. Yes, she resolves if, upon acquaintance, he proves as

worthy as he appears--and does she doubt it--not she--that neither

money nor patronage shall be wanting to his success. Generous little

cap-maker! And when at length she sought her couch, young Love, under

the harmless guise of honest Benevolence, perched himself at her

pillow.

PART IV.

And now, every morning sees Leland taking his way to the farm-house;

and the villagers, good people, have made up their minds that there

must be some very pretty scenes in that neighborhood.

And so there are, very fine scenes; for, reclining under the shady

trees, the young artist may be seen, with crayons in hand, the little

cap-maker in his eye, as, seated on a little bench, she busily plies

her needle, and sings for his entertainment, meanwhile, some rustic

ballad. Sometimes, forgetting herself, she executes a brilliant

_roulade_; and when Leland starts, astonished, and expresses his

delight, she blushes deeply, and says she _once_ went to the theatre.

And the old dame wonders what on earth they can find to talk about day

after day, "a sittin' under trees," and tells Hetty to mind her work,

and not take up any such silly ways. And the old man thinks a hale,

hearty fellow like that, had better lend a hand to the plough, and not

sit there spoiling so much white paper; and Hetty roguishly watches

her young mistress, and smiles slily, and thinks there will be a

wedding before long.

Ah! happy, satisfied Leland!

For he has won the heart of the charming little cap-maker. He, the

poor, unpretending artist, he has won her away from the rich Esquire,

who came rolling down in his carriage to woo her; and from the pale

young doctor, who knelt tremblingly before her; and from the honest

farmer, who swore he loved her better than his cattle. He, without

fortune, without friends, has won her. She loves him, and through

poverty and hardship will share his fate. And then, when bearing her

off a happy bride, he thought how she would blush and tremble with

surprise and sweet timidity when he should reveal his rank, and place

her in that sphere she was born to grace--what rapturous visions

danced through his brain!

And no less rapturous were the thoughts of Ursula. She was now

beloved, truly loved for herself alone--she, a poor, friendless girl.

No money had shed its enticements around her--there was nothing to

gain but an innocent heart, and a portionless hand; and yet the

gifted, but poor artist, who might, by the rank of genius, have

aspired to the favor of any high-born lady; he has chosen her to share

his fate and fortunes. How her heart throbs, when she thinks of the

wealth her hand will confer upon him--of the pride with which she

shall see him adorning that station for which he is so eminently

qualified.

Ah! after all, what happiness to be an heiress!

Three months flew by, and brings us to the night before the wedding.

The lovers are alone, and, for lovers, extremely taciturn--for their

thoughts are doubtless far into the bright future, o'er which no cloud

is floating. The countenance of Ursula beams with happiness, yet her

manner is somewhat abstracted--she is evidently agitated. At length

Leland speaks,

"Dearest Ursula, it seems to me that no wealth could contribute to our

happiness; we have youth, health, strength, and loving hearts to bear

us on our life-journey, as hand-in-hand we meet its pains and

pleasures. Ah! I can already fancy our pleasant fireside. No one's

caps will find so ready a sale as yours, dear Ursula; and my pencil,

too, will be inspired to greater effort by your praise." And Leland

turned aside to conceal the smile which played round his mouth at the

deception he was practicing. "But what is the matter, Ursula--what

agitates you thus; you surely do not repent your promise, beloved

one!"

"O, no, no, dear Frank! but I have something to tell you, which,

perhaps, may forfeit me your love."

"Good heavens, Ursula! what mean you! tears, too--speak, speak, what

is it! is not your heart mine, or have you loved another more truly!"

"No! O, no! and yet, Frank, I am not what I seem--I have deceived you.

You think me but a poor, friendless girl, dependent upon my needle for

my maintenance, when, in fact, O, Frank, how shall I say it, I am--

"Speak, dearest!"

"I am an heiress."

Frank sprang to his feet in amazement.

"You--you--dear, artless girl that you are--you an heiress! It can't

be--it is impossible! and--what a pity!" he adds, aside, as one half

his airy castle fell to the ground.

"Now, sit down, Frank, and when you have heard my story, and my

motives for doing as I have done, you will, I trust, pardon the

duplicity I have been guilty of toward you."

And before she had finished her recital Frank's plans were formed; so,

falling at her feet, he poured out his acknowledgments for her

condescension in honoring with her hand one so far beneath her, and

had the satisfaction--cunning dog--of having a pair of white arms

thrown around his neck, and a sweet kiss, from sweeter lips, pressed

upon his brow, as the generous girl assured him that were her fortune

ten thousand times doubled, she should consider all as dross compared

with his love.

"Well, I am fairly caught," quoth Frank, in the privacy of his

apartment, "for I swore I never would marry an heiress. That was a

rash oath--let it pass. But what a pity dear Ursula has money. I wish

to my soul her father had not left her a cent--why could not he have

endowed a hospital. She is a dear, noble girl, willing to bestow it

all upon one whom she believes struggling with poverty; never mind, I

shall get the laugh on her yet."

At an early hour the following morning the venerable village pastor

pronounced the nuptial benediction; and with the hearty good wishes of

the old farmer and the dame, and followed by the loving eyes of Hetty,

the new married pair bade farewell to the spot consecrated to so many

happy hours.

A ride of a few miles brought them to the steamboat; and just as the

rays of the setting sun gilded the spires and roofs of the city, the

boat touched the wharf.

And now Frank's heart beat almost audibly, as he thought how rapidly

the moment was approaching when, throwing off all disguise, he should

lead his lovely bride to his own princely dwelling.

And Ursula, too, had never looked so beautiful--had never felt so

proud and happy; proud to present her husband to her good uncle and

aunt, who were waiting to welcome them; happy that her beloved Frank

would no longer have to plod on life's dull round in poverty and

loneliness.

It certainly was happiness to be an heiress.

"Ursula," said Frank, as the carriage rolled rapidly over the

pavements, "will you do me a favor?"

"Most certainly, dear Frank--what is it?"

"My sister, poor girl," replied Leland, in some embarrassment,

"resides on the route to _your_ residence; will you alight there just

for one moment, that I may have the happiness of bringing together the

two dearest objects of my heart?"

"Order the carriage to stop when you please, Frank--I, too, am

impatient to embrace your sister," replied the blushing Ursula.

The carriage soon turned into a fashionable street, even at that early

hour brilliant with gas lights. Elegant equipages rolled past; already

lights streamed, and music sounded from many splendid dwellings. Soon

the carriage drew up before one even more splendid--the steps were let

down--the door thrown wide by a servant in livery, and, with mingled

pride and tenderness irradiating his fine countenance, and meeting

with a smile her perplexed and wondering glance, Frank led his fair

bride into a spacious and beautiful apartment, taste and elegance

pervading all its arrangements. A young girl sprang from the sofa, and

came tripping to meet them.

"My sister Helen, dearest Ursula. Helen, embrace your sister, and

welcome her to the home she is henceforth to grace."

Then leading the agitated girl to a seat, he threw himself on his

knees before her, saying,

"Pardon, pardon, my dearest wife! I, too, had my secret. No poor

artist sought your love--I, too, am the heir of wealth; I, too, sought

to be loved for myself alone. Say that you forgive me, dear one."

Ursula could not speak, but wept her joy and happiness on his bosom.

Helen laughs merrily, yet slily wipes a tear from her eye, then

kissing them both, she says,

"What think you now of the great book of human nature you went forth

to study, you discontented ones? You favorites of fortune! ingrates

that you have been--you foolish pair of lovers! Listen dear brother.

