“Oh, Richard,” said Amy, opening her lips for the first time since her

mother’s dying shriek had sealed them, in a tone which would have melted

a heart less sensitive than his. He darted forward, seized the Indian

who was binding her, and with a maniac’s gripe wrestled for the mastery.

Young Russel, tall and athletic, was considered the most vigorous young

man in the colony, but his strength was unequal to that of the sinewy

son of the forest. A blow from a war-club felled him senseless to the

earth. “Merciful God!” cried poor Amy in the anguish of her soul, as her

last earthly hope was quenched within her. She was dragged from the spot

where lay all she held dear. As she passed the door, a kindly stupor

seized her; neither the screams of the villagers, nor the kindling

flames of the cottages, roused her. She looked vacantly around, but

heeded not what she saw. She felt no grief—she had no consciousness.

The scenes of the past half hour had banished her senses, and bewildered

her mind. They seemed like a terrific vision in a dream—hideously

vivid, without the power of realizing or escaping from it. Why did not

oblivion forever steal over the past, or delirium cheat the soul in

future?

The work of death was done. The slain were sepulchred in the ashes of

their cottage homes; the captives were divided as spoils among the

warriors, and toward morning they started for the northeast. Amy

Wakefield and three other prisoners were the especial care of two

Abenakis and a Frenchman, Jean Mordaunt. The whole party moved rapidly,

lest the neighboring settlements should see the light of the burning

village, and pursue them; but this little company were the foremost. The

other captives with Amy were men, but she kept pace with them and the

Indians.

She hurried along as if she were fleeing from enemies. All that day she

traveled on, taking no food, uttering no complaint; and at last, when

night came, she sunk down unconcernedly to sleep. It was one of their

former stopping places, and the Indians rekindled the fires, which had

scarcely expired. The poor captives gathered around them and welcomed

the burning heat, though hardly more comfortable than the chilling

blasts to which they had been exposed. Oh, the sorrows of that weary

journey—cold, hunger and thirst were among the least of them. The

Indians returned by the trail in which they came; but the snow was

untrodden and deep, and the path lay through forests and across rivers.

Some drooped by the way and received beatings for their manifestations

of fatigue, whilst many found snowy graves. For many days they traveled

on together, but finally separated in little bands for the settlements

where they belonged, each carrying with them their captives. This last

sad comfort of friends and neighbors traveling together in their misery,

was now denied them, and they looked each other a last adieu.

I said Amy slept. It was a blessed sleep, for it carried her back to

childhood’s days; now she was gathering violets with her little brothers

on the river’s bank; now she saw her brother’s angel face, and heard her

father’s “dear little Amy.” Then time flew by, and she felt her lover’s

warm kisses; years seemed moments, and moments years—and still she

slept on. Would that she might have slept “that sleep from which none

ever wake to weep.”

The sun was high in the heavens ere they roused them from their

slumbers. The labors of the previous day were exhausting even to the

Indian’s strong frame. Some of the wretched captives had passed a

sleepless night from fear or excessive weariness; and to some their

aching limbs forbade rest. But Amy still lay with her head thrown back,

her hands clasped; her marble face and motionless lips rendered still

more striking by the profusion of black hair lying disheveled about her.

The Indian who advanced to awaken her, paused, as if he shrunk from such

a personification of purity. He took hold of her shoulder and shook her;

but it seemed as if her senses were bound by death’s icy chains. He

struck her a rough blow on the side of her head. She opened her eyes,

and tried to rise, but her limbs refused her support, and she fell back.

She looked up—her consciousness returned. The sight of the Indian’s

face brought back the scenes of that dreadful night, and she trembled

like an aspen leaf. But another blow for her tardiness, brought a full

conception of her situation, and a flood of tears. Her stiff, feeble

movements, the tears running in torrents down her cheeks, were a strange

counterpart to the day before. They started; she tried to proceed, but

her limbs seemed paralyzed, and her heart died within her. She forgot

all around, even her own wretchedness; she remembered only that cottage

scene, Richard, and her parents—and she prayed for death. Her sobs were

heart-rending, still the cruel savages urged her on. Oh, were there no

friendly angels abroad in the earth; was mercy fled, and vengeance dead!

At length the Indians, enraged at what they considered the girl’s

obstinacy, raised a club to strike her, but Mordaunt, who, perhaps, had

enough of humanity to be touched by the spectacle before him, leaped

forward, averted the blow, and talking with them a few moments in their

own rude, wild tongue, seemed to calm their anger. Soon after this there

was a division of the company; Amy and some others, who were incapable

of keeping up with the main party, were put together and allowed to

proceed more slowly; still she went weeping on—that painful way was

traced in tears, and the desert solitudes echoed with her sighs. After

about three weeks, the Indians discerned their “smokes” in the distance,

and saluted them with shoutings and expressions of great joy. Amy’s

peculiar grief had awakened some little pity, even in the bosoms of her

savage captors. To this, and the influence of Mordaunt, whose notice she

had attracted ever since the first morning, when she lay an unconscious

sleeper beside their fires, she owed her comparatively easy lot. She was

given to Wiloma, the wife of Great Turtle, the last king, who kept her

to do her menial drudgery, but treated her with some kindness.

Jean Mordaunt was a Jesuit missionary. He belonged to a class of whom

mankind has drawn widely varying pictures. Pious, devoted,

self-sacrificing, ambitious, crafty and revengeful, are, doubtless, all

true descriptions of this fraternity, who have left no country without

its representatives, and whose name is Legion. America, the “land of

mountains and eagles,” early drew them hither, and here we see their

character in all its phases. They penetrated nearly every recess on the

northern part of our continent, and visited almost all of the Indian

tribes, teaching them the name of Jesus and the Virgin Mother; some

affirming in their enthusiasm, that “the path to heaven was as open

through a roof of bark, as through arched ceilings of silver and gold.”

“Not a cape was turned, nor a river entered, but a Jesuit led the way,”

says the eloquent historian, Bancroft. “The cross and the lily, emblems

of France and Christianity,” were carved on the trees, and inscribed on

the rocks. Many, like Mesnard, or the gentle Marquette, found quiet

resting-places in the wilderness; and the western waters which wash

their graves, perpetually sing their dirge. But Gabriel Lallemand,

Father Jaques, Jean De Brebeuf, René Goupil, and many others, sealed

their labors with their blood. Their memory is precious to the mother

church; and what wonder that her sons and daughters revere them as

saints. But there were a vast multitude who claimed the same mission of

love and mercy with these martyrs of holy zeal, whose lives and

characters too plainly betrayed their hypocrisy. There were those whose

religion cloaked their ambition, and others in whom intrigue had

supplanted all the simplicity of the gospel. Instead of religious

teachers, they often became artful politicians. That the French Jesuits

participated in, and often instigated the attacks upon the English

border settlements, is so well attested, that it cannot be denied. The

enmity between the French and English nations was too deeply seated to

be forgotten by their colonists, and often led them to rouse the

merciless savage against their unguarded neighbors. It is difficult to

conceive how a minister of that blessed religion which proclaims “peace

and good-will to men,” should have so far forgot its precepts, as to be

present at the bloody massacre of York; but Jean Mordaunt was there.

Perhaps he did not stain his hands with blood, but he spotted his soul

with guilt.

Amy Wakefield gradually recovered her spent energies. Her elastic

constitution rebounded from the severe shocks it had received, but her

sufferings left an indelible impress on her spirits. Time could not

restore the loved ones sleeping in the dust, and smiles bade adieu to

her once happy face. Like Egeria of yore, she forever mourned her

heart’s lost treasures. Mordaunt dwelt upon that beautiful sorrowing

face until it seduced him from his priestly vows; but it was a problem

to the wary Frenchman how to approach Amy. Though a submissive slave,

she was unapproachable; she answered no signs, nor noticed the broken

English addressed to her. She shunned every one, and seemed to scorn

sympathy with her foes. Months passed, and still she toiled on in

Wiloma’s cabin, but her grief was not assuaged, nor the fountain of her

tears dried up. As spring came, she would steal away by herself without

the wigwam to admire the opening buds, which filled the air with their

perfume, and with delight would listen to the carol of birds, as they

hopped merrily from branch to branch, fit emblems of happiness. The

cheerfulness and beauty of all around her, contrasted strangely with her

own condition, but at times she would forget her sadness, and soothed by

the wild music of the waterfall, lose herself in some day-dream of

happiness.

Old Wiloma scarcely watched her captive. Indeed, the thought of escape

never entered the mind of Amy. Where should she fly, when all she loved

were in heaven. True, she did not _know_ that two of her brothers were

dead. The eldest, Winthrop, was at a distant settlement at school; and

little Johnny, the pet, was sweetly sleeping in the chamber when they

were attacked, so it seemed certain that he was slain. But the chance of

life vanished when Richard fell.

“Alas! the love of woman; it is known

To be a lovely and a fearful thing;

For all of hers upon that die is thrown,

And if ’tis lost, life has no more to bring

To her, but mockeries of the past alone.”

Amy was one day sitting in the wigwam-door when she saw Mordaunt coming

toward her, and rose to retire. “In the name of Jesus, tarry,” said he,

in a manner so earnest and imperative, that she stopped involuntarily.

“I have prayed for thee to the Holy Virgin and the Saints,” continued

he, crossing himself. It was the first intelligible sentence in her own

language that Amy had heard since she parted with her companions in

misery. Some of the Indians spoke a broken English that she understood,

but she had never heard Mordaunt utter a word before.

“I need not thy prayers to thy saints,” said Amy, after recovering from

her astonishment, and recollecting the teachings of her infancy.

“Speak not lightly of prayers, child, thy soul hath need of them,” said

Mordaunt.

“I know it, but those now sleeping in death, taught me that there is but

One that heareth prayer,” said she, her eyes filling with tears, “and He

is our Father in Heaven.”

“They were heretics, and knew not the communion of the true church,”

said the Jesuit. “They taught thee wrongly, child; and I fear their

souls are now suffering the pains of purgatory, but for thy sake I would

gladly pray them out.”

Amy’s eyes flashed indignantly. “That may be thy portion, deceiver; but

those of whom you speak, killed by your murderous bands, are angels in

heaven. I know it,” said she, with an assurance that silenced Mordaunt.

“I saw them last night, they beckoned me upward. Oh, Father, have

mercy!” and she lifted her eyes and hands heavenward, with an

expression, as if her soul were quitting its earthly tabernacle.

Mordaunt was awed. He sat silently gazing at her, and she into the azure

above. Old Wiloma, who had been asleep in the wigwam, at this instant

awoke, and calling Amy, brought her wandering senses back to earth. She

rose and obeyed the bidding. Mordaunt departed, but the expression of

that upturned face haunted him. There was a touching serenity about Amy,

as she gazed into the land of spirits, that commanded his admiration.

Duplicity had indeed made him its disciple, but it had not entirely

blunted his perceptions of the beautiful; his coarse heart was not

impervious to a scene like that.

He sought another interview, but Amy avoided him more than ever after

that conversation. Mordaunt often visited old Wiloma’s cabin, for she

had learned the sign of the cross, but never could he gain an

opportunity of speaking with her who now had his every thought. Cupid’s

arrows were too deeply transfixed to be withdrawn, and the more he was

foiled, the more necessary seemed the object he would gain. One day Amy

was walking in the woods, when Mordaunt coming up hastily behind,

surprised her with, “My dear mademoiselle.” She could not retreat, and

had not time to reply, before his pent-up feelings found utterance in

the best English he could command. He talked not of saints, or the

“blessed Virgin.” He had been seeking this opportunity too long, another

was too uncertain, and above all, he felt too deeply to allow of any

delay.

In a broken and tremulous manner he told her of his love; how his

thoughts had dwelt upon her night and day, and swore to be faithful

forever, would she but bless him with her affection. Amy’s countenance

indicated no participation in the confusion manifested by Mordaunt. The

color came and went upon his cheek, as hope or fear predominated—a

fitful anxiety pervaded his whole frame. Nothing could have astonished

Amy more than the declarations of Mordaunt. She had felt a decided

aversion to him, without knowing why, or having the slightest suspicion

of his real state of feeling. Her features were rigid, and bespoke no

emotion, her voice calm, and her whole manner self-possessed.

