CHAPTER I.

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[Illustration: Painted by H. Thompson, R.A.

THE IDLE SCHOOLBOY.

Engraved by T. B. Welch expressly for Graham’s Magazine.]

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GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

VOL. XXXVI. March, 1850. No. 3.

Table of Contents

Fiction, Literature and Articles

March

The Lady of the Rock

The Brigand and His Wife

An Essay on American Literature and Its Prospects

Buondlemonte. A Tale of Italy

A Reception Morning

The Young Artist

Life of General Nathaniel Greene

Wild-Birds of America

Gems From Moore’s Irish Melodies. No. III.—Come

Rest In This Bosom

Review of New Books

Editor’s Table

Poetry, Music, and Fashion

Ballads of the Campaign in Mexico. No. II

The Cry of the Forsaken

A Midnight Storm in March

A Sunbeam

Long Ago

The Two Worlds

The Sky

Taurus

The Dying Student

To —— In Absence

Memory—The Gleaner

Le Follet

Thou Art Lovelier

Transcriber’s Notes can be found at the end of this eBook.

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GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

VOL. XXXVI. PHILADELPHIA, March, 1850. NO. 3.

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MARCH.

SPENSER finely characterizes this month—

Study March with brows full sternly bent

And armed strongly;

yet he pictures it, as it advances, scattering blessings around, calling

on the buds to throw aside their wintry vestments, and come forth to

gladden the earth with their smiles. Such is, in reality, the progress

of the season. In the early days of the month

“Winter, still lingering on the verge of Spring,

Retires reluctant, and, from time to time,

Looks back.”

As it proceeds, however—

“The splendid raiment of the Spring peeps forth

Her universal green, and the clear sky

Delights still more and more the gazing eye,”

and all is joy and gladness. The lark is caroling in the clear blue

vault of heaven; the notes of the blackbird resound through the yet

leafless groves; the robin is again heard from his lofty perch on the

branch of some tall tree. The waters are dancing in the pale sunshine,

and every thing looks as if regeneration had commenced its work.

A quaint old writer says, “the _moneth_ of March was called by the

Saxons _Leneth moneth_, because the days did then first begin in length

to exceed the nights. And this _moneth_ being by our ancient fathers so

called when they received Christianity, and, consequently, therewith the

annual Christian custome of fasting, they called their chief season of

fasting the fast of _Lenet_, because of the _Lenet moneth_, whereon most

part of this fasting always fell, and hereof it cometh that we now call

it Lent.” According to other etymologists, Lenet, or Lent, means Spring;

hence, March was literally the Spring month. Spring, most delightful of

seasons! how beautifully have thy charms been celebrated in undying

song, by bards of old from the very dawn of literature. With what

pleasure do we look back on thy worshipers of other days—such as

Chaucer, Spenser, Herrick, Ben Jonson, Shakspeare, each speaking of thy

beauties out of the fullness of his heart. But in our admiration of

those whose memories will ever live in song, let us not forget those of

our own day; gratitude, admiration and pride prompt our notice of

Bryant, our favorite American poet, who thus beautifully apostrophizes

this blustering month:

The stormy March is come at last,

With wind and cloud and changing skies:

I hear the rushing of the blast,

That through the snowy valley flies.

Ah! passing few are those who speak,

Wild stormy month, in praise of thee!

Yet though thy winds are loud and bleak,

Thou art a welcome month to me.

For thou to northern lands again

The glad and glorious sun dost bring;

And thou hast joined the gentle train,

And wearest the gentle name of Spring.

And in thy reign of blast and storm

Smiles many a long bright sunny day,

When the changed winds are soft and warm,

And heaven puts on the bloom of May.

Then sing aloud the gushing rills,

And the full springs from frost set free,

That brightly leaping down the hills

Are just set out to meet the sea.

The year’s departing beauty hides

Of wintry storms the sullen threat,

But in thy sternest frown abides

A look of kindly promise yet.

Thou bring’st the hope of those calm skies,

And that soft hue of many showers,

When the wide bloom on earth that lies

Seems of a brighter world than ours.

How graphically does the author of the “Fairie Queene” marshal this

harbinger of Spring, in the noble march of the Seasons—

First lusty Spring, all dight in leaves of floures

That freshly budded, and new blossomes did beare,

In which a thousand birds had built their bowres,

That sweetly sung to call forth paramoures:

And in his hand a javelin he did beare,

And on his head (as fit for warlike stoures)

A guilt-engraven morion he did weare,

That as some did him love, so others did him feare

The great operations of Nature during this month seem to be, to dry up

the superabundant moisture of February, thereby preventing the roots and

seeds from rotting in the earth, and gradually to bring forward the

process of evolution in the swelling buds, whilst, at the same time, by

the wholesome severity of the chilling blasts, they are kept from a

premature disclosure, which would expose their tender contents to injury

from the yet unconfirmed season. Shakspeare in one of his beautiful

similies says—

And, like the tyrannous breathing of the north,

Checks all our buds from blowing.

This seeming tyranny, however, is to be regarded as the most useful

discipline; and those years generally prove most fruitful in which the

pleasing appearances of Spring are the latest.

The sun having now acquired some power, often reminds us of the genial

influence of Spring, though the naked shrubs and trees still give the

landscape the comfortless appearance of Winter—

“There is a vernal freshness in the air,

A breaking in the sky, full of sweet promise

That the tardy Spring, capricious as she is,

And chary of her favors, will, ere long,

Smile on us in her beauty, and call forth

From slumber long and deep each living thing.

I know it by this warm delicious breeze,

Balmy, yet fresh, the very soul of health—

Of health, of hope, of joy; by these bright beams,

And yonder azure heavens, I know it well.

Soon the pent blossom in the naked spray,

Trained to the sunny wall, shall own her power,

And ope its leaves, tinged like an ocean shell:

Soon shall each bank which fronts the southern sky,

And tangled wood, and quiet sheltered nook,

Be gemm’d with countless flowers—earth’s living stars.”

Mild, pleasant weather in March is seldom, however, of long duration. In

Europe, where the seasons are much more forward than they are with us,

they have an old proverb—“A peck of March dust is worth a king’s

ransom.” For as soon as a few dry days have made the land fit for

working, the farmer goes to the plough, and, if the fair weather

continues, proceeds to sowing oats and barley, though this business is

seldom finished till the next month.

“A strange commotion,” observes a celebrated English writer, “may be

seen and heard at this season among the winged creatures, portending

momentous matters. The lark is high up in the cold air before daylight,

and his chosen mistress is listening to him among the dank grass, with

the dew still upon her unshaken wing. The robin, too, has left off, for

a brief season, his low, plaintive piping, which, it must be confessed,

was poured forth for his own exclusive satisfaction, and, reckoning on

his spruce looks and sparkling eyes, issues his quick, peremptory

love-call in a somewhat ungallant and husband-like manner.

“The sparrows who have lately been skulking silently about from tree to

tree, with ruffled plumes and drooping wings, now spruce themselves up,

till they do not look half their former size, and if it were not pairing

time, one might fancy there was more of war than of love in their noisy

squabblings.” Among other indications of the advancing season, says

Gray—

New born lambs in rustic dance

Frisking ply their nimble feet,

Forgetful of their wintry trance

The birds his presence greet;

But chief the sky-lark warbles high

His trembling, thrilling ecstasy,

And lessening from the dazzled sight,

Melts into air and liquid light.

Nothing, at this season, is a more pleasing spectacle than the sporting

of the young lambs, most of which are yeaned this month, and are, if the

weather is severe, protected in covered sheds, till the mildness of the

season permits them to venture abroad. Dyer, in his poem of “The

Fleece,” gives a very natural and beautiful description of this

circumstance:

Spread around thy tend’rest diligence

In ploughing spring-time, when the new-dropt lamb,

Tottering with weakness by his mother’s side,

Feels the fresh world about him, and each thorn,

Hillock, or furrow, trips his feeble feet;

Oh! guard his meek, sweet innocence from all

The innum’rous ills that rush around his life!

Mark the quick kite, with beak and talons prone,

Circling the skies to snatch him from the plain!

Observe the larking crows! beware the brake,

There the sly wolf the careless minute waits!

Nor trust thy neighbor’s dog, nor earth nor sky;

Thy bosom to a thousand cares divide!

Eurus oft slings his hail; the tardy fields

Pay not their promised food; and oft the dam

O’er her weak twins with empty udder mourns,

Or fails to guard, when the bold bird of prey

Alights, and hops in many turns around,

And tires her, also turning; to her aid

Be nimble, and the weakest, in thine arms,

Gently convey to the warm cote; and oft,

Between the lark’s note and the nightingale’s

His hungry bleating still with tepid milk;

In this soft office may thy children join,

And charitable habits learn in sport;

Nor yield him to himself, ere the vernal airs

Sprinkle thy little croft with daisy flowers.

Another most agreeable token of the arrival of Spring is, that the bees,

“Pilgrims of Summer, who do bow the knee

At every shrine,”

begin to venture out of their hives about the middle of this month. As

their food is the honey-like juice found in the tubes of flowers, their

coming abroad is a certain indication of the approach of Spring. No

creature seems possessed of a greater power of foreseeing the weather;

so that their appearance in the morning may be reckoned a sure token of

a fine day.

The insect world, now sunbeams higher climb,

Oft dream of Spring, and wake before their time.

Bees stroke their little legs across their wings,

And venture short flights where the snow-drop brings

Its silver bell, and winter aconite,

Its buttercup-like flowers, that shut at night,

With green leaf furling round its cup of gold,

Like tender maiden muffled from the cold;

They sip, and find their honey-dreams are vain,

Then feebly hasten to their hives again.

The butterflies, by eager hopes undone,

Glad as a child come out to greet the sun;

Beneath the shadow of a sudden shower,

Are lost—nor see to-morrow’s April flower.

The gardens are now beginning to be studded by the crocus—

“The flower of Hope, whose hue

Is bright with coming joy,”

the varieties of which adorn the borders with a rich mixture of yellow

and purple. The little shrubs of mezereon are in their beauty. The

fields begin to be clothed with the springing grass, and but few flowers

appear to decorate their velvet mounds. The flowers of Spring have been

favorite themes for the poets. Shakspeare represents Perdita as desirous

to present to her guests

Daffodils

That come before the swallow dares, and take

The winds of March with beauty; violets, dim,

But sweeter than the lids of Juno’s eyes,

Or Cytherea’s breath; pale primroses,

That die unmarried, ere they can behold

Bright Phœbus in his strength, a malady

Most incident to maids; bold oxlips, and

The crown-imperial; lilies of all kinds,

The flower-de-luce being one!

and Chaucer has sung so melodiously and so affectionately of the charms

of

These flowres, white and rede,

Soch that men callen daisies in our town,

as to entwine it with the recollections of himself. Shelley, among the

modern writers, in a single couplet, has left one of the most exquisite

descriptions of this flower that ever was written:

Daisies, those pearled Arcturi of the earth,

The constellated flower that never sets!

And another poet endears it by a single epithet. He is seeking for a

flower to place in the coffined hand of a dead infant.

Flowers! oh, a flower! a winter rose,

That tiny hand to fill,

Go search the fields! the lichen wet,

Bends o’er the unfailing well:

Beneath the furrow lingers yet

The scarlet pimpernel.

Peeps not a snow-drop in the bower,

Where never froze the spring?

_A daisy? oh! bring childhood’s flower—_

_The half-blown daisy bring!_

Yes, lay the daisy’s little head

Beside the little cheek;

Oh, hush! the last of five is dead—

The childless cannot speak!

