"What I want," said Moggs, "is a large amount of glory, and a bigger

share of pay--a man like me ought to have plenty of both--glory, to

swagger about with, while the people run into the street to stare at

Moggs, all whiskers and glory--and plenty of pay, to make the glory

shine, and to set it off. I wouldn't mind, besides, if I did have a

nice little wound or two, if they've got any that don't hurt much, so

that I might have my arm in a sling, or a black patch on my

countenance. But if I was only one of the rank and file, I'm very much

afraid I might have considerable more of knocks that would hurt a

great deal, than I should of either the pay or the glory--that's what

troubles me in the milentary way. But make me a gineral, and then,

I'll talk to you about the matter--make me a gineral ossifer, with the

commission, and the feathers, and the cocked-hat--plenty of pay, and a

large slice of rations--there's nothing like rations--and then I'll

talk to you like a book. Then I'll pledge you my lives, and my

fortunes, and my sacred honors--all of 'em--that I will furnish the

genus whenever it is wanted--genus in great big gloves, monstrous long

boots, and astride of a hoss that scatters the little boys like

Boston, whenever I touch the critter with my long spurs, to astonish

the ladies. Oh, get out!--do you think I couldn't play gineral and

look black as thunder, for such pay as ginerals get? I'd do it for

half the money, and I'd not only do it cheaper, but considerable

better than you ever see it done the best Fourth of July you ever met

with. At present, I know I've not much rations, and no money at

all--money's skurse--but as for genus--look at my eye--isn't genus

there?--observation my nose--isn't it a Boneyparte?--aint I sevagerous

about the mouth?--I tell you, Quiggens, there's whole lots of a hero

in this little gentleman. I've so much genus that I can't work. When a

man's genus is a workin' in his upper story, and mine always is, then

his hands has to be idle, so's not to interrupt his genus."

"Yes," responded Quiggens, who is rather of the satirical turn, as one

is likely to be who has driven the "Black Maria," and has thus found

out that the world is all a fleeting show; "yes, you've got so much

genus in your upper story that it has made a hole in the crown of your

hat, so it can see what sort of weather is going on out of doors--and

it's your genus, I reckon, that's peeping out of your elbows. Why

don't you ask your genus to patch your knees, and to mend the holes in

your boots?"

"Quiggens, go 'way, Quiggens--you're of the common natur', Quiggens--a

vulgar fraction, Quiggens; and you can't understand an indiwidooal who

has a mind inside of his hat, and a whole soul packed away under his

jacket. You'll never rise, a flutterin' and a ringin' like a

bald-headed eagle--men like you have got no wings, and can only go

about nibblin' the grass, while we fly up and peck cherries from the

trees. I'm always thinkin' on what I'm going to be, and a preparin'

myself for what natur' intended, though I don't know exactly what it

is yet. But I don't believe that sich a man as Montezuma Moggs was

brought into the world only to put patches on shoes and to heel-tap

people's boots. No, Quiggens--no--it can't be, Quiggens. But you don't

understand, and I'll have to talk to my genus. It's the only friend I

have."

"Why don't you ask your genus to lend you a fip then, or see whether

it's got any cigars to give away," replied Quiggs contemptuously, as

he walked up the street, while Moggs, in offended majesty, stalked

sulkily off in another direction.

"I would go somewheres, if I only knew where to go to," soliloquized

Moggs, as he strolled slowly along the deserted streets; "but when

there's nowheres to go to, then I suppose a person must go

home--specially of cold nights like this, when the thermometer is down

as far as Nero, and acts cruel on the countenance. It's always colder,

too, when there's nobody about but yourself--you get your own share

and every body else's besides; and it's lucky if you're not friz. Why

don't they have gloves for people's noses? I ought to have a

carriage--yes, and horses--ay, and a colored gemman to drive 'em, to

say nothing of a big house warmed all over, with curtains to the

windows. And why haven't I? Isn't Montezuma Moggs as good as

anybody--isn't he as big--as full of genus? It's cold now, a footin'

it round. But I'll wait--perhaps there's a good time comin',

boys--there must be a good time, for there isn't any sort of times in

the place where they keep time, which can be worse times than these

times. But here's home--here's where you must go when you don't know

what to do with yourself. Whenever a man tells you he has nowheres to

go to, or says he's goin' nowheres, that man's a crawlin' home,

because he can't help it. Well, well--there's nothin' else to be did,

and so somebody must turn out and let me in home."

It appeared, however, that Montezuma Moggs erred in part in this

calculation. It is true enough that he knocked and knocked for

admission at the door of his domicile; but the muscular effort thus

employed seemed to serve no other purpose than that of exercise. Tired

with the employment of his hands in this regard, Moggs resorted to his

feet--then tried his knee, and anon his back, after the usual

desperate variety of such appeal resorted to by the "great locked

out," when they become a little savage or so at the delay to which

they are subjected. Sometimes, also, he would rap fiercely, and then

apply his eye to the key-hole, as if to watch for the effect of his

rapping. "I don't see 'em," groaned he. And then again, his ear would

be placed against the lock--"I don't hear 'em either." There were

moments when he would frantically kick the door, and then rush as

frantically to the middle of the street, to look at the windows; but

no sign of animation from within peered forth to cheer him. After full

an hour of toil and of hope deferred, Montezuma Moggs tossed his arms

aloft in despair--let them fall listlessly at his side, and then sat

down upon the curb-stone to weep, while the neighbors looked upon him

from their respective windows; a benevolent few, not afraid of

catching cold, coming down to him with their condolements. None,

however, offered a resting place to the homeless, unsheltered and

despairing Moggs.

In the course of his musings and mournings, as he sat chattering with

cold, a loosened paving-stone arrested his attention; and, with the

instinct of genius, which catches comfort and assistance from means

apparently the most trivial, and unpromising in their aspect, the

paving-stone seemed to impart an idea to Montezuma Moggs, in this "his

last and fearfulest extremity." Grappling this new weapon in both his

hands, he raised it and poised it aloft.

"I shall make a ten-strike now," exclaimed he, as he launched the

missile at the door with herculean force, and himself remained in

classic attitude watching the effect of the shot, as the door groaned,

and creaked, and splintered under the unwonted infliction. Still,

however, it did not give way before this application of force, though

the prospect was encouraging. The observers laughed--Moggs

chuckled--the dogs barked louder than before; and indeed it seemed all

round as if a new light had been cast upon the subject.

"Hongcore!" cried somebody.

"I will," said Moggs, preparing to demonstrate accordingly.

"Stop there," said the voice of Mrs. Montezuma Moggs, as she raised

the window, "if you hongcore the door of this 'ere house again, I'll

call the watch, to see what he thinks of such doings, I will. And now,

once for all, you can't come in here to-night."

"Can't, indeed!--why can't I?--not come into my own house! Do you

call this a free country, on the gineral average, if such rebellions

are to be tolerated?"

"Your house, Mr. Moggs--yours?--who pays the rent, Moggs--who feeds

you and the children, Moggs--who finds the fire and every thing else?

Tell us that?"

This was somewhat of the nature of a home-thrust, and Moggs, rather

conscience-stricken, was dumb-founded and appalled. Moggs was very

cold, and therefore, for the time being, deficient in his usual pride

and self-esteem, leaving himself more pervious to the assault of

reproach from without and within, than he would have been in a more

genial state of the atmosphere. No man is courageous when he is

thoroughly chilled; and it had become painfully evident that this was

not a momentary riot, but an enduring revolution, through the

intermedium of a civil war.

"Ho, ho!" faintly responded Moggs, though once more preparing to carry

the citadel by storm, "I'll settle this business in a twinkling."

Splash!

Any thing but cold water in quantity at a crisis like this. Who could

endure a shower-bath under such ungenial circumstances? Not Priessnitz

himself. It is not, then, to be wondered at that Montezuma Moggs now

quailed, having nothing in him of the amphibious nature.

"Water is cheap, Mr. Moggs; and you'd better take keer. There's

several buckets yet up here of unkommon cold water, all of which is at

your service without charge--wont ask you nothin', Moggs, for your

washin'; and if you're feverish, may be it will do you good."

Everybody laughed, as you know everybody will, at any other body's

misfortune or disaster. Everybody laughed but Moggs, and he shivered.

