CHAPTER VI.

Talbot and Mary were successful in reaching the city unpursued, and had

been four days in the American Consul’s house, before, through his

exertions, they discovered the departure and destination of Frank

Gillespie. The sister was grievously distressed, and mourned her brother

as dead, but Talbot pledged himself to follow and attempt his rescue,

and although the fractured bone of her arm was not well knit together,

she determined to accompany her lover as far as she could. Talbot was

provoked to the resolution, to say nothing of a more generous impulse,

by the refusal of the Spanish authorities to take cognizance of the

subject. And Mary felt that without impropriety she could proceed to

some one of the small ports on the route to Vera Cruz, if not to the

latter place itself. She hired a servant to supply the place of the one

drowned in the privateer, and felt more reconciled to the peril to which

Talbot would be exposed, from the assurance of Gonzalez that he would

share the enterprise. The latter, dreading more assassination by some of

the connections of the late count, than any legal investigation, kept

himself secreted in the city, but was frequently visited by Talbot.

The only vessel in port bound in the direction of Vera Cruz was an

American brig, advertised for Sisal. In her they engaged their passage,

and after night-fall Gonzalez, in disguise, accompanied them on board.

At break-of-day the next morning, they sailed with a fair wind, and had

gained some distance by sunset, when it fell calm, and with the land

upon one side, and an expanse of water on the other, the vessel rode

with graceful ease upon a prolonged but gentle undulation. The golden

rays of the setting sun mingled in the zenith with the soft and silvery

light of the moon in her meridian, and a long and lovely twilight

followed. Seated on deck, apart from their companions, (for Gonzalez was

too considerate to intrude,) Mary and her lover mused long and deeply.

The hour and the scene were calculated to dispel their anxieties and to

soothe their cares. When either was depressed—he, with the sad thought

that of all his race he stood alone—she, that she was an orphan, and

that her brother was perhaps lost to her forever, a glance around and

above would give their thoughts a holier and more soothing direction;

for the works of the Great Architect, the teeming earth, the slumbering

sea, the brilliant sky, all proclaimed in language unheard but _felt_

that mercy is His great and most peculiar attribute. It was indeed a

lovely scene! Directly overhead, the moon shone forth in serene and

unclouded lustre; a little lower, the fiery Mars peered forth; then the

resplendent orb of Jupiter, and in the same direct line, but just above

the horizon, the beautiful Venus sunk to rest, enveloped in a mantle yet

rich with the gorgeous rays of the sun which had preceded her. They

remained on deck until a late hour of the night, for whenever they went

below they were annoyed with the hum and fretted with the sting of the

mosquito. At last they parted, Talbot throwing himself upon the deck,

and Mary retired to her berth and soon fell asleep. If the waking hours

of that pure-minded girl had been those of endurance, the visions of

that night were ample compensation. Reclined upon her narrow bed, with

the folds of the mosquito-net tucked closely around her, while, like the

Cossacks before Ismael, the multitudinous insects strove to enter, she

was either in fancy communing with the man she loved, or with Frank and

her father knelt beneath the cotton-tree which shaded the grave of her

mother, and listened to the gentle wave as it rippled upon the beach,

while from the jeweled sky, fit canopy, for such a scene, the Omniscient

eye seemed to look down approving.

Among the crew there was a dandy sailor who took especial pride in his

flowing locks, and evidently sought to attract the notice of the lady

passenger. The day before they reached Sisal, seizing an opportunity

when Talbot and Gonzales were below, he passed once or twice by the

place where she sat on deck, and at length catching her eye, with a

meaning look dropped a letter at her feet, and immediately retired. Mary

had been beset with so many dangers of late; had been so often nearly

ensnared by plots, that she at once imagined the letter to contain a

friendly warning. She therefore hastily picked it up and ran below. It

proved to be a genuine love-letter, and despite her sadness and the

anxiety of her position, she laughed outright as she read it. Her

unusual merriment drew Talbot to her side, and after exacting a promise

from him that he would in no manner notice, or betray a knowledge of its

contents, she placed the letter in his hands, saying, “Don’t be

jealous—I will be true, although the offer is a tempting one.” Verbatim

et literatim, it ran thus:

“dear Mary is a name so sweet,

“i loves to spell it as i loves to eat. i kiles the ropes to

spell it, i scratches it with a marlingspike on the rale,

charming Miss Mary i addores you when you walkes the deck so

gracefull as a swan a swimming of a Rivver, i looks down upon

you from the top as you moves backards and forrards so

musically, i wishes that I was a hauk to pounce down upon you

and carry you of like a Duv in my Arms to sum luvly ileand in

the sea. Sweetest Miss Mary i isent a Lofer, for my Parrents is

respectible and my father ones a Large factory in New Jersy,

whar he makes a Grate quontity of paper, not your common Rapping

paper, but big sheets for the Nusepapers, and sum a grate deal

Finer for Riting upon than this, which is the best i can gett. i

is unfortunit Miss Mary but i isent a imposter for my Father is

ever so Rich and will give plenty of munny if i will cum home

and help him in his bizziness, but i cant go home nor no whars

els onless you will smile upon me i offers you all my prospicts.

if you will eccept my sute if your charming buzzom feels any

pitty for a poor Retch who loves you to dispare, and you will

cast them sweet killing ise on me, as you aires the deck, you

will liten my hart of its hevvy lode and make it swim in Blis.

Yours furever until deth.

“CIRUS LAMBERT.”

Poor Lambert!

“It were all one,

That he should love a bright particular star,

And think to wed it.”

But love, like faith, comes by inspiration, and whether it be a

milk-maid or a goddess, a man has a right to worship the object of his

affections. As we have seen, the maiden’s first impulse was to

merriment; but she soon perceived that the man was in earnest, and from

motives of delicacy and compassion she remained below the remainder of

the passage. The confinement was a brief one. The next afternoon they

reached Sisal, and were hospitably welcomed by an American merchant, to

whom Talbot had letters from our consul in Havana. Mary was immediately

taken to the gentleman’s house and cordially greeted by his wife, who

insisted upon her becoming an inmate of the family during her stay. An

offer most gratefully accepted. When the merchant was told of their

contemplated adventure he became a zealous coadjutor; chartered for them

a small, fast-sailing felucca, and purchased a cargo of salt, in order

that it might be supposed she was on one of her usual trading voyages.

He also procured for Talbot and Gonzalez, dresses such as are worn by

the crews of these vessels.

Determined not to lose a moment, as soon as the arrangements were

completed our adventurers set sail, Talbot with difficulty tearing

himself from his mistress, who clung to him in all the reckless

abandonment of grief. Coasting along the shore, they passed Alvarado and

anchored the second evening under Anton Lizardo, until the moon went

down. They then lifted their anchor, and passing between Sacrificios

Island (where a Spanish corvette lay) and the main land, they entered

the port of Vera Cruz unobserved.

Although necessary for the prosecution of their plan, yet coming to Vera

Cruz, in one contingency, very much increased their difficulties. It was

indispensable that tidings of their arrival should not reach the castle,

and yet they would certainly be communicated by the first flag of truce

that passed over. They therefore determined to dispose of their small

cargo at once—lay in a return one, make their remaining preparations,

and with a telescope examine the works of the castle, to decide on which

point they could with least danger approach, until near enough to

execute the stratagem they had devised.

The south front of the castle, facing the city, was 223 varas, or four

hundred and forty yards, including the south-west and south-east

bastions. Along this front were 34 guns mounted en barbette, i. e.,

without embrasures. The south-west curtain was the nearest, directly

facing, and half a mile distant from the town. Toward the north east,

protecting the sea front, was a tower bastion, which mounted a heavy gun

on a pivot. This tower bastion, nearly triangular in shape, was

completely isolated—its base line being fifty yards distant from the

north-east, or outside curtain of the castle, with the water flowing

between them—as also between the north-east and north-west faces of the

tower bastion and the outwork—in a space forty-two feet in width. The

outwork itself was very strongly fortified—indeed the strongest part of

the fortification, as defending the point which, at the time of its

construction, was deemed most likely to be attacked—as the engineer had

not foreseen that before an attack, the castle and the town might be

separately held by belligerents. The adventurers determined to make

direct for a postern in the south-east front, where there was a landing

of 2 or 3 steps, leading to a narrow platform, also of stone, which

opened into a covered way. Along the wall, between the south-west

bastion and the postern, were three or four rings inserted, to which, in

time of peace, vessels were ordinarily made fast, to ride under the lee

of the castle during the terrific gales so prevalent in the winter

months.

At an early hour the next morning they started, and a number of the

inhabitants who had heard of their intention to sail, were gathered on

the sea-wall to see if they could escape both the fire from the castle

and the pursuit of the corvette, then getting under way from her

anchorage at Sacrificios. They cheered the boat as she left the harbor,

and the loud vivas being heard by the garrison of the castle, several

shot were fired from the south-west bastion, which dispersed the

assemblage. A moment after the little felucca was seen standing boldly

out, and a signal was made from the castle to the corvette, while

several guns were brought to bear upon the daring little vessel—for

hitherto all attempts to pass had been made at night. The gunner stood

by one of the guns on the ramparts, and was about to apply the lighted

match, when his movement was arrested by an officer calling out, “Hold!

it is a friend.”

As soon as the felucca was well outside the pier, she hoisted the

Spanish ensign, and with a loud hurra from Talbot and Gonzalez, stood

directly for the castle. From the ramparts of the town were instantly

heard shouts of execration, and several muskets were discharged, but

without effect, and before one of the heavy guns could be prepared and

trained, the felucca was close under the walls of the castle. As

supposed deserters, they were received with apparent cordiality mingled

with distrust, and were conducted forthwith before the commandant, who

interrogated them long and closely. They represented themselves, Talbot

as a merchant whose property had been confiscated in consequence of his

inability to meet his portion of a forced loan, and subsequently sent to

Xalapa for some remarks he had made on the tyrannical course of the

government. Gonzalez professed to have been a resident of the latter

town, and that he had long been placed in surveillance for his political

opinions. That with his companion he had concerted and carried into

execution their plan of escape. The tale seemed plausible, but the

commandant was not thoroughly satisfied, and although he let them go at

large, directed that they should be strictly watched.

The boat was made fast to one of the ring-bolts secured in the wall in

the south-east face of the castle near the postern, and kept in her

position by a line fastened to a light kedge astern. Her bow was about

two fathoms or twelve feet from the landing. From the surface of the

water to the summit-level of the parapet was about thirty-five feet.

The two friends had feigned to be anxious to get away, but the

commandant withheld his consent, intending first more thoroughly to

satisfy himself of their character. They rejoiced at the delay, even

while they knew that it exposed them to increased hazard of detection.

Availing themselves of the privilege to wander about the works, they

looked anxiously in every direction for Frank. In every direction but

one they had looked in vain, and at last, almost in despair, Talbot

approached the quarters of the commandant. Here, in the last place to

have been expected, he found the object of his search in a kind of open

office, employed in converting into intelligible English some documents

written by an illiterate translator. At the sight of him Frank started

up, and was about to rush toward him, but resumed his seat when he saw

Talbot place his finger on his lip, and by a gesture indicated that the

sentry who stood near by, was observing them. On a small shelf just

within the door, stood a can of water, with a drinking-cup beside it.

Talbot stepping quickly within the door-way, asked the youth in Spanish

for a drink of water. The latter, understanding him, handed the cup, at

the same time closely watching every movement of his friend. The sentry

had in the meantime advanced to the door, and stood looking in. Talbot

drank with seeming thirst, and returning the cup with a simple

“_gratias_,” contrived to slip a bit of paper, unseen, into the hands of

Frank.

That night, Frank, complaining of the heat, obtained permission of the

officer of the day to sleep on the south-east bastion, or bastion of St.

Crispin, upon which the land-breeze blew, provided that he did so under

the eye of the sentinel posted there.

Gonzalez laid himself down at the foot of the stone stairway or ramp,

which led from the court of the castle below to the parapet above.

Between 2 and 3 o’clock in the morning, shortly after the sentinels had

been relieved, when the moon had set, and the light of the stars was

intercepted by masses of clouds wafted over from the land, Talbot, with

his cloak thrown around him, and a cap on his head, such as were worn by

the officers, ascended the stairway, mounted the parapet, and advanced

directly toward the sentinel near whom Frank had laid down.

