soon wake to wo, to anguish. Again they mount their steeds, again they
sweep the meadows down to the very brink of the broad deep transparent
Wharfe—and now the heronshaw is sprung—he flaps his dark gray vans,
the hermit bird of the waters, and slowly soars away, till the
falconer’s shrill whoop and the sharp whistling flutter of the fleet
pinions in his rear arouse him to his danger—up! up! he soars—up! up!
scaling to the very sky in small but swift gyrations, while side by side
the well matched falcons wheel circling around him still, and still
outtopping till all the three are lost in the gray fleecy clouds—the
clouds!—no one has seen—no one has even dreamed, engrossed in the wild
fervor of the sport, that all the sky was overclouded, and the thick
blackness of the thunder-storm driving up wind, and settling down in
terrible proximity to the earth. Away! away! what heed they the dark
storm-clouds—the increasing blast?—these equestrians. Heavens! what a
flash—how keen! how close! how livid! the whole horizon showed for a
moment’s space the broad blue glare of fearful living light—and
simultaneously the thunder bursts above them—a crash as of ten thousand
pieces of earth’s heaviest ordnance shot off in one wild clatter. The
horses of the party were all careering at their speed, their maddest
speed, across a broad green pasture, bordered on the right hand by the
broad channel of the Wharfe, and on the left by an impracticable fence
of tall old thorn, with a deep ditch on either side, and a stout timber
railing. The two fair sisters were in front, leading the joyous
cavalcade, with their eyes in the clouds, their hearts full of the fire
of the chase, when that broad dazzling glare burst full into their
faces. Terrified by the livid glare, and the appalling crash of the
reverberated thunder, the horses of the sisters bolted diverse,
Annabel’s toward the broad and rapid Wharfe, between which and the
meadow through which they had been so joyously careering there was no
fence or barrier at that spot—Marian’s toward the dangerous ox-fence
which has been mentioned. The charger of De Vaux, who rode the next
behind them, started indeed and whirled about, but was almost
immediately controlled by the strong arm and skilful horsemanship of his
bold rider, but of the grooms, who followed, several were instantly
dismounted, and there were only three or four who, mastering their
terrified and fractious beasts, galloped off to the aid of their young
mistresses—they were both good equestrians and ordinarily fearless, but
in such peril what woman could preserve her wonted intrepidity
unshaken—the sky as black as night, with ever and anon a sharp clear
stream of the electric fluid dividing the dark storm clouds, and the
continuous thunders rolling and crashing overhead—their horses mad with
terror, and gifted by that very madness with tenfold speed and
strength—Annabel, whose clear head and calm though resolute temper gave
her no small advantage over her volatile, impetuous sister, sat, it is
true, as firmly in her saddle as though she had been practising her
manège in the riding school, and held her fiery jennet with a firm,
steady hand; but naturally her strength was insufficient to control its
fierce and headlong speed, so that she saw upon the instant that she
must be carried into the whirling waters of the swift river—for a
moment she thought of casting herself to the ground, but it scarcely
required one moment of reflection to show her that such course could
lead but to destruction—soon she drove erect and steady in her seat,
guiding her horse well and keeping its head straight to the river bank,
and hoping every instant to hear the tramp of De Vaux’s charger
overtaking her, and bringing succor—alas! for Annabel!—the first sound
that distinctly reached her ears was a wild piercing
shriek—“Ernest—great God!—_my_ Ernest—help me!—save me!—” It was
the voice of Marian, the voice of her own cherished sister calling on
her betrothed—and he?—Even in that dread peril, when life was on a
cast, her woman heart prevailed above her woman fears—she turned and
saw the steed of Marian rushing, the bit between his teeth, toward the
dangerous fence, which lay, however, far more distant than the river to
which her own horse was in terrible proximity, and he, her promised
husband, the lord of her very soul, he, for whom _she_ would have
perished—oh how willingly!—perished with but the one regret of that
separation, he had overlooked entirely, or heeded not at least _her_
peril to whom his faith was sworn, and even before that wild appealing
cry, had started in pursuit, and was, as she looked round, in the act of
whirling Marian from her saddle with one hand, while with the other he
controlled his own strong war-horse. When she first heard that cry her
spirit sank within her, but when she saw herself deserted, when the
drear consciousness that she was not beloved broke on her, it seemed as
if an ice-bolt had pierced her heart of hearts, her eyes grew dim, there
was a sound of rushing waters in her ear—not the sound of the rushing
river, although her horse was straining now up the last slight ascent
that banked it—her pulse stood still—had Annabel then died, the
bitterness of death was over—before, however, she had so much as
wavered in her saddle, much less lost rein or stirrup, a wild plunge,
and the shock which ran through every nerve, as her horse leaped into
the brimful river, awoke her for the moment to her present
situation—unconsciously she had retained her seat—her horse was
swimming boldly—a loud plunge sounded from behind!—another, and
another! and the next instant her steed’s head was seized by the
stalwart arm of a young falconer toward the shore she had just quitted,
her brain reeled round and she again was senseless—thus was she borne
to land without the aid or intervention of him who should have been the
first to venture all, to lose all, for her safety.