As the rich Frank Leland you possessed the same attributes of goodness

as did Frank Leland the poor artist; and you, dear sister, were no

less lovely and amiable as the heiress of wealth, than as Ursula the

little cap-maker. See you not, then, that true merit, whether it gilds

the brow of the rich man or radiates around the poor man's path, will

find its way to every pure and virtuous mind. Henceforth, you dear

ones, look at human nature with more friendly eyes, and forget in the

excellencies of the _many_, the errors of the _few_."

NO, NOT FORGOTTEN.

BY EARLE S. GOODRICH.

For Nature gives a common lot,

To live, to love, to be forgot. CONE.

No, not forgotten; there are memories clinging

Round every breast that beats to hope and fear

In this drear world, until the death's knell, ringing,

Chimes with heart-moanings o'er the solemn bier;

Then come love's pilgrims to the sad shrine, bringing

The choicest offering of the heart--a tear.

No, not forgotten; else bowed down with anguish

Were the brave hearts that mingle in the strife.

Patriot and Christian in their toil would languish--

Truth lie down-trodden--Error, then, stalk rife

Over the body she at last could vanquish--

So fond remembrance ceased along with life.

No, not forgotten; else the faithful beating

Of heart to genial heart, that beat again,

Were turned to throbbings; and each pulse repeating

But the sad echoings of pain to pain.

And the blest rapture of the longed for meeting,

Then be unsought, or would be sought in vain.

No, not forgotten; for though fame may fail thee,

And love's fond beamings change to glance of scorn--

Though those once trusted now may harsh assail thee--

Thy friend of yesterday, thy foe this morn--

There is, who holds thee dear--do not bewail thee

If His blest Book of Life thy name adorn.

[Illustration: Sir W. C. Rofs J. B. Adams

PAULINE GREY

_The Only Daughter_

Engraved Expressly for Graham's Magazine]

PAULINE GREY.

OR THE ONLY DAUGHTER.

BY F. E. F., AUTHOR OF "AARON'S ROD," "TELLING SECRETS," ETC.

[WITH AN ENGRAVING.]

CHAPTER I.

"Give her what she wants," said Mr. Grey impatiently. "How can you let

the child cry so?"

"But, my dear," expostulated his wife, "I am afraid it will hurt her."

"Nonsense!" replied Mr. Grey, "it hurts her more to scream so. Here,

my princess royal," he continued, "take that, and keep quiet, do"--but

Pauline's spirit was not to be so easily appeased as the impatient

father imagined, for imperiously spurning with her tiny foot the

proffered gift, she screamed more indignantly than when it had first

been refused.

"Hey day, Pauline," said Mr. Grey angrily.

"My darling," interrupted Mrs. Grey, hastily addressing the child,

"let mamma peel it and put some sugar on it. Come Pauline," she said,

as she stooped to pick up the orange.

Pauline's cries subsided for a moment, as apparently taking the matter

in consideration, or else, perhaps only holding her breath for a fresh

burst, while the tears hung in heavy drops on her long black lashes,

and her large eyes still sparkled with excitement.

"Let mamma peel it nicely," continued Mrs. Grey. "Come, and we'll go

and get some sugar."

"Yes, yes, do," said Mr. Grey impatiently. "Now go, Pauline, with your

mother;" to which the little lady consented, and, tears still upon her

blooming cheeks, she withdrew with her mother, leaving Mr. Grey to the

quiet possession of the parlor and tranquil enjoyment of his book.

And thus it was generally with Pauline. What she was refused at first,

she was coaxed to take at last, and between the indulgence of her

mother and the impatience of her father, she seldom or never failed to

have what she wanted.

A passionate determination to have her own way marked her character

perhaps rather more strongly than that of most spoiled children, for

nature had endowed her with a strong will, which education had

fostered, as it almost seemed, with sedulous care. For the fact was

Mrs. Grey dreaded a contest with Pauline; she screamed so, and Mr.

Grey got so angry, sometimes with her, and sometimes with the child,

and altogether it was such a time, that she soon begun to think it was

better not to thwart Pauline, which certainly was true; for every

contest ended in a fresh victory on the part of Pauline, and the utter

discomfiture of Mrs. Grey, and the vexation of Mr. Grey, who, more

vexed at the contest than the defeat, usually said, "Pshaw! you don't

know how to manage that child." Thus Pauline, an only child,

beautiful, gifted and willful, idolized by both parents, soon ruled

the household.

"I'll not go to that school any more," said Pauline indignantly, as

she tossed her books down, the second day of her first school

experience.

"Why not, my love?" asked her mother anxiously.

"I don't like that Miss Cutter," said Pauline, her large black eyes

dilating as she spoke, and flashing with excitement.

"You don't like Miss Cutter," repeated Mrs. Grey. "Why don't you like

Miss Cutter, Pauline?"

"She put me on a high bench and said 'chut' to me," replied Pauline.

"Nobody shall say 'chut' to me, and I wont go there again."

"You'll go there if your mother says so, Pauline," said her father.

But Pauline knew better than that, and so did Mr. Grey for that

matter; but Mrs. Grey said, "well, we'll see about it, Pauline. Now go

and be dressed for dinner."

"I wont go again," said Pauline with determination, as she left the

room.

"I'm sorry," said Mrs. Grey anxiously, as the child left the room,

"that Pauline has taken a dislike to Miss Cutter. It was injudicious

in her to commence her school discipline so rigorously at once."

"Just like those people," said Mr. Grey, testily; "they have no

judgment--dressed in a little brief authority they make the most of

it."

"Pauline is such a peculiar child," continued Mrs. Grey, (for all

people think their children "peculiar," unless they have half a dozen

of them, and then they know better). "Pauline is such a peculiar child

that I dislike driving her against her feelings. I am very sorry for

this," she added, looking much perplexed and embarrassed. "I don't

know what to do."

Fortunately Pauline had a little cold the next day, or Mrs. Grey

imagined she had, and so the question of school was dodged for a day

or two, during which, however, Pauline continued firm in her

determination of not returning.

By the time she had recovered past all possibility of thinking she was

not quite as well as usual, Mrs. Grey had reasoned herself into

thinking, and talked Mr. Grey into believing, that there was so much

that was injurious in the present mode of school education, that upon

the whole she would prefer keeping Pauline at home. A governess, under

her own eye, would do her greater justice and bring her on faster;

and, above all, she would escape the contamination of indiscriminate

contact with children of whose tempers and characters Mrs. Grey knew

nothing.

She need not have said half as much to convince Mr. Grey, for he was

tired out with the subject, and ready to yield before she was one

third through; but she was talking as much to satisfy herself that

what she did was the result of mature reflection, and not to gratify,

or rather pacify Pauline, as to convince Mr. Grey. Whether she was

able to attain this point is somewhat doubtful, although the capacity

people have for self deception is amazing. And to what perfection Mrs.

Grey may have reached in the happy art, we are not able exactly to

say.

But the governess was engaged, (a day governess, for neither Mr. Grey

nor Pauline could have borne the constant presence of even so

necessary an evil,) and under her tuition Pauline made rapid progress

in her studies. Miss Burton soon finding that the moral education of

her little pupil was quite beyond her reach, Mrs. Grey generally

evading any disputed point between them, and gently waiving what

authority should have settled, very wisely confined herself to the

task Mrs. Grey set before her, which was to give Pauline as much

instruction and as little contradiction as could be combined.