"I'll sattinly ketch my death," moaned he; "I'll be friz, standing

straight up, like a big icicle; or if I fall over when I'm friz, the

boys will slide on me as they go to school, and call it fun as they go

whizzing over my countenance with nails in their shoes, scratching my

physimohogany all to pieces. They tell me that being friz is an easy

death--that you go to sleep and don't know nothing about it. I wish

they'd get their wives to slouse 'em all over with a bucket of water,

on sich a night as this, and then try whether it is easy. Call being

friz hard an easy thing! I'd rather be biled any time. What shill I

do--what shill I do?"

"Perhaps they'll put you in an ice-house, and kiver you up with tan

till summer comes--you'd be good for something then, which is more nor

you are now," observed Mrs. Moggs from the window.

"Quit twitting a man with his misfortunes," whined Montezuma, of the

now broken-heart.

"Why, my duck!"

"Y-e-e-s--y-e-e-s! that's it--I am a duck, indeed! but by morning I'll

be only a snow-ball--the boys will take my head for a snow-ball. What

shill I do--I guvs up, and I guvs in."

"Well, I'll tell you, Montezuma Moggs, what you must do to be thawed.

Promise me faithfully only to work half as hard as I do, and you may

come to the fire--the ten-plate stove is almost red-hot. Promise to

mend boots, mind shop, and tend baby; them's the terms--that's the

price of admission."

Hard terms, certainly--the severest of terms--but then hard terms, and

severe terms, are good terms, if no other terms are to be had. One

must do the best he can in this world, if it be imperative upon him to

do something, as it evidently was in Moggs' case.

"I promise," shivered Moggs.

"Promise what?"

"T-t-to tend baby, m-m-mind shop, and m-m-mend boots;" and the

vanquished Moggs sank down exhausted, proving, beyond the possibility

of doubt, that cold water, when skillfully applied of a cold night, is

the sovereignest thing on earth for the cure of "genus" in its lazier

branches.

It is but justice, however, to state, that Moggs kept his word

faithfully, in which he contradicted the general expectation, which,

with reason enough in the main, places but little reliance on

promises; and he became, for him, quite an industrious person. His

wife's buckets served as a continual remembrancer. But Mrs. Moggs

never exulted over his defeat; and, though once compelled to

harshness, continued to be to Montezuma a most excellent wife. The

shop looks lively now--and the bell to the door is removed; for Moggs,

with his rat-tat-tat, is ever at his post, doing admired execution on

the dilapidated boots and shoes. The Moggses prosper, and all through

the efficacy of a bucket of cold water. We should not wonder if, in

the end, the Moggs family were to become rich, through the force of

industry, and without recourse to "genus."

"Politics and me has shuck hands forever," said the repentant Moggs.

"I've been looking out and expecting loaves and fishes long enough.

Loaves, indeed! Why I never got even a cracker, unless it was aside of

the ear, when there was a row on the election ground; and as for

fishes, why, if I'd stopped any longer for them to come swimming up to

my mouth, all ready fried, with pepper on 'em, I wouldn't even have

been decent food for fishes myself. I never got a nibble, let alone a

bite; but somebody else always cotch'd the fish, and asked me to carry

'em home for them. Fact is, if people wont wote for me, I wont wote

for people. And as for the milentary line, I give up in a gineral way,

all idea of being a gineral ossifer. Bonyparte is dead, and if my

milentary genus was so great that I couldn't sleep for it, who'd hunt

me up and put me at the head of affairs? No, if I'm wanted for any

thing, they'll have to call me. I've dodged about winkin' and noddin'

as long as the country had any right to expect, and now--rat-tat-tat--I'm

going to work for myself."

It was a wise conclusion on the part of Moggs, who may, perchance, in

this way, be a "gineral" yet.

THE BRIDE'S CONFESSION.

BY ALICE G. LEE.

A sudden thrill passed through my heart,

Wild and intense--yet not of pain--

I strove to quell quick, bounding throbs,

And scanned the sentence o'er again.

It might have been full idly penned

By one whose thoughts from love were free,

And yet as if entranced I read

"Thou art most beautiful to me."

Thou didst not whisper I was loved--

There were no gleams of tenderness,

Save those my trembling heart _would_ hope

That careless sentence might express.

But while the blinding tears fell fast,

Until the words I scarce could see,

There shone, as through a wreathing mist,

"Thou art most beautiful to me."

To thee! I cared not for all eyes

So I was beautiful in thine!

A timid star, my faint, sad beams

Upon _thy_ path alone should shine.

Oh what was praise, save from thy lips--

And love should all unheeded be

So I could hear thy blessed voice

Say--"Thou art beautiful to me."

And I _have heard_ those very words--

Blushing beneath thine earnest gaze--

Though thou, perchance, hadst quite forgot

They had been said in by-gone days.

While clasped hand, and circling arm,

Drew me nearer still to thee--

Thy low voice breathed upon mine ear

"Thou, love, art beautiful to me."

And, dearest, though thine eyes alone

May see in me a single grace--

I care not so thou e'er canst find

A hidden sweetness in my face.

And if, as years and cares steal on,

Even that lingering light must flee,

What matter! if from thee I hear

"Thou art _still_ beautiful to me!"

SONNET TO NIGHT.

Oh! look, my love, as over seas and lands

Comes shadowy Night, with dew, and peace, and rest;

How every flower clasps its folded hands

And fondly leans apon her faithful breast.

How still, how calm, is all around us now,

From the high stars to these pale buds beneath--

Calm, as the quiet on an infant's brow

Rocked to deep slumber in the lap of death.

Oh! hush--move not--it is a holy hour

And this soft nurse of nature, bending low,

Lists, like the sinless pair in Eden's bower,

For angels' pinions waving to and fro--

Oh, sacred Night! what mysteries are thine

Graven in stars upon thy page divine.

GRETTA.

PAULINE DUMESNIL.

OR A MARRIAGE DE CONVENANCE.

BY ANGELE DE V. HULL.

The reason firm, the temperate will,

Endurance, foresight, strength and skill

A perfect woman, nobly planned. WORDSWORTH.

In a large but somewhat scantily furnished apartment sat two young

girls, in such earnest and apparently serious conversation that, but

for their youthful and blooming countenances, one might have fancied

them bending beneath the cares and sorrows of age. On the dark old

table between them rested a magnificent work-box, whose rich

implements they had been busily and skillfully using; but now the

scissors and thread lay at their feet, their needles were dropped, and

the younger of the two sat with clasped hands, while her companion's

low tones appeared to awaken every emotion of her heart.

On the old-fashioned French bedstead were thrown dresses of various

hues and expensive stuffs, while one only, a robe of the most delicate

material, its graceful folds looped with orange flowers, seemed to

attract the attention of the fair, fragile being, whose attitude was

one of intense suffering. Her bright hopes had faded at sight of that

colorless garb, and the bridal wreath was to wither on her brow! What

to her sad soul were the costly things before her? The jewels that

sparkled on their snow-white satin case, the long fairy veil of

beautiful lace that lay side by side with the bridal dress?

Her companion continued speaking, and she bowed her face upon those

clasped hands, while her slight frame shook with its contending

emotions. A few moments more and she raised her head. She was pale,

and her large, dark eyes dilated into fearful size. At length the big

drops came slowly down her cheek, and she was able to speak.

"No more, Angela, no more! You love me, I know; but what you have done

to day was no act of friendship. You have troubled the dark waters of

my soul until they have become a torrent over which I have no

control."

"And it is because I love you, Pauline, that I have made your future

life manifest to you. Do not seek to make a merit of obedience to your

proud mother's will. It is because you have been taught to fear her,

that you have consented to perjure yourself, and marry a man you

cannot love."

"For the love of heaven, spare me!" cried the girl, shrinking from her

friend's words, "Is it to triumph over me that you thus seek to move

me?"

Her friend gazed mournfully upon her, and rising from her seat, gently

put her arm around her.

"My poor Pauline! my dear Pauline!" murmured she, "I have been

cruel--forgive me."

Her answer was a fervent embrace--and throwing their arms round one

another, they wept in silence.

At this moment the door opened, and a lady entered. She was tall and

majestic, but there was an expression of pride and extreme hauteur on

her countenance. She wore a handsome but faded dress, and the somewhat

high-crowned cap bespoke a love of former fashions. She had a foreign

air, and when she addressed her daughter, it was in French.

"How is this!" cried she, angrily. "What scenes are these, Pauline? As

often as I enter your room I find you in tears. Is it to your advice,

Mademoiselle Percy, that my daughter owes her red eyes?"