The inimitable Wordsworth, with the garrulity of a nurse, fondling a

beloved infant, lavishes on it in a single poem, several endearing

appellations, in one verse styling it

A nun demure, of lowly port.

And in another line:

A queen in crown of rubies drest.

And again:

A little Cyclops, with one eye,

Staring to threaten or defy.

The primrose, a beautiful little flower but little known in this

country, also has been embalmed in song. Milton introduces it in terms

of endearment, “the rathe primrose that forsaken dies,” as if its little

heart was too gentle to withstand alone the rude shocks of the world.

The violet seems to have been a favorite flower with this author, when

he says,

No sweeter fragrance e’er perfumed the gale.

Herrick thus fancifully accounts for its color:

Love, on a day, wise poets tell,

Some time in wrangling spent,

Whether the violet should excel,

Or she, in sweetest scent.

But Venus, having lost the day,

Poore girles, she fell on you,

And beate ye so, as some dare say,

Her blows did make ye blew.

Even the most unpoetical nature must have been occasionally conscious of

some such emotion as is embodied in these lines:

There’s to me

A daintiness about these early flowers

That touches one like poetry.

Among the visitants of March, especially if the season be mild, that now

delights the eye of the observer, is the rich scarlet flower of the

_Pyrus Japonica_; and the sweet-smelling jonquil irradiates the

flower-border, and if he ventures into the fields, and braves the

blustering winds of the season, he will be charmed with the bright

blossoms of the celandine and the butter-cup, whose bright golden faces

recall many an hour of childhood and happiness of the time when

“Daisies and buttercups gladdened our sight,

Like treasures of silver and gold.”

As we approach the Equinox, the storms and winds tempestuous and

frequent, yet from these extremes, reconciled and moderated by the hand

of Providence, much good results. Thus says the poet of nature, whose

philosophic reflections and moral remarks are only to be equalled by his

own matchless descriptions:

Be patient, swains, these cruel seeming winds

Blow not in vain; for hence they keep repressed

Those deepening clouds on clouds, surcharged with rain,

That o’er the vast Atlantic hither borne,

In endless rain would quench the summer blaze,

And cheerless drown the crude unripened year.

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THE LADY OF THE ROCK.

A LEGEND OF NEW ENGLAND.

BY MISS M. J. WINDLE.

CHAPTER I.

Splendor in heaven, and horror on the main,

Sunshine and storm at once—a troubled day.

DRAMATIC POEM.

ALL readers of English history must be able to recall to mind with

especial distinctness that period in its annals when the unfortunate

Charles I. drew upon himself the odium and mistrust of Parliament, and

London witnessed the unprecedented scene of the trial of a king for

treason before a court chosen from amongst his subjects. It will be

recollected that opposing religious interests operated with those of a

merely political nature in leading many of the enemies of Charles to

push their aversion to his measures to this extreme. His unwise

prohibition of the Puritan emigration to the American colonies was not

the least of these creating causes; and might be cited by such as are

fond of tracing retributive justice in human affairs, as one of those

instances in which men are permitted by their frowardness to pass upon

themselves the sentence of their own destruction, since, but for that

prohibition, the most powerful opponent of Charles, and the mighty

instrument of his ruin, would have embarked for New England, and this

country have become the theatre of Cromwell’s actions and

renown—supposing that the elements of that remarkable character must

have won elsewhere something of the same name he has left behind him—a

name to live alike in the condemnation and commendation of mankind.

To the period alluded the beginning of this tale reverts. The trial of

the king had been in progress several days. Of more than an hundred and

thirty judges appointed by the Commons, about seventy sat in constant

attendance. Chief in rank and importance among these was General

Lisle—a man whom we should not confound either with the mad enthusiasts

of that day, or with those dissembling hypocrites who used their

religion only as a stepping-stone to power, or the cloak to conceal a

guilty and treasonable ambition, since his opposition to Charles was

actuated solely by the purest principles of patriotism and religion. He

was, at the time of the trial, in his sixtieth year; and his constant

attendance and unwavering firmness of purpose—the evident results of

preconceived principle—during the whole sitting of that strange

tribunal, were not without great effect in nerving to continued

resolution the otherwise faltering minds of many of the younger judges.

For it cannot be doubted that compunctious feelings must have had

moments of ascendency in the hearts of a number of those with whom

rested the event of this questionable trial. This was evinced in some by

their occasional absence; in others, who nevertheless felt scrupulously

bound to be present, by a nervous tremor at the appearance of the

prisoner, and subsequent abstraction of attention from the scene, as

testifying a desire to assume as small a share as possible of the deep

responsibility belonging to the occasion.

Of the latter class was William Heath, the son of a Puritan divine in

Sussex. At the opening of the war, he had repaired to the army, and

risen by his gallantry and merits to the rank of general. Though still

young, he had been afterward conspicuous in Parliament, and was one of

those who took up accusations against the eleven members. Yet although

he was friendly to the king’s deposition, he had at first positively

refused to sit when appointed one of a Court called to make inquisition

for his blood. And he had at length only consented to assume the place

assigned him there, as it was notoriously believed, through the

influence of Lisle, to whose daughter he was betrothed, and his nuptials

with whom were to be completed on the night on which this narrative

opens.

His handsome countenance, as he sat in the Court through the whole day

preceding—though it contrasted with the pallor which had marked it

during those previous, in wearing upon it the anxious flush of the

expectant bridegroom, yet bore the same harassed air which had been seen

upon it since the commencement of the trial, and which even the blissful

hopes he was about to realize could not suffice to dissipate. It was

only when he turned his eyes upon Lisle, unflinching in his dignified

composure, that he seemed momentarily able to yield himself up to the

unalloyed anticipation of happiness. So true is it, that a conscience

ill at ease with itself has the power to mar the bliss of heaven.

The Court had adjourned; the prisoner had been remanded to the care of

Lisle, in whose house he had been kept in strict and harsh confinement

ever since his landing in London, during those hours not occupied with

his trial; and but one more day remained to decide the doom of the

unhappy Charles Stuart.

It was eight o’clock in the evening. In an apartment, far remote from

that chamber of Lisle’s spacious but sombre-looking dwelling, which held

the person of the royal prisoner, were assembled the wedding guests. As

much festivity and ornament had been called to grace the occasion as was

consistent with Lisle’s Puritanic views, yet the whole seemed by far too

little to celebrate the marriage of the lovely divinity for whom it was

prepared. The apartment was in the Elizabethan style of architecture,

but devoid of those ornaments of luxurious taste, which, in the reign of

Charles I. graced the houses of the opulent and distinguished of the

Church of England. A quaint stiffness reigned throughout the furniture

and other arrangements. Rows of high-backed chairs, interrupted here and

there with a book-case, table, or other heavy piece of mahogany, stood

in prim regularity against the wall; tall candlesticks, containing

taller candles, cast their blue light from the mantel-piece, and a large

Bible, laid open upon the table, was calculated to infuse devotional or

religious sentiments into those mirthful feelings belonging to the

occasion. No branches of mistletoe or holly hung around the room

remained as suggestions of the recent Christmas; no superb and

glittering chandelier shed its soft flood of light upon the assembly; no

damask drapery or luxurious sofas gave an air of elegance and comfort to

the spacious dreariness of the apartment; no music was prepared for the

enlivenment of the evening; nor were any profane amusements that night

to invoke the judgments of Heaven upon the approaching ceremony.

The company consisted of more than two hundred guests, gentlemen and

ladies, all staunch Puritans, and opposers of the king. The countenances

of many of the male portion of these were recognisable as the same which

had, for the last few days, appeared as the arraigners at the trial so

speedily about to be terminated, and a certain peculiar expression,

common to each, betokening a mind preoccupied by one deeply engrossing

topic, might have enabled an uninformed observer readily to select them

from the rest. Yet there were others present to whom the affair alluded

to was not less momentous, and with whom rested fully as much of the

responsibility of its now almost certainly dark result.

One of these latter, conspicuously seated near to Lisle, was the mighty

mover of the political revolution of the day, and the chief instrument

in procuring the king’s unhappy position—the aspiring, though still

religious Cromwell. The descriptions of history have made the personal

appearance of this remarkable man so familiar to posterity, that it is

superfluous here to draw any picture of his coarse and strongly-made

form, and severely harsh, but thoughtful features. The mention of his

name will at once call up to the minds of such as have ever interested

themselves in the account of those stirring times which have left their

impress upon subsequent events, and one of whose later results may be

traced in our own national freedom, no vague or shadowy embodiment, but

a well-defined portrait, engraved on the tablet of memory.

On this evening, his furtive glance around him from beneath his shaggy

eye-brows, as he conversed with Lisle in a labyrinthine manner peculiar

to him at times, evinced a wish to penetrate into the secrets of such

hearts as rated his character at its true value. A close observer might

have noted, too, that ever and anon as that glance, after wandering to

distant parts of the room, returned and fixed upon Lisle, it gradually

fell, as if stricken to earth by the steady gaze of the truly

disinterested religionist, and the rebukes of its owner’s accusing

conscience.

“The Court, thou sayest,” ran his speech, “have this day considered and

agreed upon a judgment. It is well. But I tell thee that not Parliament,

nor the army, nor this Court, could avail to pull down Charles Stuart

from his high place, saving that the God of Heaven is at war with him.

What though there be witnesses to prove that he set up his standard at

Nottingham, led his armed troops at Newbury, Edgehill and Naseby—issued

proclamations and mandates for the prosecution of the war? They are but

instruments in the hands of the same God who destroyed and dethroned

Belshazzar of old, because he was weighed in the balance and found

wanting. And is it not meet that we Christians should buckle on our

armor in behalf of the Lord of Hosts? Yea, verily! else for mine own

part, Charles Stuart should not fall from the throne of England. I am

not a bloody man; nay, by reason of human frailty, my heart had now

well-nigh failed me in this very cause, but that he who putteth his hand

to the plough in these troublous times, and looketh back, need be

careful that he be not hanged upon the gallows which Haman prepared for

Mordecai.”

The whole of this last sentence was spoken in soliloquy, for Lisle had

at that moment risen to receive some guests.

The persons entering were three in number—a gentleman of about forty

years of age, attended by two lovely females, whose youthful years and

striking resemblance to himself, would instantly have suggested, what

was in reality the case, that they were his daughters.

From the looks of interest with which his arrival was regarded by all

present, it was evident that he was a person of some distinction, though

he had not, at that period, given to the world the monument of his

genius on which he has since built his immortality. Yet John Milton was

justly celebrated even then for his political writings, his strenuous

assertion and defense of liberty, his austere Puritanic views, and his

abstemious manner of life. His whole appearance was prepossessing in the

extreme, but rather interesting than commanding; for his stature was

low, though his body was strongly made and muscular. His hair, which was

of light brown, streaked with hues of gold, and hanging in silken waves

to his shoulders, was parted in the middle, after the fashion of the

day, and surmounted a low yet expansive forehead, sufficiently

indicative of the depth of genius which lay beneath. His complexion was

fair, and delicately colored as a woman’s; and the contour of his

features might have been objected to as effeminate, were it not for the

expression of manly dignity which animated the whole countenance. His

full, gray eye, in its somewhat sleepy expression, evinced that quiet

melancholy peculiar to poetic genius, while a certain searching and

wandering look with which he occasionally stared fixedly around him,

suggested the idea that his sight was not perfect.

The two daughters of Milton, by whom he was attended, were highly

interesting in appearance, with the dignity of countenance peculiar to

their father, and having upon them the unmistakable stamp of an

inheritance from him of nature’s noblest gift of intellect.

Returning Lisle’s salutation as he approached to meet them, these two

young females retired to a seat amongst the ladies, and left Milton and

his host standing near the entrance of the apartment.