“I have given my heart to my own dear Richard, and though he lives no

more, I will not, I wish not to recall it. Where he lies, there lie

buried my earthly hopes and affections.”

“But,” said he, “you are pining in this captivity—love me, and I will

rescue you. I will fly with you. We will make our home amid the

vine-clad hills of France; I will be thy deliverer and protector, and

happiness shall crown thy days.”

“I am pining,” said Amy, “but it is not captivity that makes me sigh; I

grieve for that which thou canst never restore; happiness has fled from

my sad heart. The world is desolate. This wilderness is lonely, but even

here nature has left witnesses of her loveliness,” said she, pointing to

the flowers at her feet.

“But be my bride,” continued the impassioned lover, “and forget thy

troubles.”

“Never! never! I _cannot_ forget, I _would not_ be thy bride.”

Mordaunt saw in her firm, determined manner, the death-blow to his

bliss; but in her refusal there was something so pensive, so mournfully

beautiful, that it set his soul on fire; he could not be refused—he

begged on, as wretches do for life, for one assurance of her affection,

but in vain. Flatteries, promises and entreaties were alike to her—she

spurned them all. Mordaunt really loved Amy as purely as he was capable

of doing, and could he have gained her by persuasion, the base passions

of his soul might not have been roused from their lethargy; but the

object was too precious to be abandoned until every expedient was

exhausted. Desire prompted him—there was one art untried; principle

deterred him not—he had no honor to forbid. He knew Amy’s shrinking

nature; he had observed her tremble when the Indians approached her, as

if she dreaded contamination.

“Proud girl,” said Mordaunt, “thou must marry me or an Indian.”

“Terrible alternative, but rather the savage than thou, and rather death

than either.”

“Well,” responded the Jesuit, seeming to be satisfied; “thy fair form

will pander to the appetite of Manuki. He will exultingly gloat over his

pale-faced bride. _Thine is a good taste._ Mordaunt or the savage.” The

last sentence fell from his lips livid with anger; but Amy noticed it

not. Had a thunderbolt flashed out from the clear sky above, she would

not have been more terrified than at this disclosure. She had been more

kindly treated than the other captives—but was it for this? Was it that

Manuki, he who had torn her from her home, and murdered her lover,

should press her to his bosom? Once, indeed, the appalling idea, that

she might be forced to become her captor’s wife had crossed her mind,

but it was only a momentary suspicion. Manuki had been gone for weeks on

a hunting excursion, and the thought had never returned until now—but

now all was clear; Mordaunt had confirmed her worst fears; it must be

so—he had all the Indian’s secrets. The announcement was awful. A

ghastly paleness overspread her face, and cold sweat stood upon her

brow. She was a picture of misery and despair. She uttered not a sigh,

but a crushing heart-sickness came over her, and she resigned herself to

her fate. The keen eye of the priest marked the change. He thought the

victim was within his grasp, and slowly advancing with an air of

fiendish triumph, he took her gently by the hand,

“Poor girl,” said he, “while Mordaunt lives thou art safe. Love me, I

will save you from that you so much dread.”

“No,” she returned, “the Indian’s embrace would be less terrible than

thine, thou hollow-hearted seducer.”

This was too much for Mordaunt. The two passions, love and anger, drove

him to desperation. Firmly grasping her arm, he said through his

clenched teeth, “Heretic! thou canst not escape me!”

At this Amy seemed transformed; her eyes rolled wildly in their orbits,

and she quivered with anger. In an instant Manuki and every thing

connected with her captivity was forgotten. One only thought took

possession of her soul, and that was of the priest before her. Hitherto

she had feared and hated, now she despised him. She shook him from her,

as if he had been a viper, saying, as she drew herself up to her full

height, “Back, vile wretch, back! call upon thy saints, count thy beads,

and pray poor souls out of purgatory, but touch me not—I know thee.”

This was said in a tone so imperious and commanding, that Mordaunt,

accustomed as he was implicitly to obey superiors, shrunk involuntarily

back, and Amy, turning slowly around, walked away. But there was so much

of the heroic in her despair, so much loftiness of spirit in her

defiance, that he dared not follow. He knew not why, but there was

something in that poor girl that awed him.

On that night, memorable to York, when so many closed their eyes in

death, Amy and the Indians left Richard Russell senseless, and, as they

supposed, lifeless. But He who holds the springs of life, had ordered

otherwise, and reserved him for future purposes. The blow which

prostrated, stunned him so completely, that it effectually deceived his

enemies. Mr. Wakefield’s house was one of the first attacked, and some

time elapsed before the pillagers had finished their work, and were

ready to fire the village. Richard lay in an oblivious insensibility for

a while; but when partially recovered, he opened his eyes, and discerned

by the flickering firelight the devastation around him. He comprehended

his situation, sprung to his feet, and running out the back way, and

creeping behind fences, he escaped unobserved just as the flames were

blazing out from the neighboring cottages. A large hollow tree stood

near the fence back in the clearing, and Richard bethought himself of

this asylum. He crawled until he reached it, and gave a long leap into

its capacious trunk, sinking into the snow, and heaping it over his

head. By this artifice he saved himself. He staid there long after the

sounds of savage warfare ceased, until he was nearly frozen. At length

exhuming himself, he looked toward the village, but he saw nothing save

the consuming habitations—he heard nothing but their crackling timbers.

He soon ventured out, and was going to warm himself, but when the

scorching heat struck his chilled body, it caused intense pain. This,

and the fear of some lurking foe, induced him to direct his steps toward

the nearest settlement. He ran most of the way, rubbing and striking his

almost torpid limbs, else he had never survived to tell the woful tale

of his sufferings. Half dead from fear and pain, he reached the

neighboring colony. The kind settlers bound up his wounds, and

ministered to his wants. He now, for the first time, began to feel his

loss, and exposure added to injuries and dejection, threw him into a

violent fever. For weeks he lay upon the borders of the grave, the prey

of racking pains and fierce delirium. Sometimes he seemed struggling

with an unseen foe; at others he would call wildly upon Amy, and anon

beckoning, seemed to fancy her by his side, and fall gently to sleep. At

last the disease left him, but he was helpless as an infant. Gradually

he recovered his strength, but months had passed, when he again stept

upon the earth. Health returned to Richard, and with it came thoughts of

Amy. From his best recollection of her it seemed certain she was made a

captive. _She must be redeemed._ But was she alive? Could she outlive

the dangers of the journey she must have taken, when he sunk under the

few trials he endured? Long months had elapsed. Had she been burnt at

the stake, or more probably, had she not been sacrificed to the passions

of the Indians? All these were painful suspicions, which constantly

forced themselves upon his mind. But Hope, the “lover’s staff,” as

Shakespeare truly says, stayed him up. As soon as he was able to ride on

horseback, he started to find Winthrop Wakefield, who was about fifty

miles distant, and the only one of all the inhabitants of York whom he

knew to be alive. By riding slowly he performed the journey in a few

days, and found Winthrop, who was quite overjoyed to see him, and learn

that there was any reason to believe that Amy was still alive. From what

he had gathered from the uncertain reports of the destruction of his

native village, he supposed himself both orphan and friendless. This

seemed confirmed by the fact that no tidings of any of his family later

than that fatal night had ever reached him. Winthrop needed no

persuasion to enter into a plan for rescuing his only sister from her

deplorable condition. It wanted more eloquence to enlist others. All

pitied the misfortunes, and were interested in the deliverance of the

unhappy girl, and the other captives, if yet living: But there were so

many difficulties attending the project, that to most it seemed entirely

impracticable. The general direction of the Abenakis they knew; but it

was a long and difficult expedition; the tribe was large, and scattered

over an extensive tract of country, and they would be a feeble,

unprotected band, without knowing to what particular point to direct

their efforts. It was late in the spring—just the season when it was

absolutely necessary for every man to be upon his little plantation to

provide for the coming year.

But Peter the Hermit was not more indefatigable or importunate than

Richard. To him the crusade was imperative, and the importance of the

end to be secured exceeded the perils of the enterprise. He at last

succeeded in inducing eight men from the different settlements to

accompany Winthrop and himself. Providing for, and arming themselves as

well as possible, they started on their hazardous excursion. It was the

beginning of summer, and nature had on her gayest mantle. Fragrant

blossoms strewed their path, and the groves were vocal with the melody

of birds. As they advanced new objects called forth their admiration.

The weather was fine, game was plenty, and they met with no

insurmountable obstacles. Their march was much less tedious than they

had anticipated. A different history theirs from that of the gloomy

passage made by the captives the winter previous. When they had arrived

at the Penobscot, they were surprised to find a man, whom they soon

ascertained to be one of the captives of York. Escaped from the Indians,

he had traveled many days, living on plants, twigs or roots, without a

gun or knife, with which to procure food or defend himself. The poor man

evinced the greatest joy on meeting them, and offered to return and

guide them near where he conjectured Amy might be, though he had not

seen her during his captivity, and had no positive knowledge concerning

her. With more confidence and renewed courage, they now pressed forward

rapidly, not a little stimulated and incited by the melancholy

narrations of their guide. He led them until they heard the sound of the

waterfall, when he prudently concealed himself, knowing that he would be

a sure mark for the missiles of the vindictive savages.

After the last interview with Mordaunt, Amy was distracted with

tormenting fears. The more she thought the more painful became her

apprehensions of coming evil. She knew she had made a bitter enemy of

the Frenchman, and his lowering visage, and uneasy, troubled appearance,

boded no good. She was each day more strongly convinced of the truth of

the frightful intelligence he communicated. She knew the warriors were

to return during that moon, which was a festival time with the Abenakis,

and she felt assured Manuki would then carry his designs into execution.

Her misery was now complete. Distressing surmises by day, only gave

place to horrid dreams during her unquiet sleep at night. Amy resolved

to attempt an escape. She knew not where to go; she had a vague hope,

but no expectation of reaching the haunts of civilized men. But, thought

she, “I would welcome death in the wilderness, with no covering but the

leaves of the forest, and no memorial save the flowers that would spring

from my dust, rather than life and pollution with the Indians.” In this

state of mind she left old Wiloma’s cabin, as if for her customary walk,

intending never to return. She looked back toward the wigwam where she

had passed so many wretched hours, and breathed a prayer for its old

occupant, whom she had seen for the last time. She had none but feelings

of good will toward Wiloma. She had suffered her to go and come when she

pleased, and treated her kindly in her own way, and Amy felt something

akin to regret on leaving her. She bent her steps toward the waterfall,

for as she often walked there, it would excite no suspicion. It was a

beautiful afternoon in the latter part of June; every thing animate,

save herself, seemed rejoicing. Since the day Mordaunt overtook her in

the woods, she had ventured but a few steps away from their hut. For two

or three days she had missed him, and presumed he had gone to meet the

returning party; nevertheless, she wound her way along, cautiously, and

afraid, starting back from the springing partridge and flying hare,

timorous, as if each rustling leaf portended danger. The cascade which

Amy often visited, was, indeed, a charming sight. It was produced by a

little mountain-stream, which came tumbling impetuously down a ledge of

rocks, and lost itself in foam. By the distance and vehemence of its

fall, rather than the volume of water, it made the hills resound with

its mimic thunder. The predilection which the red men have ever

manifested for the roar of water, was probably the reason why the

principal rendezvous of the Abenakis had been selected within the echo

of this little cataract. Amy seated herself upon the rocks, where she

could look into the sea of bubbles and diamonds below. The roar of the

cataract contrasted strangely with the quiet of every thing around, but

it was in harmony with her own agitated heart, and its dashings drowned

the tumult of her spirit, and calmed its perturbations. She gathered the

rich hanging moss which grew in profusion about her, and felt

irresistibly enchained to the spot. Thus spell-bound by the simple

grandeur of the place, she forgot for a time her perplexities, and even

her original intentions. Ah, little did she think danger or deliverance

were so near.