[_To be continued._
* * * * *
THE LAST LEAP OF UNCAS.
BY PARK BENJAMIN.
In the vicinity of the picturesque town of N——, in New
England, there is a wild chasm through which tumbles a cascade,
now not so formidable as when the stream above it was not dammed
up for manufactories. About this cascade an Indian legend is
told—and the verses I have here written are an attempt to
embody it in such a manner as to give the reader an idea of the
scope it would afford to a more imaginative poet.
On a high precipice of rock,
’Tis said, an Indian hunter stood;
Behind him was the following foe,
Before the opposing flood.
Chased, like the dun deer, to his death,
He turned, and paused, and gasped for breath:
Big on his brow, like drops of rain,
The sweat rolled from each swollen vein—
Yet sank he not, but bold and stern
He stood, as if with strength to spurn
A hundred foes. But soon there came
A shudder o’er his mighty frame;
For one dry branch that near him hung,
And to a stunted pine-tree clung,
Cracked like the sound of frost and fell
Down in the cataract’s boiling well,
He watched it as the foam and spray
Dash’d up and bore it far away.
Though lithe and agile as the hound,
He cannot leap that chasm’s bound,
And though his feet are shod with speed,
’Twere vain to try the daring deed.
He will not—no! the Indian knows
That he must die by flood or foes—
For now on his quick ear there falls
The echo of approaching calls.
His belt, his hatchet, bow and gun,
All that encumbered him in flight,
The bloody trophies he had won
In many a field of fight,
He casts where on the rocks below
The waves break up in showers of snow—
He is resolved to stand at bay,
And meet his foemen, face to face—
For there red Uncas lived that day
The last of all his race!
Hark! from the covert now they spring,
They see him as he towers alone
And many arrows round him ring,
Yet still he seems like stone!
Unstirred, with folded arms he views
Each warrior that his life pursues,
Unscathed beneath the sudden wrath
Of all that shouted on his path
And tracked him to the cataract’s lair,
He hurls defiance on the air.
What purpose moves him? Will he try,
Thus met on every side, to fly?
Wonder has struck his foemen dumb;
For, toward their ranks, behold him come!
’Tis but a single step, for swift
As lightning leaps from cloudy rift
He backward bounds. Great God! ’tis o’er,
His death-shriek sinks amid the roar
Of waves that bear his mangled form
Beyond the battle storm.
So plunged he in the dashing tide—
So fronting his fierce foes he died—
And now, though peaceful years have past,
And change has marred the rude, wild place,
Not unremembered is the last
And bravest of his race.
* * * * *
SONNET.
BY W. W. STORY.
The human voice!—oh, instrument divine,
That with a subtle and mysterious art
Rangest the diapason of the heart—
The mighty scale of passion all is thine—
Thine air-spun net around the soul doth twine,
Whether the heart of thousands lifts, as one,
The wild, deep anthem of its monotone,
Or the soft voice of Love its silver line
Threads through the spirit’s innermost recess.
Thou mouldest the blank air, that round thee lies
To a rare tissue of fine mysteries;
Thou canst lift up the soul and canst depress—
And upon Music’s balanced wings canst fly
Straight through the gates of Hope and Memory.
* * * * *
SHAKSPEARE.
BY THEODORE S. FAY, AUTHOR OF “NORMAN LESLIE,” “THE COUNTESS IDA,” ETC.
NO. VI.—MACBETH.