Angela was about to reply, but Pauline waved her back.

"Is it, then, a crime to weep, mamma? If there were no tears, the

heart would break."

"It is a crime, Pauline, to resist the will of your mother, when she

has provided for your happiness in a manner suitable to your rank and

birth. It is a crime to break the fifth commandment, which tells you

to honor and obey your mother."

"And have I not done both," cried Pauline, indignantly. "Have you not

sold my happiness? Have you not bartered perhaps my eternal welfare,

that I might lay my aching head upon the downy pillows of the rich,

that you might see me a wretched slave, writhing under chains not the

less heavy because they are of gold?"

"Have you been reading Racine this morning? Or have you been studying

for the stage?" said Madame Dumesnil, in a cold, scornful tone. "You

are a good actress, certainly."

Pauline sank upon a chair, and her friend stood beside her, pressing

her trembling hand. Her mother advanced and stood before her.

"We will have no more of this, Pauline. If I feel satisfied that my

duty is done, you should rejoice in obeying me. I alone am the judge

in this matter--children should ever be contented with allowing their

parents to act for them; and allow me to say, that any interference of

strangers upon an occasion like this, is exceedingly misplaced."

This was aimed at Angela Percy; but she only replied by a wondering

and mournful gaze to the stern, cold woman before her. The old lady

proceeded.

"Bathe your eyes, Pauline, and arrange your hair. Monsieur de

Vaissiere is below. Perhaps," added she, with a sneer, "perhaps that

Miss Percy will assist you in entertaining your lover."

Pauline started and shuddered, but by this time she had again yielded

to her mother's influence. Going to the glass, she smoothed her dark

hair, and endeavored to abate the swelling of her eyes. Bidding

farewell to her friend, she descended to the parlor, where her

affianced husband awaited her.

He was tall, and his appearance _distingue_; but he, too, looked stern

and cold as he rose to meet that young creature, whose nineteen

summers were more than doubled by his years. He was handsome also; but

where was the youthful ardor that should have been roused at the idea

of winning that fair girl's love? Where were the sunny hopes to meet

hers, the dreams of the future that _he_ wanted? His willingness to

accept the sacrifice was no proof of his gentleness; and the cheek of

his betrothed grew pale, and her hand was cold, as he led her to a

seat.

Pauline had been bred to the hard forcing-school of the _ancien

regime_. Her mother had left France on the terrible death of her

beloved queen, Marie Antoinette, and had passed from the high post of

_dame d'honneur_, to poverty and exile in America. The sale of her

magnificent jewels and massive silver, had enabled her to lease an old

roomy mansion, deserted by its owners, and to live in peace and

retirement. Here, with the recollection of the horrors of the

revolution fresh within her memory, while her heart was still bleeding

with the wounds it had received; while she still had before her the

mangled remains of her sovereigns--the bleeding head of her husband,

torn from her in the days of their early love; in the midst of these

agonizing thoughts, she gave birth to a posthumous child--the heroine

of our story. Clasping her babe to her breast, Madame Dumesnil

bitterly recalled the many plans of happiness her murdered husband had

made in anticipation of its coming--his affection for _her_--his

anxiety for her safety--their parting, and the subsequent news of his

execution. Those lips were mute whose words of tenderness were to

soothe her in her hour of suffering; that hand was cold that would

have rested on her brow; that heart was still that would have bounded

with a father's love at sight of the tiny, helpless creature that lay

upon her arm.

Madame Dumesnil, the young, the lovely, and the gentle, became silent,

reserved, and harsh. Nothing could swerve her from a determination

made, and with feelings of the deepest parental affection for her

daughter, she had crushed and broken her spirit in the sweet

spring-time of her childhood.

From the time Pauline was old enough to form a desire, she learned to

hear it opposed. "_Une petite fille attend qu'on lui donne se qui lui

faut_," was the invariable reply to all her childish longings.

According to the old French system, every slight offence was followed

by her mother's "_Allez vous coucher, mademoiselle_;" so that half her

life was spent in bed, while she lay awake with the bright, broad

daylight around her, the hour when other children are strengthening

their little limbs in the active enjoyment of God's free, fresh air.

As she grew older, she was taught that "_une demoiselle bien elevee

n'a pas d'opinions_," that her parents judged and decided for her;

and while she sat erect upon a high stool, accomplishing her daily

tasks in silence, her heart nearly burst with the pent-up feelings of

her young imagination. Wherever she went her mother's old

waiting-woman was behind her. "Miss Pauline, hold yourself straight;

Miss Pauline, turn out your feet--your head, mademoiselle--your arms!"

Poor girl! she was well-nigh distracted with these incessant

admonitions.

In her walks she met Angela Percy and her father. They had lately

settled in the neighborhood, and having no acquaintances, gladly made

advances to the timid Pauline. Nothing daunted by her shyness and

reserve, Angela, some years her senior, persevered, and overcame it.

She was an enthusiastic, high-minded girl, and soon pointed out to her

companion new views and new ideas of the world from which she had been

excluded. The intimacy was formed ere Madame Dumesnil could prevent

it, and at the instances of old Jeannette, who begged that

Mademoiselle Pauline might have a friend of her own age--some one to

talk to, besides two old women, she consented to allow the friendship

to continue, provided Jeannette were present at every interview. This

was easily promised, but the nurse's stiff limbs were no match for the

agile supple ones of her young charges. Day by day she loitered

behind, while Pauline and Angela, with their arms entwined, continued

in eager and undisturbed enjoyment of one another's society. Jeannette

remarked a glow upon her young lady's cheek, and a light in her

eye--new charms in her hitherto pale, resigned countenance; and, wiser

than her mistress, concluded that the acquisition of a youthful friend

was fast pouring happiness into her lonely heart.

Three years passed in this pleasant intercourse, when the monotony of

their lives was broken by the arrival of an old friend of Madame

Dumesnil--a Monsieur de Vaissiere. When they had last met, she was in

the morning of her beauty and bliss, he a handsome youth, for whom

many a fair one had sighed, and in vain--as he was still unmarried.

What a change! He could not recognize the lovely young countess, whose

marriage had been attended with so much eclat--so many rejoicings; nor

could she see one vestige of the blooming countenance, the delicate

profile, and the jet-black wavy locks that once shaded his fair, open

brow. But these works of time were soon forgotten, and the desire of

the proud, harsh mother was accomplished when, after a few weeks, M.

de Vaissiere proposed for the hapless Pauline. Unconsciously, but with

the thoughtlessness of selfishness, Madame Dumesnil sacrificed her

child to her prejudices. M. de Vaissiere's opinions and _hers_ were

the same; their admiration of _le vieux systeme_--their fond

recollection of the unfortunate monarch, whose weakness they had never

reproached him with, even in their secret souls--their abhorrence of

Bonaparte--their contempt for _la noblesse Napoleonne_--their upturned

noses at their adopted countrymen, _les Americains_--their want of

faith in hearts and love--the sinecure-ism of young people--their

presumption--their misfortune being that they _were_ young and not

born old--and finally, the coincidence of opinions wherein both looked

upon the white-headed suitor as a most eligible husband for the young,

the blooming, the beautiful Pauline.

M. de Vaissiere settled a _dot_ upon his _fiancee_, and ordered a

_trousseau_ and a _corbeille_, not forgetting the _cachemire_. The

preliminaries were arranged, the day hinted at, and Pauline was

informed with a flourish of trumpets that her destiny was fixed.

She listened to her mother's rhapsodies over the admirable _parti_

Providence had enabled her to provide for her child in the wilderness

of America; she heard her enlarge upon her own excellence as a parent,

of the favor she had conferred upon her in bringing her into the

world; of her consequent obligations, and the gratitude she owed her

mother when she recollected that not content with giving her life, she

had clothed, fed, and supported her until now. All this Pauline

received in a silence that resembled stupor; but when M. de Vaissiere

was again mentioned, she fell, with a scream of terror, at her

mother's feet.

In vain she wept and entreated; in vain she protested against the

disparity of age, the utter want of congeniality, the absence of all

affection, Madame Dumesnil was too much incensed to reply. With a

gesture that Pauline well understood, (for it was used to express

maledictions of every description,) she left the room, and locking the

door, kept her daughter prisoner for the rest of the day.