The sentinel, taking it for granted that it was the officer of the day

who approached, (for Talbot had observed, and now closely imitated his

gait,) did not challenge until the latter was almost within the point of

his bayonet. As he brought his musket to a charge, demanding the

watchword, Talbot pushed the point of the weapon suddenly aside, and

rushing upon, threw over and fell upon the sentinel. Frank now sprung

up, and found that Talbot held the soldier by the throat with so much

force that he was nearly strangled. Together they soon securely tied and

gagged him. At a motion from Talbot, who, putting on the soldier’s cap,

and shouldering his musket, resumed the round, Frank fastened a cord

(which the former threw to him) to one of the barbette-guns, and let

himself down the face of the wall, landing upon the narrow stone ledge a

short distance from the boat. While he was doing this, Gonzalez had

stealthily crawled up the ramp or stairway, and creeping along the

parapet, in like manner, lowered himself down beside the youth. Talbot

then placing the musket by the gun, with the soldier’s cap upon, and his

cloak around it, followed their example, and reached his companions in

safety. One of them then swam out and cut the rope which held the boat

by the stern, but, on his return, found his companions in consternation.

A padlock had been put upon the chain, and in vain they strove to part

the bolt. At this moment the clouds had swept by, and they were thrown

into despair by hearing the sentinel on the south-west bastion call out,

“_Qui viv_.” In desperation they all sprung into the boat as the

sentinel discharged his musket, and gave the alarm. With the strength

which despair alone can give, they seized the chain, and with one mighty

effort tore the bolt from the stern of the boat with a crash. The alarm

was now general, and there was not an instant to be lost. Pushing boldly

from the landing, they hoisted their sail with expedition, and stood

diagonally across toward the main land, carefully keeping themselves in

a line with the angle of the south-east bastion. There was great

confusion in the garrison, several of the large guns were discharged,

and volleys of musketry were fired in the direction they pursued. The

balls flew wide of the mark, and as the felucca was now under rapid

headway, they began to congratulate themselves that they were out of

danger, when, by a discharge of the heavy pivot-gun on the

tower-bastion, loaded with grape, Gonzalez was struck down, mortally

wounded.

The felucca reached Sisal in safety, but Talbot and Mary deeply and

unceasingly mourned the loss of their true and invaluable friend. And

Frank bitterly grieved that his freedom should have been purchased at

such a sacrifice. He was, indeed, worthy of all regret—but a cloud had

overshadowed his sun of life. He would have brooded over his sister’s

shame until existence had become a burthen, and his impulsive nature

might by unlawful means have sought relief in the cold embrace of death.

He perished in a work of charity, and it is to be hoped that He who,

“When all our souls were forfeit,

Could the advantage best have took,

Found out the remedy,”

in His abounding mercy, forgave one act of passion for the redeeming

merits of the cause wherein the unhappy Gonzalez met his death.

There was only one vessel at Sisal, bound at an early day to the United

States, and her destination was New Orleans. Frank, his sister and

Talbot, accordingly took passage in her, and reached the south-west pass

of the Mississippi just as a gale was coming on. The country above had

been overflowed by recent heavy rains, and what between the current from

within, and the swell without, they were greeted with a magnificent

spectacle. The waves of the gulf, driven before the gale, which had soon

become terrific, encountered the onward sweep of the waters of the

mighty river. The sight forcibly reminded them of Rebecca’s exclamation

in Ivanhoe, “God of Jacob! it is like the meeting of two oceans moved by

adverse tides!”

Nearly the whole period of their stay was embraced in one uninterrupted

storm, but the magnificence of the scenery compensated for the

inclemency of the weather. Vegetation was still in full luxuriance, and

the moss, pendent from the trees, and saturated with incessant rain,

like dripping garments swayed to and fro in the wind, while low, rugged

clouds trailed along but a short distance overhead, and a gray

semi-transparent mist floated above the surface of the ground. The

“Mississippi,” unusually turbid, and swollen to the utmost capacity of

its banks, with its mighty whirls and eddies, rushed impetuously on,

bearing on its surface many a vestige of the devastation it had caused.

Nor were the works of art, clumsy and unsymmetrical though they were,

wanting to the scene, spreading no sail to the breeze, but drifting idly

with the current, the arks and the broad-horns were whirled by with a

rapidity that seemed to defy management. Wafted over the water

frequently came the wild and not unmelodious sound of the bugle, while

in the stillness of the night were heard the manly and sonorous voices

of the boatmen singing,

“The boatman dance, the boatman sing,

The boatman up to every thing.

When the boatman gets on shore,

He spends his money and works for more.

Dance, boatman, dance—

Dance, boatman, dance—dance all night till broad daylight,

And go home with the girls in the morning.”

Steam was just beginning to be introduced, and the soothing solitudes of

nature to be disturbed by the monotonous clank of machinery. Our party

availed themselves of an upward-bound steamboat, and slowly ascended the

Mississippi, whose turbid and swollen waters rolled far and wide beyond

their usual boundaries. The river was filled with broken rafts, drift

logs, and half-sunken and floating trees. The danger of running upon a

snag, or encountering a sawyer, was great and impending. The current was

so strong that their boat, although striving to keep in shore, would

frequently be caught by a whirl or an eddy, and like a stray leaf upon a

rivulet, would be turned round and round until striking against a tree,

it would be sent into the mid current and again be carried for miles

among the trees, from whose verdant tops the birds that had remained

undisturbed by the rush and the roar beneath, flew at the boat’s

approach, as if aware that their only enemy was man. They also ascended

the Ohio, whose limpid waters, gliding with a strong but not impetuous

current, have won for it the name of beautiful. When they stood upon the

crest of the Alleghany, and saw mountains, “hills and plains as graceful

in their sweep as the arrested billows of a mighty sea, and recollected

that more boundless than the view, that verdant sweep is uninterrupted

until the one extreme is locked in the fast embrace of thick-ribbed ice,

and the other is washed by the phosphorescent ripple of the tropic,

while on either side is heard the murmuring surge of a widespread and

magnificent ocean,”[2] their hearts bounded with exultation as they

thought of the unrivaled destinies of their country. As if on the high

altar of the land of his nativity, Talbot, who had wandered far and

wide, could not withhold his pledge of devotion, and the heartfelt

exclamation escaped him,

“By travel taught, I can attest

I love my native land the best.”

The commissioned officer, not unknown to fame, met with none of the

obstacles which the friendless orphan had encountered, and Talbot’s

estate was settled without difficulty.

When the chastening hand of time had hallowed the memories of the dead,

and substituted a Christian resignation for the bitterness of early

grief, Edward and Mary were united, and through a since much checkered

life, neither time nor circumstance, nor prosperity, nor distress, has

for one instant abated a feeling which is fixed and unalterable as their

future destinies.

-----

[2] From a speech of the author’s, 1844.

* * * * *

THE RUSTIC SHRINE.

BY GEO. W. DEWEY.

Their names were found cut upon a rural bench, overgrown with

vines, which proved to be at once Love’s shrine and

cenotaph. _Legends of the Rhine._

A shadow of the cypress bough

Lies on my path to-day—

A melancholy—which in vain

I strive to chase away.

The angel Memory hath flown

To old and cherished things,

To bring the light of early years

Around me on her wings;

And where the love-lorn birds complain

Within their green abode,

Between two elms, a rustic seat

Invites her from the road.

There shall she sit, as oft before,

And sigh as oft again,

O’er names engraved, which long have braved

The sunshine and the rain.

And one—it is the dearest name

On Love’s unnumbered shrines:—

So dear, that even envious Time

Hath guarded it with vines;

And wreathed it with his choicest flowers.

As if the bridal claim,

Which Fate denied unto her brow,

Should still adorn her name!

Ah, well do I remember yet

The day I carved that name!

The rattle of the locusts’ drum

Thrills o’er me now the same;

Adown the lane the wayward breeze

Comes with a stealthy pace,

And brings the perfume of the fields

To this deserted place:—

Unto her blushing cheek again

It comes—the blessèd air!

Caressing, like a lover’s hand,

The tresses of her hair.

The brook runs laughing at her feet,

O’erhead the wild-bird sings,

The air is filled with butterflies,

As though the flowers had wings:—

But this is Fancy’s pilgrimage,

And lures me back in vain!

The brook, the bench, the flowers and vines

I ne’er may see again;

For this is but an idle dream

That mocks me evermore—

And memory only fills the place

My loved one filled of yore!

* * * * *

[Illustration:

J. Dill, Sc.

TORTOSA, FROM THE ISLAND OF RUAD.]

* * * * *

LUNA.—AN ODE.

BY H. T. TUCKERMAN.

_Casta Diva, che inargenti_

_Questi sacri antiqui piante_

_A noi volge il bel sembianti_

_Senza nube e senza vel!_ NORMA.

The south wind hath its balm, the sea its cheer,

And autumn woods their bright and myriad hues;

Thine is a joy that love and faith endear,

And awe subdues:

The wave-tost seamen and the harvest crew,

When on their golden sheaves the quivering dew

Hangs like pure tears—all fear beguile,

In glancing from their task to thy maternal smile!

The mist of hill-tops undulating wreathes,

At thy enchanting touch, a magic woof,

And curling incense fainter odor breathes,

And, in transparent clouds, hangs round the vaulted roof.

Huge icebergs, with their crystal spires

Slow heaving from the northern main,

Like frozen monuments of high desires

Destined to melt in nothingness again,—

Float in thy mystic beams,

As piles aerial down the tide of dreams!

A sacred greeting falls

With thy mild presence on the ruined fane,

Columns time-stained, dim frieze, and ivied walls,

As if a fond delight thou didst attain

To mingle with the Past,

And o’er her trophies lone a holy mantle cast!

Along the billow’s snowy crest

Thy beams a moment rest,

And then in sparkling mirth dissolve away;

Through forest boughs, amid the withered leaves,

Thy light a tracery weaves,

And on the mossy clumps its rays fantastic play.

With thee, ethereal guide,

What reverent joy to pace the temple floor,

And watch thy silver tide

O’er statue, tomb and arch its solemn radiance pour!

Like a celestial magnet thou dost sway

The untamed waters in their ebb and flow,

The maniac raves beneath thy pallid ray.

And poet’s visions glow;

Madonna of the stars! through the cold prison-grate

Thou stealest, like a nun on mercy bent.

To cheer the desolate,

And usher in grief’s tears when her mute pang is spent!

I marvel not that once thy altars rose

Sacred to human woes,

And nations deemed thee arbitress of Fate,

To whom enamored virgins made their prayer,

Or widows in their first despair,

And wistful gazed upon thy queenly state,

As, with a meek assurance, gliding by,

In might and beauty unelate,

Into the bridal chambers of the sky!

And less I marvel that Endymion sighed

To yield his spirit unto thine,

And felt thee soul-allied,

Making his being thy receptive shrine!

A lofty peace is thine!—the tides of life

Flow gently when thy soothing orb appears,

And passion’s fevered strife

From thy chaste glow imbibes the calmness of the spheres!

O twilight glory! that doth ne’er awake

Exhausting joy, but evenly and fond,

Allays the immortal thirst it cannot slake,

And heals the chafing of the work-day bond;

Give me thy patient spell!—to bear

With an unclouded brow, the secret pain,

(That floods my soul as thy pale beams the air,)

Of hopes that Reason quells, for Love to wake again!

* * * * *

FROM BUCHANNAN.

BY RICHARD PENN SMITH.

IN ZOILUM.

Frustra ego te laudo; frustra me Zoile lædis

Nemo mihi credit, Zoile, nemo tibi.

TO ZOILUS.

Zoilus, in vain thy praise I spread;

And vainly thou hast slandered me!

No one believed a word I said,

No one on earth would credit thee.

—

Qui te videt beaties est;

Beatior qui te audiet

Qui basiat—semi deus est!

TRANSLATION.

He who beholds thy charms is blest;

More blest is he thy voice who hears;

But he thy ruby lip that pressed,

To me a demi-god appears.

The above was unquestionably suggested by the lines of Catullus to

Lesbia, beginning—

Ille mi par esse Deo videtur

Ille, si fas est, superare Divos

Qui sedens adversus identidem te

Spectat, et audit, etc.

This poem of Catullus is nothing more than a translation from the Greek

of Sappho, which has been rendered familiar by Ambrose Phillips’

version.

“Blest as the immortal gods is he;

The youth who fondly sits by thee:

Who hears and sees thee, all the while,

Softly speak and sweetly smile, etc.”

It would seem that Horace when composing his beautiful ode of “Integer

Vitæ,” had these verses of Sappho in mind, when he exclaims—

Dulce ridentem, Lalagen amabo

Dulce loquentem.

The “_Dulce ridentum_” is also beautifully applied in the translation by

Catullus.

* * * * *

THE RECLUSE. NO. II.

BY PARK BENJAMIN.

IV.

From Paris, on the 28th of February last, about four o’clock in the

afternoon, a rainbow was distinguished in the heavens. “Bravo!” cried a

workman of the Faubourg Saint Antoine—“See how le bon Dieu (the good

God) also acknowledges the French Republic—he hangs out the tricolored

flag.”