But spite of some drawbacks Pauline made wonderful progress. She was,

in fact, a child of uncommon abilities, and every thing she applied

herself to, she mastered almost at once. Her understanding rapidly

developed, and springing into girlhood while others are yet looked

upon almost as children, she was a daughter any parents might justly

be proud of. She was singularly beautiful, too, and no eye could rest

upon her girlish form and speaking face, her brilliant eye and glowing

cheek, other than with delight. That Mr. and Mrs. Grey watched her

with looks of something hardly short of adoration, is scarce to be

wondered at. She was so animated, so joyous, so radiant with youth,

health and beauty. There seemed such affluence of all life's best

gifts, which she scattered so lavishly around her, that the very air

seemed to grow brighter from her presence, and no one who came within

the sphere of her influence, could escape the spell of her joyous

power.

To say that as her mind and person developed, she quite outgrew the

faults of her childhood, would be rather hazardous. 'T is true, she no

longer stamped her little foot and burst into passionate tears, as

when we first made her acquaintance, but she bent her pretty dark

brows, and said, "I must," in a tone that Mrs. Grey knew meant, "I

will."

But then who thought of disputing her wishes? Were they not the

main-spring of the whole concern? What else did father or mother live

for? Were not her wishes their wishes, her pleasures their pleasures?

Was not she their idol--their all?

If she would only wrap up warmer, and put thicker shoes on those

little feet, Mrs. Grey would have asked nothing more. But she was

slight, and coughed sometimes, and then Mr. Grey said she should not

have _allowed_ Pauline to go out in those thin shoes, and charged her

not to permit it another time--but never interfered himself--thus

throwing all the responsibility, or rather impossibility, of making

Pauline mind, upon his wife, who indeed always got all Pauline's

scoldings; for though Mr. Grey might find fault when Pauline was

absent, one bright smile and brilliant glance from Pauline present,

was sure to dispel his displeasure.

So Pauline had now reached her seventeenth year, beautiful, gifted,

high-spirited and generous-hearted. And if willful--why, even that

seemed to give a _prononce_ shade to her character, that rather

heightened the brilliancy of its tone.

"You are going to Cecelia Howard's wedding I suppose, Mrs. Grey," said

Mrs. Graham.

"Of course. She is a niece of my husband's, you know."

"Yes. And Pauline is to be bridemaid, I understand," continued the

lady.

"Well--I don't know about that," replied Mrs. Grey, hesitatingly.

"But _I_ do," said Pauline in her pretty willful way. "I told Cecelia

that she might depend on me."

Mrs. Grey looked at her daughter without speaking, though she could

not but smile at her animated face, while Mrs. Graham said, "Oh yes,

why not, Mrs. Grey?"

"Pauline is rather young," continued Mrs. Grey, "for such things."

"True," replied the other, "if it were not in the connection. But

family gayety is quite different."

"Of course," said Mrs. Grey, "if it were not for that, I should not

think of it."

"Well, but I am going, mamma," said Pauline, "So you may make up your

mind to that." And Mrs. Grey felt that she might as well at once. So

after a little more talk about it, and Mr. Grey's saying, "Why,

certainly, I see no objection to it--and as your cousin wishes it,

Pauline--if your mother is willing, I am," it was settled.

How beautiful Pauline looked when she came down stairs and presented

herself before her delighted father, dressed for the wedding. It was

the first time he had ever seen her in full dress; her white neck and

round arms uncovered, her rich dark hair looking darker and more

satinny for the wreath of pale, soft, delicate roses that bound

it--even the little foot seeming more fairy-like in the small white

satin slipper that inclosed it. If her father was accustomed to think

her peerless in the plain, high-necked merino dress in which he

usually saw her, what did he think of her now, when full dressed, or

rather undressed, as she stood before him, brilliant in the glow of

excitement, and fairer and fresher than even the flowers she wore?

He looked at her speechless, and when she said,

"Father, how do you like me?" could only kiss her fair forehead in

silence.

There was a reception after the wedding, and the beauty of the young

bridemaid excited no small degree of sensation; for Pauline, having

been brought up at home, was little known by the young people of her

own age, and so took society rather by surprise.

"Mrs. Grey," said Mrs. Livingston, "the bride has named Thursday

evening for me. You will do me the favor, therefore, I hope, of

considering yourself and your daughter engaged for that evening."

"Not Pauline, my dear madam," said Mrs. Grey. "She does not go out

this winter. She is so young that I hesitated much even letting her

act as bridemaid this evening."

"Oh, my dear Mrs. Grey," said Mrs. Livingston, much disappointed,

"pray reverse your decision--surely for the bridal parties at least. I

shall be so disappointed, for," with a smile, "I quite counted on the

presence of your beautiful daughter for the brilliancy of my party;"

and Pauline approaching just then, she said, "Pray, Miss Pauline, join

your petitions to mine--I do so want you to come to my party for the

bride."

"Why, mamma, of course," said Pauline. "The bridemaids must attend the

bride to the parties given for her--Cecelia says so."

"But, my love," said her mother, "you know I told Cecelia when I

consented to your being bridemaid, that you were not going out."

"Not generally--no; but just to the bridal parties, mamma. Oh, I

must"--and there was the little ominous bend of the brows at the words

"I must," when Mr. Grey coming up, her mother, glad in her turn to

throw the responsibility on him, said,

"Well, ask your father; see what he says."

"What is it, Pauline?" said Mr. Grey, smiling assent before she had

spoken.

"May I not, papa, attend the bridal parties with the rest of the

bridemaids," she said, half pouting. "Cecelia says it will spoil the

bridal cotillion if I am absent; and then--oh, papa, I must," she

continued, in a tone of such earnest entreaty, entreaty that seemed to

admit of no refusal, that he smiled as he said,

"Well, if you _must_, I suppose you must."

"Then I may, papa!" she exclaimed, her dark eyes dilating in their

peculiar way when any thing particularly delighted or excited her.

"Now, mamma!" turning triumphantly to her mother, "papa says I may.

Yes, Mrs. Livingston, mamma _will_ come, and I too--hey, mamma!" and

Mrs. Grey smiled her assent--and she and Pauline were in for the rest

of the wedding gayeties.

_Ce n'est que le premier pas qui coute._ Party followed party, and

Mrs. Grey forgot to ask, or Pauline to care, whether they were bridal

parties or not, for Pauline was fairly launched. And what a sensation

she excited--so young--so brilliant--so beautiful. Mr. Grey, too, a

man of handsome fortune, and Pauline an only daughter. There's a sort

of charm in that, too, to young men's imaginations. It seems to make a

girl more like a rare exotic, something of which there are few of the

kind. And Pauline was a belle of the most decided stamp; and Mr. and

Mrs. Grey's heads were more turned than was hers by the admiration she

excited.

CHAPTER II.

People may talk about young girls' heads being turned, but for my

part, I think there are no heads so easily turned as old ones.

Vanity, when it is fresh, like wine, is not as strong and intoxicating

as when it grows old.

Pauline enjoyed her triumphs like a girl, in all the effervescence of

youthful spirits, thinking less of her beauty and more of her pleasure

than her mother, who sat and followed her with her eyes, watching

every movement, and absorbed almost to the exclusion of every other

perception, in the surpassing loveliness of her daughter, and the

admiration that flashed from every eye that turned upon her. And let

not wise ones say that this was folly, and Mrs. Grey a weak woman for

yielding to it, for it is human nature, which is too strong to be

ruled by saws, be they ever so wise. The heart will spring to beauty,

be it where it may, and no human being alive to poetry, can view God's

fairest creation in its full perfection, and not feel a throb of

pleasure. It is not wisdom, but an absence of ideality, of taste, of

the highest of perceptions, the love of the beautiful, that can let

any one look unmoved upon a young and beautiful woman. Who would not

blush for themselves, and deny that they had walked through the halls

of the Vatican without delight? And will the same person rave about

the sculptured marble, and yet gaze coldly on the living, breathing

model? No! and if it is high treason not to worship the one, it is

false to human nature not to love the other; and the man, woman, or

child, who affects to under-value beauty, only proclaims the want in

their own mental constitution. To be without an eye for beauty, is as

to be without an ear for music, to be wanting in the refinement of the

higher and more delicate organization of our nature.