Macbeth is a great moral and religious lesson. Its application is as
wide as Christendom, and I think may be justly regarded as an exposition
of Christianity. It is applicable to all men, and is not by any means
limited to kings or usurpers. Nearly every one has some strong desire,
or passion, or plan. The “golden round” for which men, nowadays, file
their minds, put rancors in the vessels of their peace, and give their
eternal jewel to the common enemy of man, is not a crown, but it is not
wanting. On a large or a small scale, the principle is the same. Whoever
undertakes, by immoral, unlawful means, to effect a favorite
object—whoever lives without habits of frequently appealing to
God—whoever listens for an instant to the delusive promises of
passion—is liable to be drawn on, like him, far beyond their intention,
and involved at length in sin and ruin. The Scottish usurper—the
individual, is dead. But the class, to which he belonged, survives.
Macbeths are to be met with every day in the world—men who listen to
the promises of the fiends, who build up a hope of safety and impunity
upon as hollow a foundation as the charm of not being born of a
woman—or of not being destroyed till the advancing against them of a
forest. Many a man—many a woman—many a young girl becomes thus
entangled from forgetting their Maker and clinging to the “weird
sisters” of the world, till shame, vice and despair overwhelm them.
Read aright, this tragedy is a mighty lesson to the young. They are
starting in life inexperienced, thoughtless, and ready to believe the
brilliant promises of every wandering and dangerous hope. They are ready
also to “jump the life to come,” if they can secure impunity in their
present career. Let them read Macbeth with care, and get from its
wondrous page a terrific glimpse of the world. Let them look on poor,
weak, deluded human nature when trusting in _itself_. Let them see the
highest earthly rank, when unblessed by Heaven—the haughtiest,
loftiest, steadiest mind, when turned from God to follow, with its own
rash steps, the mazes of life. Let them, while they are pure and
innocent, remain so. Let them keep the quiet conscience of the
gentlewoman, even if, to do so, they are obliged to remain in her lowly
position. Let them never, for “the dignity of the body,” poison the
quiet of the soul. Let them tread the darkest, weariest paths of common
life, rather than file their minds with any delusive and hollow hope of
worldly advantage. Put no rancors in the vessel of your peace, whatever
be the temptation. Cling to him whose promises alone are fulfilled.
Commit no act, great or small, which can prey on your imagination and
poison the good which may be in store for you. Put no “damned spot” upon
your hand. Once there, it is ineffacable by all the washing of the
ocean—by all the perfumes of Arabia; and however great may appear the
temptation, keep the eternal jewel, Innocence, from “the common enemy of
man.”
I have said, in a former paragraph, that Macbeth had been guilty before,
in _deeds_ as well as _thoughts_. Let any one read the scene between him
and the two murderers and he will feel at once the conviction that
Macbeth himself has been guilty of those oppressive cruelties which he
there lays upon Banquo.
“know
That it was _he_, in the times past, _which held you_
_So under fortune; which you thought had been_
_Our innocent self_: this I made good to you
In our last conference, past in probation with you;
How _you were borne in hand_; how crost,” _etc._
And again,
“are you so gospell’d
To pray for this good man, and for his issue,
Whose _heavy hand hath bowed you to the grave_,
And _beggared yours forever_?”
What dark tale of oppression is connected with these vague disclosures
we cannot tell; but the character of Banquo acquits him of having been
the tyrant. These men have been, in some way or other, so trampled on
that they are both rendered desperate, and Macbeth, who _knows it so
well_, and whom, it seems, they had always considered the cause of their
misfortunes, is most likely so in reality.
As to what I have said at the commencement of these papers respecting
the want of a just appreciation of the poet on the part of his
commentators—take Dr. Johnson, for example, on Macbeth. He begins with
_a defence_ of the introduction of supernatural machinery into the
tragedy. This proves _distrust_ of Shakspeare, as the transcendent
genius he is now annually becoming in the estimation of every one. Hear
the learned essayist descanting upon the dramatist as if he knew more of
the art than the master. It is like the old Hungarian officer’s
celebrated critique on Napoleon’s manœuvres.
“In order,” says Johnson, “to make a true estimate of the abilities and
merit of a writer, it is always necessary to examine the genius of his
age and the opinions of his cotemporaries. A poet who should now make
the whole action of his tragedy depend upon enchantment and produce the
chief events by the assistance of supernatural agents, would be censured
as transgressing the bounds of probability, be _banished from the
theatre to the nursery_, and condemned to write _fairy tales_ instead of
tragedies.”