This anecdote, though singularly French, who are noted for irreligion,

does not strike me as betraying any lack of reverence. Could not the

poor _ouvrier_ in his ignorance really have presumed the rainbow to be a

providential token? Instances of greater blindness might be recounted,

which have happened at our own doors. Who does not know the stories of

Millerite fanaticism? Are not the impostures of Matthias too recent not

to be remembered in detail? The miracles which they pretended, and which

were not too monstrous for the capacious maw of respectable credulity,

were much more marvelous than the tricolored flag of the poor Paris

laborer.

V.—TO AN OLD FLAME.

_Written on one of the bitterest days of Winter._

Ah, Mary, thou art far away,

And never dost thou think of me,

But unto thee my visions fly

Like birds across the sea.

I loved thee once with such a love

As manhood only knows and feels,

Less shown by actions and by words

Than what the eye reveals.

Within the warm and sunny South

Thy form is folded like a rose,

While I, in Northern realms afar,

Am wrapt in wintry snows.

Perhaps a husband’s arms enclose

The treasure I’d have died to win,

So that desire for thy sweet face

Is very like a sin.

But I’ll not think it—let me dream—

Since dreams alone such bliss bestow—

That, ere we meet in climes above,

We yet may meet below.

And I again may feel a thrill

Of rapture as I sit and gaze

Into thine eye’s delicious depth

Till all my heart’s ablaze.

And I can hear thy tuneful voice,

With melody almost divine,

Sing the sweet songs I joyed to hear

In days of auld lang syne.

But all in vain I strike my lyre,

In vain my burning thoughts unfold,

For, though my heart is warm with love,

My hands are numb with cold.

VI.—SHIPWRECK.

There is no event, by which sorrow is brought to mankind, which arouses

in the mind of old and young a livelier horror than “shipwreck.” There

is something so terrible in the loneliness and obscurity of the sea,

something so deplorable in the utter helplessness of the sailors, that

there is scarcely any danger which we would not rather encounter. When

we read of one, either near at hand or afar off, we involuntarily close

our eyes, as if to shut out the awful scene; the noble ship helplessly

reeling and tumbling on the billows, the pall of clouds, the driving

rain, the white spray and foam drifting like ghosts over the water, some

boat perhaps crowded with human beings, some broken mast or spar to

which cling drowning wretches, and alone, all alone on the ocean-desert,

with no hope of aid or succor. Vainly do we strive to shut our ears to

the cries of misery and despair, to the wail of the wind, the loud

lamenting of the surge, the deep groans of the vessel as her timbers

part, and the noblest fabric of human skill is about to be torn to

fragments and utterly destroyed.

Lord Byron, describing a ship under full sail, uses the forcible

expression,

“She walks the water like a thing of like.”

There is as much truth as beauty in this. Indeed it is difficult to

imagine so proud and glorious an object, moving obedient to reason and

command, to be nothing more than an inanimate mass. Behold her, as she

sets out upon her voyage, with a fair sky and favoring breeze! How

gracefully she parts the waters and sweeps onward! Is not that form

instinct with feeling and endowed with intellect? No! she is but a

wonderful piece of mechanism; but the dullest fancy might imagine her a

being, an intelligence, capable of volition, powerful in deed. Observe

her, too, when overmastered by the tempest and made subject to the

waves, she drifts powerless along! Does she not seem to suffer human

pangs in her struggles, and to die with all of mortal agony?

The attachment, I might say friendship, which seamen entertain for

particular vessels is not to be wondered at. The deck is the home of the

mariner: here the greater number of his days are spent: the masts,

sails, rigging are to him familiar objects, the objects of his constant

care and solicitude, and he feels for them a species of paternal love.

When these are destroyed, lost, wrecked, he mourns them with a real

sorrow.

It is my lot to live within constant sight of the sea. I am on one of

the grand highways from Europe to New York. Ships of all nations pass my

door. Many a noble vessel has been wrecked within a mile from my

dwelling. My mind therefore often reverts to this most fearful calamity,

and it is difficult for me to expel even from my dreams visions of

shipwreck.

VII.—DR. SYNTAX.

Will nobody republish “A Tour in Search of the Picturesque?” Will nobody

print it and give us the original pictures, colored engravings of the

richest sort—none of your meager outlines—your skeletons of

sketches—but the rotund figures in full of the veritable hero of that

glorious poem, and all the scenes and adventures through which he

passed?

Darling old Dr. Syntax! How many a sad, long year has droned away since

I, a merry boy, used to read thy most fascinating of Tours! Nothing ever

so captivated my young imagination as thy solitary rambles on thy

faithful steed through town and hamlet—now taking up thy abode with

some lordly proprietor, and now sleeping contentedly beneath the roof of

some sturdy yeoman—now kissing the squire’s wife and sister, and now

giving sympathizing advice to the dairy-maid, who was, like poor

Ophelia, disappointed in love. Oh, Doctor! thou wast never above

humanity. Though never frail thyself, yet wast thou no inexorable judge

over the frailties of others.

I long, most patient and peculiar of travelers, I long sincerely to

accompany thee once more in thy rambles. Most charitable of divines,

most lenient of pedagogues, “take thee for all in all, I shall not look

upon thy like again!” _Interestingest_ of all authors, I would enter

into thy feelings once more. I would feel the joy thou feltest in

quitting thy spouse (no _dulcis uxor_) and mounting thy famous mare,

Grizzle, and setting forth on thy most speculative and picturesque

expedition. You were a creature of the brain, Doctor, I suppose—but to

me you are a reality. I remember you perfectly. I loved you when a boy

at school with all my heart. Orthography, Etymology and Prosody I

hated—but I loved Syntax.

Which of you generous and gentlemenly booksellers will immediately send

me a copy (bound or unbound, but it must have the pictures,) of Dr.

Syntax’s Tour in Search of the Picturesque? Speak not all at once! I

will promise you “a first-rate notice in the Boston Post.” It would

afford me “a wonderful sight” of fun, as they say in Androscoggin, to

read that book. I should be _rejuvenesced_. Kind Mr. Hart, be so

obliging as to ransack your shelves and transmit an old English copy,

directed TO THE RECLUSE, _aux soins du redacteur en chef de_

GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

VIII.—A CHARACTER.

My friend, Ralph Willinton, is a man of adventures. More strange things

have happened to him than to any dozen people I ever heard of, in what

are called “the common walks of life.” Ralph is by no means an

extraordinary individual. If the North River waited for him to set it on

fire, it might flow on through the Highlands unscorched forever. He was

not born to greatness; he will never achieve greatness, nor will

greatness be thrust upon him. But do not misunderstand me: Ralph, as the

gentleman felicitously remarked of Shakespeare, “is no fool.” On the

contrary, he is a fellow of parts. He never dazzled in conversation by a

coruscation of mother-wit; but when he has heard a happy rejoinder, he

remembers it, and has the skill to use it to advantage.

Ralph is the happiest mimic in these _Untied_ States, as they may sooner

or later be called. There never appeared an actor in any one of our

theatres whose voice and manner he cannot imitate with marvelous

verisimilitude. Moreover he sings a very good song, though with no very

powerful or melodious voice. He can write Magazine articles on music,

composes occasionally himself, and writes love ditties, such as they

are. Add to these accomplishments a manner irresistibly winning, and

tones in speaking as sweet as those which the author of Guy Mannering

gives to Rashleigh Osbaldistone, and you are possessed of the sum total

of Ralph’s recommendations. The sum total do I say? when I have but

obscurely hinted at his extraordinary gift or faculty of story-telling,

by which, like Hamlet’s Yorick, he can set the whole table on a roar. In

sooth, he is the most diverting of dinner-table companions. He richly

earns his invitations, of which no man has more. You can bear to listen

to those stories of his (which are nothing when any one else tells them)

a hundred times. They are “ever charming, ever new.” Age cannot mar nor

custom stale his infinite variety. His profession is the law, and his

practice is amusement.

Ralph is, in fine, a capital fellow. It is a pity that he should have a

capital propensity. He is the hero of all his romances. Had he been

Macbeth, he never would have exclaimed, “Thou canst not say _I_ did it!”

He would rather have had the _credit_ of murdering Duncan himself than

have been thought to have no hand in the “bloody business.” Ralph is the

most ubiquitous of mortals. To have effected an iota of what he

attributes to his own talents, valor and industry, to have done one in

fifty of those deeds of which he asserts “_quorum pars magna fui_,” he

must have been in a very considerable number of places at once.

Nevertheless and notwithstanding Ralph Willinton is a glorious good

fellow. Reader, did you ever meet with Ralph Willinton?

* * * * *

A VOICE FROM THE WAYSIDE:

ABOUT A GENIUS.

BY CAROLINE C——.

We wither from our youth, we waste away,

Sick, sick, unfound the boon—unslaked the thirst.

BYRON.

In summer time there are few things more delightful than an occasionally

wet day to “out-of-towners.”

Then we of the country, in our almost noiseless homes, may delight and

rejoice in the strange and pleasant quietness attending a still,

steadily-falling rain; we can watch with admiring eyes how the fields

and the well-draperied woods grow bright and cleanly, ’neath the hand of

that pattern housekeeper, Dame Nature; we can listen undisturbed by the

multitudinous noises which infest a city, to the dear wild-birds, who,

impatient of the long-continued weeping of the skies, occasionally break

forth into the merriest songs, as if questioning each other as to how

they stand the charges of the elements.

And then there is the generous Sun King, (I acknowledge, however, he

does not shine for country-people _only_,) glancing out at intervals

from between the heavy clouds, smiling upon us joyously, and looking for

all the world as though he would say if he could, “never mind, children,

the storm will soon be passed!” And then the after-part of a summer

shower! the freshened fragrance of the flowers—the purified

atmosphere—the bright blue sky—the increased glory of the

setting-sun—the rainbow in the east—the drops of water glistening on

the flowers and on the grass, so pure and bright, that one might almost

imagine them the tears of spirits—the glad songs of innumerable

birds—the groups of children exhibiting in various ways their nautical

daring on and about the newly-formed lakelets in the roads and

fields—the many evidences of life awakened out of doors—then the holy

calmness of the ensuing summer night—the soft light of the stars—and

after that the trembling glory of the new moon! Oh, beautiful, beautiful

summer! with thy rain-storms and thy sunshine, hasten to us again!

But—a rainy day in winter! its horrors encircle me at this moment; I

forbear entering into its details. However much _you_ may delight in a

day like unto this, oh, listen to the humble voice now emerging from the

way-side, _I_ have no courage to speak even of the stubborn,

hard-headed, cheerless figure Nature presents when she stands gazing in

such mute dismay upon her domicil.

It is in human nature, at least in mine, and I claim to be human, to be

always looking for _a something better_, and despite all this dreariness

without, my heart is even now continually singing, “Spring is coming!

spring is coming!” but a few weeks! and then, instead of the dismal

trappings of winter, how beautiful and bright all without and around us

will be! the very thought is enough to make every soul shout, “Hasten

the time! Amen!”

There is such a desolateness in the court of the white-headed old king

which people very naturally shrink from as they grow older in years!

Looking back into childhood, these stony-hearted months when frost and

snow reign king and queen over earth, seem, indeed, the most joyous—and

not without reason. For then the “Christman” and the youth so full of

promise, the bright New Year, are never-failing guests by the mid-winter

fire-side. There is joy for the child on the ice-bound hill, on the

glassy, frozen lake, in the gurgling, merry sound of the sleigh-bells,

in the sight of the cheerful home-fire, in the bracing out-door air, in

the huge snow-drifts—everywhere, everywhere there is joy for the child!

And why? Because of bounding hopes and joyous dreams, and the careless

yielding up of oneself to every passing enjoyment—because of freedom

from labor—because of ignorance of the worth and supremacy of

gold—because of utter innocence of the strict “proprieties” of life!

There is joy for the child, because he has not yet learned much of

disappointments; he does not know how uncomfortable is the close-fitting

garment of manhood. He is not wise enough to see in the winter storms,

in the driving blasts in which he so much delights, the type of what

assuredly awaits him. He does not know that the life-storms with which

he will have to struggle, will come suddenly and furiously upon

him—that he will, perforce, then fling aside his mittens and grapple

open handed with his foes. And it must certainly be at the warm and

genial hearth-fire of truth and honesty, and no stifling stove-heat by

which he must keep his heart, and its hopes and affections warm and in

health, else they will die away suddenly and utterly, even as the fire

of the “patent air-tight” dies!