Mr. Grey was not a man who usually took much pleasure in society, but

his grave face lighted up as with a glance of sunshine, when he caught

a glimpse of his beautiful child, as the crowd opened from time to

time on the dancers in the thronged rooms, where, night after night,

he was now condemned to pass his evenings; and when he approached her

to tell her that the carriage was waiting, and her mother had sent to

summon her to her side, he could not restrain his smiles when the

young men crowded round to remind Pauline, one of a waltz, another of

a polka, and pleading with Mr. Grey for more engagements than she

could have fulfilled if they had staid all night; and his paternal

pride had its share of gratification in the homage that even his

presence could scarcely restrain.

Among the group of idlers ever hovering round Pauline, was one who

scarcely left her side, a Mr. Wentworth, a young man, and rather good

looking. He seemed mightily taken with Pauline, and she smiled her

brightest when she turned to him--but that she did when any one spoke

to her--for she was in such a gale of spirits, she smiled on all who

crossed her path.

"Who is that young gentleman dancing with your daughter, Mrs. Grey?"

asked a lady.

"I don't know any thing about him but his name, which is Wentworth,"

replied Mrs. Grey. "Mrs. Henderson introduced him to me at her own

house, and I introduced him to Pauline. That's all I know about him."

"Then I should say," replied the other, smiling, "that it was time you

knew something more, for he has evidently lost his heart to your

daughter."

"Oh, I don't know that," replied Mrs. Grey, smiling in her turn, but

carelessly, as if it was not a matter of much consequence if Pauline

did break a few hearts more or less.

"There's no doubt about his admiration," continued the lady; "so I

warn you in time, Mrs. Grey."

Mrs. Grey only smiled again. She did not think the warning worth much.

Mr. Wentworth might be in love with Pauline--she dared say he

was--indeed, she had no doubt of it. But what then? She could not be

responsible for all the young men who fell in love with Pauline. It

was very natural; and, to tell the honest truth, it rather pleased

Mrs. Grey to see it. Not that she had the most distant idea that

Pauline could ever feel any interest in any of the young men she with

such quiet complacency thought hopelessly in love with her; but poor

human nature is never weaker than on such subjects, and mothers look

on amused, and may be, indignant with other mothers for allowing such

things, till it comes to their turn, and then maternal vanity speaks

louder than worldly wisdom, or any thing else; and so Mrs. Grey saw

Mr. Wentworth's devotions with a quiet smile, and never thought it

worth while to ask any questions about him. "He would not do," she saw

that at a glance. As to what would, or who would, she had not yet made

up her mind; but as Mr. Wentworth's pretensions did not seem of any

decided stamp at all, she never thought there was any possibility of

his being dangerous.

"I wonder Mrs. Grey allows that young Wentworth to be so attentive to

her daughter," Mrs. Remson said. "He's a dissipated young man, they

say."

"I am sorry to see that wild fellow, Wentworth, so much with that

young beauty, Miss Grey," said another.

"Yes, I am surprised at her parents encouraging it," said a third,

"for they must see it."

"What kind of a young man is he?" asked Mrs. Graham.

"One that I should be sorry to see attentive to a daughter of mine,"

replied a gentleman; but none of this reached Mrs. Grey's ears. No one

told her Mr. Wentworth was wild or dissipated. He was too attentive,

and they might get themselves in trouble, and be obliged to give

authority, &c., for what they said--and what authority had they? a

rumor--a vague report--an impression. Who knew, or ever knows, any

thing more positive about a young man, except, indeed, young men--and

they don't choose to tell.

And so the thing went on, and people talked, and wondered, and found

fault, and everybody but Mr. and Mrs. Grey, whom it most concerned,

knew a great deal; and they, though they had eyes, saw not; and ears

had they, but heard not; and understandings, and heeded not--deaf and

blind, as parents always are, until too late.

The thunderbolt fell at last, however. Mr. Wentworth, in form, asked

Mr. Grey's consent to address Pauline, which Mr. Grey very decidedly

refused, looking upon the young man as very presumptuous even to ask

it; whereupon Mr. Wentworth informed the father that he was authorized

by his daughter to address him on the subject, and her happiness being

involved as well as his own, he trusted Mr. Grey would re-consider his

proposal, and incline more favorably to his suit.

Amazement was Mr. Grey's only feeling on first hearing this

announcement. He could scarcely believe his ears, much less take in

the subject-matter in all its bearings.

Again, however, he refused his consent, and forbade Mr. Wentworth to

think of his daughter.

He immediately communicated the conversation to his wife, who was not

less surprised than himself, but who relieved him excessively by

saying at once that there must be some misunderstanding on the young

man's part, for Pauline, she knew, took no interest in him whatever.

That is, Mrs. Grey took it for granted that Pauline must see him with

her eyes, and did not hesitate to answer for the fact.

She went at once to Pauline's room, where she found her lying on the

sofa, a book open in her hand, but evidently lost in a world of dreamy

and pleasant revery. With very little circumlocution, for Mrs. Grey

was too much excited to choose her words carefully, she repeated to

Pauline her conversation with her father; whereupon Pauline rose, and

sitting up, her color changing, but her eye clear and bright, said,

"Surely, mother, you knew it all."

"Knew what, Pauline?"

"That Mr. Wentworth was attached to me, and that I--I--"

"Surely, Pauline," exclaimed Mrs. Grey, hastily, "you are not

interested in him."

"Yes," answered Pauline, roused by her mother's tone and manner to

something of her old spirit, and looking at her fully and clearly, all

diffidence having now vanished in the opposition she saw before her,

"I am--I love him, love him with my whole soul."

"Pauline, my child, are you mad!" almost shrieked Mrs. Grey, shocked

almost past the power of endurance by her daughter's tones and words.

"_I_ am not mad, no mother," said Pauline, with an emphasis, as if she

thought her mother might be. "And why do you speak thus to me? You

introduced Mr. Wentworth yourself to me; you first invited him

here--and why, mother, do you affect this surprise now?" and Pauline's

color deepened, and her voice quivered as she thought, with a sense of

her mother's inconsistency and injustice.

"_I_ introduced him to you, Pauline! Yes, I believe I did--but what of

that? Do you suppose--no, Pauline, you are a girl of too much sense to

suppose that I must be willing you should marry every man I introduce

or invite to the house."

"What are your objections to Mr. Wentworth?" asked Pauline, firmly.

"My objections, Pauline! My child, you drive me almost mad!" said Mrs.

Grey, her daughter's manner forcing on her more and more the

conviction of the earnestness of her present fancy--for Mrs. Grey

could not think it more. "Why, Pauline, I have every objection to him.

What pretensions has he that should entitle him to dream of you,

Pauline? You, my child, with your talents and beauty, and

acquirements, are not surely going to throw yourself away upon this

young man, who is every way inferior to you."

"Mother," said Pauline, with energy, "you don't know him."

Mrs. Grey was silenced. She did not know him. There was that in his

countenance, air, and manner, although what might be called rather a

handsome young man, that is unmistakable to a practiced eye--traces of

a common mind, a something that had satisfied Mrs. Grey "he would not

do," when she had dismissed him from her mind. But what had she to say

to Pauline now?

She talked of her disappointment--of her hopes--her expectations; but

Pauline said she was not ambitious, and wanted none of these things.