“Thou losest thy daughter to-night, honored friend,” said the former. “I

trust she may find a continuance of that happiness in wedlock that she

has enjoyed in her father’s house.”

“True happiness belongs not to this earth,” said Lisle. “It is in mercy

withheld from us by the Almighty, that we may be the more ready to meet

death when the summons calls us hence.”

“Thou speakest well,” replied Milton; “the very impossibility of finding

happiness here is a merciful provision of the all-wise Creator. But

talking of a willingness to encounter death, they tell me that the court

have decided upon the sentence of the tyrant and traitor king. Is the

rumor correct?”

“So much so,” said Lisle, “that to-morrow we sign the warrant for his

execution.”

“I shall marvel,” said the other, “though I speak it with shame, if

fifty out of your hundred have the Christian courage to stain their

fingers with the touch of the bloody quill prepared for them.”

“May all such then,” returned Lisle, while a flush as of indignation

passed over his countenance for an instant, and then died rapidly

away—“may all such as flinch from the performance of this noble act of

duty to their country and to God, and omit to place their names, when

called upon, to that righteous document of His preparing, not find at

the last judgment that the angel of the Lord has likewise omitted to

place their names upon his book. But here is my daughter and her future

husband; and the man of God has risen to perform the marriage ceremony.

Excuse me, I must meet them at the door.”

“I pray thee give me thy hand first, and conduct me to a seat. A strange

mistiness which I have of late had to come frequently across my eyes, is

upon them now, and every object before me seems indistinct and

confused.”

Lisle hastily did as his friend desired, scarcely hearing or heeding, in

his hurry, the import of his words, and then advancing to meet his

daughter and Heath, he conducted them toward the venerable minister of

their faith, in waiting to unite the young couple in the bonds of holy

wedlock.

As they took their station before him, his pious “Let us pray,” was

heard, and all present arose. After a long and fervent supplication, in

the manner of the Puritan divines of that period, he delivered a sort of

homily upon the duties and responsibilities of the marriage state, and

then pronounced an extemporaneous and brief ceremony, ending with the

words, “What God hath joined together, let no man put asunder.” This was

followed by another lengthy prayer, and William Heath and Alice Lisle

were husband and wife.

The company now advanced to greet the bride and groom, who separately

returned their salutations with a polished grace appropriate to their

differing sex.

Unscreened by the customary bridal veil, as savoring too much of a form

belonging to the established church, the lovely face of Alice was not

covered, save that a few natural ringlets, purposely left unfastened,

fell upon her cheeks, and partially screened from observation her

exquisitely beautiful features. Her dress was of the simplest and purest

white, and without ornament or addition to enhance her natural

loveliness; and it is impossible to conceive of a being more charming

than she appeared in the modest diffidence of her sex on the most

important and conspicuous occasion of a woman’s life, and yet withal

losing nothing of the dignity of manner belonging to one conscious of

possessing that energy of mind, which, so far from being, as some

erroneously suppose, a masculine or unwomanly trait, is, on the

contrary, the distinguishing and crowning mark of a character

essentially feminine. What but such strength of mind has ever yet

triumphed over female vanity and love of display, and from the exacting

divinity of man’s homage, converted a woman into the self-sacrificing

and judicious minister to his happiness, fitted her to be true to one

with untiring devotion through evil report and good report, rejoicing

with him not for her sake, but for his, in his prosperity; sharing with

him uncomplainingly his adversity, and cheering, with words of comfort,

while her own heart may have been well nigh breaking, the path in which,

but for her example to shame him, and her voice to comfort and encourage

him, he would have sunk to rise no more.

Well was it for William Heath that Alice Lisle possessed these

requisites for becoming such an unwavering and devoted companion in

misfortune, as we have described; for the day, though not immediately

near, was still in store, when her willingness to encounter adversity,

and her fitness to meet it with fortitude sufficient to sustain herself,

her father, and the husband to whom she had that night given her hand,

and had long since pledged the full affections of her heart, were amply

to be tested.

The appearance of Heath was such as was well calculated to excite

interest, and his mind, character, and winning manners, such as speedily

to change this on the appearance of any preference on his part, into

sentiments of a more tender character. There was something in his whole

mien—in the easy and upright carriage of his head—the intrepid

character of his features—the bold and vigorous flashing of his dark

eyes—that marked him no common man.

The salutations were soon ended, and the company now being somewhat

relieved from the awkward embarrassment which they had experienced while

waiting for the appearance of those whom the occasion was to honor—for,

in those days, society was much the same in that respect as at present,

the company scattered, and gathered together in knots and groups, and

discussed with great eagerness the engrossing topic of the trial.

Conversation, however, flowed, not as it was wont, in its pleasant

current, diverging here and there, as fancy or caprice suggested, but an

appearance of gloom pervaded the whole intercourse; and although each

individual appeared evidently to make an effort to relieve this feeling,

the effort itself showed a consciousness of the constraint.

It was not then the custom to deprive the groom and bride of each

other’s society during the whole evening after the ceremony, but was

rather the fashion to throw them together as much as possible—which

must at least, in the case of all love-matches, have been more

conformable with the inclinations, than that habit of scrupulously

avoiding one another, now in vogue. Agreeably with this ordinary

arrangement, Alice and Heath withdrew toward the close of the evening,

without attracting observation, into an anteroom adjoining the main

apartment.

It had not escaped the notice of any, that notwithstanding the blissful

occasion, the brow of Alice wore a cloud, if not actually of sorrow, at

least of melancholy sadness. We may believe that this had attracted the

especial notice of him who had that evening taken her happiness into his

proper keeping. But his sympathetic heart rightly surmised its cause.

“Thou art sad, my own Alice,” he said, “on this night, which I had

fondly hoped would have made thee as supremely joyful as it does myself.

You distress yourself on account of the king’s situation: is it not so?”

“Not only on account of the king’s unhappy situation, but likewise

because of the hand my father and thyself have had in it. I fear that

his blood, if he be sentenced, as the rumor is, to-morrow, will be

avenged upon the heads of those whom I love best on earth.”

“But, Alice,” argued the husband, “he has merited, by his tyranny and

treason, this trial, and in contemning the court, as he has done

throughout in refusing to plead, he will likewise merit whatever

sentence it may see fit, after examining the competent witnesses, to

pass upon him. Besides, has not your father told you that this is the

Lord’s cause, and that He calleth aloud from the throne of Heaven for

the blood of Charles Stuart?”

“Those are indeed my father’s words,” replied Alice, “_too severe_ in

his religious views, and forgetting that the Almighty is a God of mercy

no less than of justice. But, William Heath, they are not the words

dictated by the generous and kind heart that animates thy bosom, else

Alice Lisle, though she be her father’s daughter, had not this night

become thy wife. Listen to the conscience which the penetrating eye of

true affection seeth even now reproving thee, and have no further hand

in this bloody work. Charles Stuart may be all that the Parliament and

your court have named him; and if he be, God forbid that I should

justify his baseness. But as we are all prone to err, it is sweet to

forgive, even as we hope to be forgiven. Go not to the court to-morrow,

William, nor stain this hand of thine by affixing thy signature to the

death-warrant of the king. Promise me this, I ask it as my wedding

boon.”

“Would that you had spared me, beloved one, the pain of hearing you ask

aught that I cannot and dare not grant. My word of honor to your father

is pledged to perform the very act which you implore me to leave undone.

It was the condition which sealed my happiness in calling you wife this

night. When I would have shrunk from the responsibility of taking an

active part in the trial, and resigned my place to an older and more

experienced statesman than myself, Henry Lisle, in disgust at what he

conceived the indecision and irreligion of my character, would have

robbed me of that dear hope which has even now been realized. I was

forced to promise your father, Alice, that I would not only accept my

place as one of the judges, but that I would be present throughout the

trial, and shrink from no act which my position as a member of the court

imposed on me—even to the signing of the warrant for Charles Stuart’s

death. Is there naught else, involving less than my honor, that you

would have me grant you? If there is, ask it, sweet one, and I will move

heaven and earth to accomplish it.”

“These are idle words of gallantry, William, unworthy the confidence

which should exist between us. A wife need have no boon to ask of her

husband unless in a case which involves his own best interests. As such,

I would have had thee remain away from the court to-morrow, and even

have sought to use our united influence to detain my father also. But it

seems he has set his heart upon the matter even more than I had deemed.

I pray the Lord that his retributive justice for this parricidal act,

fall not heavily on the heads of all of us. If this cause, as ye both

believe, be His, can ye not be persuaded that He will avenge Himself on

the king without human agency. Is there no hope for Charles Stuart? He

is in this house: can no means be contrived for his escape?”

“That were impossible, dearest, guarded as he is on all hands. But if he

would but abate his hauteur, and plead his cause in the eloquent manner

he so well knows how to assume, there might yet, perhaps, exist a hope

for him. In this lies his only chance of escape.”

At that moment supper was announced, and Alice and Heath repaired with

the rest of the company to the refreshment-room.

CHAPTER II.

“Hark! the warning tone

Deepens—its word is _death_!”

MRS. HEMANS.

The large hall clock in Lisle’s house had told the hour of eleven, after

the marriage described in the last chapter, and some fifteen or twenty

minutes had elapsed since the departure of the guests, when the reader

is invited into a small upper chamber, in a remote wing of the mansion.

It was rather comfortless than otherwise in its whole aspect, and its

grated windows, and long distance from any adjoining room—being

surrounded entirely by galleries—suggested the idea of a place of

confinement. It was one of those small rooms, common in large buildings

at that period, and scarcely more suitable in its arrangements for an

occupant than the waste halls and galleries which led to it. Some hasty

preparations had been made for the prisoner’s accommodation. Arras had

been tacked up, and a fire lighted in the rusty grate, which had been

long unused, and a rude pallet placed in one corner.

Seated before a table in this chamber, was a person of something less

than fifty years of age. He was dressed in plain black velvet, slashed

with satin, and on his cloak, which was thrown back, glittered a star

belonging to the order of the garter. His hair, thick and black, was

slightly sprinkled with gray, and arranged in the custom of the day with

scrupulous exactness. His mustaches were large and curled upward, and

his pointed beard was of that formal style, so frequently seen in the

portraits of that reign. His face was oval and handsome: the features

being regular, notwithstanding that his full brown eyes seemed rather

dull as he sat in thought; and a peculiar expression of exceeding

melancholy rested upon his countenance. This look of melancholy was not

relieved by the marks of any strong ruling passion or principle, nor

much indication of individuality of character. Yet withal, it might not

have escaped observation, that in the whole aspect there was not wanting

a certain air of cold resolution, almost at variance with the mildness

of the brow. This person was of the middle height, strongly made, and

showing in his entire appearance a dignity denoting the highest birth.

Before him on the table lay the miniature of a lovely child, and a large

Book of Common Prayer open beside it. He sat gazing upon the picture,

until a tear ran slowly down his cheek. It was that of a blooming boy,

the bright face shaded by clustered ringlets, and the whole countenance

beaming with youthful hope and beauty.

“Sweet child,” he said audibly, “may you ascend the throne of the

Stuarts under better auspices than I have done! Heaven in its mercy

grant that you may never suffer the fate of your wretched father! Or if,

at least, such hour of trial ever come upon you, may you not know what

it is to be thus alone in your affliction, and separated from all you

love on earth—shut out from the sweet sympathies of wife, children and

home, while your rank and dignity as King of England is trampled upon,

and you are imprisoned and tried by your own people!”