She treated this resistance to her will as one of the unhappy

consequences of living in a republican country. She suspected Angela

of communicating American ideas of independence to her daughter, and

would have added to her wretchedness by forbidding further intercourse

between the two friends. But Jeannette again interfered; she knew that

Pauline's doom was sealed, and that it would be more than cruel to

deprive her of the companion she loved. She herself carried the note

that conveyed the intelligence of Pauline's coming fate to the

indignant Angela, and extended her walks that her poor young lady

might derive what consolation she could from her friend's willing

sympathy. Many were the tears she shed, many the sighs that burst from

her oppressed heart, as the poor old creature followed behind them.

Once she had summoned courage sufficient to expostulate with her

mistress upon the cruelty of her conduct to her daughter; but she was

haughtily dismissed.

Every effort had been made, and at length Angela appealed to Pauline.

She entreated her to be more firm, and to declare her resolution never

to marry where she could not love.

"Rouse yourself, Pauline--the misery of a lifetime is before you, and

it is not yet too late."

"I have done every thing, Angela," said Pauline, despairingly. "My

doom is sealed, and I must bend to my bitter fate. I would fly, but

that I could not survive my mother's curse."

"The curse of the unrighteous availeth naught," replied her friend,

solemnly. "Were you wrongfully opposing your mother's will, mine

would be the last voice to uphold you; but now your very soul is at

stake."

Pauline cast up her eyes in mute appeal to heaven. Her companion

became excited as she proceeded, depicting the horrors of an unequal

marriage. Pale and exhausted, her listener at length entreated her to

forbear. She had been too long the slave of her mother's wishes to

oppose them now; she had been drilled into fear until it was a

weakness. This her bold-hearted, energetic friend could not

understand; and it was on her reproaching Pauline with moral cowardice

that she, for the first time, resented what had in fact been patiently

borne.

We have seen how kindly Angela forgave the accusation, and how she

wept over the effect of her words. The sudden entrance of Madame

Dumesnil put an end to the conversation, and the friends separated.

The next morning Angela was at Pauline's side again. Silently she

assisted in decorating the victim for the sacrifice. The bright jewels

clasped her arm and neck; the long veil hung around her slender form;

the orange wreath rested on the dark, dark tresses--and the dress was

beautiful. But the bride! she was pale and ghastly, and her lips blue

and quivering. Her eyes were void of all expression--those liquid,

lustrous eyes; and ever and anon the large drops rolled over her face,

oozing from the depths of her heart.

Poor Jeannette turned away, sobbing convulsively as the finishing

touches were given to this sad bridal toilette. Angela remained firm

and collected, but she, too, was pale; her cherished companion was

gone from her forever--gone in such misery, too, that she almost

prayed to see her the corpse she at that moment resembled.

Madame Dumesnil had remained below with the bridegroom and Mr. Percy,

the sole witness to this ill-omened marriage. At length the hour came,

Pauline was nearly carried down by Angela and Jeannette, and in a few

moments bound forever to a man she loathed. The ceremony was ended,

and the bride, with a convulsive sigh, fell back into the arms of her

mother. Restoratives were procured, and at last she opened her eyes.

They rested on the face of her friend, who hung over her in mute

agony. Forcing a smile, which was taken by M. de Vaissiere for

himself, Pauline arose, and hurried through her farewell. Her husband

handed her into his carriage--and thus Pauline Dumesnil left her

friends and her home.

* * * * *

Years had passed, and Pauline sat alone in her magnificent boudoir,

the presiding deity of one of the finest hotels in Paris. Fortune had

favored M. de Vaissiere. He had lived to rejoice over the downfall of

the mighty Napoleon, and his mournful exile. He had returned to his

beloved France, recovered his vast estates, and presented his young

wife at court. His vanity was flattered at her gracious reception, and

the admiration that followed her; his pride was roused, and, much

against her will, Pauline found herself the centre of a gay circle

that crowded her vast saloons as often as they were thrown open for

the reception of her now numerous acquaintances.

It was on one of these evenings that Pauline sought the silence of her

private apartment ere she gave herself up to her femme de chambre. Her

loose _peignoir_ of white satin was gathered round her, with a crimson

cord tied negligently at the waist, and hanging, with its rich tassels

of silver mixed, to the ground. Her hair had fallen over her

shoulders, giving her a look of sadness that increased her beauty. Her

eyes wandered around the room, and her lips parted into a melancholy

smile, as she contemplated its delicate silk hangings, its heavy,

costly furniture, her magnificent toilette, crowded with perfumes of

every description, beautiful flacons, silver combs, and jewels that

sparkled in and out of their cases. Her thoughts went back to her

mother, whose pride had made her a childless, lonely widow; to Angela,

whom she had so loved; to the misery of the day upon which they

parted, perhaps forever--and her eyes were filled with tears that,

rolling at length over her cheek, startled her as they fell upon her

hand.

"And it was for this that I was sacrificed," murmured she, bending her

head. "My poor mother! could you see me here, _you_ would feel that my

happiness is secure; but, alas! how little you know of the human

heart. This splendor lends weight to my chains, and makes me feel more

desolate than ever! Night after night mingling in gay crowds,

listening to honied words that fall unheeded on my ear; wearing smiles

that come not from the heart, but help to break it; exposed to

temptation, that makes me fear to mix with those of my own age; bound

forever to a man whose only sentiment for me is one of pride--what

part of happiness is mine?"

A sudden step aroused her, and her husband entered unannounced. He

looked but little older. Time had dealt lightly with _him_, and with

the aid of cosmetics and a perfect toilette, M. de Vaissiere stood a

remarkable looking man--for his age.

"How is this, madame--not dressed yet! Have you no anxiety to see

Mademoiselle Mars to night?"

"I have, indeed," said Pauline, starting up and forcing a smile. "Is

it so late, that I see you ready?"

"You must hasten Marie, or we shall be too late. How provoking! What

can you do with that dishevelled hair? You have a bad habit of

thinking--that is actually sinful. Why do you not take my example; I

never reflect--it makes one grow old!"

She might have told him how her young life was embittered by the

memory of days that were gone never to return; how she had grown old

with thinking, and wore but the semblance of youth over a withered

heart. But she had schooled herself to serenity with an effort almost

superhuman--and seizing a silver bell at her side, she rang for her

waiting woman.

"You must hasten, Marie--Monsieur de Vaissiere is already dressed.

Bind up this hair beneath some net-work, my good girl; I have no time

for embellishing this evening."

"Madame is more beautiful without her usual coiffure," said the girl,

as she gathered up the dark tresses of her mistress. "I shall place

her diamond _aigrette_ in her hair, and she will turn all heads."

"I have no such ambition, my good Marie," said Pauline, laughing.

"Give me my fan and gloves, and fasten this bracelet for me."

"_Tenez, madame_," said Marie, handing them; and Pauline ran down

stairs, where her husband awaited her. He had just been fretted

sufficiently to find fault with her dress.

"You never wear jewels enough. Do you think I bought them to ornament

your boudoir?"

"I did not like to keep you waiting, _mon ami_. Shall I return and

tell Marie to give me my necklace?"

"Yes, and your bracelet to match. Your white arm, madame, was made to

ornament," added M. de Vaissiere, assuming an air of gallantry.

Pauline smiled, and ran back to her boudoir. In a few moments she

returned blazing with jewels, inwardly lamenting the display, but ever

ready to grant her husband's wish. He, too, smiled as she came

forward, and taking her hand, led her to her carriage.

Shortly after they were seated, the door opened, and the young Vicomte

de H---- entered the box. He placed himself behind Pauline, and

remained there for the rest of the evening, in eager, animated

conversation. He was not only one of the most agreeable men of the

day, but added to wit and versatility of genius, a handsome face,

graceful bearing, and a noble heart; and while Pauline yielded to the

charms of so delightful a companion, full of the dreams and hopes of

youth, uttering sentiments that years ago had been hers, her husband

sat silent and moody beside her. A pang went through his heart as he

gazed upon her bright countenance, and remembered her youth, whose

sunshine was extinguished by her marriage with him. He looked at the

smooth, full cheek of her companion, the purple gloss of his raven

locks, the fire of his eye, and listening to his gay tones, his

brilliant repartees, and enthusiastic expressions, pictured him with a

shudder the husband of Pauline. What would have been her life compared

to the one she led with him. How different would have been the bridal!

He thought of her gentleness, her cheerful compliance with his wishes,

her calm, subdued look, her lonely hours, the void that must be in her

heart; and as all these things passed, for the first time, through his

mind, he clasped his hands in despair.