Mrs. Grey was in despair. Pauline grew more and more resolute. Her eye

flashed, and her color rose, and the brow was bent, as when she was a

child. She and her mother talked long, and even warmly; and Mrs. Grey

returned to her husband, leaving Pauline in a state of great

excitement.

Mr. Grey was much disturbed by what his wife told him; but still,

though agitated, he was not as distressed as she was. The thing must

not and should not be--there he was firm--though he was pained,

exceedingly pained, that Pauline should be unhappy about it.

He looked upon her grief as of course a temporary feeling, but still,

even for her temporary sorrow he grieved exceedingly.

He wrote that evening to Mr. Wentworth, desiring him to discontinue

his visits, as he could not sanction his attachment, nor consent to a

continuance of his attentions.

The letter was dispatched, and both parents felt better for the step.

They considered the thing as finally at an end; and though Pauline

might rebel a little at not having been consulted; yet it was done,

and they seemed to think it could not be undone.

Much they knew about the matter. A letter from the young lover to

Pauline herself, blew all these wise conclusions to the four winds of

heaven.

She protested--and with some show of reason--that her father and

mother had no right to dismiss Mr. Wentworth in this summary way; that

they had encouraged--certainly permitted his attentions; that her

mother had introduced him herself--for she harped upon that

string--and she poured forth such a torrent of words and tears at the

same time, that Mr. Grey finally said,

"Well, Pauline, to satisfy you, I will make inquiries relative to Mr.

Wentworth's character and standing, and should the report be

favorable, and your attachment lasting, I do not know that we should

have any right to refuse our consent, although it's not a match, my

child, that we can like. But on the other hand, Pauline, should I find

him unworthy of you, as I am inclined to believe he is, you, on your

part, must submit to what is inevitable, for I never will give my

consent to your marrying a man whose character is not irreproachable."

Partially appeased, Pauline retired to her room, where Mrs. Grey spent

the rest of the day in trying to convince Pauline that even if Mr.

Wentworth were respectable in point of character, he was not in mind,

manner, or appearance, at all her equal. That, in fact, he was a very

common sort of a person, which was the truth; but strange though the

fact might be, and there was no more accounting for it than denying

it, Pauline was desperately in love with this very same very common

young man; and talk as Mrs. Grey would, she could not change her

feelings, or make her see him with her eyes.

She could only wait the result of Mr. Grey's investigations; and most

devoutly she hoped they might prove unfavorable. The idea of his being

respectable enough for them to be forced to a consent, drove her

almost wild. Was this, then, to be the end of all her visions for her

beautiful Pauline!

She could only trust to his being a scamp as her only hope of escape.

[_Conclusion in our next._

THE SAILOR-LOVER TO HIS MISTRESS.

BY R. H. BACON.

When as our good ship courts the gale,

To swim once more the ocean,

The lessening land wakes in my heart

A sad but sweet emotion:

For, though I love the broad blue sea,

My heart's still true to thee, my love,

My heart's still true to thee!

And when, far out upon the main,

We plough the midnight billow,

I gaze upon the stars, that shine

And smile above thy pillow.

And though far out upon the sea,

My heart's still true to thee, my love,

My heart's still true to thee!

But when as homeward bound we speed,

The swift sea-bird outflying,

With throbbing heart I watch the land,

Its blue hills far descrying;

Impatient, now, to leave the sea.

And fold thee to my heart, my love!

My heart's still true to thee!

THE PORTRAIT OF GEN. SCOTT.

This plate is believed to be one of the most admirable and faithful

specimens of portraiture ever presented, through the press, to the

public. We know that it is derived from sources to be relied upon; and

the reputation of the eminent artist who has executed it is evidence

that, with such ample materials, his task could not have been illy

performed.

The events connected with the present war have excited so high a

degree of interest in the life and character of Gen. Scott, that the

country has been flooded with biographies good, bad, and indifferent.

It would not, therefore, be desirable that we should enter into a

detailed account of the events of a public career long and eventful,

and every result of which has been honorable to the country.

Gen. Scott was born in 1786, in Virginia. He was educated, for a time,

at William and Mary College, and pursued the study of the law, until

military propensities separated him from his profession. In 1808,

Jefferson appointed him a captain in the army of the United States; in

1812 he received the commission of lieutenant-colonel, and took post

on the Canada frontier. In October of that year he greatly

distinguished himself in the battle of Queenstown Heights. His courage

was manifested by the most extraordinary daring throughout the entire

and unequal contest; but his small force was compelled to surrender

with the honors of war. The whole affair reflected credit upon his

diminutive force, and upon the young hero who led them. His

imprisonment was not without dangers that afforded opportunities of

displaying his lofty courage and chivalrous humanity.

Having been exchanged in May, 1813, he rejoined the army on the

frontier as adjutant-general. He led the advanced guard, or forlorn

hope, at the capture of Fort George, displaying extraordinary

gallantry, and, though wounded, was the first to enter, and raise the

American flag. His conduct upon this occasion elicited the highest

praise. In July of the same year, Scott was promoted to the command of

a double regiment. He was actively engaged in all the subsequent

efforts of that and the following campaign, and in the intervals of

service, was employed in instructing the officers in their duties, and

in drilling the recruits. His eminent services secured him, in March,

1814, the rank of brigadier general--and he joined General Brown, then

marching to the Niagara frontier. On the 3d of July, Scott leading the

van, the Americans crossed the river, and captured Fort Erie. On the

4th he moved toward Chippewa, in advance of the army, driving the

British before him. The 5th witnessed the severe and well-contested

battle of Chippewa. This battle was fought within hearing of the roar

of Niagara, silenced for a time, as was the earthquake at Cannae, by

the stormier passions of human conflict. It was a contest between

divided brethren of the same gallant race; the advantages in the

battle were all against our country; the glories in the result were

all with her. Circumstances rendered, in the absence of Gen. Brown,

Scott, the hero of the field; and profound has been and is the

gratitude that rewards him.

The 25th of the same month witnessed the still more memorable conflict

of Niagara. It is not our purpose to describe the battle; suffice it

to say that it was a contest between warriors worthy of each other's

steel. Each army, and the flower of the British veterans were present,

struggled for many hours, and foremost in every daring was found Gen.

Scott. We need not tell the American reader that we triumphed; but

Scott, though upon the field throughout the fight, and then, as

always, in advance, had two horses killed under him, was wounded in

the side, and at length disabled by a musket-ball through the

shoulder. After a doubtful and tedious illness he recovered. He

received from Congress, from the state legislatures, and from the

people, the amplest evidences of gratitude and admiration.

After the close of the war, Gen. Scott visited Europe, by order of

government, upon public business; and on his return took command of

the seaboard. From this time till the Black Hawk War nothing of public

interest occurred to demand his services. He embarked with a thousand

troops to participate in that war, in July of 1832; but his operations

were checked by the cholera. The pestilence smote his army, and he did

not reach the field before the war was closed. During the prevalence

of the pestilence he performed in his army every duty among the sick

that could be expected from a brave, humane, and good man, winning,

and worthy the title, of the warrior of humanity. He afterward acted

prominently in effecting the pacification of the warring tribes of the

North West, and received the official commendation of Secretary Cass.

Gen. Scott was ordered the same year to the Southern Department; and

during the nullification excitement, is said to have acted, under his

orders, with great energy and prudence. In 1836 he was ordered to

Florida, to command the army engaged against the Creeks and Seminoles.

He spared no effort, and manifested much of enterprise and energy; but

circumstances, which no skill could have surmounted, rendered his

exertions ineffectual. His failure was made the subject of inquiry by

court martial, and he was by the court not merely acquitted, but

applauded. In 1837, he was ordered to the northern frontier, to meet

and avert the evil effects of the Canadian rebellion. It is admitted,

that his efforts were vigorous, wise, and successful, and manifested

great energy and prudence. In 1838, Gen. Scott was intrusted by the

government with the removal to the West of the Cherokees. This duty

was performed with great humanity and ability, and elicited strong

expressions of gratitude from them, and of praise from the country.