After leaving their guide, Richard and his party proceeded in the

direction indicated by the sound of the waterfall. Their plan was to

secrete themselves in the cliffs about there, until they could discover

if the chief part of the Indians were away. If so, they would fall upon

the villages and secure the captives; but should the “braves” be there,

they must await some more favorable opportunity. Advancing noiselessly,

they came up within sight of the cascade, when a female figure attracted

their attention. She was loosely clad; a robe of hair, dripping with

spray, hung wildly down her shoulders, and, as she sat on a projecting

rock, seemed the genius of the place. The keen eyes of Richard and

Winthrop failed to recognize Amy. Her dress was devoid of every thing

characteristic of civilization, and they thought her an Abenaki maid;

still, something led them to doubt it. They halted, and Richard proposed

to go forward alone and ascertain who it was. He could not see her face,

but felt assured, as he advanced, that hers was no Indian form. Could it

be Amy, thought he, proceeding less cautiously. Hearing his footsteps

she turned her head. One wild scream of joy, and she was in Richard’s

arms. That meeting! who could describe its smiles and tears? “Absence,

with all its pains, was by that charming moment wiped away.” To Amy it

was a resurrection from the dead; to Richard a long lost jewel found

again. Winthrop’s affectionate heart was not long in comprehending the

scene before him, and following Richard, he embraced and kissed his

sister again and again. Tears of joy choked his utterance as he sobbed

forth his delight. Amy and Winthrop had passed the morn of life joyously

with each other; they “grew together, slept together, learned, played,

ate together,” sharing their childish happiness and wo; and when

Winthrop heard the tidings of his family’s misfortunes, it was the loss

of Amy that brought forth his bitterest tears. This meeting brought back

the associations of days gone by; but the past, as well as the present,

was clouded by the recollection that all those near and dear had passed

away, save only this, “his first love and his last.”

Amy was not mistaken. Mordaunt _had_ gone to meet the returning

Abenakis. They advanced with shoutings, as usual, but the noise of the

cataract overpowered every thing beside, and the unguarded trio were too

much absorbed by their unexpected happiness to think of safety. The

reserve party heard the yellings of the Indians, and foresaw the

threatening danger, but tried in vain to arrest the attention of Richard

and Winthrop. One of them bravely started forward to warn them; but he

had not advanced more than a hundred paces when he saw the Indians

emerging from a little ravine opposite the falls, and sunk down into the

thicket. A shower of arrows was the first premonition of their approach

to the unfortunate dreamers. One bruised Amy’s arm, one entered

Richard’s hat and grazed the top of his head, and one sunk deep into the

breast of Winthrop. “I am killed,” cried he, as the fatal shaft pierced

his vitals. Richard caught the gun that lay at his side, and, fleeing,

discharged it toward their enemies. Amy, following him, ran until the

sounds of the Indians grew faint and distant, and convinced them they

were not pursued.

Poor Winthrop had run but a few steps when he fell dead into the bushes,

unobserved by his forward associates. “Where is Winthrop?” asked Amy, as

soon as recollection returned. The last few moments had too much

happiness crowded into them—evil spirits looked down with malignity,

and a blight came over the scene. But who shall tell the frighted Amy

that Winthrop is no more? They listened—there seemed a howling joined

with the roar of the falls. A thrill of horror passed over Amy as she

thought that her poor brother might have fallen, wounded, into the hands

of their foes. Exasperated at her loss, he would find far less humanity

than she had experienced. Still that moaning sound continued and

increased. Richard climbed a tall tree, thinking he might hear more

distinctly, and perhaps discern what it was. What was his amazement when

he found that his position enabled him to see the Indians—for in their

hasty flight they had not noticed their ascent of a hill. He saw them

crossing the stream below the waterfall. There were a multitude of them

near together, winding their way upon the rocks. Richard had an acute,

far vision; he never exerted it more than now. The howling swelled upon

the breeze—what were they doing? “Oh, Heavens!” murmured he, “it is

Winthrop.” They seemed carrying a man, and occasionally he could

distinguish the face of a white person. He looked again and again—it

was not a red man. But then, thought he, would they be mourning over a

slain enemy? It must be for a captive lost. They were crossing from the

same side on which they had first seen them. There had not been

sufficient time, and there could be no motive for crossing and

recrossing with a dead enemy; more probably they would leave him to the

wolves. But one thing was certain—Amy and himself were in danger, and

would be pursued. He quickly descended, and taking her concealed

themselves in a clump of cedars growing thick and full from the ground.

So close was the covert that a pointer could scarcely have found them.

“Where is Winthrop?” said Amy, imploringly. Richard dared not—could not

tell her his fears, but spoke cheerly, and whispering of love she soon

forgot every thing but her lover and her joy in seeing him once more.

But the more Richard considered upon what he saw from the tree, the more

inexplicable it appeared, and he resolved to relate it to Amy.

“Ah,” said she, “it was Mordaunt, that dead body; and for him they were

mourning. That random shot of yours killed their priest, wicked,

miserable Mordaunt. You, Richard, have avenged my wrongs,” continued

she, bursting into tears at the remembrance of her insult.

“Yes, that accounts for all—their carrying the body, their howling, and

not pursuing us,” said Richard, still dwelling upon the sight and sounds

of the afternoon. “But dry up your tears, my sweet Amy; deliverance and

happiness have come at last,” and he strained her in ecstasy to his

bosom. But the transport of her lover’s embrace soon gave way to

grievous apprehensions for the welfare of her favorite and now only

brother. “We will go and seek him and our party,” said Richard. “The

Indians will scarcely follow us now; the burial of their priest will

occupy them too much to think of pursuit.” It was dim twilight when they

crept forth from their hiding place. They had gone but a little distance

when they heard a whistle, which started Mary, but which Richard

understood was from one of his comrades, and soon they saw a moving

figure near them. This proved to be the man who had vainly endeavored to

warn them of their peril before their attack.

“Have you seen Winthrop?” asked Amy.

“Alas! my poor young woman,” said the kind, honest man, “I hate to

grieve you, if you do not know it, but I saw the dear lad fall by the

way.”

“Tell me where he lies,” said the shocked, terrified girl.

“May be I can,” said the man. “I was looking for some one to come with

me, when I heard you and whistled.”

He led the way and they followed silently, except the exclamations of

grief that ever and anon broke from Amy. They had nearly reached the

falls, the sight of which recalled the few delightful moments spent with

Winthrop, when their leader, stooping down into a bunch of alder,

said—“Poor, brave boy, here he lies.” It was not yet dark; the pale

twilight just revealed his pale, dead face, his garments dyed with

blood, and the murderous arrow still deep in his breast. Amy kissed his

cold, pallid cheeks, and bathed them in tears. “My ransom was too dearly

paid,” said she bitterly. “Why was Winthrop, so happy, so noble and so

young, the one to fall by savage hands, when death would have been sweet

to me, their wretched slave?”

“Even so, Father, for so it seemeth good in thy sight,” ejaculated their

pious companion. “Clouds and darkness are about His throne, but He doeth

all things well. We must not linger here.”

He and Richard bore the dead body, and Amy followed, until they heard a

signal, which told them they were in the vicinity of their party. They

halted, and their friends gathered around them. The object before them

disclosed the tragical history of the afternoon, and they mingled their

tears for one whom they all loved. The full moon rose, and looked down

through the forest trees upon that weeping band. The head of the dead

Winthrop rested upon Amy’s lap. He was even yet beautiful—the lustre of

his eye was gone, but the clustering curls still lay life-like upon his

placid brow, and his features were tranquil as if he were sleeping.

There they sat, surrounding him, “dumb as solemn sorrow ought to be.” At

last a low voice fell upon the air, and prayer arose from that stricken

group—such prayer as only ascends from the dependent, helpless and

bereaved wanderer in the wilderness. Comforted and refreshed, they

removed the fatal dart, brought water from a spring and washed the body

of poor Winthrop, wrapped it in a blanket, and buried his bloody

garments. They resolved to relieve each other by turns, and carry the

body with them until morning.

“I know they cannot hurt his corpse,” said Richard, “but let us take it

out of the enemy’s country. He would have performed the like service for

any of us.”

An affecting sight was that funeral train. That solitary female, bent

like a drooping flower by the tempest of grief that had swept over her,

the chief mourner, followed close behind the dead, borne without coffin

or bier. All that night they walked in slow procession, the stillness

only broken by the occasional sobs of Amy, when her overwhelming grief

burst its barriers afresh. There was a “mournful eloquence” in that mute

sorrow. It bespoke deeper emotion than the clamorous wailings of the

Indians over their dead. The moon sunk behind the hills, and the quiet

stars shed their mild radiance upon them, until their twinklings were

lost in the light of the breaking morn. Weary and sad, they were cheered

by the signs of returning day, and by faith the pilgrims hailed it as

the blest harbinger of the resurrection morn, when, after the long night

of death has passed, the final trump will awake the righteous to “life

immortal in the skies.” Just as the silver clouds began to streak the

east, they reached a beautiful green slope, with but few trees and a

gentle streamlet bounding two sides of it. They stopped—every one

seemed impressed with the fitness of the place for the burial. Amy first

broke the silence, exclaiming, “It is a lovely spot!” but as they

proceeded to lay down their unconscious burthen, she commenced weeping,

and said, “Will you leave Winthrop here?” She uncovered his head and

again pillowed it in her lap, kissing and caressing it, as if,

perchance, she might awaken a smile upon that ghastly face, then

mourning as if her heart would break when attracted toward the grave

they were preparing for him. It was under a spreading oak that they

chose his resting place. The earth around was carpeted with flowers, the

rivulet gliding below, and the place was in unison with the young and

beauteous form they were about to entomb there. They finished their

work—they brought shrubs and flowers and sprinkled in the grave, and

wrapped their cherished one in his rude pall and laid him in the narrow

bed. They knelt around, Richard supporting Amy, who seemed to forget

every thing but that form so soon to be buried forever from her sight.

The same good man who led their supplications the evening before, was

now their chaplain, and his prayer brought holy consolation to the

hearts of the afflicted. He spoke of the blessedness of the dead, who

had passed from the cares of earth and entered “the mansions of rest

above.” He prayed most fervently for the living, who would, if faithful,

soon partake of the same glory. When they arose death seemed disarmed of

his terrors, and Heaven appeared _very_ near. They covered their

companion with boughs and fresh earth, and Amy cheerfully brought

honey-suckles and strewed over his grave. The sun had begun to pour his

mellow beams over the wakening world when, with grateful and subdued

hearts, they bade a final farewell to the burial place of Winthrop.

What though they left him without guard or memorial, alone in the

wilderness! Kind hands had laid him there, prayer had hallowed the spot,

tears of affection bedewed his grave, and guardian spirits would watch

with jealous care his “sleeping dust.” “Rest, thee, my brother, last of

my kindred,” said Amy, sending a lingering look backward.

“There softly lie, and sweetly sleep,

Low in the ground,

The storm that sweeps the wintry sky

No more’ll disturb thy deep repose,

Than summer evening’s latest sigh,

That shuts the rose.”

* * * * *

KUBLEH.

A STORY OF THE ASSYRIAN DESERT.

BY BAYARD TAYLOR.

Sofuk, the Sheik of the Shammar Arabs, was the owner of a mare

of matchless beauty, called, as if the property of the tribe,

the Shammeriyah. Her dam, who died about ten years ago, was the

celebrated Kubleh, whose renown extended from the sources of the

Khabour to the end of the Arabian promontory, and the day of

whose death is the epoch from which the Arabs of Mesopotamia now

date the events concerning their tribe. Mohammed Emir, Sheik of

the Jebour, assured me that he had seen Sofuk ride down the wild

ass of the Sinjar on her back, and the most marvelous stories

are current in the desert as to her fleetness and powers of

endurance. Sofuk esteemed her and her daughter above all the

riches of the tribe; for her he would have forfeited all his

wealth, and even Amsha herself.

LAYARD’S NINEVEH.

The black-eyed children of the Desert drove

Their flocks together at the set of sun.

The tents were pitched; the weary camels bent

Their suppliant necks, and knelt upon the sand;

The hunters quartered by the kindled fires

The wild boars of the Tigris they had slain,

And all the stir and sound of evening ran

Throughout the Shammar camp. The dewy air

Bore its full burden of confused delight

Across the flowery plain, and while, afar,

The snows of Koordish Mountains in the ray

Flashed roseate amber, Nimroud’s ancient mound

Rose broad and black against the burning west.