Hark! now I hear the flapping of wings; and lo, here, almost close

beside my window, are passing pigeons—snow-white pigeons; and, where

_could_ it have streamed from, there is a ray of sunlight on their

wings! and since I have begun writing, the clouds seem to have “spent

their fury,” they are less dull and dreary—they are slowly breaking

away.

The view from the window by which I am writing is not especially

charming. In one direction there are sheds, and barns, and barren trees,

and a little farther on, the spire of an unpretending church, and sundry

chimney-tops, together with the roofs of a few loftier buildings meet my

eye. These are all certainly very _suggestive_ scenes, and might make so

many important heads of a very interesting discourse; but, in another

direction from this same window there are great fields, and farther on,

woods and hills, and between them and me, there are two points in the

landscape on which very often my eyes rest, and many are the

recollections, bitter and sweet, they awaken. One is a village

school-house, the other a thickly-populated grave-yard.

Over those hills, and through the woods, and by the sandy shores of our

beautiful lake, I was once a frequent wanderer, and with me invariably

in all those rovings, was a child of somewhere near my own age, to whom,

good reader, you may now consider yourself introduced.

When the week, with its disappointments, and hopes and joys has passed,

and Saturday afternoon, the child’s holyday the world over, comes round

again, how often my thoughts have turned back to her, and to the time

when _we_ also were young; oh, how much of meaning there is in that

word, _youth_!

But looking back into the past is not an over-pleasant business at any

time. There are very many reasons why people, for the most part, dread

the rolling up of that curtain within which lies buried much of

destroyed confidence, and happiness that died of fearful wounds; but I

am willing to trespass on my own feelings at this present, that you may

know something of Lily Reeve.

People said she was a genius. They said rightly—she was. And to

complete the interest attachable to her therefor, Lily was poor—_very_

poor, and had been all the days of her life.

When the Reeve family moved among us they had no acquaintance or

relative in our village—and their circumstances and business were not

such as attached any importance or attracted any notice to them. Had it

not been for Lily they would probably have remained long enough in our

midst, unknown and uncared for. The mother was a middle-aged woman, a

widow; of the children I knew not much, save that with much

appropriateness their name might have been “legion.” Lily was the eldest

child—not beautiful—and far from being even interesting, personally.

Why her parents had bestowed on her so decided a name as Lily was always

a mystery—for very far from a resemblance, even the slightest, to that

graceful flower, was she. Neither was she a brunette, but of complexion

rather dark, hair _very_ black, and always curled, which gave her a

decidedly Mrs. Hemanish look at times. Her features were irregular—oh,

certainly, she was _far_ from beautiful, and yet there was much

sweetness of expression in the mouth, and much of vigor and

determination perceivable in her dark eyes.

It was a good many years ago, but I remember distinctly the first time I

ever saw Lily. With a number of juveniles I was returning from a _very_

long walk—all our foot-jaunts were long in those days—when, on passing

by an old-fashioned frame-house, brown with age, and poor and

disconsolate in its outward appearance, one of the group said, “Let’s go

into that house; there’s a girl living there who paints.”

And we went in. One of the more confident of our number said to the

woman who received us, “Will you show us some of the pictures your

daughter has painted?”

With a smile of satisfaction, as though she were pleased that even we

children should have heard of her daughter, the woman bade us sit down;

and then she brought from an old chest a handful of papers, and spread

them on the table before us. Some of these were pictures of warriors on

their steeds, others landscapes, and some were heads. There was one

which more than all the others attracted my attention—it was a portrait

of a sleeping child. We asked if this were one of her children, or only

a fancy sketch.

“That was her little brother who died,” replied the woman, with a sigh.

“Lily drew it when he was dead.” There was something so sad in the

mother’s voice as she said this, that it checked our gay spirits, and

tended to subdue our loud expressions of admiration. While we yet stood

there turning over the papers, and gazing in wonder on the productions

of a girl no older than the youngest among us, the subject of our

thoughts and curiosity came into the room.

When she saw what was our object there, she came up to the table, and

putting her arm around me, as though confident she was with friends, she

asked if we liked her drawings. I remember well the thrill which passed

over me at this simple act of hers, for I had begun to regard the girl

as something quite extraordinary, and almost more than human. From that

day I date a friendship I am proud to have formed, one which, while it

lasted, delighted me more than any similar tie I have ever known.

It was very easy to see that the heart of the mother in those days was

full of hope—that the mind of the daughter teemed with ambitious

desires, and a determination, apparently invincible, to accomplish great

things. About that time there were many people who turned prophets, and

looking into the future, they saw a great name added to America’s

illustrious daughters of song—the name of Lily Reeve. Do you think

their prophecy has proved true?

In the old school-house, (which I heartily regret to say has been of

late abandoned, and its former inmates have taken possession of a more

stately edifice up-town,) in that little old brick building, _we_ in the

years long, long gone by, were wont to assemble—and Lily joined us

there. And although on the humdrum route of _learning_ we were quite in

the advance, she soon very far outstripped us, and moved on with most

rapid strides through all the first branches of education. It was

impossible for us dullards to see her strange advancement, and not feel

a little envious of her ability, notwithstanding we liked Lily so well.

In one short year she had acquired nearly all the instruction it was

possible for our teacher to impart, and as may be supposed for his part,

he was watching her progress with somewhat of anxiety. But his honor as

a teacher was not destined to be sacrificed to the young girl’s genius.

One afternoon, when school was dismissed, Lily said to me, “You and I

will go home by the other street. I have something to tell you, and the

way will be longer. Besides, I want to be away from these rough boys and

girls.”

So we crossed the road, and entered a path which led us by a long way

home. When we had reached the bridge, which crossed a deep, rapidly

running brook, we sat down on the bench, placed in the shade of an old

tree, which from “time immemorial” has stood there, with the most of its

tangled roots buried in the water; then Lily spoke again, for the first

time since we went out from the school-house.

“Do you know they are going to send me to the other school—they think I

can learn more there, and have teachers in the higher branches, and in

the languages. Oh, dear!”

“But why that ‘oh, dear!’ Lily? I only wish I were ready to go there

too, but I am such an ignoramus, and you know every thing!”

“Not quite every thing. I _should_ be glad to go—and there are a great

many reasons why. I have the greatest desire to learn, and I’m sure if I

have a little more education, I can make my way easily in the world;

but—but—in short, they are rich people who are going to send me, and

they will expect miracles from me, you may depend upon it—_I_ know.

Because I am poor, and can write pretty well, and paint, and sketch

likenesses, they have taken an interest in me; but I tell you before

hand, and you will see before long I speak rightly; I shall have to work

like a slave to keep up with their expectations. Isn’t it enough to make

any body say, ‘oh, dear?’”

“No—I don’t think so, Lily. You _can’t help_ equaling their

expectations, and they have such nice teachers at the other school, and

no great rude boys go there.”

“That makes no difference at all. One can learn as well in one place as

another. If it were not that mother felt so glad when the ladies made

her the offer to send me there, I’d never go. You don’t know any thing

about what it means to be dependent; you can’t think what a heavy load

seems resting on me, ever since so many people have seemed to take an

interest in me. I really begin to doubt my own powers. It seems to me as

though I ought not to be forced like a plant in a hot-bed. I almost wish

I never had any particular gifts.”

“And you say this, Lily Reeve, when all the girls in town are envying

you! Now just be firm, for I’m sure if you only make up your mind you

_will_ do a thing, you _can_ do it!”

“Do you believe it?” she asked, so suddenly, that I was startled and

began in some trepidation to bethink my words.

“Certainly,” I answered at last; “I heard our minister say the other day

your verses were excellent; and you know your pictures sold well at the

fair. How can you doubt yourself so?”

“I don’t know,” said Lily, thoughtfully, “perhaps they are nearer right

than I dare to think them—but I cannot explain it to you. I am never

satisfied with any thing I do. My verses always sound so rough when

compared with the melody in my brain—and my pictures, when I begin

them, my fingers almost fly, I think I will surpass myself—and when

they are finished, they always look so rude and rough, that I am tempted

often to burn them every one.”

“Never mind,” said I, confidently, “you will see the day yet when all

will be brighter to you—and you know the teacher says every day

‘practice makes perfect;’ and he always looks at you when he says

it—you ought to have learned that by this time.”

“I’ll learn it now from you,” said Lily; “we’ll go now to the woods, I

want to get some flowers to take to mother.”

Just beyond the woods to which we then bent our steps, there was a large

field, in the upper portion of which, early in the season, we always

found multitudes of purple flowers and white lilies; our first business

that night was to fill our aprons with these treasures, and then we went

into the woods, and sat down by a stream in a most romantic place, and

began to arrange our huge bunches of flowers. Lily made hers into small

bouquets, one for each of her family, while I twined mine into a wreath,

and laid it on her head. But soon the fast increasing shade in the woods

warned us it was time to be returning home. The thought of the

obligation she was about to incur evidently still troubled my

companion’s mind, for she spoke but little, and her words, when she did

speak, were desponding, and even the bright flowers with which her hands

were filled, failed to attract her usual attention, or awaken the

delight they were wont to.

We were about crossing the stile that was placed at the entrance of the

wood, when Lily suddenly flung the beautiful green moss she had gathered

in a damp place, with violence from the bosom of her dress, where she

had laid it. And when I looked with amazement at the excited girl, she

exclaimed, “Look there! I had a snake in my bosom!” Truly enough, there

was a tiny, striped, infant snake, creeping out leisurely from the bunch

of moss she had flung upon the ground. A thought darted through my

mind—I grasped her arm and said,

“You shall hear the moral of this before you go a step further, Lily

Reeve. I’m no genius, but I’ll teach you a plain lesson. You have thrown

the snake away from you; don’t, don’t ever take it back again. Don’t

doubt those who mean to do you kindness; only just do what nature

intended you should, and all who know you will be satisfied! When you

come to be very famous, the people who help you now will think you did

them a favor in letting them aid you. Mother says perseverance will work

wonders, and I believe it—_you_ can prove it.”

When I had finished my oration, I stood somewhat astonished at my own

audacity, but after a moment’s silence Lily said,

“Thank you—thank you, for you have learned me two lessons—I’ll not

forget them; no, I will never take the serpent back, you may depend on

that.”

A few days after Lily was established at the larger school, dwelling

with other boarders in the family of the principal, the wonder of all

the scholars, and the pet pupil with the teachers.

The hopeful expectations of her family were kept up by her progress, and

by her own increasing courage and cheerfulness. And in reality it seemed

no unfounded expectation, that which they cherished, that the young girl

would soon be able to support them all by dint of her genius. Her

efforts became daily more worthy and more promising, now that she

possessed these superior advantages; fortune seemed really determined to

work good things for the rich peoples’ _protégé_.

Lily was not yet seventeen, but her poems had many of them attracted

much attention; injudicious praises were lavished upon her; by their

attentions and flattery, the proud, and the rich, and the learned seemed

to have conspired to spoil a girl—a school-girl—poor “from her youth

up.” They did not take it into consideration that it was quite possible

for them to raise her hopes and self-appreciativeness too high; they did

not give heed to the fact that it might require years of struggling and

disappointment for her to produce any thing worthy the reward and honor

they would fain believe were rightfully hers even then.

But soon enough they had cause to regret this course they adopted.

“A change came o’er the spirit of her dream.” Self-confidence rapidly

usurped the place of a befitting humility, which had once characterized

her. Instead of comparing herself with the great masters of song and

painting, Lily seemed to think that in outstripping all her schoolmates,

and in being considered a prodigy among teachers, she was rapidly

filling the measure of her greatness; and the laudations which good-will

prompted others to speak, instead of being listened to and valued at

their worth, came at last to be considered as quite true and

well-deserved.

It is said that more strength of mind is requisite to bear composedly a

sudden _favorable_ turn of fortune than is necessary calmly to endure

reverses. Having never had occasion to test the truth of the

proposition, I, of course, have only a right to _suppose_ there is

somewhat “more of truth than poetry” in the idea; at all events, that is

a very easy way to account for Lily’s derelictions.

It was the wish of her “patrons,” as well as of the kind lady teacher to

whose care she was chiefly commended, that Lily should finish the course

of studies apportioned to each scholar previous to graduating. But there

was a growing willfulness, an increasing confidence in her own

attainments, that tempted her to set at naught these desires. Her

impulsive nature longed to be free from restraint; she would fain throw

aside all bondage, together with the loathed idea of dependence, and

labor for herself in the way she was best fitted to labor. She wished to

begin _at once_ to reap the reward of her years of study, and thus to

alleviate the wants of her home. Alas! the serpent had crept back into

Lily’s breast!