From this duty, completed, he was called to the northern frontier. His

course there was conciliatory and wise; and doubtless had some

effect to prevent a conflict with Great Britain.

[Illustration: _ENGRAVED BY T. B. WELCH PHILA^A FOR GRAHAM'S

MAGAZINE FROM A DAGUERROTYPE BY M. A. ROOT._]

On the commencement of the Mexican war, circumstances prevented

General Scott from assuming the immediate command of the invading

force. He was subsequently ordered to the seat of the war; and after a

series of operations, admitted to be the most brilliant in point of

science known to modern warfare, he won what were supposed to be

impregnable, the castle and the town of Vera Cruz. This triumph was

announced on the 29th of March. The siege occupied fifteen days, and

was attended with little loss on the side of the Americans. On the

17th of April, Scott, advancing upon Mexico, issued an order for the

attack of Cerro Gordo--in which every event that was ordered and

foreseen seems now to be prophecy; and on the next day he carried that

Thermopylae of Mexico. The battle was one of the most brilliant in the

American annals. The orders of Scott, previously given, secure the

glory of the triumph for himself and his army.

On the 19th, Jalapa was occupied, and on the 22d Perote. In these

triumphs the army acquired great quantities of munitions. The city of

Puebla was occupied on the 15th of May: Ten thousand prisoners, seven

hundred cannon, ten thousand stand of arms, and thirty thousand shells

and shot were, in the course of these operations, the fruits of

American skill and valor. But even these achievements were thrown into

the shade by the glorious triumphs in the vicinity of Mexico. The

bloody contests at the intrenchments of Contreras, the fortifications

of Cherubusco and the castle of Chapultepec, and finally the capture

of Mexico, are of so recent occurrence, and so familiar in all their

details to the public, that we do not deem it necessary to narrate

them. Cut off for fifty days from all communications with Vera Cruz,

the veteran Scott won, with his feeble and greatly diminished force,

and against defenses deemed impregnable, triumphs that have thrown

immortal glory around the arms of his country.

Thus segregated, shut out from the hope of home as completely as were

the soldiers of Cortez when he burned his ships, this little band

advanced to dangers such as were never before encountered and

overcome. Science guided and protected the daring invasion; and true

American hearts, at every bristling danger, supported it, with an

ardent courage and a calm fortitude scarcely equaled in the wars of

nations. On the 15th of August, General Scott, by a masterly movement,

turned the strong works of the Penon and Mexicalzingo, on which the

enemy had labored and relied. On the 17th the spires of Mexico were in

sight. The attack upon Contreras took place. It was one of the most

brilliant achievements of the American arms. San Antonio was also

carried; and San Pablo assailed, and, after a contest of two hours,

won. In this battle the general added another to his former scars,

being wounded in the leg. The terrible conflict of Cherubusco

succeeded; and again American valor proved invincible. This placed our

force at the gates of Mexico. The contest was one against four, the

four having every advantage that military science and superiority of

position could confer. Having overcome every enemy that dared to

dispute his path, he spared the city of Mexico. The entire campaign is

most honorable to the American character and to the reputation of him

who led it. The impetuosity of his campaigns in the war of 1812 seemed

mingled with and subdued by the results of a profound study of the

science of war, in this contest. He dared boldly, and executed

cautiously, courageously and successfully. Erring in nothing, and

failing in nothing, he encountered dangers, and passed through scenes

that belong to romance, but which his iron intellect rendered a

substantial reality.

O, SCORN NOT THY BROTHER.

BY E. CURTISS HINE.

O, scorn not thy brother,

Though poor he may be,

He's bound to another

And bright world with thee.

Should sorrow assail him,

Give heed to his sighs,

Should strength ever fail him,

O, help him to rise!

The pathway we're roaming,

Mid flow'rets may lie,

But soon will life's gloaming,

Come dark'ning our sky.

Then seek not to smother

Kind feelings in thee,

And scorn not thy brother,

Though poor he may be!

Go, cheer those who languish

Their dead hopes among.

In whose hearts stern anguish

The harp hath unstrung!

They'll soon in another

Bright land roam with thee,

So scorn not thy brother,

Though poor he may be!

BEN BOLT.

THE WORDS AND MELODY BY THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH.

ARRANGED FOR THE PIANO FORTE, AND CORDIALLY DEDICATED TO

CHARLES BENJAMIN BOLT, ESQ.

COPYRIGHTED BY GEORGE WILLIG, NO. 171 CHESTNUT STREET, PHILADELPHIA.

=Andante con espressione.=

[Illustration: 2 sheets of musical notation]

Don't you re-mem-ber sweet Al-ice, Ben Bolt--

Sweet Al-ice whose hair was so brown--

Who wept with de-light when you gave her a smile,

And trem-bled with fear at your frown?

In the old church yard in the val-ley, Ben Bolt,

In a cor-ner ob-scure and a-lone,

They have fit-ted a slab of the gran-ite so gray;

And Al-ice lies un-der the stone.

II.

Under the Hickory tree, Ben Bolt,

Which stood at the foot of the hill,

Together we've lain in the noonday shade,

And listened to Appleton's mill.

The mill-wheel has fallen to pieces, Ben Bolt,

The rafters have tumbled in,

And a quiet which crawls round the walls as you gaze,

Has followed the olden din.

III.

Do you mind the cabin of logs, Ben Bolt,

At the edge of the pathless wood,

And the button-ball tree with its motley limbs,

Which nigh by the door step stood?

The cabin to ruin has gone, Ben Bolt,

The tree you would seek in vain;

And where once the lords of the forest waved,

Grow grass and the golden grain.

IV.

And don't you remember the school, Ben Bolt,

With the master so cruel and grim,

And the shaded nook in the running brook,

Where the children went to swim?

Grass grows on the master's grave, Ben Bolt,

The spring of the brook is dry,

And of all the boys that were school-mates then,

There are only you and I.

V.

There is change in the things that I loved, Ben Bolt,

They have changed from the old to the new;

But I feel in the core of my spirit the truth,

There never was change in you.

Twelvemonths twenty have past, Ben Bolt,

Since first we were friends, yet I hail

Thy presence a blessing, thy friendship a truth--

Ben Bolt, of the salt-sea gale.

THE SPIRIT OF SONG.

BY MRS. E. C. KINNEY.

Eternal Fame! thy great rewards,

Throughout all time, shall be

The right of those old master-bards

Of Greece and Italy;

And of fair Albion's favored isle,

Where Poesy's celestial smile

Hath shone for ages, gilding bright

Her rocky cliffs, and ancient towers,

And cheering this new world of ours

With a reflected light.

Yet, though there be no path untrod

By that immortal race--

Who walked with Nature, as with God,

And saw her, face to face--

No living truth by them unsung--

No thought that hath not found a tongue

In some strong lyre of olden time;

Must every tuneful lute be still

That may not give a world the thrill

Of their great harp sublime?

Oh, not while beating hearts rejoice

In Music's simplest tone,

And hear in Nature's every voice

An echo to their own!

Not till these scorn the little rill

That runs rejoicing from the hill,

Or the soft, melancholy glide

Of some deep stream, through glen and glade,

Because 'tis not the thunder made

By ocean's heaving tide!

The hallowed lilies of the field

In glory are arrayed,

And timid, blue-eyed violets yield

Their fragrance to the shade;

Nor do the way-side flowers conceal

Those modest charms that sometimes steal

Upon the weary traveler's eyes

Like angels, spreading for his feet

A carpet, filled with odors sweet,

And decked with heavenly dyes.