The shadows deepened and the stars came out,

Sparkling in violet ether; one by one

Glimmered the ruddy camp-fires on the plain,

And shapes of steed and horseman moved among

The dusky tents, with shout and jostling cry,

And neigh and restless prancing. Children ran

To hold the thongs, while every rider drove

His quivering spear in the earth, and by his door

Tethered the horse he loved. In midst of all

Stood Shammeriyah, whom they dared not touch—

The foal of wondrous Kubleh, to the Sheik

A dearer wealth than all his Georgian girls.

But when their meal was o’er—when the red fires

Blazed brighter, and the dogs no longer bayed—

When Shammar hunters with the boys sat down

To cleanse their bloody knives, came Alimar,

The poet of the tribe, whose songs of love

Are sweeter than Balsora’s nightingales—

Whose songs of war can fire the Arab blood

Like war itself: who knows not Alimar?

Then asked the men: “O Poet, sing of Kubleh!”

And boys laid down the knives, half-burnished, saying:

“Tell us of Kubleh, whom we never saw—

Of wondrous Kubleh!” Closer flocked the group,

With eager eyes about the flickering fire,

While Alimar, beneath the Assyrian stars,

Sang to the listening Arabs:

“God is great!

O Arabs, never yet since Mahmoud rode

The sands of Yemen, and by Mecca’s gate

That wingéd steed bestrode, whose mane of fire

Blazed up the zenith, when, by Allah called,

He bore the Prophet to the walls of Heaven,

Was like to Kubleh, Sofuk’s wondrous mare:

Not all the milk-white barbs, whose hoofs dashed flame

In Bagdad’s stables, from the marble floor—

Who, swathed in purple housings, pranced in state

The gay bazars, by great Al-Raschid backed:

Not the wild charger of Mongolian breed

That went o’er half the world with Tamerlane:

Nor yet those flying coursers, long ago

From Ormuz brought by swarthy Indian grooms

To Persia’s kings—the foals of sacred mares,

Sired by the fiery stallions of the sea!

“Who ever told, in all the Desert Land,

The many deeds of Kubleh? Who can tell

Whence came she, whence her like shall come again?

O Arabs, like a tale of Sherezade

Heard in the camp, when javelin shafts are tried

On the hot eve of battle, is her story.

“Far in the Southern sands, the hunters say,

Did Sofuk find her, by a lonely palm.

The well had dried; her fierce, impatient eye

Glared red and sunken, and her slight young limbs

Were lean with thirst. He checked his camel’s pace,

And while it knelt, untied the water-skin,

And when the wild mare drank, she followed him.

Thence none but Sofuk might the saddle gird

Upon her back, or clasp the brazen gear

About her shining head, that brooked no curb

From even him; for she, alike, was royal.

“Her form was lighter, in its shifting grace,

Than some impassioned Almée’s, when the dance

Unbinds her scarf, and golden anklets gleam

Through floating drapery, on the buoyant air.

Her light, free head was ever held aloft;

Between her slender and transparent ears

The silken forelock tossed; her nostril’s arch,

Thin-drawn, in proud and pliant beauty spread,

Snuffing the desert winds. Her glossy neck

Curved to the shoulder like an eagle’s wing,

And all her matchless lines of flank and limb

Seemed fashioned from the flying shapes of air

By hands of lightning. When the war-shouts rang

From tent to tent, her keen and restless eye

Shone like a blood-red ruby, and her neigh

Rang wild and sharp above the clash of spears.

“The tribes of Tigris and the Desert knew her:

Sofuk before the Shammar bands she bore

To meet the dread Jebours, who waited not

To bid her welcome; and the savage Koord,

Chased from his bold irruption on the plain,

Has seen her hoof prints in his mountain snow.

Lithe as the dark-eyed Syrian gazelle,

O’er ledge and chasm and barren steep amid

The Sinjar hills, she ran the wild ass down.

Through many a battle’s thickest brunt she stormed,

Reeking with sweat and dust, and fetlock deep

In curdling gore. When hot and lurid haze

Stifled the crimson sun, she swept before

The whirling sand-spout, till her gusty mane

Flared in its vortex, while the camels lay

Groaning and helpless on the fiery waste.

“The tribes of Taurus and the Caspian knew her:

The Georgian chiefs have heard her trumpet neigh

Before the walls of Teflis; pines that grow

On ancient Caucasus have harbored her,

Sleeping by Sofuk in their spicy gloom.

The surf of Trebizond has bathed her flanks,

When from the shore she saw the white-sailed bark

That brought him home from Stamboul. Never yet,

O Arabs, never yet was like to Kubleh!

“And Sofuk loved her. She was more to him

Than all his snowy-bosomed odalisques.

For many years she stood beside his tent,

The glory of the tribe.

At last she died.

Died, while the fire was yet in all her limbs—

Died for the life of Sofuk, whom she loved.

The base Jebours—on whom be Allah’s curse!—

Came on his path, when far from any camp,

And would have slain him, but that Kubleh sprang

Against the javelin points, and bore them down,

And gained the open Desert. Wounded sore,

She urged her light limbs into maddening speed

And made the wind a laggard. On and on

The red sand slid beneath her, and behind

Whirled in a swift and cloudy turbulence,

As when some star of Eblis, downward hurled

By Allah’s bolt, sweeps with its burning hair

The waste of darkness. On and on, the bleak,

Bare ridges rose before her, came and passed,

And every flying leap with fresher blood

Her nostril stained, till Sofuk’s brow and breast

Were flecked with crimson foam. He would have turned

To save his treasure, though himself were lost,

But Kubleh fiercely snapped the brazen rein.

At last, when through her spent and quivering frame

The sharp throes ran, our hundred tents arose,

And with a neigh, whose shrill excess of joy

O’ercame its agony, she stopped and fell.

The Shammar men came round her as she lay,

And Sofuk raised her head and held it close

Against his breast. Her dull and glazing eye

Met his, and with a shuddering gasp she died.

Then like a child his bursting grief made way

In passionate tears, and with him all the tribe

Wept for the faithful mare.

They dug her grave

Amid Al-Hather’s marbles, where she lies

Buried with ancient kings; and since that time

Was never seen, and will not be again,

O Arabs, though the world be doomed to live

As many moons as count the desert sands,

The like of wondrous Kubleh. God is great!”

* * * * *

A MEMORY.

BY MRS. JANE TAYLOR WORTHINGTON.

The shadows are dark on thy soul,

And thoughts of the lost will throng,

For a voice hath vanished from the earth,

Sweeter than the spring bird’s song.

Thou lookest on the still blue sky,

And pinest ’mid its peace to be,

For the grass springeth green on a grave,

And the world hath a grief for thee.

The flowers may be bright as they were,

And a fragrance as soft may fling,

But the verdure hath faded from thy life—

And the heart hath but one sweet spring!

I was a transient dweller in a strange land—one distant from my

childhood’s home, and far away from those who knew me first and loved me

best. Gradually, as the vivid excitements of life had surrounded me, as

new ties had sprung up and old hopes faded, I had lost the intimate

knowledge of the welfare or the afflictions of many who had formerly

been familiar friends, and a lengthened separation had produced that

ignorance of the details of their destiny frequently occurring, even

where affection still lingers unaltered. But there are periods when, as

it were, remembrance irresistibly presses upon us, and we all have

seasons when old times and buried associations crowd around us with

inexplicable distinctness—when the actual loses for a while its

absorbing interest, and the past, with all its radiant dreams, its

rainbow illusions, is enchanting reality once more.

I was sitting alone, at the close of a lovely autumn afternoon, before

an open window, my fancy busy with the throng of older associations, and

inattentive to the beautiful view stretching beneath me, strikingly fair

as were its features, now glowing through the crimsoning sunlight. But

something—I know not what, for such glimpses are among the spirit’s

mysteries—had recalled other times, and my soul communed with itself

and was still. The mind has its own restless and concealed creation—its

hidden world of active silentness; and to those who have battled with

the depression attendant on human experience, there is untold luxury in

reveling amid the crowding memories that “longest haunt the heart.” Even

as I sat thus idly reflecting, a paper reached me, sent by some friendly

hand from my early home, and earnestly as I would have read a loving

letter, I pored over the contents of that every-day record. It spoke to

me as a messenger from the absent; each well-known name mentioned in its

columns, held a thousand clustering reminiscences for me; the trivial

local news was like welcome household tidings; and I spoke aloud the old

familiar names I had not heard for years, as if a spell lay in their

sound. Last of all I turned to the page where, side by side, were

chronicled marriages and deaths. The first were those of strangers;

among the last was noticed the final departure of one whom I had once

loved, as we only love in the purity of youth. The announcement was

worded in the usual form with which we herald to the careless world that

a soul has gone to the mysterious future. Nothing was there to arrest

the contemplation of the reader—to speak of inevitable human destiny to

a throbbing human heart—to reveal the agony of mortality, the

bitterness of death, or the trials of the wearily burdened and loving

ones, perchance well-nigh borne down by that one event. “Died at sea,

during her homeward voyage, Mary Vere, aged 24, for three years a

resident missionary in Persia.” And this was all! The ending of the

saddest life I ever knew, the knell of as pure a spirit as was ever

bowed and fettered by earthly cares—this was the cold, brief recording

of the history of a warm nature, that had patiently toiled and

uncomplainingly suffered—that even in its youth had been old in

grief—that had wandered abroad and found no rest, and then, like a

wounded bird, had winged its way homeward to die! Ah, Mary! little

dreamed we, in our sunny days, that mine eyes should ever trace the

chronicle of such a destiny for thee!

We had first met, in childhood, at the country residence of a friend,

where we were both spending the summer months. She accompanied her

mother—her only surviving parent, then slowly declining in the last

stage of consumption. Mary and myself, thrown continually together,

without other companions, speedily became warm friends, though her

pensive, irresolute disposition, had little in common with my natural

impetuous animation. She had been the attendant on suffering from her

earliest recollection, for her father had died after a lingering

illness, during which he had desired the constant enlivenment of his

only child’s society, and her mother had for years been a resigned but

hopeless invalid. All who have closely observed children, are aware of

the influence such things half-unconsciously exert over minds

susceptible to every impression, and it was not strange that one so used

to look on sorrow, should have learned at last to doubt the very

existence of happiness.

Mary was a strikingly beautiful child, with dark, soul-revealing eyes,

bright with the mystical fire of the burning thoughts within. I well

remember their rapturous expression when she was excited by some tale of

heroism—for she was full of a strange, quiet enthusiasm, that wasted

itself in fruitless sympathy with the moral greatness of others, but

shrank with painful distrust from reliance on its own impulsive

guidance. She was quick of feeling, and easily touched by the most

trivial deed of kindness, and her being was too sensitive for her ever

to be thoughtlessly happy. Her look and manner were peculiarly winning

in their tranquil, subdued gentleness; and when this was, occasionally,

though rarely, laid aside for awhile, amid the irrepressible mirth of

childish amusement, her laugh had the ringing, silvery melody which

seems the musical essence of enjoyment. For two successive summers we

met and were inseparably intimate, and then four years elapsed before we

were again together. During this interval Mary’s mother died, and she

went far from my home, to reside with a distant relation. We had, from

our first parting, corresponded regularly, and her letters were, like

herself, poetical and visionary. I know not wherefore, for she wrote no

murmur, but they left the impression that she was not satisfied with her

new home, and my heart yearned to comfort her, to remove from her lot

its loneliness, from her soul its dimness. But she shrunk, with what

then appeared to me morbid delicacy, from all approach to confidence on

this subject, and gradually grew in all things less communicative

regarding herself, as if doubting the response of sympathy. There was

evidently a constraint placed on her spontaneous emotions—a quiet

concealment of her deeper interests, which to me spoke mournfully, and

recalled that silent, dejected consciousness of mental and spiritual

solitude, which is the saddest portion and the most touching consequence

of an orphan’s unshared and melancholy destiny. It was not until long

afterward that I learned the domestic trials and annoyances to which she

had been subjected, and the dreary, joyless routine in which she dragged

on the years that should have been her brightest ones.