He turned once more to look upon the wife he was but now beginning to

appreciate. She, too, had fallen in a revery. Her beautiful head was

bent, her long, dark lashes sweeping her cheek; and around her lips

played a smile so sweet, that though he know her thoughts were far

away in some pleasant wandering, he was sure he had no part in them.

For the first time since their wedded life, M. de Vaissiere was

beginning to love his wife. He turned suddenly to look at the Vicomte

de H----. He, too, was gazing upon Pauline with a look of intense

admiration, but so full of pity and respect, that it made the jealous

pang that thrilled through the husband's frame less bitter--and with a

deep sigh he turned to the stage. The play was one that gave him a

lesson for the rest of his days. It represented a young girl like his

Pauline, forced to wed one, like him, old enough to be her father. For

a while all went smoothly; the giddy wife was dazzled by her jewels

and her importance. But time passed, and she was roughly treated, her

every wish thwarted, and her very servants taught to disobey her. Her

angelic behaviour had no effect upon her brutal husband; her patience

exasperated him. Wickedly he exposed her to temptation; and as he

watched her mingle with those of her own age, and share their plans

and pleasures, suspicion entered his mind. He removed her far from her

friends, and intercepted her letters, making himself master of their

contents, until by a series of persecutions he drove her to fly from

him, and perish in the attempt.

Well for him was it that Monsieur de Vaissiere witnessed this play.

How different might have been the effect of his newly awakened

emotions, had they risen in the solitude of his apartment. The curtain

fell, and Pauline looked up. Tears were standing in her eyes--for the

fate of the heroine of the piece had affected her deeply, and her

husband's sympathy was with her when he remarked them. He waited until

he saw her give her arm to the vicomte, and walked behind them,

another creature. He had determined to win his wife's love or die; to

watch her, that he might warn her; to minister forever to her

comforts.

The vicomte returned with them, and soon the splendid salon was

crowded with guests. Pauline passed from one to the other with

graceful, winning smiles; and her husband's heart filled with pride

and pleasure as he watched her, the object of admiration, glittering

with diamonds, radiant with beauty, and remembered that she was his.

Without a pang he saw the noble youth, whose coming had been to him

salvation, lead her to supper, and seat himself at her side. He knew

that she was pleased; he felt that she might have loved; but he knew,

too, that she was as pure as an angel. How was it that suddenly her

many virtues rose in array before him, and spoke to his heart?

One evening Pauline stood at the window overlooking the garden that

was behind the Hotel de Vaissiere. The moonlight was glancing over the

tops of the orange trees, and the perfume of their white blossoms came

floating up like an incense of thanks to the Great Author of all,

while fountains played beneath their shade, falling musically on the

heart of the lonely watcher.

A shade was upon her brow--a shade of discontent; and busy were the

thoughts that came creeping into her soul. She was judging her own

heart--and bitterly did she reproach it as the image of another filled

its space. Alas! she had feared this; and again she was roused into

indignation as her mother's stern will was recalled to her--and she

was carried back to the day whereon she had reproached her with

hazarding the eternal welfare of her child. Throwing herself upon her

knees, she prayed for strength--and her prayer was heard. Suddenly, as

if struck with some impulse, she hurried from the window, through the

hall, passed the long suite of apartments, and reached her husband's.

Entering, she closed the door behind her, and rushed forward to M. de

Vaissiere's chair with such passionate rapidity, that one might have

thought she feared to fail in her resolution.

Her sobs and tears had nearly deprived her of utterance, but falling

at her husband's feet, she confessed the momentary infidelity of her

hitherto love-less heart, and besought him to take her from those

scenes of gayety and temptation to some distant, quiet region, that

she might expiate her fault in solitude.

Trembling she raised her eyes to his face. Instead of the fury, the

reproaches she had expected, what was her surprise at seeing the tears

coursing down his cheeks, to feel herself raised and clasped to his

breast.

"My poor child!" said he, tenderly--and it was the first time he had

ever so addressed her--"my poor child! I should have foreseen this; I

should have warned you ere now. It was your mother's fault to marry

you to me, and mine to have placed temptation in your way. But how

could I tear you from those whose years were suited to yours, to shut

you up with an old greybeard! Thus, while I watched over you, my pride

in your success made me forgetful of your safety. It is not yet too

late, my Pauline--all will be for the best. In time you will learn to

love your husband, and to know how devotedly he has loved you since

his stupid eyes were opened to your virtues."

With a smothered cry of joy Pauline threw herself upon his bosom. The

poor stricken dove had at last found a shelter.

The next day, while the whole world was lamenting and wondering over

the determination of the beautiful, brilliant, and courted Pauline de

Vaissiere, to leave the gay metropolis in the midst of its pleasure,

she sat once more in her boudoir. A holy calm had settled on her brow,

peace had entered her heart; and though a deep blush overspread her

features as she heard her husband's step approaching, she rose to meet

him with a grateful look. Putting his arm around her, he drew her

closer to him, and pressed a kiss upon her forehead.

"How many days of packing will you require, Pauline?" said he,

smiling. "Poor Marie! she has nearly worn her arms out."

"She will complete her task to-night; and if you like, we can be off

in the morning. But have you the carriages ready, _mon ami_? Are we

not before-hand with you?" asked Pauline, in the same cheerful strain.

"We must summon Francois," said M. de Vaissiere, "and see if my orders

have been executed."

Francois had been as prompt as usual; and three days after,

we found Pauline gazing out at the windows, mournful and

conscience-stricken--she was leaving Paris behind her as fast as four

horses and cracking whips could carry her. As they drove on, losing

sight of its towers and steeples, a sensation of freedom came over

her, and she placed her hand in her husband's, as if to thank him for

her safety. The wound upon her heart was not yet closed; but her firm

principle, her love of right, and gratitude for her deliverance, and

the indulgence of M. de Vaissiere were fast healing what she did not

for a moment allow to rest within her mind.

Every thing delighted her; the ploughed fields, divided by green

hedges; the farm-houses scattered far and near; the picturesque

appearance of the peasantry and their groupings, as they gathered

together to watch the travelers' suite; and when they stopped at a

family estate of M. de Vassiere, her enthusiasm knew no bounds.

Here they remained until the spring was past and summer came,

embellishing still more the beautiful woods around the little domain.

But they lingered yet in this pleasant place, loving it for the peace

it had given them, and the happiness they had learned to feel in being

together.

Leaning on her husband's arm, Pauline wandered amid the bright scenes

with a light step, now stopping to admire some variety of foliage, and

now pausing by the crystal stream that ran at the foot of the tall

trees, murmuring like a hidden sprite, and mirroring the waving

boughs, and the blue sky of _la belle France_. She had forgotten the

misery of her bridal-day, or remembered it but to contrast her present

quiet enjoyment of life with her then wretchedness. She had forgotten

her youth of terror, her husband's years and his coldness, and now,

when she looked upon the silver hair that glittered beside her braids

of jet, a feeling of gratitude filled her heart, as she recalled the

hour when he might have cast her off with some show of justice, and

sent her forth upon the wide world to die.

She had learned to love him, not with the heart-stirring love of youth

for youth, but with the deep, holy affection of a prodigal child. Not

all the temptations of the gay world could ever make her swerve from

her allegiance to him. Like a good and pious daughter did she cling to

him, providing for his comfort, and forseeing his every want.

One day he called her to him as she returned from her visit of charity

to the surrounding peasantry. She had wept over their troubles and

relieved them, and rejoiced with the happy. Her heart was

over-flowing, and passing the little church, she entered, and offered

up a prayer of thankfulness for her own blessings, and those she was

able to confer on others.

Her husband watched her graceful form as she came at his call, and

smilingly placed a letter in her hand. It was from her mother, and

part of it ran thus:

"I am now very old, monsieur, and very infirm. I

have often thought, in my lonely hours, of the

unhappiness of my child on her marriage with you,

and have doubted the wisdom of that authority which

I exercised so severely over her. The vision of

that pale, agonized countenance, comes upon me like

a reproach; and although she has never hinted in

one of her letters of unkindness from you, I have

often thought that there was a mournful spirit

pervading them. Pray God she may not be unhappy

through my fault! I rely upon you, monsieur; be

kind to my poor Pauline.

MARIE THERESE CLEMENCE DUMESNIL.

(_Nee de Villeneuve_.)"