Thus let the affluent Soul of Song--

That all with flowers adorns--

Strew life's uneven path along,

And hide its thousand thorns:

Oh, many a sad and weary heart,

That treads a noiseless way apart,

Has blessed the humble poet's name,

For fellowship, refined and free,

In meek wild-flowers of poesy,

That asked no higher fame!

And pleasant as the water-fall

To one by deserts bound--

Making the air all musical

With cool, inviting sound--

Is oft some unpretending strain

Of rural song, to him whose brain

Is fevered in the sordid strife

That Avarice breeds 'twixt man and man,

While moving on, in caravan,

Across the sands of Life.

Yet, not for these alone he sings;

The poet's breast is stirred

As by the spirit that takes wings

And carols in the bird!

He thinks not of a future name,

Nor whence his inspiration came

Nor whither goes his warbled song;

As Joy itself delights in joy--

His soul finds life in its employ,

And grows by utterance strong.

A PARTING.

(AN EXTRACT.)

BY HENRY S. HAGERT.

And now, farewell--and if the warm tear start

Unbidden to your eye, oh! do not blush

To own it, for it speaks the gen'rous heart,

Full to o'erflowing with the fervent gush

Of its sweet waters. Hark! I hear the rush

Of many feet, and dark-browed Mem'ry brings

Her tales of by-gone pleasure but to crush

The reed already bending--now, there sings

The syren voice of Hope--her of the rainbow wings.

Ah! well-a-day! Ceased is the witching strain--

Fled are they all--and back the senses turn

To this dark hour of anguish and of pain--

Of rending heart-chords--agony too stern

For words to picture it--of thoughts that burn

And wither up the heart. I need not tell

What now I feel, or if my bosom yearn

With love for you at parting--there's a spell

To conjure up despair in that wild word--Farewell

REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.

_Historical and Select Memoirs of the Empress

Josephine, (Marie Rose Tacher de la Pagerie,) First

Wife of Napoleon Bonaparte. By M'lle. M. A. Le Normand,

Authoress "Des Souvenirs Prophetiques," &c. Translated

from the French by Jacob M. Howard, Esq. Philada.:

Carey & Hart._

The larger portion of this work is made up of the account given by

Josephine herself of the events of her life; and that part contributed

by M'lle. Le Normand, completes a biography of the gifted, the

fortunate and unfortunate queen of Napoleon. The Memoirs of Josephine

sparkle with French sprightliness, and abound with French sentiment.

Her style is eminently graceful, and the turn of thought such as we

would expect from the most accomplished and fascinating woman of her

times. The narrative is neither very copious nor very regular; but all

that is told is of the deepest interest. It abounds in domestic

anecdotes of the great usurper, and reports conversations between him

and his wife, in which, by the way, her speeches rival, in prolixity,

those given us by Livy. Many of her views of Bonaparte and herself are

novel and striking, and calculated, if relied upon, to change opinions

now generally entertained as truths. In relation to herself, her tone

is one of almost unvarying self-eulogium; and the amiable and

excellent qualities which she is known to have possessed need no

better chronicler. She was of the opinion that her abilities and

services, which were eminent and various, secured Napoleon's

advancement at every step of his rapid career from obscurity to the

imperial throne; and that the loss of her influence and counsels was

the necessary harbinger of his downfall.

For the movements that secured him the First Consulship, she claims

almost exclusive credit. That she was an artful politician, and used,

with great effect, the graces of mind, manner, and person, with which

she was singularly endowed, to promote the interests of her husband,

is certain; but it may be doubted whether his mighty genius ever

leaned for support upon the political skill and counsel of a

woman--even though that woman were Josephine. She, like her wonderful

husband, seems to have cherished a superstitious reliance upon

destiny--a weakness singularly inconsistent with their general

character. The story of the early prediction that she would become a

queen is given with an amusing simplicity and earnestness. The

prophecy is as follows:

"You will be married to a man of a fair complexion, destined to be the

husband of another of your family. The young lady whose place you are

called to fill, will not live long. A young Creole, whom you love,

does not cease to think of you; you will never marry him, and will

make vain attempts to save his life; but his end will be unhappy. Your

star promises you two marriages. Your first husband will be a man born

in Martinique, but he will reside in Europe and wear a sword; he will

enjoy some moments of good fortune. A sad legal proceeding will

separate you from him, and after many great troubles, which are to

befall the kingdom of the _Franks_, he will perish tragically, and

leave you a widow with two helpless children. Your second husband will

be of an olive complexion, of European birth; without fortune, yet he

will become famous; he will fill the world with his glory, and will

subject a great many nations to his power. You will then become an

_eminent woman_, and possess a supreme dignity; but many people will

forget your kindnesses. After having astonished the world, _you will

die miserable_. The country in which what I foretell must happen,

forms a part of _Celtic Gaul_; and more than once, in the midst of

your prosperity, you will regret the happy and peaceful life you led

in the colony. At the moment you shall quit it, (_but not forever_,) a

prodigy will appear in the air;--this will be the first harbinger of

your astonishing destiny."

Any fortune-teller might tell, and no doubt, if she thought it would

flatter, would tell, a beautiful young girl that her destiny was to be

a queen; but there is in this prediction a minuteness of detail, that

cannot be accounted for on the ground of accidental coincidence. It is

a brief history of her life. Unless we are prepared to believe that an

ignorant old mulatto woman was gifted by divine Providence with

supernatural power, constituted a second Witch of Endor, and able by

"examining the ball of Josephine's left thumb with great attention,"

to discover the minute particulars of her future life, we must

discredit the absurdity. A prediction believed sometimes effects its

own fulfillment; and Josephine, whose ambition seems to have been most

ardent, may have been inspired with romantic hopes by the foolish

promise of an ignorant impostor, that she would rise to great

eminence, and have been stimulated to greater exertions to realize

those hopes. This may have urged her to intimacy with the corrupt and

immoral Directory, with whom a beautiful and accomplished woman could

not fail to be a favorite; may have secured her marriage to a very

young and ardent man, who all believed must rise to eminence; and may

have even induced her to excite her husband to the policy which

secured a crown. But to believe that a prediction, giving all the

leading events of the lives of several different persons, and those

persons actors in scenes so wonderful, would be a folly equally weak

and blasphemous. The same superstition is frequently betrayed in these

volumes; and we have as many dreams and portents as ever disturbed the

sleeping and waking hours of the wife of the first Napoleon,

Caliphurnia.

The pages of these memoirs afford us the harshest and most repulsive

views of Napoleon's character that we have yet seen. His affectionate

consort was undoubtedly discerning, and used her keenness of

perception with proper diligence to discover all her husband's faults.

We have never shared in the excessive and extraordinary admiration

with which the character of this man-hater and earth-spoiler is

regarded in this land of liberty; but it seems to us that the

portraiture before us would be deemed unjust coming from his foes, and

is at least singular when traced by the hand of the affectionate and

gentle Josephine. The praise awarded him is cold, formal and stinted;

but the censure is interjected among her details with a freedom that

we could not have anticipated. That she should have resented his

heartless repudiation of the companion of all his struggles and

fortunes, is natural, and perhaps just; but that she should have

revenged the wrong, if indeed that be the motive, by depreciating him

seems out of character with the Josephine of our imaginations. She

describes him as vain, cruel, often weak, and at times abjectly

cowardly. She dwells with great fullness upon his crimes, and passes

rapidly and coldly over the many great and good things he achieved for

France. In some instances positive misrepresentations are resorted

to, calculated to blacken his character. Thus, in relation to the

disaster at the bridge on the Elster, she says:

"I likewise learned that my husband has passed the only bridge by

which he could make good his retreat; but in order to prevent pursuit

by the foreign army, he had ordered it to be blown up at the very

moment it was covered with thousands of Frenchmen, who were

endeavoring to fly. By means of this _murderous manoeuvre_ he abandoned

a part of his army on the bank of the stream."