It was with many a sweet anticipation of friendly, unreserved

intercourse and affectionate solace—such dreams as are borne by loving

angels to hearts strong in youth and rich in tenderness, that I looked

impatiently forward to my next meeting with my old playmate, for now we

had both glided from childhood to womanhood, and the firm bond was

between us that links those who remember together. I shall never forget

my astonishment when, after our first fond and impetuous greeting, I

turned, with tearful eyes, to mark the alteration time had wrought in

the appearance of my companion. She was calm and composed, almost to

coldness, and there was no visible exhibition of the agitation

struggling beneath, or of all the afflicting reminiscences which I knew

were recalled by looking on my face again. She had grown from the timid,

irresolute girl, to the proud, self-possessed woman, and her manner had

the tranquil air of one aware of her own moral strength, and of the

existence of impulses and feelings too pure and sacred to be lightly

displayed to a world which had nothing in common with them. She was more

beautiful than ever, and I have never seen a being whose polished,

intellectual tranquillity was so faultlessly graceful. She had acquired

the early maturity of mind given in kindness to those who are tried in

their youth; for she had evidently “thought too long and darkly;” her

feelings were still from their intensity, and hers was the reflective

repose which, wearied and desponding, folds its drooping pinions and

sleeps on the bosom of darkness.

Ah, me! it is a dreary thing to feel alone in the world—to have no eye

brighten at our coming, no voice ever ready with its eager welcoming,

nothing to tell us we are beloved, and that fond thoughts and wishes are

around our onward pathway. O, ye who have never felt this worst of

desolations—ye whose best affections bind ye still, who have no link

broken, no yearnings unfulfilled, fold to your hearts the precious

blessing that lives in domestic ties and speaks in household love, and

greet kindly and gently those whose life is lonely—who look around them

and find no answering gaze, who pine with many tears for one glimpse of

the tenderness whose living light is daily yours, who go forward sadly

and silently, with none to love them, save those who are angels in

Heaven.

But there is a romance in every one’s experience, evanescent though it

be; and at length its bright change rose upon Mary’s existence. I heard

she was soon to be married, to a young clergyman, of whom all spoke in

terms of approval and admiration. I sincerely rejoiced at an event so

calculated to relieve at once her perplexities and regrets, and to

summon sweet visions for one who had too long lived without affection in

the world. I wrote to her, expressing all I felt—all my fervent hopes

for her dawning welfare. I longed impatiently for her answer, anxious to

discover if she realized as I wished the brighter career opening before

her; but several weeks wended on, and brought me no reply. It was from

another source I learned the dangerous and protracted illness of her

lover, and a paper, tremulously directed by Mary’s hand, at length

informed me of his death.

Finally a letter came, with its black seal. It was the last farewell of

one who loved me—the last pouring forth of tenderness from a heart that

was broken; and yet, sorrowful as those lines were, they spoke of hopes

unshadowed and immortal—of a pilgrimage troubled and toilsome, but full

of reward, and of all an enthusiast’s delusive anticipations in the

sacred enterprise before her.

She wrote on the eve of her departure from her native land, and with her

singular, acquired shrinking from the avowal of her feelings, she made

no allusion to the connection recently broken; and not a word revealed

the grief that clouded over her fairest prospects and sent her forth an

exile. Frequently afterward I saw her name mentioned as one of

unwavering zeal in her adopted cause, and faithfully devoted to the

laborious responsibilities of her mission. But between herself and her

early friends a gulf seemed to be, perhaps because she did not wish to

revive the over-powering recollections of the past. The absence of all

communication with those once dear to her, must have been intentional,

for she was not one to forget. Three years of this unbroken existence of

care and labor had gone by, and then I had thus accidentally learned the

mournful doom of a being endowed with all earth’s purest impulses, yet

so soon recalled from its wanderings. Hers is no uncommon history—for

many such are on our daily annals. O! give them kind thoughts and words,

for these are the sad heart’s treasured gems!

* * * * *

THIS WORLD OF OURS.

BY S. D. ANDERSON.

This world of ours is beautiful—right beautiful, I ween,

Are all its mountains tipt with gold, its valleys tinged with green,

Its thousand laughing streams that sport, half sunshine and half

shade,

Like love’s first herald seen upon the rosy cheeked maid.

The springing flowers are beautiful that open to the day,

And spread their perfume far and wide along the sunny way;

The vine-clad rocks and shady dells that bask in beauty’s sheen;

This world of ours is beautiful—wherever it is seen.

This world of ours was beautiful in those good olden days

When knights would battle valiantly for ladies’ smiles and praise;

When in the list and on the turf, with lance and spear and sword,

These iron-handed men would meet no bond but plighted word.

Each castle was a fortress then; each man could bend the bow,

Or lead the dance, or join the song with voice as soft and low,

As maidens when at night they hear their lovers’ whispered praise;

Oh! was not the world beautiful in those good olden days?

This world of ours was beautiful, when troubadours first sang,

And castle hall and cottage roof with love and glory rang;

When high-born damsels clustered round—perhaps to hear of one

Who joined the armies of the Cross, to fight ’neath Syria’s sun;

How he had borne the banner high amid the thickest fight,

And placed his name where it will shine like stars amid the night;

And then bright eyes would brighter beam, despite the truant tear;

Oh! was not the world beautiful when minstrelsy was here?

This world of ours was beautiful when Rome was great and free,

And proudly shone her mountain-bird, the type of Liberty;

When Freedom found a resting-place within those trophied walls,

And circled with her eagle wing its temples and its halls;

When on the yellow Tiber’s wave the shouts of victory came,

And pride and glory mingled with the conqueror’s lauded name;

Then came the proud triumphal march, the heroes crowned with bays;

Oh! was not the world beautiful in those her palmy days?

This world of ours was beautiful when Venice ruled the tide,

And thousand voices rose to greet the old man’s ocean bride;

The waters gladly danced around the castles old and proud,

And from the latticed balconies, upon the passing crowd,

Gleamed forth the light of beauty’s eye—Venetia’s daughters fair,

With hearts as pure as were the gems that glistened in their hair;

As bold in danger, true in love, as brave men’s brides should be;

Oh! was not the world beautiful when Venice ruled the sea?

This world of ours was beautiful when ’neath Italia’s skies

Her passion sons, like meteor stars, flashed on their wondering eyes.

Born in that sunny clime of love, where beauty tints the air,

And earth and ocean, sun and shade, are more divinely fair;

No marvel that their minds upgrew full freighted with each tone,

And Love and Beauty sheltered them within their magic zone,

Till all they saw and all they felt found in each work a birth;

Oh! was not the world beautiful when Genius walked the earth!

This world of ours was beautiful when by fair Arno’s stream

Sweet Florence lay bedecked with gifts, like beauty in her dream;

So soft her skies, so mild her suns, such perfume in each breeze,

Such songs of gladness from her plains, such flowers upon the trees;

And then her dowered children stood like jewels in her crown,

Or sun-clad monuments on which Time’s rays come proudly down,

To gild with beauty e’en decay—but what decay hast thou?

Oh! was not the world beautiful when Florence decked her brow?

This world of ours was beautiful in England’s palmy times,

When merrily from church and tower pealed out the sportive chimes,

When deep within the greenwood haunts dwelt honest men and free,

With hearts as gay and minds as light as birds upon the tree;

Right honestly the day was passed; at night, upon the green,

All joining in the merry dance the young and old were seen,

And many a jocund song was sung, and many a tale was told;

Oh! was not the world beautiful in those good days of old?

This world of ours was beautiful when valiant men and true

Spread their white sails, and sought a home beyond the waters blue—

They found it ’neath the forest old, ’mid wild and savage men,

Beside the ocean’s rocky shore, within the mountain glen;

And there was heard the childish laugh, and there the mother’s tone,

Brought joy and gladness in their sound to many an altar-stone;

Men toiled and strove, and strove and toiled, through all the weary

hours,

Oh! was not the world beautiful, this western world of ours?

This world of ours was beautiful, when Freedom first awoke,

Its cradle song the trumpet call, its toy the sabre stroke,

Full armed, like Pallas, then she stood amid the deadly fight,

And man by man stood boldly up, and clenched their hands of might,

The tempest came, no cheek turned pale, no heart unnerved with fear,

They grasped their swords more tightly then—’twas victory or a bier;

Long was the struggle, hard the fight, but liberty was won;

Oh! was not the world beautiful beneath fair Freedom’s sun?

This world of ours was beautiful in times long, long ago,

When those good men of earnest souls dwelt with us here below;

Large was their faith in human kind; their mission seemed to be

To teach man all his duties here—Love, Faith and Energy,

To link each man to brother man, with links of firmest steel;

Then touch the spark of sympathy, and all the shock will feel;

Stamp the nobility of truth upon each deathless soul;

Oh! was not the world beautiful beneath such pure control?

This world of ours _was_ beautiful, and still is so to me;

Since boyish days I’ve clung to it, with wildness and with glee;

Have laughed when others talked of wo beneath so fair a sky,

When time, like flights of singing birds, with melody went by,

Have roved amid its fairy bowers, and drank of every stream

Of joy and gladness, till I lived within a blissful dream,

And life, deep ladened with its fruits, slept like a weary child;

This world of ours is beautiful as ’twas when Eden smiled?

This world of ours is beautiful despite what cynics say;

There must be storms in winter time as well as flowers in May;

But what of that?—there’s joy in both the sunshine and the shade,

The light upon the mountain-top, the shadow in the glade.

Be free of Soul, and firm of Heart, read all life’s lessons right,

Nor look for roses in the snow, nor sunbeams in the night.

Up! up! to action, armed with Love, Faith and Energy;

And then this world is beautiful, as beautiful can be.

* * * * *

MY SPIRIT.

BY HENRY MORFORD.

Spirit, my own proud spirit!

We may not sleep in dust,

There is a path marked out for us

Of a high and a holy trust;

Spirit, tried spirit, we were not born,

To die as cravens die,

With no proud niche for the wreathed urn,

No record on the sky.

We came up life together,

We have lived but a few short years,

We have tasted well at the fountain head

Of human hopes and fears;

Yet life is young, shall we not be so?

Shall we not drink and sing

Of the many glorious hopes that flow

From many a hidden spring?

Ay, and the streams shall gather

In a broad and open sea,

The laving of whose crystal tide

Is immortality;

There shall be a time when we shall rest,

Some gentle summer even,

With a calm content, upon its breast,

And an opening view of heaven.

Storms will be wild around us

Before that time shall come,

And the thunder of blame will fill the air,

And the voice of praise be dumb;

Yet as we draw from the glorious stars

Beauty and light and love,

Hope’s wing shall gild the closing bars

That shut us from above.

Spirit, my own proud spirit,

Thou wilt not fail me now,

Thy hands shall wreathe the chaplet well

And place it on my brow;

Spirit, tried spirit, we were not born

To die as cravens die,

With no proud niche for the wreathed urn,

No record on the sky.

* * * * *

WILD-BIRDS OF AMERICA.

BY PROFESSOR FROST.

[Illustration: Sarcoramphus Gryphus, male.]

THE CONDOR. (_Sarcoramphus Gryphus._)

This bird is one of the largest of the vultures. The early Spanish

writers on America gave the most exaggerated accounts of its size and

strength; and its true history and dimensions have been only recently

ascertained. The bird was compared with the Roc of the Arabian romance

writers. Acosta says that the bird called Condor is able singly to

eviscerate and devour a whole sheep or a calf. Garcilaso de la Vega

makes them measure 16 feet from tip to tip of the extended wings; he

says their beaks are sufficiently strong to perforate and tear off a

bull’s hide, and to rip out its entrails; and that a single Condor “will

set upon and slay boys of ten or twelve years;” which last exaggeration,

though now exploded, has found its way into our common school

geographies.