Pauline's tears fell fast over this letter; and as she finished

reading it, she cast herself upon her husband's bosom.

"She does not deserve a reply, does she, Pauline?" asked he, with a

smile, and pressing her closer to him. "Think you there would be no

more marriages _de convenance_ if we were to give the benefit of our

experience to the world? Would your mother even be sensible of her

error, could she know how your suffering has ended--could she see how

happy you make an old man."

"Let her think that we have been always so," cried the noble Pauline.

"Why disturb her last years with a narrative of what may embitter

them? Shall it not be so, my dear, kind husband?"

"It shall, my child," said he, touched by the generosity of her

request. "And you, Pauline, shall write the answer--you, my patient,

enduring, and admirable wife! Why is it that I alone know what you

have suffered, forced thus to appreciate in silence your noble

forbearance."

But there was another letter to be read--one from Angela. It contained

an account of Madame Dumesnil's failing strength, and her earnest

desire to embrace her child once more. Jeannette was long since

numbered with the dead; and Angela, whose devotion to her father had

made her refuse every offer of marriage, removed with him to the abode

of her friend's mother, passing her life in dividing her cares.

But a short time elapsed and Pauline, with her husband, was sailing

once more upon the broad bosom of the Atlantic. It was a long and

tedious voyage; but she arrived in time to receive her mother's

blessing, and close her eyes--the reward her filial piety had merited.

Mr. Percy soon followed his aged companion, and Angela returned with

Pauline to France. Here she witnessed, with wonder and delight, the

happiness that, through Pauline's virtue, was not incompatible with so

great a disparity of age, and rejoiced when a few months after their

arrival in Paris, Pauline gave birth to a son and heir. Nothing now

was wanting to complete the domestic enjoyment of the circle gathered

at the Hotel de Vaissiere; and while the same gay crowds graced its

walls, and courted its fair mistress, Pauline never forgot to turn to

her husband as the one whose smile was to her the brightest, whose

praise the most valued, and whose approbation alone she loved and

lived for.

THE HERMIT OF NIAGARA.

BY MRS. LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY.

It was the leafy month of June,

And joyous Nature, all in tune,

With wreathing buds was drest,

As toward the mighty cataract's side

A youthful stranger prest;

His ruddy cheek was blanched with awe,

And scarce he seemed his breath to draw,

While bending o'er its brim,

He marked its strong, unfathomed tide,

And heard its thunder-hymn.

His measured week too quickly fled,

Another, and another sped,

And soon the summer-rose decayed,

The moon of autumn sank in shade,

And winter hurled its dart,

Years filled their circle, brief and fair,

Yet still the enthusiast lingered there,

While deeper round his soul was wove

A mystic chain of fearful love,

That would not let him part.

When darkest midnight veiled the sky,

You'd hear his hasting step go by,

To gain the bridge beside the deep,

That where its wildest torrents leap

Hangs thread-like o'er the surge,

Just there, upon its awful verge,

His vigil-hour to keep.

And when the moon, descending low,

Hung on the flood that gleaming bow,

Which it would seem some angel's hand,

With Heaven's own pencil, tinged and spanned,

Pure symbol of a better land,

He, kneeling, poured in utterance free

The eloquence of ecstasy;

Though to his words no answer came,

Save that One, Everlasting Name,

Which since Creation's morning broke

Niagara's lip alone hath spoke.

When wintry tempests shook the sky,

And the rent pine-tree hurtled by,

Unblenching, 'mid the storm he stood,

And marked sublime the wrathful flood,

While wrought the frost-king, fierce and drear,

His palace 'mid those cliffs to rear,

And strike the massy buttress strong,

And pile his sleet the rocks among,

And wasteful deck the branches bare

With icy diamonds, rich and rare.

Nor lacked the hermit's humble shed

Such comforts as our natures ask

To fit them for life's daily task.

The cheering fire, the peaceful bed,

The simple meal in season spread,

While by the lone lamp's trembling light,

As blazed the hearth-stone, clear and bright,

O'er Homer's page he hung,

Or Maro's martial numbers scanned--

For classic lore of many a land

Flowed smoothly o'er his tongue.

Oft with rapt eye, and skill profound,

He woke the entrancing viol's sound,

Or touched the sweet guitar.

For heavenly music deigned to dwell

An inmate in his cloistered cell,

As beams the solem star,

All night, with meditative eyes

Where some lone, rock-bound fountain lies.

As through the groves, with quiet tread,

On his accustomed haunts he sped,

The mother-thrush, unstartled, sung

Her descant to her callow young,

And fearless o'er his threshold prest

The wanderer from the sparrow's nest,

The squirrel raised a sparkling eye

Nor from his kernel cared to fly

As passed that gentle hermit by.

No timid creature shrank to meet

His pensive glance, serenely sweet;

From his own kind, alone, he sought

The screen of solitary thought.

Whether the world too harshly prest

Its iron o'er a yielding breast,

Or forced his morbid youth to prove

The pang of unrequited love,

We know not, for he never said

Aught of the life he erst had led.

On Iris isle, a summer-bower

He twined with branch and vine and flower,

And there he mused on rustic seat,

Unconscious of the noonday heat,

Or 'neath the crystal waters lay,

Luxuriant, in the swimmer's play.

Yet once the whelming flood grew strong.

And bore him like a weed along,

Though with convulsive grasp of pain

And heaving breast, he strove in vain,

Then sinking 'neath the infuriate tide,

Lone, as he lived, the hermit died.

On, by the rushing current swept,

The lifeless corse its voyage kept,

To where, in narrow gorge comprest,

The whirlpool-eddies never rest,

But boil with wild tumultuous sway,

The Maelstrom of Niagara.

And there, within that rocky bound,

In swift gyrations round and round,

Mysterious course it held,

Now springing from the torrent hoarse,

Now battling, as with maniac force,

To mortal strife compelled.

Right fearful, 'neath the moonbeam bright,

It was to see that brow so white,

And mark the ghastly dead

Leap upward from his torture-bed,

As if in passion-gust,

And tossing wild with agony

Resist the omnipotent decree

Of dust to dust.

At length, where smoother waters flow,

Emerging from the abyss below,

The hapless youth they gained, and bore

Sad to his own forsaken door.

There watched his dog, with straining eye,

And scarce would let the train pass by,

Save that with instinct's rushing spell,

Through the changed cheek's empurpled hue,

And stiff and stony form, he knew

The master he had loved so well.

The kitten fair, whose graceful wile

So oft had won his musing smile,

As round his slippered foot she played,

Stretched on his vacant pillow laid.

While strewed around, on board and chair,

The last-plucked flower, the book last read,

The ready pen, the page outspread,

The water cruse, the unbroken bread--

Revealed how sudden was the snare

That swept him to the dead.

And so, he rests in foreign earth,

Who drew 'mid Albion's vales his birth:

Yet let no cynic phrase unkind

Condemn that youth of gentle mind--

Of shrinking nerve, and lonely heart,

And lettered lore, and tuneful art,

Who here his humble worship paid

In that most glorious temple-shrine,

Where to the Majesty Divine

Nature her noblest altar made.

No, blame him not, but praise the Power

Who, in the dear domestic bower,

Hath given you firmer strength to rear

The plants of love--with toil and fear--

The beam to meet, the blast to dare,

And like a faithful soldier bear;

Still with sad heart his requiem pour,

Amid the cataract's ceaseless roar,

And bid one tear of pitying gloom

Bedew that meek enthusiast's tomb.

BURIAL OF A VOLUNTEER.

BY PARK BENJAMIN.

'Tis eve! one brightly-beaming star

Shines from the eastern heavens afar,

To light the footsteps of the brave,

Slow marching to a comrade's grave.

The Northern wind has sunk to sleep;

The sweet South breathes; as low and deep

The martial clang is heard, the tread

Of those who bear the silent dead.

And whose the form, all stark and cold,

Thus ready for the loosened mould;

Thus stretched upon so rude a bier?

Thine, soldier, thine--the volunteer!

Poor volunteer! the shot, the blow,

Or fell disease hath laid him low--

And few his early loss deplore--

His battle done, his journey o'er.

Alas! no fond wife's arms caressed,

His cheeks no tender mother pressed,

No pitying soul was by his side,

As, lonely in his tent, he died.

He died--the volunteer--at noon;

At evening came the small platoon;

And soon they'll leave him to his rest,

With sods upon his manly breast.