His softened mood seemed suddenly to give place to more angry feelings,

as, rising up, and the dullness of his eyes brightening to a keen flash,

he exclaimed:

“Let this court continue the mockery of its sitting; let it arraign me

day by day, as a traitor, tyrant, and murderer. Am I not Charles Stuart,

heir to a mighty line of sovereigns, and shall I stoop to acknowledge

its authority, rather than resign myself to whatever fate its villainy

may impose on me? Methinks already my doom could hardly be aggravated:

yon matted floor—those wooden chairs—those grated windows—this narrow

room—surely a prison were no worse. Yet perchance—but it cannot—no,

it CANNOT be, that the base Cromwell will dare incite them to shed my

blood.”

At this moment the door opened, and Alice Heath entered the apartment.

“Who is it intrudes upon me at this unseasonable hour?” angrily

exclaimed the king, turning round and facing his fair visiter, who

approached him, and dropped upon her knee.

“Spare your displeasure, sire!” she said, in the most soothing voice, “I

am General Lisle’s daughter, but I come to you as a subject and a

friend.”

“Rise, maiden,” said the king, “and talk not of being subject to an

imprisoned and belied monarch. Charles Stuart is hardly now a sovereign

in name.”

“Nevertheless, I would perform my duty by acknowledging him as such,”

replied Alice, taking his hand, and then rising. “But it is not merely

to admit his title, that I come to him at this hour of the night. I come

to beg him to sacrifice his pride as the owner of that same dignity, and

stoop to plead his cause for the saving of his life. Know, my liege,

that to-morrow, unless you consent to relax your pertinacious refusal to

plead your cause, the Court sign the warrant for your execution. I am

ignorant whether or not you be all that my father and your enemies

believe; but if you be, you are then the less fit to meet death.”

“Death! And has it come to this?” exclaimed Charles, setting his teeth,

and rapidly pacing the room for some moments, without replying to his

gentle visiter, or even heeding her presence.

At length she ventured to approach him.

“I have told you in what alone lies your hope of averting this awful

sentence, my lord. I pray you to reflect upon it this night. A little

sacrifice of pride—the mere utterance of a few humble words—”

“Sacrifice of pride! utterance of humble words! thou knowest not, girl,

of what you speak. Charles Stuart cannot stoop so far, even though it be

to save his life. Spirits of my royal ancestors,” added he, “spare me

from a weakness which would make you blush to own me as your

descendant.” And he covered his face with his hands.

“If it is permitted to a subject to own the feeling for her king, I

compassionate your unhappy case most deeply,” said Alice, taking his

passive hand, while her tears were falling fast.

A few moments silence prevailed, which Alice interrupted.

“Can I not induce you,” said she at length, “to value the precious boon

of your life above the foolish pride of which we were speaking? Think,

my lord, how sweet is existence, and all its precious ties of pleasure

and affection—and she pointed to the miniature on the table—how awful

is a violent death, and how lonely and dark and mysterious the tomb.

Cannot the consideration of all these things move your purpose?”

“I thank you, sweet maiden, for your noble intention, and may God reward

you for your words and wishes of goodness,” replied Charles, much

touched by her tone of deep interest, “but my resolution is fixed.”

“Can you suggest nothing then, yourself, my liege, less displeasing to

you? Have you no powerful friend whose influence I might this night move

in your behalf?”

“Nay, it cannot be,” replied the king, after pondering a moment upon her

words. “Charles Stuart is deserted on all hands, and it is the Lord’s

will that he shall die. I begin to look upon it already with

resignation. Yet the first intimation came upon me like the stroke of a

thunderbolt. Private assassination I have long dreaded; but a public

execution I had never dreamed of. Nevertheless, be it so. I shall meet

death like a man and a king.”

“Then, farewell, since my visit is futile, and the Almighty be your

support and comfort in your added affliction,” said Alice, as again

kissing his hand, and bathing it with tears, she withdrew.

Left alone, the king remained for some time in deep thought. All anger

and weakness appeared to have passed from his mood, and the remarkable

expression of melancholy which we have before described, deepened on his

face to a degree scarce ever seen except upon canvas. Not less

heightened, however, was that coldly resolute air likewise previously

alluded to—so that if evidently sad, it might likewise have been seen

that Charles Stuart was also determined unto death.

What were his reflections in view of the announcement he had just

received from the lips of Alice Heath, and which he saw no means of

averting short of sacrificing the dignity with which his rank as

sovereign of England invested him, we will not attempt to conjecture.

None who have not been in his situation can form any thing like an

adequate conception of his state of mind; and it were sacrilege to

attempt to invade the sanctuary of the human soul in such hour of agony.

Whatever his cogitations were, they were of limited duration. For, after

sitting thus for a considerable time, Charles pushed back his chair, and

falling upon his knees before the table, he drew the Book of Prayer

toward him, and clasping his hands upon it, read aloud:

“The day of thy servant’s calamity is at hand, and he is accounted as

one of them that go down to the pit. Blessed Lord, remember thy mercies;

give him, we beseech thee, patience in this his time of adversity, and

support under the terrors that encompass him; set before his eyes the

things which he hath done in the body, which have justly provoked thee

to anger, and forasmuch as his continuance appeareth to be short among

us, quicken him so much the more by thy grace and Holy Spirit; that he,

being converted and reconciled unto thee, before thy judgments have cut

him off from the earth, may at the hour of his death depart in peace,

and be received into thine everlasting kingdom, through Jesus Christ,

our Lord. Amen.”

Rising, he slowly disrobed, and throwing himself upon the bed, soon sunk

into a placid slumber. Strange! that sleep of the prisoner in the

prospect of death. The excitement of suspense—the palpitation of hope

not altogether dead—these banish rest; but when the feverish

perturbation caused by expectation departs, and the mind has nothing to

feed upon but one dark and fearful certainty, it turns to seek

forgetfulness in sleep.

CHAPTER III.

With my own power my majesty they wound;

In the king’s name, the king himself’s uncrowned,

So doth the dust destroy the diamond.

CHARLES STUART’S MAJESTY IN MISERY.

_Sardanapalus._——Answer, slave! how long

Have slaves decided on the doom of kings?

_Herald._—Since they were free.

BYRON’S SARDANAPALUS.

All London was astir. The excited populace filled every street and alley

of the vast city. The report that sentence of death was that day to be

passed upon Charles Stuart, rung on every tongue, and the popular

feeling ran mainly in favor of his condemnation. All business was

suspended; and from an early hour crowds were wending their way to

Westminster Hall, where the trial was about to be brought to a close.

That specimen of perfect architecture—which modern art is not ashamed

to take as a model, but vainly seeks to imitate—had been fitted up with

great regard to the smallest details, for this most remarkable occasion.

This had been done in order to invest the ceremonial of the trial with

all the pomp and dignity becoming the delegates of a great nation,

sitting in judgment upon their monarch, and trying him for a breach of

the trust committed to his care—the weal and peace of the people.

Benches covered with blue velvet were arranged at the upper end for the

accommodation of the judges; and within the bar were strewn thick

carpets and cushions. A splendid chair, to correspond with the benches,

was placed for the use of the firm and subtle Bradshaw, who had the

honor or disgrace, according as it may be deemed, of presiding over the

court. He was seated before a table covered with crimson drapery—his

fine countenance betokening that decision for which he was

remarkable—attired in costly dress, and supported on either hand by his

assessors.

The galleries were filled to suffocation with spectators; and the main

body of the building was thronged with a vast concourse of people, while

a regiment of armed soldiery was in attendance, with pieces loaded and

ready for use in case any tumult should arise. The Puritan party, now no

longer timid or wavering, took no pains to conceal their sense of coming

victory, and even Cromwell, usually so guarded in every outward

observance, took his seat without the bar, with a look of conscious

triumph. A profound stillness prevailed as the judges entered.

Fifty-nine only out of the one hundred and thirty-three had been able to

summon sufficient resolution to be present. With sad and solemn, though

severe and determined countenances, these severally seated themselves,

apparently filled almost to a sense of oppression, with the

responsibility devolved on them, but seeming not the less resolved to

act according to their determination previously agreed upon. Among these

were Lisle and Heath, the latter of whom was perhaps the only

commissioner whose countenance wanted something of the resolute bearing

we have described. They had scarcely taken their seats when the rumbling

noise of an approaching vehicle was distinctly heard. The previous

silence if possible deepened, and for some moments the multitude, as if

moved by one mighty impulse, almost ceased to breathe. Not a hand was in

motion—not an air stirred—and scarce a pulse beat, as the ponderous

door slowly revolved upon its hinges, and the regal prisoner entered. He

cast a look of blended pride and sorrow upon the judges, as he walked up

to the bar, surrounded by a guard. But he made no token of

acknowledgment or reverence, nor did he remove his velvet cap, as he

took the seat prepared for him.

The names of the judges were called over. Bradshaw then arose, and in a

silvery and ringing tone, which made his declamation peculiarly

impressive, while a shade of deepening pallor was perceptible on his

countenance, addressed the court.

He deviated from the usually calm and temperate manner he was accustomed

to assume, and became warm and impassioned. As he went on, his rich

voice swelled on the air with a clear, distinct intonation, that fell

deeply and artfully into the ears of the listeners. He was evidently

bent as much on appealing to those without the bar, as to the judges.

With the consummate skill of a rhetorician he first drew the picture of

the serf-like slavery of the people, dependent upon the will or caprice

of the king. He next pointed out the liberty to which, by a just

sentence passed against its tyrant, the nation would be restored.

Although a studied simplicity of language pervaded in general his

remarks, yet, at times, some striking or brilliant metaphor would, as it

were, accidentally escape him, which was speedily followed by a loud

roar of applause, evincing its full appreciation by his hearers. He then

turned to the prisoner in the following words:

“Charles Stuart, King of England, it is now the fourth time that you

have been arraigned before this tribunal. On each occasion you have

persisted in contemning its authority, and denying its

validity—breaking in upon its proceedings with frivolous and

impertinent interruptions—frequently turning your back upon the

judges—nay, sometimes even laughing outright at the awful charges which

have been preferred against you. Since its last convention, witnesses

have appeared to prove conclusively that you took up arms against the

troops commissioned by the Parliament. Once again, therefore, you are

called upon in the name of your country and your God, to plead guilty or

not guilty of tyranny, treason and murder.”

No change whatever took place in the king’s countenance at hearing these

words. When they had ceased, he slowly rose, his head still covered, and

made answer:

“I acknowledge not the authority of this court. Were I to do so, it were

to betray the sacred and inviolable trust confided to me in the care of

the liberties of the British people. Your delegation, to be legal,

should have come alike from the individual voice of the meanest and most

ignorant boor of this realm, as from the high and cultivated hypocrites

who have empowered you. Should I ratify such an authority—in the eyes

of the law not better founded than that of pirates and murderers—I

would indeed be the traitor ye would brand me. Nay, let me rather die a

martyr to the constitution. But before ye proceed to pronounce the

judgment ye threaten, I demand, by all those rights of inheritance which

invest me as a monarch, with a majesty and power second only to the

Omnipotent, to be heard before a convention of both houses of

Parliament; and, whether or not ye refuse me, I adjure ye, the so-called

judges of this court, as ye each hope to be arraigned at no unlawful or

incompetent bar at the final judgment, to pause and reflect before ye

take upon ye the high-handed responsibility of passing sentence upon

your king.”

He resumed his seat, and after a few moments’ intense quiet, William

Heath arose, and suggested that the court would do well to adjourn for a

brief season for the purpose of taking into consideration the request of

the prisoner.

The expediency of this suggestion was acceded to, and they withdrew and

remained for some fifteen or twenty minutes in conference.