Investigation has shown that the Condor is merely a large, perhaps not

the largest of the vultures. “The Condor,” writes Mr. Bennett, “forms

the type of a genus, a second species of which is the _Vultur papa_ of

Linnæus, the king of the vultures of British writers. They are both

peculiar to the New World, but approach in their most essential

characters very closely to the vultures of the Old Continent, differing

from the latter principally in the large, fleshy, or rather

cartilaginous, caruncle which surmounts their beaks, in the large size

of their oval and longitudinal nostrils, placed almost at the very

extremity of the cere; and in the comparative length of their quill

feathers, the third being the longest of the series. The most important

of these differences, the size and position of their nostrils, appears

to be well calculated to add to the already highly powerful sense of

smell possessed by the typical vulture, and for which the birds have

been almost proverbially celebrated from the earliest ages. There is

also a third species, the Californian vulture, two noble specimens of

which, the only pair in Europe, are preserved in the London Zoological

Society’s Museum, rivaling the Condor in bulk, and agreeing in every

respect with the generic characters of the group, except in the

existence of the caruncle, of which they are entirely destitute.

“In size the Condor is little, if at all, superior to the Bearded

Griffin, the Lämmergeyer of the Alps, with which Buffon was disposed

conjecturally to confound it, but to which it bears at most but a

distant relation. The greatest authentic measurement scarcely carries

the extent of its wings beyond fourteen feet, and it appears rarely to

attain so gigantic a size. M. Humboldt met with none that exceeded nine

feet, and was assured by many credible inhabitants of the province of

Quito that they had never shot any that measured more than eleven. The

length of a male specimen somewhat less than nine feet in expanse was

three feet three inches from the tip of the beak to the extremity of the

tail; and its height, when perching with the neck partly withdrawn, two

feet eight inches. Its beak was two inches and three quarters in length,

and an inch and a quarter in depth when closed.

“The beak of the Condor is straight at the base, but the upper mandible

becomes arched toward the point, and terminates in a strong and well

curved hook. The basal half is of an ash brown, and the remaining

portion, toward the point, is nearly white. The head and neck are bare

of feathers, and covered with hard, wrinkled, dusky reddish skin, on

which are scattered some short brown or blackish hairs. On the top of

the head, which is much flattened above, and extending some distance

along the beak, is attached an oblong firm caruncle or comb, covered by

a continuation of the skin which invests the head. This organ is

peculiar to the male. It is connected to the beak only in its anterior

part, and is separated from it at the base in such a manner as to allow

a free passage of the air to the large oval nostrils, which are situated

beneath it at that part. Beyond the eyes, which are somewhat elongated,

and not sunk beneath the general surface of the head, the skin of the

neck is, as it were, gathered into a series of descending folds,

extending obliquely from the back of the head over the temples, to the

under side of the neck, and there connected anteriorly with a lax

membrane or wattle, capable of being dilated at pleasure, like that of

the common turkey. The neck is marked by numerous deep parallel folds,

produced by the habit of retracting the head, in which the bird indulges

when at rest. In this position scarcely any part of the neck is visible.

“Round the lower part of the neck both sexes, the female as well as the

male, are furnished with a broad white ruff of downy feathers, which

forms the line of separation between the naked skin above and the true

feathers covering the body below it. All the other feathers, with the

exception of the wing coverts, and the secondary quill feathers, are of

a bright black, generally mingled with a grayish tinge of greater or

less intensity. In the female the wing coverts are blackish gray; but

the males have their points, and frequently as much as half their

length, white. The wings of the latter are consequently distinguished

from those of the female by their large white patches. The secondary

quill feathers of both sexes are white on the outer side. The tail is

short and wedge shaped. The legs are excessively thick and powerful, and

are colored of a blueish gray, intermingled with whitish streaks. Their

elongated toes are united at the base by a loose but very apparent

membrane, and are terminated by long black talons of considerable

thickness, but very little curved. The hinder toe is shorter than the

rest, and its talon, although more distinctly curved, is equally wanting

in strength, a deficiency which renders the foot much less powerful as

an organ of prehension than that of any other of the large birds of the

raptorial order.”

The Condor is found in various parts of the vast mountain chain on the

western border of the American continent, but it is most common in Peru

and Chile. Its habitation is most frequently at an elevation of 10,000

or 15,000 feet above the level of the sea, and there these birds are

seen in groups of three or four, but never in large companies like the

true vultures. Some of the mountain peaks bear names which in the Indian

tongue mean Condor’s Look-out, Condor’s Roost and Condor’s Nest. Two of

them will attack a vicuna, a heifer or even a puma, and overcome it by

repeated strokes of their beaks and talons. When gorged, says Humboldt,

they sit sullen and sombre on the rocks; and when thus overloaded with

food they will suffer themselves to be driven before the hunter rather

than take wing. They do not attack men or even children, although it is

admitted that two of them would be a match for a powerful man without

weapons. Sir Francis Head gives an amusing account of a contest between

one of his Cornish miners and a gorged Condor, which lasted an hour, and

terminated in the escape of the bird.

* * * * *

EDITOR’S TABLE.

LIGHTS AND SHADOWS.

MY DEAR JEREMY.—I presume you are shaking the spray from your locks,

and are over head and ears in love with salt water, while I am among the

weeping willows in these days of hydrophobia, when water—that we cannot

get at—provokes a feeling of madness. You glory in a proprietorship

over which your plough passes, turning up soil that is all your own,

while the nodding grain, golden and pulpy, ripens in your absence for

your abundant granaries, while I cultivate this, my small patch, “a

tenant at will,” whose harvest of gleaning would be blown to the winds

without a painstaking care and watchfulness. You are the lord of acres,

while I wander around forbidden enclosures, and look upon many a Castle

of Indolence longing but for a yard of ground all my own, upon which to

plant a firm foot, to sound the challenge and cry—war! The very

utterness of poverty is grandeur and riches, compared to the feeling of

having the pent-up energies which have found a full outlet in

enterprise, growing fiery in inaction, and panting for room, continually

battling at the heart, and knocking in vain for freedom and exercise.

But if you have ever felt the utter insignificance of wealth and high

advantage combined with indolence and inactivity, and forever

do-nothingness, before the godlike attributes of persevering energy and

indomitable will, you have felt the pride of manhood in its full force

and power. You have reaped in anticipation the rewards of high courage,

of manly resolve, of personal industry and victory. You have enjoyed in

your day-dreams the full fruition of assured success—and awoke to hope

on, to resolve and to conquer. Consider me, my dear Jeremy, as winding

myself up for the next seven years, after having run down—as having

stopped, if you please, to blow; and while you are luxuriating in the

surf, and shaking the briny water from your shoulders, as throwing off

surfdom, with a defiant air, and a determined purpose of taking a few

strides forward, to meet that “good time a coming.”

Who does not love the sound of the breakers at Cape May, who has once

listened to their wild melody? What a chance for love-making is the

evening stroll upon the beach. On the one side the rugged bank, on which

the white houses sit like a flock of wild-birds suddenly alighted, and

the faint twinkle of rush-like lights dancing like fire-flies in the

night air; on the other, the wild waters—sad emblem of the wild unrest

of the human heart—their huge waves reflecting from their sides the

quiet light of the moon, while the white-caps come trooping in, like a

squadron of dragoons, with their plumes dancing, and a roar, as if the

tread of an army were near, and a thousand park of artillery were

booming in the distance. The music of rich voices hushed amid the

uproar—the light of kind eyes sparkling with a subdued eloquence—the

loved face impressively thoughtful, indicating that God has laid his

hand upon the heart, and whispered amid the tumult of its worldly

thoughts, “be thou still!”

It was my good fortune to see both Cape May and the Falls of Niagara,

for the first time, by moonlight, and whether the hush of evening

naturally associated in the mind with twilight, deepened the impressions

of awe and wonder with which I gazed upon them, or to the greatness of

the novelty was added through the misty twilight, a dim religious

sanctity to the impression, I know not, but they have never since

charmed me so much in the broad glare of day, as in the evening, with a

quiet moon looking placidly down upon the flashing foam, seemingly

rebuking the uproar.

The bathers, too, at mid-day, screaming like sea-birds amid the surf,

with their many-colored garments dancing amid the foam—beauty floating

upon the breakers as calmly as if reposing upon the virgin snow of her

own pillows. Manhood breasting the billow, and riding securely far out

where the huge porpoise rolls lazily along, while tiny feet go patting,

and tiny hands go clapping along the shore, the very idleness and luxury

of the sport impressing upon the beholder a sense of enjoyment, a

feeling of relief from the work-day world, a consciousness of manhood

and freedom above the value of dollars—a heart eased of the

oppressiveness of brick and mortar, and open to a sense most acute of

the very luxury of being idle.

If Philadelphians had made half as much of Cape May as the New Yorkers

have of Saratoga, or the Yankees have of Newport, its visiters from all

parts of the country would number tens of thousands; but I question

whether its present character of being Philadelphia in holyday dress,

let loose for a romp, does not add much to its charms. The relief from

absurd ceremony, where every face is familiar. The easy, unrestrained

life, the freedom of remark and retort, and the exuberant gayety of the

whole company, add to the enjoyment of the place, and make it a home in

a family circle greatly enlarged and full of good humor.

But, my dear Jeremy, you must have observed that at Cape May we got

along comfortably, without the towering and overshadowing influence of

the “upper ten thousand,” which stands up to be worshiped by the people

without money or _brains_. It might be a serious question, how long a

man may exist, with great self-complacency, without _heart_, or

intellect, yet with a purse well lined with gold—regarding the world of

men and of matter as especially made for him—the lord paramount of the

soil, and of the sinews, which of right belong to his betters. Cannot

some one curious in nature and philosophy, analyze one of this genus,

and tell the world how the appearance of humanity can be preserved

without a single attribute of it, existing life-like and active in his

breast. The whole effort of this air-drawn animal appears to be to rise,

to get up in society, to overlook the pigmies who toil and sweat for

bread—to loose his identity in the upper circle, that he may forget his

grandfather, the soap-boiler, upon whose bubbles he has been shot

upward—as we expel a pea from an air-gun. Prick the bubble, and the

thing vanishes into air, without leaving behind him a trace of existence

of the value of a pepper-corn, and _so_,

——“Grows dim and dies

All that this world is proud of.”

The gifts of GOD are equal. He sheds upon us all the same glorious

sunlight, and gives us the same heritage of dew and showers. The air has

no monopolist, but its balmy odors as kindly kiss as well the beggar as

the king. The mountain stream and the mountain flower acknowledge no

master but the hand that formed them. The very beast that roams over the

boundless prairies, and tosses his wild mane to the breeze, snuffs in an

atmosphere sanctified by its freeness. God, over all his own works sheds

the benignant light of universal benevolence and goodwill. The hues of a

heaven-tinted charity blend kindly together the world over—the laws of

a love undistinguishing are impressed upon all nature.

It is _man_—but a handful of his mother earth—that wrongs her kind

bosom, and says to his brother, stand aside, the heritage is mine—we

are not equals in birth-right. I claim by pre-emption a supremacy which

makes me thy master. The very purple I wear, when contrasted with the

faded russet of thy poor garb, makes me thy lord. The jeweled rings of

these fingers clasp thy neck, and make thee bondsman. Thou shalt go at

my bidding and come at my call. Thou shalt toil until thy weary bones

crack, to pamper to my luxurious desires! Thou shalt not even _think_

but at thy peril! By the high authority of what is called LAW, thou art

enslaved!

By this right of _law_, how many wrongs are done, which the cold eye of

day gazes on in silence, whilst hearts wrung with anguish weep on

unpitied. This strong arm, when its fist clutches dollars, how terrible

is it in its willingness to crush and overwhelm the unsheltered, the

unbefriended, the poor, unpitied victim. But if a breast sparkling with

diamonds interposes, how palsied and feeble becomes the blow—_the

justice, the equity of the law_, how considerate and kind!

Yet law, according to the lawgiver, “is the perfection of reason,” which

must account, I suppose, for the difficulty which the learned counsel

experiences in expounding it to an “intelligent jury.” The poor thief

therefore remains in profound ignorance of the equity of the decision,

by which he is consigned to three years of penitence is solitary

confinement, while his gayer brother in crime dashes through the streets

with his carriage and scarlet housings, basking in the worship of

wondering and approving eyes, _his_ penalty for having started a bank,

_and stopped it_, by which thousands of poor men lost the dollars which

paid for the equipage, and furnished the viands for his pampered

appetite, the meanest of which would have driven starvation from their

doors. He is beyond the law. Let an hundred operatives agree in thinking

that the wretched pittance for their daily labor will not suffice to

feed the mouths of a half dozen famishing children, the law has its kind

and protecting eye upon them at once—and if they _dare_ express so

infamous a sentiment, it immediately takes care of them as conspirators.