In other words, had Shakspeare written Macbeth in the time of Dr.
Johnson, that play would be considered unworthy to be performed, except
before an audience of children, and the critic would advise the mistaken
young author to adopt a profession in which he might hope for more
success, than in literature. I can fancy some wiseacre in a London
weekly, with the smartness and knack at severity which daily practice
confers, taking to pieces “the tragedy of Macbeth, by a Mr. William
Shakspeare, said to be a subordinate at Astley’s”—and serving the
ambitious young gentleman up such a dressing for his witches, ghosts and
murders, as would be enough to extinguish a better educated and more
promising litterateur; showing how impossible it must be for witches to
mingle in human affairs, in this enlightened age of hebdomadals, and
banishing to the nursery a blunderer unworthy to cater for such sensible
critics.
The denunciation, however, would embrace other literary works besides
the puerile attempt of Mr. Shakspeare. Manfred, Cain, the Faust, and
other trifles of the same description, in which the poet has made the
action of his tragedy depend upon enchantment. Virgil or Homer might be
equally censured. It is quite true that the witches may not be
considered probable characters, but how can any one overlook their
fearful and magnificent meaning _allegorically_?
Johnson goes on, however, in his defence.
“But a survey of the notions that prevailed at the time when this play
was written, will prove that Shakspeare was in no danger of such
censures, since _he only_ turned the system that was then universally
admitted to his advantage, and was _far from overburthening the
credulity_ of his audience.”
The doctor then goes on to a learned and interesting dissertation on the
_gross darkness of ignorance_—on the credulity of the common people—on
the diabolical opposition supposed to have been offered to the
Christians in the crusades—quotes Olympidorus, St. Chrysostom, and a
law of King James I. against conjurors, and shows much sagacious wisdom
and learning, which have about as much to do with the real living beauty
of Macbeth as they have with the Temple of Jerusalem.
“Upon this general infatuation,” continues the doctor, “Shakspeare
_might be easily allowed to found a play_, especially as he has
followed, with great exactness, such histories as were then thought to
be true: nor can it be doubted that the scenes of enchantment, _however
they may now be ridiculed_, were both by _himself and his audience_
thought awful and affecting.”
No one can doubt the moral greatness of Dr. Johnson, but it was not of a
kind which enabled him to enter fully into the living principle of
beauty which inspires the Shakspeare plays.
He speaks of Macbeth with a sort of indifference which betrays his
blindness to its highest merits. He praises the propriety of its
fiction, and the solemnity, grandeur and variety of its actions. He
adds, “_but_ it has no nice discrimination of character. The events are
too great to admit the influence of particular dispositions, etc. The
danger of ambition _is well described_; and I know not whether it may
not be said _in defence_ of some parts which now seem _improbable_,
that, in Shakspeare’s time, it was necessary to warn credulity against
vain and illusive predictions.”
And in our _own time_, what leads every criminal astray, but some “vain
and illusive prediction,” not uttered by three weird sisters, by an
armed head, or the “apparition of a child crowned, with a tree in his
hand,” but by the temptations of the world and the treacherous passions
of the human heart? What was it which told Napoleon—
“Be lion-mettled, proud; and take no care,
Who chafes, who frets, and where conspirers are?”
Who told Robespierre—
“Be bloody, bold and resolute, laugh to scorn,
The power of man,” etc.?
It was not the spectres, in the witches’ case—nor the express
conditions added.
“Macbeth shall never vanquished be, until
Great Birnam wood to high Dunsinane hill
Shall come against him.”
Or,
“None of woman born shall harm Macbeth.”
But who can doubt that the principle of evil, had held forth, before
both their minds, some illusive hope which led them to ruin?
As another instance of the careless errors committed by the
commentators, and Johnson among the rest, take the following. The note
occurs in Cawthorn’s (successor to Bell) edition, London, 1801, and
although without Johnson’s name, is found between two notes of his, (p.
41,) and is, I believe, from his pen.
The passage referred to is in the second act of the Tempest, where the
King of Naples, after the shipwreck, is wandering about the island with
some of his suite. The reader will remember that the storm raised by
Prospero overtakes them as the King Alonso is coming to Naples from
Tunis, where he had been to marry his daughter Claribel. Great regret
has been expressed that this marriage should have ever been thought of,
since it is the cause of their present misfortune. The king himself is
sorry and the rest are some of them angry and satirical.