Hark to their fire! his only knell,

More solemn than the passing bell;

For, ah! it tells a spirit flown

Without a prayer or sigh, alone!

His name and fate shall fade away,

Forgotten since his dying day,

And never on the roll of fame

Shall be inscribed his humble name.

Alas! like him how many more

Lie cold on Rio Grande's shore;

How many green, unnoted graves

Are bordered by those turbid waves!

Sleep, soldier, sleep! from sorrow free

And sin and strife: 'tis well with thee!

'Tis well, though not a single tear

Laments the buried volunteer.

THE BRIDAL MORNING.

[SEE ENGRAVING.]

Morn of hopes that, quivering, glow

With a light ne'er known before;

Morn of fears, which cannot throw

Shadows its sweet glory o'er!

Gentle thoughts of all the past;

Happy thoughts of all to come;

Loving thoughts, like rose-leaves, cast

Over all around her home.

Oh, the light upon that brow;

Oh, the love within that eye!

Oh, the pleasant dreams that flow

Like fairy music sweetly by!

Morn of Hope! Oh may its light

Melt but into brighter day!

Lady, all that's blest and bright

Be about thy path alway!

HOME.

BY MRS. H. MARION WARD.

"_Home, sweet home!"_ How many holy and beautiful memories are crowded

into those three little words. How does the absent one, when weary

with the cold world's strife, return, like the dove of the deluge, to

that bright spot amid the troubled waters of life. "_Home, sweet

home!_" The one household plant that blooms on and on, amid the

withering heart-flowers, that brightens up amidst tempests and storms,

and gives its sweetest fragrance when all else is gloom and

desolation. We never know how deeply its roots are entwined with our

heart-strings, till bitter lessons of wasted affection have taught us

to appreciate that love which remains the same through years of

estrangement. What exile from the spot of his birth but remembers,

perhaps with bitterness, the time when falsehood and deceit first

broke up the beautiful dreams of his soul, when he learned to _see_

the world in its true colors. How his heart ached for his father's

look of kindness--his mother's voice of sympathy--a sister's or

brother's hand to clasp in the warm embrace of kindred affection.

Poor, home-sick wanderer! I can feel for your loneliness; for my heart

often weeps tears of bitterness over the memories of a far-off home,

and in sympathy with a gray-haired father, who, when he calls his

little band around the hearth-stone, misses full many a link in the

chain of social affection. I can feel for your loneliness, for perhaps

you have a father, too, whose eyes have grown dim by long looking into

the tomb of love. Perhaps you, too, have a mother, sleeping in some

distant grave-yard, beneath the flowers your hands have planted; and

as life's path grows still more rugged before you, you wonder, as I

have done, when your time will come to lie down and sleep quietly with

_her_. An incident occurred on board of one of the western steamers,

some years since, which strongly impressed me with its truthfulness in

proving how wildly the heart clings to home reminiscences when absent

from that spot. A party of emigrants had taken passage, amongst whom

was a young Swiss girl, accompanied by a small brother. Not even the

_outre_ admixture of Swiss, German, and English costume, which

composed her dress, could conceal the fact that she was supremely

beautiful; and as the emigrants were separated from what is termed the

first-class passengers only by a slight railing, I had an opportunity

of inspecting her appearance without giving offence by marked

observation. Amongst the crowd there happened to be a set of German

musicians, who, by amusing the _ennuied_ passengers, reaped quite a

harvest of silver for their exertions. I have always heard that the

Germans were extremely fond of music, and was surprised that none of

the party, not even the beautiful Swiss girl, gave the slightest

indication of pleasure, or once removed from the position they had

occupied the whole way. Indeed, I was becoming quite indignant, that

the soul-stirring Marseilles Hymn of France, the God Save the Queen of

England, and last, not _least_ in its impressive melody, the Hail

Columbia of our own nation, should have pealed its music out upon the

great waters, almost hushing their mighty swell with its enchantment,

and yet not waken an echo in the hearts of those homeless wanderers.

The musicians paused to rest for a moment, and then suddenly, as if by

magic, the glorious _Rans des Vache_ of Switzerland stole over the

water, with its touching pathos swelling into grand sublimity, its

home-music melting away in love, and then bursting forth in the free,

glad strains of revelry, till every breath was hushed as by the

presence of visible beauty. Having never before heard this beautiful

melody, in my surprise and admiration I had quite forgotten my

emigrant friends, when a low sob attracted my attention, and turning

round, I saw the Swiss girl, with her head buried in the lap of an old

woman, trying to stifle the tears that _would_ force their way or

break the heart that held them. I had but a slight knowledge of the

Swiss dialect, and "my home, my beautiful home!" was the only words

intelligible to me. She wept long and bitterly after the cadence of

the song was lost amongst the waves, while the old woman, blessings on

her for the act, sought by every endearment within her power to soothe

and encourage the home-sick girl. There was little enow of refinement

in her rough sympathy, but it was a heart-tribute--and I could almost

love her for the unselfishness with which she drew the shrinking form

closer to her bosom. I would have given the world to have learned that

girl's previous history. I am sure _accident_ must have thrown her

amongst her present associates, as I have seen a lily broken from its

stem by a sudden gust of wind, and flung to wither and die amid rude

and hardy weeds. In a few hours the party left the boat, and I never

saw either her or them again; but, till this day, whenever any

incident of a domestic nature wakens old-time dreams, pleasant

memories of that beautiful exile, weeping over the music of her lost

Eden, and of the kind old woman caressing her, and kissing off the

falling tears, creep together, and form a lovely picture of _home and

heaven-born love_.

MARGINALIA.

BY EDGAR A. POE.

That punctuation is important all agree; but how few comprehend the

extent of its importance! The writer who neglects punctuation, or

mis-punctuates, is liable to be misunderstood--this, according to the

popular idea, is the sum of the evils arising from heedlessness or

ignorance. It does not seem to be known that, even where the sense is

perfectly clear, a sentence may be deprived of half its force--its

spirit--its point--by improper punctuation. For the want of merely a

comma, it often occurs that an axiom appears a paradox, or that a

sarcasm is converted into a sermonoid.

There is _no_ treatise on the topic--and there is no topic on which a

treatise is more needed. There seems to exist a vulgar notion that the

subject is one of pure conventionality, and cannot be brought within

the limits of intelligibly and consistent _rule_. And yet, if fairly

looked in the face, the whole matter is so plain that its _rationale_

may be read as we run. If not anticipated, I shall, hereafter, make an

attempt at a magazine paper on "The Philosophy of Point."

In the meantime let me say a word or two of _the dash_. Every writer

for the press, who has any sense of the accurate, must have been

frequently mortified and vexed at the distortion of his sentences by

the printer's now general substitution of a semicolon, or comma, for

the dash of the MS. The total or nearly total disuse of the latter

point, has been brought about by the revulsion consequent upon its

excessive employment about twenty years ago. The Byronic poets were

_all_ dash. John Neal, in his earlier novels, exaggerated its use into

the grossest abuse--although his very error arose from the

philosophical and self-dependent spirit which has always distinguished

him, and which will even yet lead him, if I am not greatly mistaken in

the man, to do something for the literature of the country which the

country "will not willingly," and cannot possibly, "let die."

Without entering now into the _why_, let me observe that the printer

may always ascertain when the dash of the MS. is properly and when

improperly employed, by bearing in mind that this point represents _a

second thought--an emendation_. In using it just above I have

exemplified its use. The words "an emendation" are, speaking with

reference to grammatical construction, put in _ap_position with the

words "a second thought." Having written these latter words, I

reflected whether it would not be possible to render their meaning

more distinct by certain other words. Now, instead of erasing the

phrase "a second thought," which is of _some_ use--which _partially_

conveys the idea intended--which advances me _a step toward_ my full

purpose--I suffer it to remain, and merely put a dash between it and

the phrase "an emendation." The dash gives the reader a choice between

two, or among three or more expressions, one of which may be more

forcible than another, but all of which help out the idea. It stands,

in general, for these words--"_or, to make my meaning more distinct_."

This force _it has_--and this force no other point can have; since all

other points have well-understood uses quite different from this.

Therefore, the dash _cannot_ be dispensed with.

It has its phases--its variation of the force described; but the one

principle--that of second thought or emendation--will be found at the

bottom of all.