Now this is a most inhuman calumny, and one that sounds strangely

coming from a French woman, and that woman the wife of the unfortunate

Napoleon. Bonaparte's strongest and ablest decryer, Alison, admits

that the destruction of the bridge was an accident, resulting from the

mistake of a corporal, who supposed the retreating French upon the

bridge were the pursuing allies, and fired the train. It is seldom

that we expect to find extraordinary instances of conjugal affection

upon thrones; and we are strongly disposed to believe that the love of

Josephine for her husband has been exaggerated. According to her own

account, she had many previous draughts made upon her capital stock of

love; and she describes her marriage with Napoleon as one induced by

the representations of Barras and Mad. Tallien of the advantages to be

derived from it. She thus characterizes her feelings toward Bonaparte

just before marriage. "I discovered in him a tone of assurance and

exaggerated pretension, which injured him greatly in my estimation.

The more I studied his character, the more I discovered the oddities

for which I was at a loss to account; and at length he inspired me

with so much aversion that I ceased to frequent the house of Mad.

Chat*** Ren***, where he spent his evenings." Notwithstanding the

excessive affection professed, a large portion of the period of their

connection seems to have been embroiled and troubled. Yet there can be

no doubt that she devoted herself assiduously and faithfully to the

promotion and protection of the greatness which she shared; and, at

the close of her career, though she caressed his conquerors, she died

uttering the warmest expressions of affection for him, even in the

presence of his foe. The death-scene, as described by M'lle. Le

Normand, is truly touching. Her last tears fell upon the portrait of

Napoleon.

The whole story is full of romance, and will be read with great

interest. The translator has performed his task with eminent ability;

and the volumes are printed in a style highly creditable to the

publishers.

_Memoir of Sarah B. Judson, Member of the American

Mission to Burmah. By "Fanny Forester." New York: L.

Colby & Co._

It cannot be necessary for us to recommend to the readers of Graham's

Magazine any work from the pen of the fascinating "Fanny Forester."

Her literary history is associated in their minds with the most

agreeable recollections of a female writer, among the sweetest, the

most brilliant, the most charming of the many whom our country has

produced. They will remember her, too, in that most eventful scene and

surprising change of her life, in which the popular authoress was

suddenly, and voluntarily, transformed into the humble missionary;

sacrificing, from a sense of Christian duty, all the pride and

allurements of literary distinction, along with friends, home, the

safety and happiness of civilized society, that she might take up the

cross, and carry it, an offering of salvation, to the benighted

Heathen of Asia, even in the depths of their own far and pestilential

climates.

The missionary appears again as on authoress; but it is in the lowly

attitude of a biographer commemorating the virtues of a departed

sister and predecessor in the same field of Christian devotion--the

devoted and sainted woman whose places "Fanny Forester" herself now

occupies as a wife and missionary, performing the same duties, exposed

to the same trials and sufferings, in the same distant and perilous

regions of Asia. The subject and the writer are thus united--we might

say identified--as parts of the same attractive theme, and co-actors

in the same sacred drama. Under such circumstances, the Memoir of Mrs.

Judson could not be otherwise than profoundly interesting; and it will

prove so, not only to all those who admire the authoress, but to all

who love the cause to which she has dedicated her talents, her life,

her fame. It is, indeed, a beautiful, a deeply engaging, an affecting

volume, uniting a kind of romantic character, derived from the scenes

and perils it describes, with the deeper interest of a record of the

evangelization of the heathen. It is peculiarly adapted, too, to the

reading of people of the world, whose hearts have not yet been warmed,

or whose minds have not been instructed, on the subject of Christian

missions. They cannot take it up without reading it; they cannot read

it without rising better informed, and with better dispositions than

before, in regard to the great cause which boasts--or has

boasted--such servants as Mrs. Judson and "Fanny Forester."

_The History of a Penitent. A Guide for the Inquiring,

in a Commentary on the One Hundred and Thirtieth Psalm.

By George W. Bethune, D.D., Minister of the Third

Reformed Dutch Church, Philadelphia. Henry Perkins, 142

Chestnut Street._

This work, which is beautifully dedicated to Dr. Alexander, is written

with much of the characteristic force and fervor of its author, and

with more than his ordinary research and elaboration. He informs us

that his purpose has been to help the inquiring soul and young

Christian with counsel taken immediately from the unerring word: he

has therefore studied conformity to scripture, rather than novelty of

thought, and plainness more than grace of style. Yet there is in this

volume much of the author's usual boldness of originality and peculiar

felicity of expression. Our readers have been made acquainted with the

high merits of Dr. Bethune as a poet, by his contributions to

"Graham;" but highly as we appreciate his verse, there is a

directness, an originality, an old-fashioned power in his prose which

we prefer, and which we think place him in the first class of American

writers. On subjects like that treated in the volume before us, his

whole heart and mind seem to be poured into his pages; and in their

perusal we doubt whether most to admire the divine or the rhetorician.

_Keble's Christian Year: Thoughts in Verse for the

Sundays and Holidays throughout the Year. Philadelphia:

Geo. S. Appleton. 148 Chestnut Street._

This beautiful volume is printed from the thirty-first London edition.

Its merits are so well and universally known and appreciated that to

review it would, to our readers, be tedious as a twice told tale.

Suffice it to say, that its object is to bring the thoughts and

feelings of worshipers into more entire unison with those recommended

and exemplified in the Prayer Book. The poetry of this volume is often

even worthy the exalted subjects of which it treats, and is never

unworthy them. Its extraordinary popularity is the best evidence of

its merit; for poetry is never generally and permanently popular

without real merit.

Transcriber's Note:

1. page 195--removed extra quote at end of paragraph 'boot-maker,

landlady, and others?'

2. page 195--removed repeated word 'five'

3. page 198--changed comma to period at end of sentence 'knock the

fort to pieces'

4. page 200--corrected typo 'litle' to 'little' in stanza beginning

'"Spirit, I am of litle worth,"

5. page 203--added missing end quote at end of poem

6. page 205--removed extraneous double quote mark from sentence '"Pooh!

you green-horn!" said Jack Reeves,'

7. page 206--added missing single quote in sentence '...answered the

skipper; so suit yourself'

8. page 213--changed punctuation at end of sentence '...now I am willing

to die.,' to period + double quote

9. page 213--added missing double quote at end of sentence '...before I

sail, with your permission.'

10. page 213--added missing double quote in sentence '...as we drove off.

You told the truth...'

11. page 215--changed comma to period at end of sentence 'Yes, dear

Frank,"'

12. page 215--added missing double quote to sentence '...thumping his right

side, you lacerate my heart...'

13. page 216--added missing double quote at end of sentence '...You are

the most angelic, adorable--'

14. page 220--corrected typo 'vison' to 'vision' in line 'Scenes of the

past before his vison'

15. page 221--corrected comma to period at end of sentence '...humid

with tears,'

16. page 227--removed extra quote at start of sentence 'Ah! happy,

satisfied Leland!'

17. page 228--added missing quote at end of article

18. page 229--added missing right bracket to sentence '...and then

they know better.'

19. page 231--corrected typo "lanched" to "launched" in sentence '...for

Pauline was fairly lanched.'

20. page 240--corrected typo "Chistian" to "Christian" in title block

of article