Sebastian says,
“’Twas a _sweet marriage_, and we _prosper well_ in our
return.”
The match is thought absurd by most of them, and when, in answer to
Antonio’s question, “Who’s the next heir to Naples?” Sebastian replies,
“Claribel,” Antonio rejoins the following passage;
“She that is Queen of Tunis; she that dwells
Ten leagues beyond man’s life; she that from Naples
Can have no note, unless the sun were post,
(The man in the moon’s too slow) till new born urchins
Be rough and razorable,”
On this there is the following note:
“Shakspeare’s _great ignorance_ of geography is not more
conspicuous in any instance than in this, where he supposes
Tunis and Naples to have been at such an immeasurable distance
from each other.”
It does not seem to me that the passage warrants the supposition of such
an opinion on the part of Shakspeare. It is obviously a mere hyperbole
in jest. It is not credible that such a writer could be so ignorant, and
where other evidences of it appear in the course of his works, it is
more rational (when they cannot be explained away as in the present
instance) to ascribe them to typographical confusion, or the liberties
of ignorant copyists, &c.
To the passage complained of, Sebastian himself answers,
“What stuff is this? How say you?
’Tis true, my brother’s daughter’s Queen of Tunis;
So is she heir of Naples; ’twixt which regions
There is some space.”
* * * * *
“HATH NOT THY ROSE A CANKER.”
BY MRS. LOIS B. ADAMS.
Pressed with the weight of morning dews,
Its slender stalk the rose was bending,
And red and white in changing hues
Upon its cheek were sweetly blending:
But underneath the leaflets bright,
By blushing beauty hid from sight,
Enamored with its fragrance rare,
The canker worm was feasting there.
O! thou who in thy youthful days
Ambition’s wreaths art proudly twining,
And fondly hoping worldly praise
Will cheer thine after years declining,
Beware, lest every tempting rose
That in Ambition’s pathway grows,
Conceal beneath its semblance fair
The lurking canker of despair.
And thou who in thine early morn
For sin the paths of truth art leaving,
Remember, though no pointed thorn
May pierce the garland thou art weaving,
Yet every bud whence flowrets bloom
Shall its own living sweets entomb;
For deep the canker worm of care
Is feasting on its vitals there.
Thou too, the beautiful and bright,
At Pleasure’s shrine devoutly kneeling,
Dost thou not see the fatal blight
Across thy roseate chaplet stealing?
Time hath not touched with fingers cold
Those glossy leaves of beauty’s mould,
And yet each bud and blossom gay
Is marked for slow but sure decay.
O! ye who sigh for flowers that bloom
In one eternal spring of gladness,
Where beauty finds no darkened tomb,
And joy hath never dreamed of sadness;
Elysian fields are yours to roam
Where groves of fadeless pleasures bloom
O! linger not where sorrow’s tears
May blight the cherished hopes of years.
* * * * *
TO A SWALLOW
THAT DROPPED ON DECK DURING A STORM AT SEA.
BY WILLIAM FALCONER.
Spent are thy wings, poor wanderer on the deep,
Minion of spring, frail wrestler with the breeze,
Led by young hope o’er ever-spreading seas
Where the wing’d storms their prowling vigils keep,
Mayhap ’twas thou that built thy clayey nest
Last springtide at my lattice arched with flowers—
Thy tiny wing that beat the morning hours
And woke my fair girl from her dewy rest.
But no! for ’mid a thousand, were I blind,
Methinks I’d know that bird, by instinct rare;
Yet fear not, heaven’s dark brow looks now more kind.
Repose—then flutter through the brightening air,
But when thou meet’st the sharers of my heart
Thy benefactor’s grief by mystic spell impart!
* * * * *
ERROR.
BY MRS. EMMA C. EMBURY, AUTHOR OF “CONSTANCE LATIMER,” ETC.
“Pause, heedless mortal, and reflect—this day,
This very hour—nay, yesterday, mayhap,
Thou mayst have done what cannot be recalled,
And steeped thy future years in darkest night.
Some trivial act or word, now quite forgot,
May have impelled the iron wheels of fate,
Which onward roll to crush thee in their course.”