On their return, after a few moments’ consultation with some of the

older judges, Lisle among the rest, Bradshaw, taking a parchment from

the table, turned to the king with these words:

“Charles Stuart, you have in your request to be heard before Parliament,

as well as in other language addressed by you some moments since to this

honorable court, given a fresh denial of its jurisdiction, and an added

proof of your contempt. It has already, by such contumacy on your part,

been too long delayed, and must now proceed to pass judgment against

you. You have been proven a traitor to England in waging war against her

Parliament, and in refusing to plead in your own behalf, or endeavoring

to invalidate such proof, justice has no alternative but to demand your

death. The following warrant has therefore been agreed upon by your

judges, who will presently affix their signatures thereunto. ‘_We, the

Commissioners appointed by the Commons to sit in trial on Charles

Stuart, King of England, arraigned as a traitor, tyrant and murderer,

having found these charges amply substantiated, do for the glory of God,

and the liberties of the British people, hereby adjudge him to death._’”

He ceased: the members of the court had risen during the reading of the

warrant, to testify their concurrence, and the fatal document was now

circulated among them to receive their various signatures. It was

observed to be written in the chirography of Cromwell.

Throughout the remarks of Bradshaw, Charles had remained with his eyes

fixed upon the ground; but while the warrant was being read, he raised

them and cast them upon Cromwell, who was standing without the bar.

Brief as was this glance, it seemed to convey some momentous truth, for

Cromwell became at first scarlet, and then pale as death. Instantly,

however, he turned away, and began coolly to unfold the plaits of a

white cambric handkerchief, and appeared only occupied with that object.

As soon as the warrant had been passed around to receive the signatures,

and Bradshaw had resumed his seat, Charles arose, and with more of

dignity than contempt in the act, he turned his back upon the judges—as

though his pride would prevent their observing whatever effect their

sentence had upon him.

The profound silence which had heretofore prevailed among the crowd,

here gave way to loud hisses, and expressions of contempt and disgust;

while the soldiers, instigated by the Roundheads, uttered exclamations

of “Justice!” “Justice!”

Charles, on hearing the cries of these latter, turned mildly toward

them, and casting on them a look of pity, said, in a tone of voice,

which, though not loud, was yet sufficiently distinct to be heard by all

within the bar:

“I pity them! for a little money they would do as much against their

commanders.”

The proceedings closed; and under a strong escort, and amid the shouts

of the populace, the noble prisoner was conducted out of the hall. As he

proceeded, various outrages were put upon him. With a kingly majesty

superior to insult, he received these indignities, as though he deemed

them unworthy to excite any emotion within him, save what his sorrowful

eye indicated, that of pity for the offenders. Some few, in the midst of

the general odium, endeavored to evince their continued allegiance. But

their faint prayer of “God save the king!” was drowned in the swelling

cries of “Down with the traitor!” “Vengeance on the tyrant!” “Away with

the murderer!” One soldier, who was intentionally or inadvertently heard

humming the national air of his country, was stricken to the ground by

his officer, just as the king crossed the threshold of the door.

“Poor fellow,” said Charles, “methinks his punishment was greater than

his offence.”

CHAPTER IV.

Will nothing move him?

THE TWO FOSCARI.

The streets of a crowded metropolis, which, with their noise and clamor,

their variety of lights, and the eternally changing bustle of their

hundred groups, offer, by night especially, a spectacle which, though

composed of the most vulgar materials, when they are separately

considered, has, when they are combined, a striking and powerful effect

upon the imagination.

At a late hour on the following night, when London presented such a

scene as we have described, two persons were winding their way to the

Palace of Whitehall. One was an individual of the male sex, in whom

might have been seen, even through the gloom, a polished and dignified

bearing, which, together with his dress—though of the Puritanic

order—declared him a gentleman of more than ordinary rank. His

companion was a delicate woman, evidently like himself of the most

genteel class, but attired in the simplest and plainest walking costume

of the times. She leaned on his arm with much appearance of womanly

trust, although there was an air of self-confidence in her step,

suggesting the idea of one capable of acting alone on occasion of

emergency, and a striking yet perfectly feminine dignity presiding over

her whole aspect.

“I have counseled your visiting him at this late hour,” said the

gentleman, “because, as the only hope lies in striking terror into his

conscience, the purpose may be best answered in the solitude and silence

of a season like this. Conscience is a coward in the daylight, but

darkness and night generally give her courage to assert her power.”

“True, William,” replied Alice Heath, (for she it was, and her

companion, as the reader is aware by this time, was her husband,)

“true—but alas! I fear for the success of my visit; the individual of

whom we are speaking deceives himself no less than others, and therefore

to him she is a coward at all times. Hast thou not read what my poor

dead grandfather’s old acquaintance has written about a man’s ‘making

such a sinner of his conscience as to believe his own lies’?”

“I have not forgotten the passage, my Alice, and ever correct in your

judgment, you have penetrated rightly into the singular character we are

alluding to. I wot it were hard for himself to say how far he has been

actuated by pure, and how far by ambitious motives, in the hand he has

had in the sentence of the king. Nevertheless, you would believe his

conscience to be not altogether dead, had you seen him tremble and grow

pale yesterday in the court, during the reading of the warrant, (which,

by the way, he had worded and written with his own hands,) when Charles

Stuart raised his eyes and looked upon him as if to imply that he knew

him for the instigator, and no unselfish one either, of his doom. The

emotion he then testified, it was, which led me to hope he may yet be

operated upon to prevent the fatal judgment from taking effect. It is

true, Charles is a traitor, and I cannot regret that in being arraigned

and tried, an example has been made of him. But having from the first

anticipated this result, except for your father, Alice, I would have had

no part in the matter, being entirely opposed to the shedding of his

blood. All ends which his death can accomplish have already been

answered; and I devoutly pray that the effort your gentle heart is now

about to make for the saving of his life, may be blessed in procuring

that merciful result.”

At this moment they paused before the magnificent structure known as the

Palace of Whitehall, and applied for admission. Vacated some time since

by the king, it was now occupied by his rival in power, the aspiring

Cromwell; and although the hour was so late, the vast pile was still

illuminated. Having gained speedy access to the main building, the

visiters were admitted by a servant in the gorgeous livery of the fallen

monarch. Heath requested to be shown to an anteroom, while Alice

solicited to be conducted without previous announcement to the presence

of his master. After a moment’s hesitation on the part of the servant,

which, however, was quickly overcome by her persuasive manner, he

conducted her through various spacious halls, and up numerous flights of

stairs, till pausing suddenly before the door of a chamber, he knocked

gently. As they waited for an answer, the accents of prayer were

distinctly audible. They were desired to enter; the servant threw open

the door, simply announcing a lady. Alice entered, and found herself

alone with Cromwell.

The apartment was an anteroom attached to the spacious bed-chamber

formerly belonging to the king. It was luxuriously furnished with all

the appliances of ease and elegance suitable to a royal with-drawing

room. Tables and chairs of rose-wood, richly inlaid with ivory and

mother-of-pearl, were arranged in order around the room; magnificent

vases of porcelain decorated the mantel-piece; statues from the chisel

of Michael Angelo stood in the niches; and pictures in gorgeous frames

hung upon the walls.

There, near a table, on which burned a single-shaded lamp, standing

upright, in the attitude of prayer, from which he had just been

interrupted, stood the occupant. For an instant—as she lingered near

the door, and looked upon his figure, which bore so strongly the impress

of power, and felt that on his word hung the fate of him for whom she

had come to plead—she already feared for the success of her mission,

and would fain almost have retracted her visit. But remembering the

accents of prayer she had heard while waiting without, she considered

that her purposed appeal was to the conscience of one whom she had just

surprised, as it were, in the presence of his Maker, and took courage to

advance.

“May I pray thee to approach, and be seated, madam, and unfold the

object of this visit,” said Cromwell, in a thick, rapid utterance, the

result of his surprise, as he waved his visiter to a chair. “At that

distance, and by this light, I can hardly distinguish the features of

the lady who so inopportunely and unceremoniously honors me with her

presence.”

Immediately advancing, she threw back her hood, and offering him her

hand, said, “It is Alice Heath, the daughter of your friend, General

Lisle.”

Cromwell’s rugged countenance expressed the utmost surprise, as he

awkwardly strove to assume a courtesy foreign to his manner, and

exchange his first ungracious greeting for something of a more cordial

welcome.

With exceeding tact, Alice hastened to relieve his embarrassment, by

falling back into the chair he had offered, and at once declaring the

purpose of her visit.

“General Cromwell,” she began, in a voice sweetly distinct, “you stand

high in the eyes of man, not only as a patriot, but a strict and

conscientious servant of the Most High. As such, you have been the main

instrument in procuring the doom now hanging in awful expectation over

the head of him who once tenanted, in the same splendor that now

surrounds yourself, the building in which I find you. Methinks his

vacation of these princely premises, and your succession thereunto,

renders you scarcely capable of being a disinterested advocate for his

death—since, by it, you become successor to all the pomp and power

formerly his. Have you asked yourself the question whether no motives of

self-aggrandisement have tainted this deed of patriotism, or sullied

this act of religion?”

“Your language is unwarrantable and unbecoming, madam,” said Cromwell,

deadly pale and trembling violently; “it is written—”

“Excuse me,” said Alice, interrupting him; “you think it uncourteous and

even impertinent that I should intrude upon you with a question such as

I but now addressed to you. But, General Cromwell, a human life is at

stake, and that the life of no ordinary being, but the descendant of a

race of kings. Nay, hear me out, sir, I beg of you. Charles Stuart is

about to die an awful and a violent death; your voice has condemned

him—your voice can yet save him. If it be your country’s weal that you

desire, that object has been already sufficiently answered by the

example of his trial; or, if it is to further the cause of the Lord of

Hosts that you place yourself at the head of Britain in his place, be

assured that he who would assert his power by surrounding himself with a

pomp like this, is no delegate of One who commissioned Moses to lead his

people through the wilderness, a sharer in the common lot, and a

houseless wanderer like themselves. Bethink you, therefore, what must be

the doom of him at the final judgment, who—for the sake of ambition and

pride—in order that he might for the brief space of his life enjoy

luxury and power—under the borrowed name, too, of that God who views

the act with horror and detestation—stains his hands with parricidal

blood. Yes, General Cromwell, for thy own soul’s, if not for mercy’s

sake, I entreat thee, in whom alone lies the power, to cause Charles

Stuart’s sentence to be remitted.”

As she waxed warm in her enthusiasm, Alice Heath had risen and drawn

close to Cromwell, who was still standing, as on her entrance, and in

her entreaty, she had even laid her hand on his arm. His tremor and

pallor had increased every moment while she spoke, and though at first

he would have interrupted her, he seemed very greatly at a loss, and

little disposed to reply.

After a few moment’s hesitation, during which Alice looked in his face

with the deepest anxiety, and awaited his answer, he said, “Go to, young

woman, who presumest to interfere between a judge raised up for the

redemption of England, and a traitor king, whom the Lord hath permitted

to be condemned to the axe. As my soul liveth, and as He liveth who will

one day make me a ruler in Israel, thou hast more than the vanity of thy

sex, in hoping by thy foolish speech to move me to lift up my hand

against the decree of the Almighty. Truly—”

“Nay, General Cromwell,” said Alice, interrupting him, as soon as she

perceived he was about to enter into one of his lengthy and pointless

harangues “nay, you evade the matter both with me and with the

conscience whose workings I have for the last few moments beheld in the

disorder of your frame. Have its pleadings—for to them I look and not

to any eloquence of mine own—been of no avail? Will it please you to do

aught for the king?”

“Young lady,” replied Cromwell, bursting into tears, which he was

occasionally wont to do, “a man like me, who is called to perform great

acts in Israel, had need to be immovable to feelings of human charities.