But the masters of an hundred mills may openly avow their determination

to close their doors and send starvation into a whole village, the law

instantly closes its watchful eye, and dozes over the scene, deeming it

right and proper that capital should be indulged in its absurdities.

Should John, upon the box of a gentleman’s carriage, come in contact

with the hub of the humble cab of Jehu, and thereby disfigure the

carriage and irritate the temper of the great owner, his honor, who may

have had _dealings_ with him, deals with Jehu, who is glad to get off

for his five dollars, and thinks it a kindness that he is not imprisoned

for the intolerable crime of John not giving an inch of the road to a

vulgar cabman. When diamonds are trumps, take care of knaves.

It is a fiction of law—for even “perfect reason” has her fictions, it

seems—that people who are standing at a distance in a riot, are as

culpable as those who are throwing the brickbats—and it is certain they

are the more likely to be killed, probably from a humane feeling of not

wishing to irritate those who are too near—and it is for this reason,

we presume, that after the riot is over, a number of citizens, against

whom nothing can be proved, are arrested, to assert the majesty of the

law, while the real rioters and murderers are perfectly unknown to the

police. The law being discriminative thus administered, as well as

stringent when necessary.

Great names, which provoke a riot, or lack the nerve and manliness to

suppress it, have an overshadowing influence, which awes even the

majesty of the law—it would be indecorous in the law to meddle with

greatness, even when it is impertinent.

“La-w me!” exclaims an old lady, who has upset the contents of her

frying-pan into the fire. But the poor soul little knows the calamity

she invokes. It is doubtful whether fire and frying-pan would not

follow, if her request were complied with. The law being at times both

expensive and speedy.

“_So wags the world along._”

But, my dear Jeremy, I have rambled somewhat in this letter, so without

more ado, I’ll CUT this.

G. R. G.

[Illustration: “THE UPPER TEN” AND “THE LOWER FIGURE.”]

LENDER’S BOOKS.—NO. II.

By my right hand, Graham! by my right hand, which for —— odd years

hath traveled and travailed over much foolscap, (and under much

fool’s-cap quoth the fiend,) I am more and more convinced of the truth

of the words of the preacher, “Vanity of vanities! all is vanity!” I

have just laid aside “Mardi,” (the gift of my warm-hearted friend, L. G.

C., of the Knickerbocker,) it lies atop of old Du Bartas and some

withered budlets of forget-me-not, and in like manner _I_ sit with a few

fragmentaries of old literature at bottom for my _primiter_, some tender

remembrances for my _secondary_, and for the _alluvial_ stratum of my

pericranicks (as gentle Charles hath it) these fripperies by the Author

of Typee. Confound the book! there are such beautiful Aurora-flashes of

light in it that you can almost forgive the puerilities—it is a great

net-work of affectation, with some genuine _gold_ shining through the

interstices.

Let us turn over the leaves a little—hear ye now—

“And what to me thus pining for some one to page me a quotation

from Burton on Blue-Devils.” V. I. p. 15.

What is _paging_ a quotation?

“Anoint the ropes and they will travel deftly through the subtle

windings of the blocks.” p. 33.

Why not say—“apply some oleaginous substance to the ambulatory cords,

and prevent the inarticulate dissonance caused by the inharmonious

attrition of the flaxen fibres against the ligneous particles?”

But this passage I especially commend:

“Good old Arcturion! Maternal craft, that rocked me so often in

thy heart of oak, I grieve to tell how I deserted thee on the

broad deep. (‘Maternal craft—maternal old oaken-hearted

craft—maternal old oaken-cradle hearted craft’ is good!) So far

from home, with such a motley crew, so many islands, whose

heathen babble _echoing through thy Christian hull must have

grated harshly on every carline_.” p. 38.

“Many there are who can fall,” says Martinus Scriblerius, “but few can

arrive at the felicity of falling gracefully.”

How beautifully he embellishes the most commonplace ideas:

“Among savages, severe personal injuries are, for the most part,

accounted but trifles. When a European would be taking to his

couch in despair _the savage would disdain to recline_.” p. 96.

“At Ravavai I had stepped ashore some few months previous; and

now was embarked on a cruise for the whale, _whose brain

enlightens the world_!” p. 1.

Jarl steals a keg of tobacco—

“From the Arcturion he had brought along with him a small

half-keg, at bottom impacted with a solitary layer of sable

Negrohead, fossil-marked, like the primary stratum of the

geologists.” (Ahem! primary stratum _fossil_-marked!) p. 68.

He surmiseth that Samoa likes to get swipesy—

“Nor did I doubt but that the Upoluan, like all Polynesians,

much loved getting high of head; and in that state would be more

intractable than a Black Forest boar.”

Sometimes he breaks into hexameter:

“In the verdant glen of Ardair, far in the silent interior of

Amma,

Shut in by hoar old cliffs, Yillah the maiden abode.”

This reminds one of Evangeline—

“In the Acadian land, on the shores of the basin of Minos,

Distant, secluded, still, the little village of Grand Pré

Lay in the fruitful valley.”

Let us hexametrize another passage, and we will have done with these

fopperies:

“’Tis no great valor to perish sword in hand, and bravado

On lip; cased all in panoply complete. For even the alli-

Gator dies in his mail, and the sword-fish never surrenders.

To expire, mild-eyed, in one’s bed, transcends the death of

Epam-Inondas.” p. 46.

I have done with Mardi—one is reminded in reading it (after Typee) that

“there is as much skill in making dikes as in raising mounts—there is

an art of _diving_ as well as flying,” and who knows but what the

author, after attaining a comfortable elevation by his former works, may

not have made this plunge _on purpose_, as men do who climb to the top

of a high mast that they may dive the deeper.

* * * * *

Now do those crushed, withered budlets of forget-me-not, peeping from

under the book covers, remind me of those beautiful hope-flowers that

opened their pale blue eyes in the morning of my life, and bloomed and

drooped—and passed away—

“How fair was then the flower—the tree!

How silver-sweet the fountain’s fall!

The soulless had a soul to me!

My life its own life lent to all!

“The universe of things seemed swelling

The panting heart to burst its bound,

And wandering fancy found a dwelling

In every shape, thought, deed and sound.

Germed in the mystic buds, reposing,

A whole creation slumbered mute;

Alas! when from the buds unclosing,

How scant and blighted sprung the fruit!”

Alas! alas! young life, and young hopes are not perennials; even in the

lofty conservatories and crystal hot-houses of wealth and station they

flush into a sickly existence, and then perish like the meanest flower

by the wayside. Did it ever strike you how much we are alike in this

particular? Every one looking back upon his past life as the shipwrecked

merchant looks upon the broad sea that hath swallowed up irretrievable

treasures. Do you believe that if one had the power of investing his new

created babes with a course of life, that he would say, “Do as I have

done—pass through my joys and my afflictions, and in the experience of

my experience you will be happy!” Do you believe that any one—even the

wisest, the purest, the best could say this? By my faith, I do not! And

the great focal-glass of a common destiny brings down prismatic,

many-hued humanity to a point hue, as a convex lens gathers and

concentrates prism-bundles of light and heat from the broad disk of the

sun. Human suffering is the chord universal that swells from the

vibration of numberless strings.

“Thou seest we are not all alone unhappy;

This vast and universal theatre

Contains more woful pageants than the scene

Whereon we play—”

But, “Mardi” and forget-me-nots have spoiled three good sheets of

foolscap, and I fear that I am too much i’ the sentimental vein; let me

therefore conclude with quoting a sweet little piece of philosophy, and

lay aside these _lender’s books_ for a period.

“A swallow in the spring

Came to our granary, and ’neath the eaves

Essayed to make a nest, and then did bring

Wet earth, and straw, and leaves.

“Day after day she toiled,

With patient heart; but ere her work was crowned

Some sad mishap the tiny fabric spoiled,

And dashed it to the ground.

“She found the ruin wrought,

But, not cast down, forth from the place she flew,

And, with her mate, fresh earth and grasses brought,

And built her nest anew.

“But scarcely had she placed

The last soft feather on its ample floor,

When wicked hand, or chance, again laid waste,

And wrought the ruin o’er.

“But still her heart she kept,

And toiled again; and last night, hearing calls,

I looked, and lo! three little swallows slept

Within the earth-made walls.

“What truth is here, O man!

Hath hope been smitten in its early dawn!

Have clouds o’ercast thy purpose, trust or plan?

_Have_ FAITH _and struggle on_!”

Here endeth the second fifth.—RICHARD HAYWARDE.

* * * * *

REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.

_Characteristics of Literature. Illustrated by the Genius of

Distinguished Men. By Henry T. Tuckerman. Phila.: Lindsay &

Blakiston. 1 vol. 12mo._

Mr. Tuckerman has written many interesting books, but we think the

present volume is his most attractive if not his best production. It is

characterized by his usual refinement of analysis, wealth of

illustration, felicity of allusion, and mellow richness of style, while

in the range it evinces over widely varied provinces of thought and

character, it indicates more versatility than any of his other

compositions. The volume includes a discussion and representation of

eleven departments of literature, through a searching examination of as

many authors, each of whom is taken as the exponent of a class. Thus

Channing stands for the Moralist, Sir Thomas Browne for the Philosopher,

Swift for the Wit, Shenstone for the Dillettante, Charles Lamb for the

Humorist, and Macaulay for the Historian. The selection of men to

illustrate the subjects is, of course, not free from cavil. We should

say that Burke was not exactly the man to stand as an expression of the

Rhetorician, for his rhetoric, though matchless of its kind, is

secondary to his philosophy. He appears to us, even as analyzed by Mr.

Tuckerman, in the character of a profound, vigorous and vital thinker,

and is no more a rhetorician, in any exclusive sense of the term, than

Bacon, Hooker, Taylor, or even Milton. Where style is the _incarnation_

of thought, the visible image of the mind that employs it—and this is

its nature in all the greatest authors—the word rhetoric is hardly

applicable to it. Macaulay is more emphatically the rhetorician than

Burke.

* * * * *

_Select Comedies; Translated from the Italian of Goldoni, Giraud

and Nota. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 12mo._

A volume like the present, giving the English reader a good idea of the

spirit and form of Italian comedy, has long been wanted, and we have

little doubt that it will be successful. To the lover of the English

drama the plays may seem to lack solid character and unctuous humor; but

they are still distinguished by a fertility in the invention of

ludicrous incidents and positions, and a mischievous quick-footed spirit

of intrigue, that no person with a sense of the comic can read them

without exhilaration. The translations are, we believe, from an American

pen, and appear to be well executed. Six complete comedies are given,

and the translator has been fortunate in his selections both in respect

to merit and variety. The two comedies of Goldoni are alone richly worth

the price of the book.

* * * * *

_Kaloolah, or Journeyings to the Djebel Kumri. An Autobiography

of Jonathan Romer. Edited by W. S. Mayo, M. D. 1 vol. 12mo._

It is something strange for a writer to present himself for the first

time as a candidate for public favor with a volume indicating so much

power and originality of mind, and such practiced talents of composition

as the present. The book is a regular tale of adventures, as interesting

as exciting incidents racily told can make it, and inweaved with the

story are many graphic descriptions of scenery and keen delineations of

character. Considered in respect to the originality of its conception,

the new vein of romance it opens, and the admirable method of the

narration, we think the volume cannot fail to attract the attention

which it will certainly reward.

* * * * *

_The Earth and Man: Lectures on Comparative Physical Geography,

in its Relation to the History of Mankind. By Arnold Guyot.