One of the most beautiful of the many lovely villages which lie within
the foldings of the Connecticut river is Elmsdale. Occupying a small
peninsula, round which the stream winds so closely that at the first
view it seems entirely separated from the main land, and lying aside
from the highroad which traverses the valley of the Connecticut,
Elmsdale is one of the most quiet and sequestered spots to be found in
New England. Like most places which offer no inducement to the spirit of
speculation, the village is inhabited chiefly by the descendants of
those who had first settled there. The old men have been companions in
boyhood, and have sported in the same fields which now echo to the merry
shouts of their grandchildren. The most of them still cultivate the
farms which belonged to their forefathers, and even the adventurous few,
who have been tempted to go out into the world beyond, usually return to
finish their days on their native soil.
The arrival of a stranger in a retired village is always a subject of
curiosity and interest, but in a place like Elmsdale, where every body
knew his neighbor, such an unusual event excited special attention.
When, therefore, it was known throughout the hamlet that a strange lady
had come to pass the summer with old farmer Moody, all the gossips were
on the alert to find out who she could be. But they derived little
satisfaction from their skilful questioning of the farmer; all he knew
was soon told. The lady was travelling for health, and having been
pleased with the situation of his comfortable abode, had applied to be
received as a boarder during the summer months, offering to pay
liberally in advance. Her evident ill-health, her gentle manners, and
the temptation of her ready gold prevailed on the thrifty farmer to
assent, and the stranger took possession of a neat chamber in his
pleasant cottage.
Close to the bank of the river, on a little eminence commanding a view
of the country around Elmsdale, stood a singularly constructed stone
building which had long been unoccupied and deserted. Its original owner
and projector was a man of singular habits, whose eccentricity had been
universally regarded as a species of harmless insanity. Rich and
childless, he had erected this mansion according to his own ideas of
gothic architecture, and nothing could be more grotesque than its whole
appearance. It soon obtained the appellation of Hopeton’s Folly, and
though he whose name it bore had long since occupied a narrower house in
the silent land, and the property had passed into other hands, the
deserted mansion was still known by the same title. Great was the
surprise of the villagers when it was known that the strange lady had
become the purchaser of Hopeton’s Folly, and that in future she would
reside permanently in Elmsdale. Curiosity was newly awakened, and every
body was desirous to know something about one who seemed so unprotected
and solitary. But there was a quiet dignity in her manners which rebuked
and disconcerted impertinent inquiry, while all efforts to draw some
information from her single attendant—an elderly sedate woman, who
seemed to hold a middle rank between companion and servant—were equally
unsuccessful.
“Has Mrs. Norwood been long a widow?” asked a pertinacious newsmonger,
who kept the only thread and needle shop in the place, and therefore had
a fine opportunity of gratifying her gossipping propensities.
“It is now nearly two years since she lost her husband,” was the reply
of the discreet servant, who was busily employed in selecting some tape
and pins.
“Only two years, and she has already laid aside her mourning!” exclaimed
the shopkeeper; “but I suppose that is an English fashion.”
The woman made no reply, and, consequently, the next day, all the
village was given to understand that Mrs. Norwood’s _help_ had told Miss
Debby Tattle that Mrs. Norwood was a very rich widow who had just
arrived from England. This was all that Miss Debby’s ingenuity could
make out of the scanty materials which she had been able to obtain, and
with this meagre account people were obliged to be satisfied.
Mrs. Norwood was one of those quiet, gentle beings who, though little
calculated to excite a sudden prepossession, always awakened a deep and
lasting interest. Her age might have been about eight and twenty, but
the ravages of illness, and, perhaps, the touch of a still more cruel
destroyer, had given a melancholy expression to her countenance, and a
degree of gravity to her manners which made her seem much older. Her
features, still classically beautiful, were attenuated and sharpened,
her complexion was pale almost to ghastliness, and her thin, flexible
lips were perfectly colorless. But she possessed one charm which neither
time nor disease could spoil. Her eyes—those dark, soft, lustrous eyes,
with their veined and fringed lids, beautiful alike when the full orbs
were veiled beneath their shadowy lashes, or when their beaming light
turned full upon an object of regard—were the most distinguishing trait
in Mrs. Norwood’s countenance. No one dreamed of calling her beautiful,
but all noticed the grace of her tall and slightly bending figure, her
courteous and ladylike manners, her low, sweet voice, and the touching
air of melancholy which seemed to characterize her every movement.