Think you not it is painful to our mortal sympathies to be called upon

to execute the righteous judgments of Heaven, while we are yet in the

body. And think you that when we must remove some prime tyrant that the

instruments of his removal can at all times view their part in his

punishment with unshaken nerves? Must they not even at times doubt the

inspiration under which they have felt and acted? Must they not

occasionally question the origin of that strong impulse which appears

the inward answer to prayer for direction under heavenly difficulties,

and in their disturbed apprehensions, confuse even the responses of

truth with the strong delusions of Satan. Would that the Lord would

harden my heart even as he hardened that of—”

“Stop, sir,” said Alice, again interrupting him ere his softened mood

should have passed away, “utter not such a sacrilegeous wish. Why are

the kindly sympathies which you describe implanted in your bosom, unless

it be to prevent your ambition from stifling your humanity? The rather

encourage them, and save Charles Stuart. Let your mind dwell upon the

many traits of nobleness in his character which might be mentioned with

enthusiasm, ay, and with sorrow, too, that they should be thus

sacrificed.”

“The Most High, young woman, will have no fainters in spirit in his

service—none who turn back from Mount Gilead for fear of the

Amalekites. To be brief—it waxes late; to discuss this topic longer is

but to distress us both. Charles Stuart must die—the mouth of the Lord

hath spoken it.”

As he spoke, he bowed with a determined but respectful reverence, and

when he lifted up his head, the expression of his features told Alice

that the doom of the king was irrevocably fixed.

“I see there is no hope,” said she, with a deep sigh, as Cromwell spoke

these words in a tone of decision which left her no further

encouragement, and with a brevity so unusual to him. Nor was his hint to

close the interview lost upon her. “No hope!” she repeated, drawing

back. “I leave you, then, inexorable man of iron, and may you not plead

thus in vain for mercy at the bar of God.”

So saying, she turned, and rejoining her husband who remained in waiting

for her, they returned together to Lisle’s house.

[_To be continued._

* * * * *

[Illustration: THE BRIGAND AND HIS WIFE.

Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine by F. Humphrys]

* * * * *

THE BRIGAND AND HIS WIFE.

[SEE ENGRAVING.]

THE fine picture which our artist has given us for this number of our

Magazine, is a spirited representation of a scene in the lives of those

men of violence and murder who, setting at defiance both human and

divine laws, wrest from the unarmed or overpowered traveler, amid the

mountainous districts of Europe, the means of subsistence they are too

idle to obtain through honest industry. To their secret retreat the band

of robbers have been traced by armed soldiers, whose approach they are

anxiously watching. The wife of the robber-chief is by his side.

By songs, stories, and pictures, much false sympathy has been created in

the minds of the unreflecting for “bold brigands,” who are represented

too often as possessed of chivalrous feelings and generous sentiments,

while a charm is thrown about their wild and reckless lives which is

altogether unreal. Love, too, a often brought in to give a warmer and

more attractive color to the pictures thus drawn. The roving bandit is

represented as loving passionately and tenderly some refined,

pure-hearted, and high-souled woman, who, in turn, pours out for him her

heart’s best affections.

Different from all this is the hard and harsh reality of the bandit’s

life. He is no man of fine feelings and generous sympathies, but a

selfish and cruel-minded villain; and between him and the woman, who, as

his wife, shares his life of exposure and violence, there can be no

gentle passages of affection, for these are only born of love laid upon

the solid foundations of virtuous respect.

The real truth on this subject, Dumas has given in a Calabrian story. A

body of soldiers had pursued a band of mountain robbers, in Calabria,

and hemmed them in so effectually that, with all the passes guarded,

escape seemed impossible. From this dilemma the chief determined to

relieve his men, as they had refused to surrender, although promised

pardon if they would give up their leader. The only possible way of

escape was by crossing a deep chasm, so wide, that even the supple

chamois could not make the fearful leap in safety. To reach this point,

it was necessary to go along a narrow pass, near which sentinels had

been placed. The movement was made at night. The chief of the robbers

had a wife, and she had a babe at her bosom. For days they had been

without food, except such roots as they dug from the ground, and the

want of nourishment had dried the fountain of life in the mother’s

breast, and the babe pined and fretted with hunger. As the little band

moved silently along the narrow path, in which, if discovered by the

soldiers, their destruction would be inevitable, the suffering babe

began to cry. Instantly it was seized by the father, swung in the air,

and its brains dashed out against a tree. For a moment the mother stood

like a statue of horror, then gathering the mutilated remains of her

murdered babe in her apron, she followed the retreating party.

Safely, through the skill of the chief, the chasm was passed, and they

were beyond the reach of danger. All, then, after procuring some food,

lay down to sleep, except a sentinel and the mother, who dug a grave

with her own hands, in which to bury her child. This sad duty performed,

she returned to the spot where her husband and his companions lay in

deep slumber. It was not difficult for her to persuade the tired and

sleepy sentinel to let her take his place, and soon she alone remained

awake. Then stealthily approaching the spot where the father of her dead

babe lay, she placed the muzzle of the piece she had taken from the

sentinel within a few inches of his breast, and pulled the trigger. The

ball passed through his heart!

Here we have something of the reality attending the life of a “bold

brigand.” A lawless robber and murderer is incapable of such a sentiment

as the true love of a woman. This feeling lives only in the breast of

the virtuous. And whenever the poet or the novelist represents a pirate

or robber as loving faithfully and tenderly some beautiful, true-hearted

woman, the reader may set it all down as mere romance. Such things are

contrary to the very nature of things. They never exist in real life.

True love of woman is an unselfish love; but the inordinate self-love of

these men leads them so utterly to disregard the rights of others, as to

commit robbery and murder. How, then, are they capable of loving any

thing out of themselves? It is impossible. A bitter fountain cannot send

forth sweet water.

* * * * *

BALLADS OF THE CAMPAIGN IN MEXICO. NO. II.

BY HENRY KIRBY BENNER, U. S. A.

[Illustration: Resaca de la Palma.]

ONCE again was daylight dawning, when the shrill, awakening fife

Called our soldiers from their slumbers to the toils of martial life:

We were weary: some among us through the long and dreary night

Had traversed, like silent ghosts, the scene of PALO ALTO’S fight—

For our wounded lay around us, who had struggled at our side,

Stemming with their human bodies Battle’s hurricane-like tide.

All were anxious, for we knew that, though our foes had flown the

field,

They were still in force before us, vowing never more to yield.

One by one our scouts came in—some with faces of dismay—

Others smiling at the promise of another glorious fray;

But the tidings that they brought only fired us, and we stood,

Like the old Norweyan Vikings, anxious for the feast of blood.

When our wounded were in motion, for our general, like a man

And a father, sent them back before the onward march began—

When we saw the laden wagons, with the sad, disheartened train,

Toward Point Isabel in silence slowly roll along the plain—

We advanced and took our places, drawing a determined breath,

While our wide-expanding nostrils drank the distant scent of death.

As we marched along the prairie, creeping, cat-like, from the day,

We could see the spotted jaguar, stealing from his human prey,

While in flocks the huge, majestic condor with his mighty wings

Flapped from his unusual feast, and swept above the plain in rings,

Shrieking, as he clove the air, some desperate necromantic charm

Over the pale, enchanted bodies that had lost the power of harm.

Here and there, as we proceeded, lying wounded in our way

We would meet some pallid victim, perishing in the face of day;

He was, yesterday, a foeman—now, a helpless, suffering man,

And a brother, praying sadly for some good Samaritan:

So we bound his wounds and fed him—each one from his little store

Taking what his pitying heart would fain have made a great deal more.

Hour by hour we marched in silence, throwing out in our advance

Daring souls with dauntless hearts, who laughed at lasso, ball and

lance,

And, as, riding like the wind, one dashed along our serried files,

Twice a thousand lips breathed welcome, twice a thousand eyes looked

smiles;

But at last the tidings reached us that our foes had made a stand

Between us and our gallant friends, near the yellow Rio Grande.

On we went with bounding hearts till the prairie lay behind.

While the tall, swan-like palmetto waved a welcome in the wind;

But when we reached the Swamp of Palms,[1] the bristling chapparal,

With our foes in solid thousands, rose before us, like a wall;

And the dense woods frowned upon us, clothed with centuries of green,

Precipitously plunging down the dark and deep ravine.

The army paused. A moment, and we passed along the plain,

With rapid steps and loud huzzas, defiling by the train,

And spreading right and left, marched on, when, ere we fired a shot,

Cannon and grape and musket-ball swept through us thick and hot;

But we never faltered—never; no; we took their fire, and then,

Acknowledging their courtesy, we gave it back like men.

But our men, though doing wonders, began to disappear,

When RIDGELY thundered with his guns up from the distant rear,

And we heard his balls go crashing through the thick palmetto trees,

And the shrieks of wounded Mexicans come ringing up the breeze;

And we hurried on like maniacs, scarcely stopping to take breath,

While every where around us rushed the messengers of death!

By this time our brave infantry had reached the chapparal:—

Here and there we heard our comrades answering one another’s call;

And the sharp crack of their muskets, and the death-cries of their

foes,

With the constant boom of cannon—Battle’s diapason rose!

All was chaos; while, like lightning, sword and lance and bayonet

Flashed around, as desperate men in the deadly _mêlée_ met.

Hand to hand, and foot to foot, through the ascending clouds of smoke,

On the enemy, through them, over them, gallantly our soldiers broke,

Dealing death at every stroke: then we heard the shout of MAY,

And beheld his brave dragoons for an instant line the way:

RIDGELY’S voice—the roar of cannon—clashing sabres—dying cries—

Rose distinct, yet intermingled as a chorus, toward the skies,

As the vapor separated, dashing down the rough ravine,

MAY and INGE, with all their men, for an instant filled the scene—

Rushing like an autumn tempest through the chapparal, down the glen,

MAY, half-hidden by streaming hair, with gallant INGE led on the men,

Loud hurraing: but a crash! and INGE clutched wildly at his rein—

And twice a score of neighing steeds swept riderless along the plain.

All in vain: another instant! MAY was riding o’er the wall,

Waving on his fiery followers through the tangled chapparal;

Wheeling in a moment, backward, with the same resistless force

Came the hero, like a giant, on his gaunt and sinewy horse;—

As our infantry came up, battling boldly by his gun,

General LA VEGA yielded, and the battery was won.

But the brave Tampicoäns still refused to fly or yield,

And maintained the unequal fight until the last one kissed the field;

When their flag went down a cry of anguish rent the Mexic ranks,

And our foemen broke and fled despairing toward the river’s banks.

All was over: we pursued them, and the now-descending sun,

Saw RESACA DE LA PALMA’S bloody battle lost and won!

-----

[1] _Resaca de la Palma_—the Swamp of Palms. _Resaca_ has no equivalent

in English. Literally speaking, it is a place on which the tide ebbs and

flows.

[Illustration]

* * * * *

AN ESSAY

ON AMERICAN LITERATURE AND ITS PROSPECTS.

BY MRS. M. A. FORD.

A NATIONAL literature, purely our own, must rise superior to an

imitation of that fostered by the institutions of the old world, and of

course sustaining them. The principles of liberty and independence,

which govern our country, are united in our national motto, with that

which only can give them permanency, Virtue. Loose this bond of union,

and the beautiful fabric of our institutions falls forever. To sustain

virtue in her proud position, should then be the principal aim of

republican literature. It is this alone which will preserve us from the

disastrous fate of former republics, beginning, like our own, with a

dawn of prosperity most auspicious, but whose fall, when at the very

noon of fame and power, startled and disappointed a world.