So, despite all the remonstrances and the pleadings of those who began

to see their mistake in their dealings with the young girl, Lily left

the school, and returned to her own home. I shall never forget her as

she was at that time; the passions, hopes, desires and resolution of

mature years seemed to have even then a full development in her. In

feeling she had grown too old, in will too decisive, to submit patiently

to the judgment of other minds. But soon enough the lesson was forced

upon her that poetic efforts are rarely capable of being changed at once

for food, and fuel, and raiment.

“I have sent a poem of some length to —— ——,” she said to me one

day, naming a distinguished writer and editor, “and you know I am

superstitious—if he accepts it, and will pay me for it, I shall take it

as a good omen for my future; but if he does not—” she hesitated.

“Well, if he does not, Lily?”

“Then those horrid doubts will come back to me with renewed force! Oh,

they tormented me so once!”

When I saw my friend again there was no need to ask her what her

reception at the “editor’s table” had been. It was a freezing cold

winter night, and feeling somewhat disconsolate on my own account, as

well as rather curious in regard to Lily’s progress, I sought her in her

own home.

I found Lily there seated at the centre-table—yes, it was such, for it

did occupy the central portion of the apartment—but it was not of

polished mahogany, or marble-surfaced, gentle reader, but a miserable,

old, broken affair, that had seen its best days long before it came into

the possession of its then owners. Scattered about the room were the

numerous boys and girls of the family; there was little temptation even

for the boys without that night, it was so cold and stormy. The room in

which they lived was the upper story of a small building, the first

floor of which was occupied as a mechanic’s shop; it was partitioned by

a curtain of cloth, which was all the separation between the sleeping

apartments and the place where they cooked, and ate, and lived.

There was a deep silence in the room when I entered. Lily was occupied

with her drawing, lighted by two tapers burning in a cup half-filled

with oil. There was none of that cheerful hope beaming in her fine eyes

that usually filled them when she welcomed me. And all the faces in the

room looked doleful enough—some rebuff they had certainly met with from

some quarter.

“I am drawing this for you,” she said, when I sat down beside her and

looked at her work, “it is for a parting gift.”

“Parting!” I exclaimed; “what are you going to do now, were you

successful in your letter to Mr. ——?”

“Read it and see,” she said, producing a letter,

And I read as follows:

“MISS REEVE.—Dear Madam,—Your favor was many days ago

received, and now, at my first leisure, I hasten to reply. I

regret that an answer similar to that given to many applicants

during every week must also be returned to you. I regret this

the more, because your communications show talent, but—you need

much practice; and, permit me to say, a writer must usually have

acquired _some reputation_ before he can receive any ‘golden

rewards.’ If you are necessitated to labor, I would advise you

that there are many ways less vexatious, and more certain as to

their issue, in which you might successfully employ yourself.

“I retain the MS. subject to your orders.

“Respectfully, etc.,

“—— ——.”

It was with difficulty I could repress my grief, as I looked about that

cheerless room, and on the young girl whose disappointment I knew must

be so keen; but calmly, and apparently undisturbed, Lily continued her

drawing.

“What will you do now, Lily?” I asked, anxious to at least break the

embarrassing silence.

“We are going west next week!”

“West! where—how?”

“To Illinois. I have borrowed the money—we cannot stay here and starve.

I am going there to take a school. If I cannot get a living by writing,

there _are_ many other ways—and I will try them at least.”

Had she told me her immediate intention of taking a journey to the South

Pole, I should have felt my powers of credulity very little more taxed

than they were at that moment, so wild and perfectly impracticable

seemed the scheme. But Lily had spoken so seriously, and with so much

determination, I was constrained to believe her.

The picture she was engaged upon—I have it yet—was an imaginative and

a striking one. It was a moonlight scene. Beside the water’s edge, among

wild rocks, a girl was standing alone—the figure was a likeness of

herself—and a very perfect one it was, too. The _expression_ of the

sketch was touching in the extreme.

“She is looking for peace and rest there,” said Lily, in explanation.

“She has sought it so often, but has not found it—and she never will.”

“Does she seek it in the right way, Lily?”

“I don’t know. Every thing seems changed to me of late. I am bewildered.

It seems to me as though I had lost myself. Since that letter came I

doubt my powers more than ever. To think of one in my situation having

to _practice_ before I can work successfully! There is little time to

practice, I think, when eight human beings are wondering where their

next meal is to come from—when their wood-yard is in such a state of

depression and emptiness as ours is!”

The mother sighed heavily as Lily said this, but did not speak.

“But you certainly can do something here,” I cried. “Don’t go and bury

yourself in the back-woods. I’m sure you can be a teacher in our school

if you’ll only ask. It’s perfectly wild in you to think of going this

winter! traveling, you know, at this time of year is a very costly

business, dear Lily, besides being so cheerless!”

“There is no use talking about it; I should have loved to live here, for

my own part, all my life, but I have engaged a school in the town we are

going to, and they wish it to be opened early in the spring. There’s no

help for it—we must go.”

And they went.

From that day until within a few months I heard nothing in regard to the

Reeve Family. Lily had promised to tell us her experience in the west,

of her success in this new attempt at securing a livelihood; but her

promise was unfulfilled, and we could not but fear lest despondency had

utterly crushed all the aspirations of her genius, that if she yet

lived, poverty and hopelessness had come to be her only portion.

Still, though her name had never reached us through the medium talents

like hers choose for their utterance—the press—there was always with

me a lingering hope and belief that Lily had, under some assumed name,

made herself famous. Knowing so well her ability, the more I thought of

this the more I became strongly convinced that it was so. At last, when

I had dreamed of her night after night, and thought much of her in my

waking hours, it became absolutely necessary to my own peace of mind

that I should write to her once more—a thing I had not done in many

years—in order to discover if she were actually dead or alive—famous

or unknown to the world. It was with much anxiety, as all my lady

readers will believe, I awaited her reply—for an answer I felt

convinced I should receive. It came at last; and as people such as she

are regarded by the world as a species of public property, as regards

their thoughts, words, and deeds, I have little scruples in laying

Lily’s epistle open for public inspection, knowing that her words will

awaken the hope and renewed efforts of the despairing, and excite the

admiration and commendation of all good people.

“I have but just received your letter, dear friend of by-gone days, and

believe me, it has given me no little satisfaction to think that you

remember me, and with interest still. I am inclined to laugh, and weep,

and wonder, when I think of myself as I was in the days long ago, when

we lived among you so very poor and dependent; but there is a feeling of

gratitude living in my heart stronger than every other emotion now

excited in my breast by the freshened remembrance of my old home.

“You ask me to tell you what I have been doing, and wish to know under

what name I have immortalized myself. You will not believe I left behind

me all my ambitious desires when we made our abode here in the west!

Have you ever chanced to hear of ——? It is the name I chose to adopt

in my appearance before the public. Perhaps you may have seen it, and

read verses accompanying it, but I am confident you never recognized in

those merry strains the voice and the heart-tune of your once

poverty-stricken and desponding friend.”

(The reader may imagine my astonishment and amaze on reading these

words—for my correspondent, Lily Reeve, was none other than one of the

most beloved and popular of writers!)

“I feel conversational to-day, besides, I know it is but just to assure

those who were so generous in my days of adversity, that their money and

sympathy were not altogether thrown away. I was very far from being

forgetful of those who in my earlier years rendered me such efficient

and valuable aid; but I thought it better even at the risk of being

esteemed ungrateful, to be unknown to them and to you, until I should be

able to reflect some little credit upon them. I shall soon publish a

book which is dedicated to those friends of former days, through that I

hope to relieve myself from any charge of forgetfulness or coldness they

may have justly brought against me.

“It is only ten years since we first made our home in this western

world; but I have grown gray in feeling since then, and looking back

into my childhood, the road to it seems to be one of interminable

length. Decidedly as our fortunes have brightened, we have had our

struggles and heart-sorrows here also; and we have had much of sickness

too, which seems to await almost every settler in the west; but there is

so much more for which we have occasion to be thankful, that it seems

almost a sin even to revert to our first trials and vexations. My

mother, thank Heaven! now that she is old, may rest; her latter years

are not harassed with the thoughts of a dependent, impoverished family;

my brothers are in a way, all of them, to support themselves, and my

young sisters are being educated in such a way that they will never have

to rely on others for their support. And for all this I pray we may be

ever thankful as we ought.

“When we first came to this place all things were decidedly _new_. The

inhabitants, men, women and children, truly seemed to us to have

reflected in their own natures the marvelous greenness and freshness of

the close surrounding forests; the village was poor, like all new

places, and not one quarter its present size. Indeed, we call it a city

now.

“But you never can think what a house of refuge it was to us poor

people! I was glad from my heart that there were none rich, none

powerful here; that all was one grand level, above which wisdom and

strength of mind, and superior goodness alone might rise. I was glad, I

say, for despise it as you may, I am bold to acknowledge there was

something awfully repelling to me in the thought of looking _up_ to

people because they happened to be rich, or occupy by birth a high

station. Even the notice taken of me in my young days, in the place

where I sojourned, was galling to me. It savored too much of

condescension, which, child as I was, even then I despised and hated.

There were many children here even in those days; for some years mine

was the only school—how well it was patronized I need not say. I

prospered, and was contented. Oh, it was such a joy to look on our own

comfortable home; to know what a cheerful fire and plenty of food meant

in one’s own house! There is something so exhilarating in the thought of

independence and reliance on one’s own exertions, that for a whole year

after our removal here I altogether abandoned my pencil and my pen; I

thought I would never labor with them again. But I was mistaken in

myself, as many times before I had been. I knew not the wants and

necessities of my own nature.

“The second winter I had continually a restless yearning for higher and

nobler pursuits than the mere business of school-teaching; that supplied

our natural wants and necessities admirably, it is true, but there were

longings of my mind that it became as necessary for me to supply. And so

once more in the long winter evenings I resumed my pencils and pen, and

I worked with them. It is impossible for me to express to you the

intense satisfaction following these labors; it seemed as though I had

found suddenly an Aladdin’s lamp, and that it dispelled the darkness and

gloom of undefined yearning, and showed me a true and a great end that I

could accomplish! I did not then immediately force my new productions

upon the editors, but remembering well that one salutary lesson I

received long ago, I strove hard to perfect myself. It would be

wearisome for you to listen to the narration of my progress till I had

gradually mounted up into the notice of the noble people of the west;

how kindly and charitably they hailed my writings; how encouraging were

the letters which, from many sources unexpected and unsought, I

received, I will leave you to imagine—I felt then as though I were

truly working out my destiny. Words crowded to my lips for utterance;

thoughts pleaded in my brain to be heard; I longed to speak words of

encouragement and strength to others—such words as from my own

experience I knew full well many an overburdened soul needed. I spoke

them, and I humbly hope they found acceptance and regard in many a

heart.

“You will ask if I then was wholly satisfied? You will ask if notoriety

pleased me? If I cared for no other and humbler good after I had

attained that—in short, if I did not yearn for other love than that

lavished on me by my own kin. In all calmness and confidence now, I can

answer, yes! there were hopes unsatisfied, desires unfulfilled.

Admiration was not _all_ I craved—commendation not all I coveted. But

years passed on, and with them the time when I could have rejoiced in

loving and in being loved. The wild dream that haunted my mind of a

perfect happiness on earth, of another kind of affection than I had yet

received or given, went by. Coldness, and I am almost constrained to

think at times, heartlessness, have usurped the place once occupied by

the winged god; the altar which needed but a word to be enkindled and

wrapped in flame, is torn away—a calm, immovable spirit occupies its

place. I am not lonely or unhappy, only I feel strangely changed. I feel

old in spirit; there may be no cloud, but there certainly is no

sunshine; passionless now, and without the least craving for human love,

my years glide on. I am satisfied in having helped to make the happiness

of those for whom I have labored, and yet, true to woman’s belief, I

must say, I am well aware that I have missed life’s highest good; I have

passed by, in my eager search for a something that has not satisfied,

that bright possession which the poorest of earth’s children, equally

with the most exalted have extended to them by the hand of our

beneficent Father. Do you think I am strangely confiding with one whom

for ten years I have not known by thought, or word, or deed? But we were

children together; and I remember how that you more than all I left

behind me knew the thoughts and desires of my inner life. Doubtless,

since we have come to be _women_, we have both much changed, but at this

hour I will believe you sympathize with me as in the days of old.

“Not long ago there came one to me, a man gifted with noble intellectual

faculties, and rich in heart-wealth; he has wished me to be his wife;

but knowing as I do what a very pauper I am in all that is best

calculated to make his a happy home—you will understand I am not

speaking of fortune or beauty _now_—I have declined his suit. I cannot

regard him as I could have a few, _but_ a few short years ago. I do not

love him as my imagination tells me that woman _can_ and _should_ love.