Boston: Gould, Kendall & Lincoln. 1 vol. 12mo._

The author of this valuable Manual is Professor of Physical Geography

and History in the same institution to which Agassiz is attached, and

originally delivered the present lectures in French to an audience in

Boston. They have been elegantly translated by Professor Felton, of

Harvard University, and are very warmly recommended by the New England

Savans for their union of profundity and simplicity. The subject is one

of the most important in the whole range of science, and is one in which

all can take an interest, and all obtain information, as popularized by

Professor Guyot. Agassiz says of the book and its author: “Having been

his friend from childhood, as a fellow student in college, and as

colleague in the same university, I may be permitted to express my high

sense of the value of his attainments. Mr. Guyot has not only been in

the best school, that of Ritter and Humboldt, and become familiar with

the present state of the science of our earth, but he has himself in

many instances drawn new conclusions from the facts now ascertained, and

presented most of them in a new point of view. Several of the most

brilliant generalizations developed in his lectures, are his; and if

more extensively circulated, will not only render the study of geography

more attractive, but actually show it in its true light, namely, as the

science of the relations which exist between nature and man, throughout

history.”

* * * * *

_The Life of Maximilien Robespierre. With Extracts from his

Unpublished Correspondence. By G. H. Lewes. Phila.: Casey &

Hart. 1 vol. 12mo._

The author of this biography is but little known in this country, and

has hardly received his deserts from the critics on either side of the

water. He is a clear, close, vigorous thinker, an accomplished scholar,

and a nervous, condensed and brilliant, though slightly aphoristic

writer. Though his ideas and style occasionally betray the influence of

Carlyle, and though his English nature has been a little modified by an

infusion of French metaphysics, he generally appears as an independent

as well as a forcible thinker. In the present volume, though he appears

largely indebted to the works of Lamartine, Michelet, and Louis Blanc,

he has still produced a book original in the main, and has been

especially happy in steering a middle course between those writers who

have represented Robespierre as a monstrosity of malignity and cruelty,

and those who have tried hard to make him appear a persecuted and

virtuous patriot, whose most questionable acts sprung from exalted

motives. The reader closes the book with the feeling that he has gained

a better insight into the character of the immortally infamous

revolutionary leader than he had before. The letters of Robespierre,

which the author obtained in MS. from Louis Blanc, and the extracts from

his speeches in the Convention, add much to the interest and value of

the volume.

* * * * *

_History of Maria Antoinette. By John S. C. Abbott. With

Engravings. New York: Harper & Brothers. 1 vol. 16mo._

This is another of Mr. Abbott’s beautiful series of pocket histories,

having for its subject a story so exciting and so mournful that the

novelist or dramatist could hardly treat its incidents with more

pathetic effect than the chronicler who confines himself to the literal

facts. The characteristic merit of Mr. Abbott’s books is the knowledge

they display not merely of their subjects but of the exact nature of the

ignorance of the general class of readers, and this merit is well

illustrated in the present volume. The French Revolution is to most

minds a confused mass of terrible events without any connecting

principles; but few can read its history, as far as it is presented in

Mr. Abbott’s simple and orderly narrative, without obtaining clearer

ideas of the whole matter.

* * * * *

_A History of American Baptist Missions in Asia, Africa, Europe

and North America. By William Gammell, A. M., Professor in Brown

University. Boston: Gould, Kendall & Lincoln. 1 vol. 12mo._

We like the present volume for the indication it gives of the rich

materials for history and biography which lie almost unused in the

various records of Christian missions. All the heroic qualities

developed in man and woman by religious principles and religious

passions, are visible in those records to the initiated eye, but they

are commonly so submerged in the affected phraseology and sectarian

jargon of mediocre compilers, that they are commonly set aside as vulgar

and fanatical by the general reader. Professor Gammell has written a

volume in which all the worn and wasted terms of the pedants of cant are

discarded, and the subject, as far as the Baptist missions are

concerned, is treated in a style intelligible to all who have any

perception of beauty, holiness or heroism. The work, apart from its

theological character, is one of great interest and excellence.

* * * * *

_Sacred Rhetoric; or Composition and Delivery of Sermons. By

Henry J. Ripley. Boston: Gould, Kendall & Lincoln. 1 vol. 12mo._

This treatise should be carefully pondered by all clergymen who have a

contempt for the graces and proprieties of composition, arising from

their apprehension of being interesting to their congregations.

Professor Ripley has produced a searching treatise, in which, with a

true critical remorselessness, he lays bare the defects of arrangement

and composition most likely to beset the productions of his profession,

and gives a clear statement of those principles which should guide the

brain and pen of the preacher. The volume also includes Dr. Ware’s

admirable “Hints on Extemporaneous Preaching.”

* * * * *

_History of Wonderful Inventions. Illustrated with numerous

Engravings on Wood. New York: Harper & Brothers. 1 vol. 12mo._

The publishers of this elegantly printed volume have included it in a

series called the Boy’s Own Library, but its interest and value are

hardly confined to youth. It is a book containing carefully written

accounts of the invention of the Mariner’s Compass, Gunpowder, Clocks,

Printing, the Telescope and Microscope, the Steam-Engine, the Electric

Telegraph, and many other wonderful events in the history of the

intellect. We never read a volume of this sort without giving a new and

vivid impression of the grandeur of human nature, considered as

possessing the powers of creation and combination.

* * * * *

_Manual of Ancient Geography and History. By Wilhelm Putz.

Translated from the German. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol.

12mo._

Professor Green, of Brown University, is the American editor of this

valuable manual, and his name is a guarantee that it has been revised

and corrected with scrupulous care. To the general student of history

the volume will be of great service, as it maps out the whole ground of

historical study, gives the names of the authorities for the history of

each nation, and in the smallest possible space consistent with

dearness, presents a view of the history, geography, religion,

literature and art of all the ancient nations, European and Asiatic. The

work indicates an erudition as minute as it is vast.

* * * * *

_The Spy, a Tale of the Neutral Ground. By the Author of The

Pilot. New York: Geo. P. Putnam. 1 vol. 12mo._

Longevity is no characteristic of novels, and Old Parr is the last name

which could be applied to a hero of fiction. The romances which flare in

the parlors of one year are pretty sure to repose in the cemeteries of

the next. To this empirical law, Cooper’s Spy is one of the honorable

exceptions. It at once attained popularity, and it has kept it,

surviving all those mutations of the public taste which, since its first

appearance, have consigned so many brilliant fictions to oblivion. As an

old friend in a new dress, we welcome this volume. Its value is enhanced

by the revision of the author, and the addition of an introduction and

notes.

* * * * *

_A Visit to Monasteries in the Levant. By the Hon. Robert

Curzon. New York: Geo. P. Putnam. 1 vol. 12mo._

The author of this volume is careful to write himself down an

“honorable” on his title page, and the whole tone of the composition

evidences that self-satisfaction which is so apt to accompany social

position. Though the reader is inclined to be prejudiced against an

amateur author who assumes so confident a tone, the feeling wears away

as he reads the volume. It contains a great deal of information

pleasantly told, has some capital sketches of curious character, and

ranks among the sprightliest of recent books of travels. The American

edition is illustrated by numerous wood-cuts.

* * * * *

_The Adventures of Captain Bonneville, U. S. A., in the Rocky

Mountains and the Far West. Digested from his Journal and

Illustrated from various other sources. By Washington Irving.

New York: Geo. P. Putnam. 1 vol. 12mo._

This delightful work forms the tenth volume of the revised edition of

Irving’s works, and has for its subject a theme especially interesting

at the present time, when more than ever, “westward the course of empire

takes its way.” We hardly know of a more felicitous partnership than

that of Bonneville and Irving—one to perform the deeds of adventure

which the other records.

* * * * *

_Life in the Far West. By George Frederic Ruxton. New York:

Harper & Brothers. 1 vol. 12mo._

The author of this volume died at an early age, but not before he had

partly fulfilled the destiny to which his talents and adventurous spirit

pointed. “His adventures in Mexico and the Rocky Mountains,” and the

present work, indicate not merely the courage and enthusiasm of a

traveler, but much felicity in transferring to other minds the objects

and incidents which filled his own.

* * * * *

_Pottleton Legacy._

This is the title of a novel, by Albert Smith, published in the cheap

form of the present day, by Carey & Hart. It is a pleasant, readable,

and interesting work, and will be found caustic as well as funny. The

characters are well sustained and the plot well developed.

* * * * *

[Illustration:

Anaïs Toudouze

LE FOLLET

_Boulevart_ S^{t}. Martin, 61

_Toilettes de Longchamps_,

_Chapeaux de M^{me}._ Baudry, _r. Richelieu, 87—Plumes et fleurs_ Chagot

_ainé, r. Richelieu, 81,_

_Robes de_ Camille—_Dentelles de_ Violard, _r. Choiseul 2^{bis.}_

Graham’s Magazine.]

* * * * *

YES, LET ME LIKE A SOLDIER FALL

AS SUNG, IN THE OPERA OF “MARITANA,”

BY MR. FRAZER.

MY FATHER HE WAS NOT A KING.

WRITTEN AND ADAPTED TO THE FOLLOWING AIR,

BY E. R. JOHNSTON.

[Illustration]

My father, he was not a king,

A soldier brave was he.

He fell responding to the call

That made his Country free.

Yes! let me like a Soldier fall,

Upon some open plain.

This breast expanding for the ball,

To blot out ev’ry stain.

[Illustration]

No prouder title I would claim,

No prouder boast! ’tis well,

The blood that courses thro’ my veins

No brighter birth may tell,

The blood that courses thro’ my veins

No brighter birth may tell.

No brighter birth may tell.

Brave manly hearts confer my doom

That gentler ones may tell,

Howe’er forgot, unknown my tomb,

I like a Soldier fell.

Howe’er forgot, unknown my tomb,

I like a Sol-dier fell,

I like a Sol-dier fell!

1

My mother she was not a queen!

Nor titles graced her brow;

But hers a free and noble heart,

In heaven rests ere now.

And I in Freedom’s mould am cast,

No prouder boast! ’tis well,

The blood that courses thro’ my veins

No brighter birth may tell.

2

I only ask of that proud race

Which ends its blaze in me,

To die the last and not disgrace

Its ancient chivalry.

Tho’ o’er my clay no banner wave,

Nor trumpet requiem swell,

Enough, they murmur o’er my grave,

He like a Soldier fell.

3

There is a land where Freedom dwells

A land where all are blest,

A land that holds the glorious tombs

Of heroes now at rest;

That land I love, it is my home,

Of it I boast, ’tis well!

The blood that courses thro’ my veins

No brighter birth may tell.

* * * * *

Transcriber’s Notes:

Archaic spellings and hyphenation have been retained as well as some

spellings peculiar to Graham’s. Punctuation has been corrected without

note. Other errors have been corrected as noted below. For

illustrations, some caption text may be missing or incomplete due to

condition of the originals used for preparation of the eBook.

page 75, In the mornining ==> In the morning

page 76, derelection of Hubert ==> dereliction of Hubert

page 77, up the close-pins, ==> up the clothes-pins,

page 77, over the close-fold, ==> over the clothes-fold,

page 78, its apprisal, and then ==> its appraisal, and then

page 85, persistance in whatever ==> persistence in whatever

page 87, ere I had had heard ==> ere I had heard

page 91, with an unfaultering and ==> with an unfaltering and

page 93, sprained ancle. Gentle ==> sprained ankle. Gentle

page 93, world was you doing ==> world were you doing

page 93, the bed of Dalhias ==> the bed of Dahlias

page 93, Your beautiful Dalhias ==> Your beautiful Dahlias

page 95, the battle of Corrunna ==> the battle of Corunna,

page 96, harrass that honorable ==> harass that honorable

page 107, was brought fourth wounded, ==> was brought forth wounded,

page 107, some characteristic attententions ==> some characteristic

attentions

page 109, the day thus began in ==> the day thus begun in

page 118, played, eat together, ==> played, ate together,

page 122, I poured over ==> I pored over

page 122, a strange, quiet enthuasm, ==> a strange, quiet enthusiasm,

page 126, beak was too inches ==> beak was two inches

page 127, common in Peru and Chili ==> common in Peru and Chile

page 131, betray the ininfluence ==> betray the influence

page 132, By William Gammel ==> By William Gammell

music page 2, But her’s a free ==> But hers a free