Most of the writers and philosophers of ancient times, who defended

virtue, wrote, regardless of the vengeance of those corrupt and

luxurious governments under which they lived.

Thus was their testimony rendered more dear to succeeding generations,

from the sacrifice of selfish interest with which it was given.

That genius which is called into action by the desire of fame only, must

be interested; that stimulated by gain alone must be mercenary. Happily

there is not enough of these encouragements in our new country to induce

the many to leave the walks of busy life, or the more healthful though

rugged paths of labor, from motives so liable to disappointment. Few can

afford to devote a life to literature, and many of our brightest gems in

poetry and prose are the offspring of minds, whose influence is more

powerfully felt in the great action of our nation’s progress, or the

refining process of their own good example on the morals of society.

Others just peep out from the veil of their cherished domestic duties,

to throw a simple flower into the world’s path. If lost, or unheeded, it

causes no aching of the heart.

The great system of general education, now disseminating its light

throughout our land, will place knowledge a welcome guest at every

cottage hearth, and national intelligence will form the firm basis of

our national literature. The labor of intense thought will not fall too

heavily on the few. From the shade of every valley, from the height of

every hill, genius will spring forth. The friction of cheerful and

healthful labor, will light the spark, which virtuous emulation will fan

to a flame.

From the freedom and happiness enjoyed, must necessarily arise a

grateful sense of these blessings, a warm expression of that sense, and

an anxiety to perpetuate those blessings. With genius and education,

these feelings will find a vent in the flowing numbers of song, or the

more perspicuous paragraphs of prose.

In both the old and new world, the present is a golden age of

literature, rich in its array of brilliant talents and gifted minds.

Some of these are glorious as the day-star, and like it, the harbingers

of increasing light. Minds that from their own fullness impart knowledge

and feelings, whose gushings are like those of the mountain stream, pure

even when impetuous.

Others are like the meteor, brilliant, startling; their path a track of

fire, but under that bright deception, like that wandering light are

only a combination of unwholesome exhalations. Under their false glare,

the clouds of vice are tinged with beauty, and the guilt of crime seems

but the trace of romantic catastrophe.

That literature alone is valuable, which leaves an impression of

increased knowledge, and improved moral sentiments, of chastened feeling

and benign impulses, of virtuous resolutions and high aspirations. By

these, man is prepared to fill the high station for which the Creator

designed him. To partake of the joys of life without selfishness, to

meet its sorrows with fortitude, to practice its virtues with firmness,

to avoid its errors by resolution, and to dispense its charities with

the feeling of brother toward brother. Under a free government, the arts

and intrigue of the courtier would be useless and disgraceful appendages

to the accomplishments that ornament life. Unsullied honor is based on

truth and generous feeling, and the blessings enjoyed by freemen will

teach them not to treat lightly the privileges of others. As the

principles they profess are so different from those maintained by the

policy of monarchical courts, the expression of them must also differ,

and our country can proudly point to those, whose writings on these

subjects may justly be considered standards for future efforts.

Constellations are already forming in our literary skies; some stars

shining out in bold relief, like those glowing in the belt of Orion, or

sparkling in the eye of Aldebaren. Some stretch across the northern sky,

separate and grand as those in the Ursa major, while others timidly

shrink from their own simplicity and beauty, like the meek twinkling of

Pleiads. But all have their peculiar influence.

History, with its crowding events and exciting struggles, has already

employed many gifted pens in our land. That of Bancroft, with his strong

resources and vivid style; of Prescott, with his fine arrangement and

freshness, combined with his clear narrative and research, and others,

whose talents a limited essay is obliged to pass without remark.

Ethics and philosophy have brought to their aid a strong array of

brilliant minds; the peculiar lights of each have their admirers.

Comparison might be considered invidious, and it is enough that their

names and talents belong to their country.

In various sciences, the American mind has shown itself capable of deep

investigation, and our writers on these subjects, by their clear

elucidations, have shed light on much that was shadowed in doubt.

In medical learning many works have appeared, and some of them of high

importance and value. The number must increase, for the varied climate

and diseases of our country require it, and the young physician, just

entering on the practice of his profession in some newly settled

prairie, or border land of the northern lakes, will find an American

author his best guide in the treatment of diseases that differ so much

in their nature from those of Europe, as to be but lightly glanced at by

the best medical writers of the old world.

Works on law are also increasing; some of them emanating from those

whose eloquence has “held captive their hearers.” If they cannot always

impart that charm which seems the peculiar privilege of the few, their

lessons must be the surest guide to the American lawyer; for, though

including the best portions of the English code, there are so many

peculiarities appertaining to the different States of the Union, each a

sovereignty in itself, that national works must offer the clearest

elucidations of all difficult cases.

Descriptive and narrative literature is rich in its contributions. The

graceful ease and elegant diction of Irving, his vivid imagination and

touching feeling, and the charm which he throws around his subject, have

gained him an enviable fame both at home and abroad.

In the peculiar walks of Indian life, and the lonely daring of pioneer

character, the pen of Cooper moves like a spell, and when it dips in the

sea-wave—like the stroke of the oar, bright droppings glisten on its

rising.

We can but name a few of the many whose talents have adorned this

portion of literature. The interesting delineations of Simms, whose

patriotic feeling glows under a southern sky; the reminiscent charm of

Kennedy; the graphic strength of Paulding; the lively portraiture of

Mrs. Kirkland, and the graceful but feeling pictures of Miss Sedgwick,

recur to our memory.

These have all written on American subjects, and many more of equal

merit might be added, if space allowed.

In poetry we have the bright imagery and refreshing beauty of Bryant,

whose genius, like a clear stream, reflects the heavens above, and the

loveliness of nature around.

Many others have the charm of originality, and a versification almost

musical, but the votaries of the muse are so numerous, we must pass them

without naming, yet our country may be proud of many a wild flower of

poesy, the fragrance of which has been borne over the ocean, and

appreciated in other lands.

The sweetness and beauty of Mrs. Sigourney’s muse, the elegance and

delicacy of Halleck, the tenderness and strong feeling of Dana, the

light grace of Willis, and many others of equal genius and talent are

crowding on our memory.

But in this, as in every other branch, we must look to the future for

the fulfillment of the high destiny of American literature.

Perhaps nothing has contributed more to the diffusion of intellectual

knowledge, than periodical literature, which includes the reviews,

magazines, and daily and weekly newspapers. Not a great many years have

passed since the number of these were few, and though that few were of

known excellence, how sparing was the patronage bestowed on them. How

were the journals of other lands looked to for that supply of

intellectual beauty, which the gifted minds of our own countrymen needed

but a fair encouragement to pour forth. Yet who does not now look back

with pride to the pioneer path of our first periodicals, those early

gatherers of essays, showing the powers of mind now more strongly

developed in our country?

These, in later years, have been followed by a gradual increase, and we

can now proudly point to their numbers, many of them varied with the

classic learning and lighter literature of contributors, whose talents

would do honor to any country.

Possessing great advantages from its unassuming appearance and light

form, periodical literature travels through the land. Like a gentle

stream it winds its way, with banks covered with flowers, and pebbled

bed, too pure to sully its waters. It comes to the door of the cottager

to refresh him after labor. Its murmurs are heard near the

village-green, and youth hastens to its welcome bath. If it bears not on

its breast the heavy freight the larger river boasts, the light skiff on

its waters offers a bijouterie that is truly interesting and valuable.

Gems of poetry, incidents in history, pearls from the ocean, legends of

the land, light from the sciences, and aid from the arts.

Some of the most beautiful effusions of American genius have graced the

pages of periodical literature. Timid and retiring talent has been

encouraged to take the first step in a path it is destined to illumine.

How many gems from the ocean of thought have been brought to the

surface, to sparkle on the view by the aid of this species of

literature? What pearls from the shells which memory gathers, have

thrown the faint but touching light of the past upon the present?

The gifted writers whose efforts have appeared on the pages of

periodical literature, are too numerous, and many of them too equal in

merit, though different in style, to be particularly named. This is

especially the case with female writers, from some of whose pens the

finely pointed moral or touching incident of narrative comes forth with

varied beauty, but almost equal claims to attention.

This may be said with less force of male writers, where the

scintillations of wit and graceful charm of humor in some, is in

contrast with the grave discussions and intellectual strength of others,

where the elegance of classic learning stands side by side with useful

essays on national policy.

But the bright prospect of future American literature again opens before

us in all its moral grandeur. When time shall have quieted the ruder

anxieties of our being, when comfortable independence shall have passed

from the few to the many, and the busy exertion of life can take longer

rest from its labors, when the dignity of intellect shall outweigh that

of wealth, how will the treasures of mind be poured on our land!

Future American literature must be very varied, from the great

difference of climate and habits in our widely extended country.

Stretching its immense length along the great Atlantic, the firm barrier

of its waters, it almost connects the frozen pole with the burning

Equator. The fervid imaginations of the sunny South will breathe their

strains under the shadow of the lime-tree, and amidst the fragrance of

the orange-grove, and the scenery and flowers that give emblems to their

poetry, will be as strange to the dwellers on the rock-bound coast of

the North-Eastern States, as the acacia of Arabia is to the Icelander,

but its strange beauty will be dear to them, for it is American still.

From the calm, cold North, the calculations of Philosophy and the

discoveries of scientific research will continue to issue. The progress

already made, forms a bright page in our history, and the last great

discovery which has realized the vision of our venerated Franklin,

making the lightning of heaven the agent of earth, seems like a stray

beam from the science of the skies. By it, knowledge, love, feeling,

travel with the unseen speed of “angel’s visits.” The name of Morse will

find a high association with that of the “Sage of the Revolution.”

For the light yet elegant portions of literature, our country presents a

wide field. The history of Poetry in the old world, is mournfully,

painfully interesting, from the blind dependence of the immortal Homer,

down to the despairing end of the gifted Chatterton. From thence to the

present time, how few have been successful, and of that few, how oft

have their pages been marked, not, indeed, by the tear of weary anguish

and hope deferred, but by a bitterness of sentiment filling the place

from whence that tear was obliterated. Alas! how many strings in the

harp of Genius have been broken by the force of its own disappointed

feelings.

Pastoral poetry may well offer its incense at the shrine of our

country’s scenery and productions, and breathe its strains in harmony

with the happiness of American rural life. Here there need be no servile

muse to sing of fruits the parched lip never tasted, nor of groves and

streams whose verdure and coolness were felt not in the close atmosphere

of garret penury. But from homes rendered happy by industry and content,

the poets of our land may breathe their strains. The heart will speak

from its own fullness, like the ascending vapor of the cottage chimney,

that tells the comfort and warmth of the hearth beneath its roof.

Narrative prose and heroic verse have a deep fount from whence to draw.

It is true the legendary lore of our country has not yet the hoariness

of age upon it, but what should recommend it more, it has the light of

truth. If we have not moss-grown towers, whose mouldy recesses tell of

ambition and cruelty, we have traces on the hills, and monuments in the

vales of our varied landscape, that awaken the memory of deeds whose

heroism might rival the days of chivalry; of battles where the disparity

of force called forth the virtuous sacrifice of another Leonidas, of

acts of patriotism and self-devotion worthy that purest of Romans,

Regulus.

Love, during the struggle of the Revolution, was a sentiment, so guided

by high impulses, as to offer to the pen of historical romance the most

touching and thrilling incidents; vows rendered more sacred by the

parting of the plighted, not to be renewed at the altar until the light

of liberty shone on their country. The simple ribbon-knot and the glossy

braid of hair, were to the patriot-lover talismans in the hour of

danger; and courage to meet every trial came with the sweet thoughts of

home and happiness with his American maid.