For a moment when I read his words, my heart beat wildly—I was happy;

but that passed quickly; I distrust myself; I do not wish _now_ that any

one should intrust to me a charge of their happiness through life; it

would be madness, and no less than foul wrong in me to wed with one

whose affection I could make but such a paltry return. I give to you the

answer I sent him; it is the sum total of my thoughts on this

subject—and I would ask you as you read them, do you not think that

there is but little to envy in one who has flung away a diamond, for a

trifling but more brilliant gem?

TO —— ——.

It is too late; once, once I could have loved thee,

Before my heart grew passionless and cold;

My years are few, but trials have out-worn me—

In thought and struggle I am old—am old!

I had not _once_ been deaf to thy fond pleading—

My soul had throbbed to hear thy ardent words;

But now no inward voice is interceding,

Thy finger touches upon tuneless chords!

There _was_ a time when, hadst thou breathed of love,

A fire had swiftly kindled in my heart;

I would have coveted then, far, far above

All earthly good—all that is set apart

For the strong soul to labor for—a tone

A look, such as thou gavest now to me,

I would have gloried then to be thine own;

That time is past—it never more can be!

Once, when my heart beat strong with youth and hope,

Once, when the future held a glorious prize,

Through the surrounding gloom I strove to grope,

And to close-thronging dangers shut my eyes.

I fought for honor—fame. I thought that these

Would _buy_ for me that other, nobler good,

For which I prayed upon my bended knees,

The boon of love—but fate my prayer withstood!

Too many years have passed since that sweet dream—

Too hard and ceaseless has my striving been;

Through the calm twilight now there comes no gleam

Of that wild hope—it cannot live again.

It cannot be—thou wouldst not prize a gift

So worthless as is all I have to give;

Thou wouldst not care from my cold heart to lift

The burden ’neath which I am doomed to live!

Seek for a younger mind—a lighter soul;

Seek one who has not been what I have been.

I would not that around thy home should roll

A cloud surcharged with gloominess and pain;

Seek one who hath not from her childhood seen

Her inmost thoughts—the best and brightest gold;

Seek one who smiles—one who yet dares to dream—

Who has not ‘hardened to a crystal cold!’

“And now, being quite sure that I have outwearied you, and believing

that you will gladly let the remainder of your interrogatories to-day

pass unanswered, I will conclude, with the earnest hope that _you_ may

never be tempted to barter the sacred affections of your heart for any

more alluring, but less, oh, far less satisfying prize—in the name of

our childhood.

“Always yours,

“LILY REEVE.”

* * * * *

Dear reader, it may be proper to state, that despite this most emphatic

disclaimer on the part of Lily, a western paper I have recently

received, contains a notice of the marriage of the distinguished

poetess, Lily Reeve, with the Hon. —— ——. Had it not been for this,

one other proof of what is called the fickleness of woman’s nature, you

perceive I should have been enabled to end my story without a marriage;

but you will bear in mind that this repetition of the almost invariable

climax, is not _my_ fault!

* * * * *

A SONNET.

BY FAYETTE ROBINSON.

[SEE ENGRAVING OF MAY MORNING.]

Read on, young maiden. I will gage a kiss

The page so earnestly thou porest o’er,

To be the record of the ecstasies

Of some great bard, or it may be the lore

Of wild adventure by Armida’s shore—

Or how Diana wooed the Hunter-boy,

Or how to Dido erst Æneas swore

Unmeasured love. Read while thou may’st enjoy,

For certainly as this bright morn of May

Will lose its zest, thy happiness will fade.

As Orient smiles of Spring too soon decay,

As clouds o’ershadow all the happy glade,

Now smiling in the early morning’s ray,

Thy peerless beauty e’en will pass away.

* * * * *

[Illustration: _DRAWN BY PASTORINI_

MAY MORNING.]

* * * * *

PASSAGES OF LIFE IN EUROPE.

By J. BAYARD TAYLOR.

I.—HEIDELBERG IN SEPTEMBER.

The sun was just setting on the last day of August, when the ponderous

_eilwagen_, in which I had journeyed from Frankfort, rounded the foot of

the Holy Mountain into the Valley of the Neckar, and Heidelberg—the

brave, romantic, beautiful old electoral city—was stretched out before

me on the opposite side of the river. Far above it rose the wooded

Kaiserstuhl, midway down whose side hung the granite bastions, terraces

and roofless halls of the famed Castle. Heavy masses of ivy hung from

its arches, and overran the quaint sculpture of its walls, while the

foliage of its gardens was visible behind, deep in the shadow of the

mountain. A faint yellow glow trembled over the pines and birches on the

top of the Kaiserstuhl, and kept the clear blue on the distant hills up

the Neckar. Down the steep paths of the Holy Mountain, on my left, came

the peasant-girls, with baskets on their heads, laden with the purple

clusters of the Muscatel, and talking to each other gayly over

garden-walls, and under arbors, which made a “green twilight” even at

noon. Careless students, pipe in hand, sauntered along the river bank,

listening to the sweet evening chimes, rung first in the towers of the

Hauptkirche, and taken up like an echo, from village to village, among

the hills.

Looking forward to Heidelberg as a place for rest and quiet study, there

was something peculiarly grateful and tranquilizing in the scene. To my

eyes the scenery presented a mingling of the wild with the

cultivated—of the pastoral with the grand—a combination so inspiring

that I found it difficult to keep my enthusiasm within reasonable

bounds. From the river bank, above the bridge, cannon began firing a

closing salute for the Grand Duke’s birth-day, and my heart never kept

more bounding time to the minute-guns on a Fourth of July at home. The

German passengers in the _eilwagen_ were highly gratified by my delight,

for all Germans are proud of Heidelberg.

By a piece of good fortune the friends who had left me at Mayence and

arrived the day before, happened to be passing up the main street when

the vehicle stopped, and I was spared the risk of searching for them,

which, to one ignorant of the language, was no slight task.

In a day or two, by the help of a _valet de place_, who spoke half a

dozen words of English, we obtained rooms in a large house overhanging

the Neckar. From one side we looked upon the Heiligenberg, so near that

we could hear the girls singing among the vines every morning, and all

day long the rapid river below us was noisy with raftsmen, guiding the

pines they had felled among the Suabian hills down to the Rhine. On the

other side the Kaiserstuhl stood between us and the eastern sky, and we

always saw the sunrise first on the opposite mountains. In the cool,

cloudless autumn mornings, the air was full of church-chimes and merry

voices, which came echoed back from the hills, so that our first waking

sensation was one of pleasure, and every day brought us some new form of

enjoyment.

The valley of the Neckar is narrow, and only the little slopes which

here and there lie between the feet of its wooded mountains are capable

of cultivation. Higher up, there are glens and meadows of luxuriant

grass, to which the peasants drive their cattle, further still, it is

barren and rocky, and upon the summits dwells a solitude as complete as

upon the unsettled prairies of the far West. An hour’s walk takes one

from the busy streets of the little city to this beautiful and lonely

region, and the stranger may explore the paths he finds leading far away

among the hills, for weeks together, without exhausting their store of

new scenes and influences. The calm impressiveness of these mountain

landscapes disposes the mind to quiet thought, and one who has felt them

till their spirit grew familiar, is at no loss to comprehend the

inspiration from which Schiller, Uhland and Hauff have sung.

It is a favorite habit with the Heidelbergers, and one into which the

traveler willingly falls, to spend the last hour or two of daylight in a

walk by the Neckar, in the gardens of the castle, or off in the forests.

At spots of especial beauty rustic inns have been erected, where, at

tables in the shade, the visiter is furnished with beer, cool from its

underground vaults, and thick curds, to which a relish is given by sugar

and powdered cinnamon. The most noted of these places is the

Wolfsbrunnen, about a mile and a half from the city, in a lonely glen,

high up on the mountain. A large stone basin, two centuries old, stands

there, pouring out a stream of the coldest and purest water, dammed up

below to form a small pool, in which hundreds of trout breed and grow

fat from the benevolence of visiters. A wooden inn, two stories high,

with balconies on all sides, is nestled among the trees, and farther

down the stream a little mill does its steady work from year to year.

A party was once formed by our German friends, and we spent a whole

Saturday afternoon in this delicious retreat. Frau Dr. S——, who was

always ready for any piece of social merriment, had the management of

the excursion, and directed us with the skill of a general. Fräulein

Marie, her niece, a blooming maiden of eighteen, and Madame Louise ——,

a sprightly little widow from Mannheim, with Dr. S——, one or two

students, and we Americans, were her subjects. Every thing was arranged

with precision before we started. The books, the cards, the music

(including a most patient guitar) were distributed among those best able

to carry them, and we finally started, without any particular order of

march. German etiquette forbids a lady to take the arm of a male friend,

unless she is betrothed to him; talking is allowed, fortunately.

As we climbed to the terraces of the castle, we could see the thread of

the Rhine, in the distance, sparkling through the haze. The light air

which came down the Neckar was fragrant with pine and the first falling

leaves of summer trees. The vineyards below us were beginning to look

crisp and brown, but hanging from stake to stake the vines were bent

down by blue clusters, with the bloom still upon them. Troops of

light-hearted students, children, blue-eyed and blond-haired, and

contented citizens, were taking the same path, and like them, we forgot

every thing but the sense of present happiness.

We had a table spread upon the upper balcony of the inn, after our

scattered forces returned from many a long ramble up the glen and out on

the meadows. Frau Dr. S—— ordered a repast, and the “landlady’s

daughter”—not the sweet maid of Uhland’s song, but a stout-armed and

stout-waisted damsel—brought us a jar of curds, dripping with the cool

water in which it had stood. A loaf of brown bread next made its

appearance, followed by a stone jug of foaming beer, and two or three

dishes of those prune-tarts peculiar to Germany, completed the fare. On

the porch below us, two or three musicians played waltzes, and the

tables around the fountain were filled with students, laughing, clinking

their beer-glasses, or trolling some burschen chorus. Our own table did

not lack the heartiest spirit of mirth; this could not be otherwise so

long as Frau Dr. S—— sat at the head of it. The students were gay and

full of life, and even Dr. S——, the most earnest and studious of the

party, was so far influenced by the spirit of the time, that he sang the

“King of Thule” with more warmth than I had thought possible.

The afternoon sped away like a thought, and Heidelberg was forgotten

until the faint sound of its evening chimes came up the valley. We

returned in time to see a glowing sky fade over the mountains of

Alsatia, and then first, as the twilight gathered, came the remembrance

of home—a remembrance which did not chide the happiness of the day.

One of these excursions was accompanied by a different and less

agreeable finale. A small party had been arranged to visit the ruins of

St. Michael’s Chapel, on the summit of the Holy Mountain. I had ascended

it previously, after an hour’s climbing, directly up the side, but as

ladies were to accompany us, it was necessary to take a winding road,

two or three miles in length, to reach the chapel. We mounted, by

flights of steps through the terraced vineyards, to the Philosopher’s

Walk, followed it to a retired glen called the Angels’ Meadow, and then

entered a forest-road. The wind roared loudly among the trees, and the

sky grew darker as we ascended, but we took little heed of these signs.

Finally, however, on reaching a rocky point whence we could look down on

the Rhine-plain, we were somewhat alarmed to see a heavy rain-cloud

approaching from the west. The chapel was still half a mile distant, and

its open walls and dismantled towers could afford us no protection, so

there was nothing left but to turn about and descend with all speed.

The rain had just crossed the Rhine, and would probably be half an hour

in reaching us, and as we could trace its misty advance on the sheet of

landscape below us, we hoped to time our rate of walking so as to reach

some shelter before it struck the mountain. Vain hope!—before we

reached the Angels’ Meadow the wind fairly howled among the trees, and

swept over us, laden with dust and showers of leaves. The rain followed,

and as our path led over the exposed ridge of the mountain, the arrows

of the storm smote pitilessly in our faces. The ladies shrieked, the men

groaned, and, like Norval’s barbarians, we “rushed like a torrent,”—and

with a torrent—“upon the vale.” When we arrived at the village of

Neuenheim the shower was nearly over, but it might have continued all

day, without more effect upon us.