Mothers, with Spartan virtue, sacrificed their maternal tenderness on

the altar of liberty, and urged the steps of their sons to the combat.

Aged fathers, with eager though feeble hands, fastened the sword of

their early days on the youthful limbs of those sons; and when their

loved forms were brought back from the field of their country’s glory,

cold in death, have pillowed their white locks on the young breasts, and

died under the excitement of sorrow struggling with patriotic pride and

glory.

Biography might appear like an overloaded vessel, her deck crowded with

the bright and honored names of heroes, statesmen, patriots, scholars,

and others, the famed and gifted of our land—but she gallantly bears

the freight, for a greater than Cæsar is among them. Washington! how the

full tide of feeling gushes at the name—a nation’s pride and glory, and

the admiration of the world. Many brilliant pens have told his character

and fame, and yet the theme seems new. How bright a pattern to American

youth, is the docility of his childhood, and submission to parental

rule, the beautiful truth of his boyhood, and pure morality of his

youth. His tenderness, even in the noon of his fame, to the venerable

mother, on whose breast at parting fell the strange but unchecked tears

of manhood. His pure patriotism, his undaunted courage, his unchanging

firmness and impartial justice, his meek devotion and faith in the God

of nations, all present a beautiful example for imitation. Happy

America! rearing in your own bosom the son whose talents and virtues

were your protection in the hour of danger. And gloriously was he

associated with the bright host of heroes and patriots, whose deathless

names will live with his in the grateful memory of the country to which

they gave freedom and independence. With such themes biography holds,

and must continue to hold, an elevated rank in American literature; and

when to these is added the bright list of those who, in later times have

periled their all for their country’s glory, or whose talents and

virtues have brightened her fame, the task of perpetuating their names

and deeds to posterity will employ many gifted minds, and must look far

into the future for its completion.

The ancient history of our country lies hid in the western mounds, or

amidst the buried relics of past ages. Forests, in Central America, have

grown over the ruins of temples and dwellings that, awakened from their

sleep of ages by a Stephens and others, will in time become the Palmyra

of the Western World. In the grandeur of their mysteries conjecture

seems lost, yet there would appear a connection between them and the

aboriginal race of our own land, whose lingering steps are receding

toward the Pacific. In this remaining posterity of a lost genealogy, all

that is left to tell the tale of the race from whence they sprung, is

their firm independence, undying love of country, deep sense of injury

and spirit of revenge, and strong faith of happier homes beyond the

grave. Is not this a theme worthy the pen of the American poet,

philosopher, antiquarian, or novelist?

With the many heroic virtues of Indian character, can we wonder that

their principal fault should be that which filial piety made glorious in

a Hannibal. In future they will be better understood, and while justice

and humanity, nay, national pride, call on our government to civilize

and enlighten them, the pens of their white brethren will show their

true lineaments, and perhaps the hand of some American antiquary lift

the veil that hides their lost ancestry.

While the music of their language yet lingers in the names of our

rivers, we cannot forget their claims. In a lyric of much sweetness, a

gifted poetess of our country pleads that they may not be changed. How

quickly their sound arrests the attention of the traveler and stranger?

How softly their syllables fall from the lips of beauty. There seems a

magic spell about them. May it be their protection from any change. It

is but just that the streams that first knew the Indians in their pride

and glory should retain the melody of their language.

In many instances, the Indian character has been found capable of great

refinement from education, and of the few who have been placed in our

colleges, some have evinced superior talents. How pleasing is the

thought that these children of the forest may hereafter contribute to

the national literature of America. Will their strains be mournful, like

the plaintive songs of the Israelites by the waters of the Euphrates?

Perhaps not, for though many are far removed from the more eastern homes

of their fathers, still it is their native land, now bounded only by the

waves of the Pacific.

In anticipating the future literature of our country, its glorious

effects on other nations should not be forgotten. The freedom and

happiness that could fan into flame all that is great in mind, and all

that is beautiful in virtue, must be appreciated; and from the combined

effect of her own great example, and the persuasive influence of a

literature then truly American, our country will become the standard of

future republics.

* * * * *

THE CRY OF THE FORSAKEN.

BY GIFTIE.

SING me to sleep, dear mother,

Upon thy faithful breast—

Ah! many a day hath passed, mother,

Since I laid me there to rest.

Now I am weary, weary,

And I fain would sleep once more,

And dream such dreams of heaven,

As I used to dream of yore.

Since then I’ve known Love’s power, mother—

Its heritage is tears—

And I have felt, sweet mother,

Its wild tumultuous fears.

Now hath the idol fallen,

On my soul’s ruined shrine—

All other hearts deceive me,

In grief I turn to thine.

Lull me to rest, kind mother,

And sing to me the while—

These tearful eyes shall cease to weep

These lips put on a smile.

And tell me of that blessed land

Where love is not in vain,

And they who wept despairingly

Shall never weep again.

Lull me to rest, dear mother,

Sing to me soft and low,

The same sweet mournful strain, mother,

You sang me long ago,

I am weary and heart-broken,

And I fain would be at rest,

Oh take me in thine arms, mother—

Let me slumber on thy breast.

* * * * *

A MIDNIGHT STORM IN MARCH.

BY CAROLINE MAY.

THE storm beats loud against my window-pane,

And though upon the pillow of my bed

In pleasant warmth is laid my grateful head,

I cannot sleep for the excited train

Of thoughts the storm arouses in my brain.

O, wretched poor, who have no home—or if

A home—are weak and weary, sore and stiff,

For want of food and clothes and fire! O rain,

Fierce rain, and howling wind, and hissing hail,

Venting your rage beneath the flag of night—

A black flag, without stars—how do they quail,

Those aching, shivering poor, beneath your might!

O God, be pitiful! and to the poor’s sad tale

Make rich hearts open with the opening light.

* * * * *

BUONDLEMONTE.

A TALE OF ITALY.

BY JOSEPH A. NUNES.

CHAPTER I.

“SO thou art here, in Florence, to be wived, Buondlemonte?” a gay

gallant laughingly observed to the tallest and most elegant of a group

of cavaliers, as they sauntered leisurely together along the principal

street of Florence: “Thou art at last to be shut out from the pale of

happy celibacy, and be offered up, a living sacrifice, on the altar of

that most insatiate of all insatiate deities, Hymen? By Mars, but I pity

thee, poor youth!”

“Reserve thy pity, thou thoughtless railer, for those who stand in need

on’t,” the eldest of the party, a dark-complexioned, stern-featured man,

replied in the same vein in which the first individual had spoken,

though the frown on his brow, and the compression of his lips evinced

that he was not pleased at the tone of the conversation. “Buondlemonte

mates with the noblest house of Florence; and though he ranks with the

first in Italy, he is not to be pitied when he enters the family of

Amedi.”

“Nay, Amedi, thou shalt not make me grave,” the first speaker said,

smiling at the serious looks of his saturnine companion; “I will

commiserate the fate of any luckless bachelor, whose days of freedom

draw so near their close; though, thou haughty senor, I will make this

reservation in thy favor, that if there exists aught to mitigate the

thraldom of matrimony, it may be found in the smiles of the beautiful

Francesca, and in the alliance with thy thrice noble house.”

“Even that admission is a step toward Guiseppo’s reformation,”

Buondlemonte observed, with a light laugh, as he placed his hand upon

the shoulder of the last speaker; “it proves that he is not quite

incorrigible.”

“But tell me, Buondlemonte—I must have it from thine own lips,”

Guiseppo said; “dost thou wed so soon? Shall we see thee a married man

on the third day from this?”

“’Tis most true, Guiseppo,” Buondlemonte replied, with a smile upon his

lips, though, as he spoke, an almost imperceptible sigh escaped him; “in

three days thou wilt see me wived. ’Tis an old contract, existing since

my youth. Amedi’s father and my own were friends—companions in

arms—and agreed to this union of our families. The time has arrived for

the consummation of the contract, and I am here to fulfill it.”

“Alas, poor youth! in what a tone of resignation was that last sentence

uttered. A pious maiden bending to the will of mother church could not

have answered more meekly. I fear me thou art a reluctant neophyte in

Hymen’s temple.”

“A truce with thy jesting, Guiseppo Leoni,” Jacopa Amedi angrily

observed; “thou dost proceed beyond the limits of courtesy. If the noble

Buondlemonte chooses to submit to thy rough raillery, I do not. The

honor of my house is concerned, and that shall not be tampered with by

light lips.”

“Enough, Amedi,” Buondlemonte said, as he interrupted a sharp retort

from Leoni, “Guiseppo meant no harm, and I have grown too wise, in my

travels, to be angered by a friendly jest.”

“Methinks, though,” another of the group, who had hitherto remained

silent, observed, “that Buondlemonte might vindicate my fair cousin from

the insinuation of accepting an unwilling husband. The court of the

emperor is a poor school for chivalry, if it does not teach the lesson

that a fair lady’s name should be preserved, like the polished surface

of a mirror, unsullied even by a breath.”

What reply Buondlemonte might have made to the captious cousin of his

betrothed bride is impossible to say, for at that moment a young page,

in gay attire, came up to the party, and, cap in hand, inquired if one

of them was not Buondlemonte.

“There stands the object of thy search, thou elfin emissary from the

bower of beauty!” Guiseppo smilingly remarked, as he pointed to

Buondlemonte; “deliver the challenge thou art charged with, and he will

meet thy mistress, though she be Medusa or Circe.”

The child carefully undid the folds of his scarf, and taking from thence

a small note, presented it with a graceful obeisance to Buondlemonte.

“Your answer, noble sir,” he said. “I am directed to bear it.”

Buondlemonte took the billet, and, after excusing himself to his

companions, stepped aside and cut the silken thread that bound it.

The note must have contained something more than ordinary, for as the

young man glanced his eyes over it, the red blood mounted to his cheeks

and his forehead.

“Whom dost thou serve, my pretty youth?” Jacopa Amedi asked, as

Buondlemonte perused and reperused the paper.

“To answer your question, signor,” the boy replied with a sly smile, as

he bowed with deference to the noble, “would be to prove that I am

unworthy to serve any one.”

“And to quicken thy speech,” Amedi’s cousin remarked, in a tone half

jesting half earnest, “it would be well to apply a leathern strap to thy

shoulders.”

“Fie, Baptista Amedi, fie!” Guiseppo said, as he observed the child’s

eyes flash with indignation; “conceive no foul thoughts toward the boy;

he merits thy praise for being faithful to his mistress, whoever she may

be.”

By this time Buondlemonte had concluded his perusal of the note, and

turning to the boy, he said, as he handed him a piece of money, “I will,

in person, bear an answer to your missive.”

The page bowed, and donning his plumed cap, was soon lost to observation

among the passengers in the street.

It was in vain that Guiseppo jested and Jacopa Amedi looked grave and

inquisitive; Buondlemonte was uncommunicative, and would make no

revelations in relation to the page’s mission.

“By my faith, thou art a lucky knight, Buondlemonte!” Guiseppo said.

“Not yet a day in Florence, and thou hast an assignation, I warrant me,

with some mysterious being.”

They had now arrived at the corner of a street that crossed the one in

which they were. Jacopa Amedi paused and pointed to a splendid mansion.

“You know our palace,” he said; “shall we thither?”

“Not now, Amedi,” Buondlemonte replied; “I have a commission for a

friend to execute before I can gratify my own wishes. In an hour I’ll

wait upon you at the palace; in the meantime present my duty to your

fair sister, and say that ere long I will offer it with my own lips.”

The young men separated; Amedi and his relatives turning their steps

toward the palace of the former, while Buondlemonte and Guiseppo

continued their walk alone.