The village of Ziegelhausen, up the Neckar, with its grim old convent,

gardens and cascades, and the delightful arbors of vine, reaching down

to the very brink of the river, is another favorite place of resort. The

pastor of its church, who was familiar with our German friends, would

frequently join us in an afternoon walk, followed by a cup of tea in the

garden of the inn, and frequently by a share in the games of the village

children. The pastor was a most jovial, genial character; he sang very

finely—indeed, he was brother to the _primo tenore_ in the Opera at

Brunswick—and his wit was inexhaustible. His religion was as genuine as

his cheerfulness; it was no gloomy ascetism, which looked on mirth as

sin, but a joyous, affectionate and abounding spirit, bright as God’s

sunshine and as unconscious of its blessing. How happily passed those

September afternoons, warmed by such true social feeling, and refreshed

by all the kindly influences of nature! If a return like this to the

simple joys of the child’s heart be but obtained by the mature age of a

nation, I could almost wish this country might grow old speedily. The

restless energy of Youth is still upon us. The nation overflows with

active impulses, which fear nothing, and yield to nothing. We have not

yet felt the need of Rest.

I have said nothing of my struggles with the perverse German

language—my daily sieges, advancing from trench to trench, till the

strong fortress was stormed and all its priceless stores in my

possession. I have not spoken of my blunders arising from ignorance and

inexperience, nor the novelty of customs and life so different from

ours. These would be tedious, nor are they necessary to give some

impression of Heidelberg in its most delightful season. The most

romantic and picturesque of all German cities, and therefore most

thronged by romance-hunting tourists, its good old social character is

still happily preserved. The last Revolution has fortunately spared it,

and in spite of railroads beside its mountains, and steamboats on the

Neckar, it will be for many years to come one of the pleasantest spots

in Europe.

* * * * *

THE GRASS OF THE FIELD.

BY CAROLINE MAY.

The grass of the field shall be now my theme,

For when winter is past, and the snow

Has melted away from the earth like a dream,

No flowers that in loveliness grow

More dear, or more beautiful ever can be

Than the simple grass of the field to me.

It springs up so quick, when showers call aloud

For every thing glad to come forth;

And when the sun bursts from his rainbow-cloud,

As the rain passes off to the north—

It shines in his glory, and laughs in his light,

The green grass of the field, so glistening and bright.

Happy children love in the grass to play,

Thick and soft for their dancing feet;

And there the wild bees gather honey all day

From the clover so blushing and sweet,

And find no stores that the garden can yield

Are richer than those from the grass of the field.

The lark makes his nest in the twining grass,

And methinks when he soars to the skies,

And sings the clear notes that all others surpass,

His gladness must surely arise

From the lowly content of that innocent breast,

Which finds in the grass of the field a safe nest.

There are few who notice the delicate flower

That blooms in the grass at their feet,

Yet the proudest plant in the greenhouse or bower

Is not fairer, or more complete;

And to those who observe—it is clearly revealed

That God clothes with beauty the grass of the field.

The mower comes out so busy and blythe,

At the dawn of a summer’s day,

And the tall waving grass at the stroke of his scythe

Is cut down and withers away:

But the fragrance it sends over valley and hill

Makes the grass of the field loved and lovely still.

And while on the perishing grass we look,

A soft voice in the summer wind

Will whisper the words of the Holy Book

To the humble and thoughtful mind.

“All flesh is as grass,” it will seem to say—

“Like the flower of the grass ye shall pass away.”

But oh! we will hope with a faith secure—

Through the years of this mortal strife—

On the words of the Lord, which forever endure,

For in them is eternal life:

Thus lessons of truth all our pleasures will yield,

And wisdom we’ll learn from the grass of the field.

* * * * *

TO AN ABSENT SISTER.

BY MRS. MARY G. HORSFORD.

Thy natal morn hath dawned again

With pure and cloudless ray;

May Peace and Hope attend thy steps,

Sweet sister, on this day.

It is the first that ever found

Me severed from thy side,

And tears will mingle with my prayer

At morn and eventide.

For I have yearned to lay my hand

In blessing on thy brow,

And speak the earnest words of love

That stir my spirit now;

Have longed, but longed in vain, to meet

The dark and sunny eye,

That has from childhood been to me

A star in every sky.

Have sought amid a stranger band

The smile I loved so well,

And lived in spirit o’er again

A sorrowful farewell!

And thou hast missed a warm caress,

And wept its loss, I know,

For we were joined as flowers that spring

From the same root below;

The early sunbeam as it stole

Across our quiet room,

Seemed to thy tearful eyes to wear

An all unwonted gloom.

And low winds seemed with mournful wail

The forest leaves to thrill,

As memory whispered that thou hadst

A vacant place to fill.

But we have loved as few can love,

For years, through storm and shine,

And though our paths lie separate now,

Thy heart still clings to mine.

By childhood’s smiles and youth’s gay dreams,

By memories of the dead,

By the stern discipline of grief,

My soul to thine is wed:

Links as eternal as the prayer

We used to breathe at even,

As ever-during as the vow

That binds us unto Heaven.

Then blessings on thee, dearest one,

My heart leaps o’er the sea;

I feel thy breath upon my cheek,

May God watch over thee.

* * * * *

TASTE.

BY MISS AUGUSTA C. TWIGGS.

This seems a little word, while we repeat it less than one second of

time is consumed, yet in its signification it is a great word—a word of

vast and unmeasured import:

By it we understand a just appreciation of the good, the beautiful, the

pleasant, the worthy and the useful:

Still it is not alike to all: Tastes differ with characters, and

characters with men. By an all wise Creator was this so ordained, and in

every thing we see the wisdom and the beauty of His system.

Suppose, for instance, we pass in fancy around this vast globe, as we

progress onward, countries, climates, men and characters undergo every

conceivable grade of change. Gradually we pass from regions inhabited by

enlightened men—men of learning and deep research, men to whom Science

seems to have lent her very self, until we come to a race of beings

between whom and the brute creation there is scarcely a demarcation: Yet

each and every one of these thousands upon thousands of countless beings

has his own peculiar sphere of action, and his own especial tastes,

adapted to his position and circumstances.

Taste may, however, be improved or debased, elevated to the highest

appreciations, the noblest conceptions, or lowered to the most sordid

views, the most groveling level, and this is left to man himself—to

rise or fall, to sink or soar, is left to his own choice, and is within

his own power.

Of course this remark is not unqualified, it is not intended that the

natives of Central Africa, or of the inhabited regions around the Poles,

can improve their moral condition, and rise to the same high standard as

may the enlightened nations of Europe or of our own loved country. To

assert such a thing would be preposterous, to expect it ridiculous. Our

resources are not their resources, our advantages not theirs, but there

is implanted in the breast of every man a frame-work and basis, with

which, and upon which, he may build something that shall make him better

than he now is. And the greater his advantages, the vaster the amount of

material furnished him wherewith to work, the more will be expected of

him, and higher and higher will the eyes of men rise, seeking for the

pinnacles of that temple of the mind which they of a right expect him to

rear.

To ensure without fail the meeting of their views, (perchance to surpass

them,) it is not sufficient to seize indiscriminately and pile block

upon block, and stone upon stone. It is not sufficient to heap up a vast

mountain of brick and mortar, jumbled together without taste or

elegance, and then write upon it—This is Parian marble—these are

classic proportions. This will not do, the cheat will be found out, and

Ridicule will mingle her laughter with the shouts and jeers of the

multitude as they mock and scan the shallow attempt at imposition.

What then is to be done?

This—let us seek Taste, let us acquaint ourselves with her, coax her,

court her, make her our own, and we are safe. But we must be sure it is

no impostor, no false being who assumes the name, for there are such,

and they are to be shunned. We must “be sure we are right, then” onward,

right onward.

True taste will teach us to select the choice blocks, the finely grained

and unflawed marble, she will bid us to reject the huge, coarse,

glittering rocks with which some will strive to dazzle our eyes and

mislead our judgment, and cause us to turn aside from those brittle and

perishing kinds which will scarce bear handling.

Having chosen our materials, now let us build. Up go the blocks one

after another, and high the temple grows. Day by day it increases in

height, but why is it men stand and gaze with mortified and disappointed

looks upon the structure? Why do no sounds of encouragement, no

acclamations and shouts of admiration reach the ear? Hear the reason—we

sought Taste—we courted her, we bid her aid us seek our materials, and

teach us how to judge of them. She did so—that done we scorned her aid,

we forgot her, and trusting in ourselves we reared a vast work of folly.

But “_nil desperandum_,” there is yet time. Tear down the monument of

heedlessness and call Taste to teach us once again. Faithful she returns

at our bidding. Now hark to the sound of the mallet and chisel as they

ring against the stone, chip by chip of superfluous material is worked

away, piece by piece which is unneeded is broken off and thrown aside

until some other work shall call them into use.

Now seems to become exhumed, as from a grave of stone and rubbish, the

massive pedestal, the firm base, the graceful column, the sculptured

capital and the rich cornice. Day by day, and hour by hour, these

multiply in true and classic beauty, and higher and higher skyward soars

the now elegant structure, until, amid the shouts and admiration of the

world, the voice of Reason proclaims that Taste has fashioned it.

This, then, is an edifice, a work worthy of the mind, formed from

materials the choicest within man’s reach, wrought out and builded by

the hand of Taste; it is worthy to be gazed upon, to be admired and

copied by all.

Age after age will go by, but still it will stand firm, and beautiful,

and admired as when the artist gave the last stroke, and proclaimed it

to the world as finished.

Are proofs required, among the names of the ancients may be found those

time-honored and long worshiped ones of Lysippus, Polycletus,

Praxiteles, Timanthes, Appelles, Zeuxis, Parrhasius, Plato, Aristotle,

Pliny, Ovid, Pollio, Catullus, Demosthenes, Thucydides, Xenophon,

Aristophanes, Orpheus, Archilocus and Timotheus, together with many,

many of their cotemporaries, for whose names I have no space, but whose

memories are still, and still are to be, revered.

Following in the path which these have hewn through the thickets of

prejudice and ignorance comes a long bright train. Amidst the stars of

this latter day firmament gleam conspicuous the names of Banks, Young,

Cole, West, White, Vandyck, Tasso, Titian, Rittenhouse, Mozart, Milton,

Crabbe, Gallileo and Godfry, and ever and anon new and brilliant planets

flash forth and shed their glad effulgence around.

Could this be without Taste?

It could not. Glorious and rich and varied as are the works of those

whose efforts and the productions of whose minds have tended to elevate

and improve our condition, they never could have been without Taste to

suggest—Taste to aid, and Taste to accomplish the mighty, the

stupendous, the gigantic works they have wrought.

What was it, let us inquire, that induced the ancient Egyptians to build

the city of Thebes in such glorious magnificence that even its ruins

produced effects upon historians to cause them to be immortalized? Homer

tells of her hundred gates, from each of which two hundred chariots and

ten thousand warriors could issue at a time. To her palaces painting and

sculpture had lent all their art, combining to render this city one of

the glories of the world. Was not this Taste?

What, too, induced them to erect those monuments of the strength of man

and tyranny of kings—the Obelisks and Pyramids, to erect them in such

huge size and vast strength that still they stand, as through long ages

they have stood, firm and immovable as the “everlasting hills?”

Taste.

Need we ask Astronomy, that grand and elevating science, the

contemplation of which forces upon us our own insignificance, and raises

us from “Nature up to Nature’s God”—that science which teaches us to

admire and wonder, to gaze and fear, to glorify and adore the _Great

Being_ who formed “Arcturus, Orion and the Pleiades.” Need we ask to

what considerations upon the part of man we are indebted for the

important and immense researches which all lie open to us, which teach

us to trace out the constellations, and “call the stars by their

names”—which drew Phytheas from his home and caused him to wander

unsatisfied with the observations he was able to make in his own

country, from the Pillars of Hercules to the mouth of the Tanais—which

made Egypt, Rome, Spain, France, Germany and Denmark the cradles of the

then infant science?

Is it necessary to reply it is Taste?

Turn we then to Philosophy, and in the deep researches of Thales, the

moral reasoning of Socrates, the eloquence of Plato, and the

disinterestedness of Zenocrates read of Taste.

Chemistry, with all its brilliant discoveries, and Rhetoric, in its

elegance, speak of it.

Music, Oratory, History, Geography, Grammar and Physic are each and all

of them proofs of Taste in its truth and purity; and Poetry shouts forth

with glad and eager pride Eureka! we have found it.

The beauty, delicacy and usefulness of Botany, the rich and varied hue

of the flowers, those “gems of earth,” whisper softly to us of Taste;

and the importance of Anatomy proves it.

Metaphysics and Geometry demonstrate its truth; while the wild bird’s

carol hymns forth its notes of praise and gladness to the Creator of it

and of that element of man’s happiness, Taste.

It is here, it is there, it is everywhere, one grand, pervading

principle, one first element, one chief ingredient of all things.

It was implanted in the mind by _Him_ who formed us, and it is as much

the duty of man to cultivate and improve his taste, as it is his duty to

improve and cultivate any other talent lent him to keep; and he will be

considered no more excusable for wrapping this precious deposit in a

napkin and hiding it away than was the servant of old, who buried the

talent until the coming of his lord. Let us then cultivate Taste, each

according to the kind and portion given us.

It has been said that “every man is born to excel in something, and the

only reason so many fail is they mistake their calling.” Be this as it

may, it sounds marvelously like sense, and it would be well for every

one to examine strictly, that he may discover wherein it is intended he

shall excel, and what the peculiar Taste or Tastes may be which, to

himself, to society at large, and to a _higher power_ than either, it is

his duty to cultivate.

Yet although Taste has been given us, and we are required to improve and

use it to the best advantage, it is not intended there are no other

gifts bestowed on man which can equal it. That would be to assume for it

more than could well be proven. It is intended that Taste shall act as a

means of enjoyment and happiness, as a means whereby we can investigate

causes, and admire and apply effects—a means whereby we can dive into

the very depths of science and open the sealed treasure-house of

knowledge—a means of searching out the beauties and glories of

creation, and comprehending, as far as the mind of man is capable of

comprehending, the wonderful omnipotence of the Deity.

* * * * *

THE MAN OF MIND AND THE MAN OF MONEY.

BY T. S. ARTHUR.

At nineteen, Silas Loring left college and went into a store to be

educated for a merchant. At the same time, a school-companion, named

Alfred Benedict, with whom he had been intimate, was placed by his

parents in the counting-room of a large shipper. The two young men had

enjoyed equal advantages, so far as education was concerned; but they

had improved these advantages differently. The father of Loring early

impressed upon his mind the idea that wealth gave a man all power and

influence in the world; that it was the greatest good that could be

sought; while the father of Benedict urged his son to gain knowledge as

the highest and best possession. The two young men had been influenced,

as well by their natural tastes and feelings as by the opinions and

advice of their parents. On leaving college, Loring left behind him all

affection for literature or scientific pursuits, and took with him only

an ardent desire to become wealthy, accompanied by a confident assurance

that he possessed the ability required to attain the summit of his

wishes. Benedict, on the contrary, entered the world with his love of

knowledge as active as ever, and his desire for its attainment more

ardent than when he passed at first over the threshold of Wisdom’s

temple.

Equal as to external advantages, the two young men started in the world.

Neither of their parents were rich, though both were able to give their

children a good education, that surest guaranty of success. But

difference of purpose in a few years made a great difference in their

relative positions. When Loring was twenty-five years of age he was a

partner in the house where he had served his apprenticeship, and the

most active and really intelligent business man in the firm; while

Benedict was merely a book-keeper, receiving a salary of twelve hundred

dollars a year. All the energies of the active mind of Loring, inspired

by his love of money, were given to business; while the no less active

mind of Benedict was as deeply absorbed in literary pursuits and

scientific investigations. As a book-keeper, the latter was faithful,

attentive and accurate, and valued by his employers; but beyond his

journal and ledger his thoughts never penetrated the arcana of trade. He

had no affection for it. His mind loved rather to explore the arcana of

knowledge, and gather in from fields that were ever opening before him,

rich harvests of intelligence.

In the manners and appearance of the two young men there was also a

noticeable change. Loring had an air of self-importance, and an

off-hand, dashing sort of manner, that bespoke a mind well satisfied

with itself, and conscious of having done something. But Benedict had

become more quiet and unobtrusive. He looked like a man who did not

entertain a very high opinion of himself, as being of consequence in the

community.

As men appear in society, so are they usually estimated by the mass.

Loring was bowed to across the street a dozen times in every square; was

met in company by a hearty shake of the hand, and treated wherever he

went as an individual of some importance. And such he really felt

himself to be. Benedict, on the contrary, might walk a dozen squares

without receiving a nod, or mingle in society and be almost unnoticed

and alone. But he did not feel this. In fact he was hardly conscious of

it; for he rarely, if ever, thought any thing about the estimation in

which others held him. His mind was in a higher and purer region.

The intimate friendship that had existed between Loring and Benedict,

did not continue very long after they left college, although they

remained friends and acquaintances, and were interested in each other

for some years. But, after Loring had changed from a clerk to a

merchant, he began to feel that he was no longer on a level with a mere

book-keeper, who was likely to remain a book-keeper for life. Merchants

were now his associates. Men who used to bow to him with distant

formality, _now_ took him cordially by the hand, and were as familiar

with him as he had been with mere clerks before. He likewise received

invitations to the houses of these merchants, and was introduced into a

new and higher circle. In this circle he never met his old friend

Benedict. Is it any wonder that he looked down upon him as an inferior?

None. We see by means of the atmosphere by which we are surrounded,

whether naturally or spiritually. The atmosphere in which the mind of

Loring breathed and saw, was so different from the one that gave life

and vision to the mind of Benedict, that he was unable to see by it the

true quality and character of his friend. He could see in his own

atmosphere, but that which surrounded the humble book-keeper was

darkness to his eyes.

Thus the years went by, Loring accumulating gold, and Benedict treasures

of knowledge, that neither moth nor rust could corrupt, nor thieves

break through and steal. As these treasures increased, he began to feel

a desire to impart something of what he possessed to others. This desire

prompted him to write out his reflections, experiences, and the new

views that were constantly pressing in upon his mind, and send them to

the various literary and scientific journals for publication. It was not

long before this brought him into honorable notice, and made his name

familiar to men of intelligence throughout the country, with many of

whom he gradually came into correspondence.

“What has become of Benedict?” asked Mr. Loring, one day of the merchant

whose book-keeper he had been for many years. “I have missed him from

your store for some time.”

“He left me several months ago,” was the reply.

“How came that? But I suppose his mind got so lost in his literary

pursuits that he was no longer good for any thing as a clerk.”

“He was faithful and correct to the last,” promptly answered the

individual to whom this remark was made. “I never had and never expect

to have a more valuable clerk than Benedict. But he has obtained a

better place, and one more suited to his tastes and abilities.”

“Ah, where has he gone?”

“To Bowdoin College. The Professorship of —— was offered to him, and

he accepted it.”

“I didn’t know that he had any friends away off there. Isn’t it rather

singular that he should be appointed to such a chair? Do you think him

capable of filling it?”

“I presume those who appointed him knew his ability.”

“Did he apply for it?”

“No. He knew nothing of the vacancy until he was notified of his

appointment.”

“That is a little singular,” remarked Loring, wondering for the moment

how a man of so little importance, and no very distinguished ability,

should be voluntarily tendered a high professorship in Bowdoin College.

But the wonder did not occupy his mind very long. It passed away with

the thought of his old school-friend.

Great activity and energy in a business already firmly established, in

which was ample capital, made Loring the possessor, in a few years, of

quite a handsome property. Ambitious of a more rapid increase of

fortune, and believing that he ought to have the entire benefit of his

activity, energy, and capacity for trade, he withdrew from the house in

which he was a partner, and commenced business alone. He did not err in

his calculations. The results was as favorable as he had expected. Money

came in more rapidly, and with its accumulation rose his ideas of his

own importance, until he looked down upon every man whose coffers were

not quite as full as his own, at the same time that he felt himself to

be as good as any millionaire in the land.

It is a little singular how the mere possession of money raises a man’s

ideas of his own importance, and causes him to think meanly of all who

are not favored with any considerable portion of this world’s goods.

Upon what a slender basis of real worth do men sometimes build a

towering structure of self-conceit! Wealth is very rarely the

correspondent of solid virtue and sterling merit in those who possess

it; not that men of wealth are less virtuous or meritorious as a class,

but wealth, upon which most persons value themselves, is not the true

standard for estimating the man. It never gives quality to the heart,

principles to the mind, nor to the understanding rational intelligence.

As Mr. Loring continued to grow richer, his ideas of his own importance

continued to rise, until he felt himself quite an “exclusive” in

society. At the age of forty, he determined to take a trip across the

Atlantic, and see the world abroad. He must spend some time in London,

Paris and Italy. In order to be prepared for this journey, he brushed up

his French, and spent his leisure time in reading about the places he

proposed to visit. So far as his knowledge of matters and things in his

own country, out of the mercantile sphere, was concerned, it was very

limited. Even in politics he was not very well posted up. As to what was

doing in literature and science, he was altogether ignorant. He was a

successful merchant, and that was about all that could be said of him.

All things ready, Mr. Loring took passage in a steamer for Liverpool.

The ship had cast off her moorings, and was gliding swiftly along the

smooth waters of the bay, when the merchant, in turning his eyes from

the diminishing city to the nearer and more palpable objects on board

the vessel that was bearing him on to the ocean, noticed a familiar

face. At first he was at a loss where to place its owner. But soon his

memory was clear upon that subject. His old friend, Benedict, was a

fellow-passenger! The eyes of the latter were upon him, and his

countenance about expressing a pleasurable recognition, when Loring

turned away and glanced back again upon the dim and distant city. He did

not wish to renew the acquaintance. When he next looked around upon his

companions for the voyage, Benedict was not to be seen.

There were one hundred passengers on board, and among them several men

of high reputation in the United States. A former Governor of

Massachusetts, whose name and fame were familiar to every one, was among

the number; also two men from the South, who had distinguished

themselves during many years in the national legislature. One of them

had held the office of Secretary of State. Besides these, there were

many men of standing and character both from the mercantile class and

the learned professions. In looking over the list of passengers, Mr.

Loring was well satisfied to find himself in such good company. The only

drawback was the presence of so obscure an individual as Mr. Benedict,

with whom he had once been acquainted, but toward whom he must now, in

justice to his own character and position, conduct himself as a

stranger.

Such were the reflections of Mr. Loring, as he turned from the vessel’s

side and went below, late in the afternoon of the day on which they had

sailed. On entering the cabin, the first objects that met his eyes were

the ex-governor of Massachusetts and Mr. Benedict engaged in

conversation. This surprised him at first, but on reflection, he

explained the circumstance by supposing that Benedict had intruded

himself upon the individual with whom he was conversing, and that the

latter submitted to the intrusion from mere politeness. He sat down at

some distance from them, expecting to see their interview quickly

terminated. But he was disappointed in this, for the parties grew more

and more interested. Whenever Benedict spoke, he observed that the other

listened with deep attention, and that his manner toward him was always

respectful, and sometimes even deferential. The conversation was

prolonged until tea-time, and then the two men separated.

There was something in this that the man of wealth could not understand.

On the next day Mr. Loring sought an opportunity to make the formal

acquaintance of Mr. ——, from the Bay State, through the introduction

of a friend on board, who presented him as “one of our first merchants,”

going out to visit Europe. Mr. —— was very polite, and made some

commonplace remarks to the merchant, who replied with a self-importance

in his manner that did not make the impression he designed. The

ex-governor knew just how much money was worth as a standard by which to

estimate the man. The words, “one of our first merchants,” made no

impression upon him whatever. In fact, he scarcely noticed it. After

talking a short time with Mr. Loring, with a polite bow he moved away

and joined Mr. Benedict, who was standing on the opposite side of the

vessel. He was soon again in close conversation with this obscure

individual.

Loring was not only surprised at this, but chafed. It puzzled as well as

annoyed him. He could not but remark that Mr. Benedict was perfectly at

his ease with the distinguished individual who had just left him, and

that there was nothing in the manner of Mr. —— approaching to

condescension. Not many minutes elapsed before they were joined by a

third person, to whom Mr. —— presented Loring’s old friend in a formal

introduction. This individual was from the South. He had formerly held

the office of Secretary of State at Washington. At the mention of Mr.

Benedict’s name he shook him warmly by the hand, and treated him with

marked attention. The three men then went below, where Loring saw them,

about an hour afterward, in the centre of a group of five or six, all

men of standing and character in the United States. Benedict was

speaking, and all were listening to him with deep attention.

“Can it be possible that his fortunes have changed—that he has become

wealthy?” the merchant said to himself; and a feeling of respect for his

old acquaintance arose in his mind.

Day after day went by, and still Mr. Benedict continued to be on terms

of intimacy with these men, while they treated Mr. Loring, who was

introduced to them by a friend, with reserved and distant politeness.

“Who is that man?” asked the merchant, affecting not to know Benedict.

The question was put to a fellow-passenger.

“That’s Professor Benedict,” replied the person addressed, manifesting

surprise at the question. “Are you not acquainted with him?”

Loring shook his head.

“You have heard of him, of course?”

“I can’t say that I have.”

“Not heard of Professor Benedict!” The passenger looked into the face of

Loring with a broad stare. “Why he is known from one end of our country

to the other as a distinguished scholar and man of science. His articles

in the Quarterly Review, and his essays on Political and Social Economy,

‘Wealth and Labor,’ ‘The Times,’ etc., have won for him an enviable

reputation. There are few abler men in our country than Professor

Benedict.”