* * * * *

In a reply to a letter signed "Outis," and defending Mr. Longfellow

from certain charges supposed to have been made against him by myself,

I took occasion to assert that "of the class of willful plagiarists

nine out of ten are authors of established reputation who plunder

recondite, neglected, or forgotten books." I came to this conclusion

_a priori_; but experience has confirmed me in it. Here is a

plagiarism from Channing; and as it is perpetrated by an anonymous

writer in a Monthly Magazine, the theft seems at war with my

assertion--until it is seen that the Magazine in question is

Campbell's New Monthly for _August_, 1828. Channing, at that time, was

comparatively unknown; and, besides, the plagiarism appeared in a

foreign country, where there was little probability of detection.

Channing, in his essay on Bonaparte, says:

"We would observe that military talent, even of the

highest order, is far from holding the first place

among intellectual endowments. It is one of the

lower forms of genius, for it is not conversant

with the highest and richest objects of thought....

Still the chief work of a general is to apply

physical force--to remove physical obstructions--to

avail himself of physical aids and advantages--to

act on matter--to overcome rivers, ramparts,

mountains, and human muscles; and these are not the

highest objects of mind, nor do they demand

intelligence of the highest order:--and accordingly

nothing is more common than to find men, eminent in

this department, who are almost wholly wanting in

the noblest energies of the soul--in imagination

and taste--in the capacity of enjoying works of

genius--in large views of human nature--in the

moral sciences--in the application of analysis and

generalization to the human mind and to society,

and in original conceptions on the great subjects

which have absorbed the most glorious

understandings."

The thief in "The New Monthly," says:

"Military talent, even of the highest _grade_, is

_very_ far from holding the first place among

intellectual endowments. It is one of the lower

forms of genius, for it is _never made_ conversant

with the _more delicate and abstruse of mental

operations_.

It is used to apply physical force; to remove

physical force; to remove physical obstructions; to

avail itself of physical aids and advantages; and

all these are not the highest objects of mind, nor

do they demand intelligence of the highest _and

rarest_ order. Nothing is more common than to find

men, eminent in the science and practice of war,

_wholly_ wanting in the nobler energies of the

soul; in imagination, in taste, in _enlarged_ views

of human nature, in the moral sciences, in the

application of analysis and generalization to the

human mind and to society; or in original

conceptions on the great subjects which have

_occupied and_ absorbed the most glorious _of

human_ understandings."

The article in "The New Monthly" is on "The State of Parties." The

italics are mine.

Apparent plagiarisms frequently arise from an author's

self-repetition. He finds that something he has already published has

fallen dead--been overlooked--or that it is peculiarly _a propos_ to

another subject now under discussion. He therefore introduces the

passage; often without allusion to his having printed it before; and

sometimes he introduces it into an anonymous article. An anonymous

writer is thus, now and then, unjustly accused of plagiarism--when the

sin is merely that of self-repetition.

In the present case, however, there has been a deliberate plagiarism

of the silliest as well as meanest species. Trusting to the obscurity

of his original, the plagiarist has fallen upon the idea of killing

two birds with one stone--of dispensing with all disguise but that of

_decoration_.

Channing says "order"--the writer in the New Monthly says "grade." The

former says that this order is "far from holding," etc.--the latter

says it is "_very_ far from holding." The one says that military

talent is "_not_ conversant," and so on--the other says "it is _never

made_ conversant." The one speaks of "the highest and richest

objects"--the other of "the more delicate and abstruse." Channing

speaks of "thought"--the thief of "mental operations." Chaming

mentions "intelligence of the _highest_ order"--the thief will have it

of "the highest _and rarest_." Channing observes that military talent

is often "_almost_ wholly wanting," etc.--the thief maintains it to be

"_wholly_ wanting." Channing alludes to "_large_ views of human

nature"--the thief can be content with nothing less than "enlarged"

ones. Finally, the American having been satisfied with a reference to

"subjects which have absorbed the most glorious understandings," the

Cockney puts him to shame at once by discoursing about "subjects which

have _occupied and_ absorbed the most glorious _of human_

understandings"--as if one could be absorbed, without being occupied,

by a subject--as if "_of_" were here any thing more than two

superfluous letters--and as if there were any chance of the reader's

supposing that the understandings in question were the understandings

of frogs, or jackasses, or Johnny Bulls.

By the way, in a case of this kind, whenever there is a question as to

who is the original and who the plagiarist, the point may be

determined, almost invariably, by observing which passage is

amplified, or exaggerated, in tone. To disguise his stolen horse, the

uneducated thief cuts off the tail; but the educated thief prefers

tying on a new tail at the end of the old one, and painting them both

sky blue.

* * * * *

After reading all that has been written, and after thinking all that

can be thought, on the topics of God and the soul, the man who has a

right to say that he thinks at all, will find himself face to face

with the conclusion that, on these topics, the most profound thought

is that which can be the least easily distinguished from the most

superficial sentiment.

LOVE.

BY R. H. STODDARD.

Oh Love! thou art a fallen child of light,

A ruined seraph in a world of care--

Tortured and wrung by sorrow and despair,

And longings for the beautiful and bright:

Thy brow is deeply scarred, and bleeds beneath

A spiked coronet, a thorny wreath;

Thy rainbow wings are rent and torn with chains,

Sullied and drooping in extremest wo;

Thy dower, to those who love thee best below,

Is tears and torture, agony and pains,

Coldness and scorn and doubt which often parts;--

"The course of true love never does run smooth,"

Old histories show it, and a thousand hearts,

Breaking from day to day, attest the solemn truth.

[Illustration: Beauty's Bath

Painted by E. Landseer Engraved by J. Sartain

Engraved Expressly for Graham's Magazine]

BEAUTY'S BATH.

[ILLUSTRATING AN ENGRAVING.]

The fair one stands beside the plashing brim,

Her pet, her Beauty, gathered to her breast;

A doubt hath crossed her: "can he surely swim?"

And in her sweet face is that fear exprest.

Alas! how often, for thyself, in years

Fast coming, wilt thou pause and doubt and shrink

O'er some fair project! Then, be all thy fears

False as this first one by the water's brink!

REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.

_Poems of Early and After Years. By N. P. Willis. Illustrated by E.

Leutze. Philadelphia: Carey & Hart. 1 vol. 8vo._

This is a complete edition of one of America's most popular poets,

with the old poems carefully revised, and many new pieces added. It is

got up in a similar style with the editions of Longfellow and Bryant,

by the same publishers, and is one of the most splendid volumes of the

season. The portrait of the author, engraved by Cheney, is the most

accurate we have seen. The illustrations, from designs by Leutze, and

engraved by Humphrys, Tucker, and Pease, are sixteen in number, and in

their character and execution are honorable to American art. They are

truly embellishments. Fertile as has been the house of Carey & Hart in

beautiful books, they have published nothing more elegant and tasteful

than the present edition of Willis.

We have written, in various critiques, at such length on the merits

and characteristics of Willis, that it would be but repetition to

dilate upon his genius now. In looking over the present volume, we

cannot see that the sparkle and fire of his poetry becomes dim, even

as read by eyes which have often performed that pleasant task before.

The old witchery still abides in them, and the old sweetness,

raciness, melody and power. That versatile mind, gliding with such

graceful ease over the whole ground of "occasional" pieces, serious

and mirthful, impassioned and tender, sacred and satirical, looks out

upon us with the same freshness from his present "pictured" page, as

when we hunted it, in the old time, through newspapers, magazines, and

incomplete collections. We cordially wish the author the same success

in his present rich dress, which he has always met in whatever style

of typography he has invaded the public heart. When the stereotype

plates of the present edition are worn out, it does not require the

gift of prophecy to predict that the poet's reputation will be as

unworn and us bright as ever.

* * * * *

_A Plea for Amusements. By Frederic W. Sawyer, New York: D. Appleton &

Co. 1 vol. 12mo._

This little volume, viewed in respect to the prejudices it so clearly

exposes and opposes, is quite an important publication, and we trust

it will find readers among those who need it most. That clumsy habit

of the public mind, by which the perversions are confounded with the

use of a thing, finds in Mr. Sawyer an acute analyst as well as

sensible opponent. He has done his work with much learning, ability

and taste, and has contrived to make his exposure of popular bigotries

as interesting as it is useful.

* * * * *

_Campaign Sketches of the War with Mexico. By Capt. W. S. Henry, U. S.

Army. With Engravings. New York: Harper & Brothers. 1 vol. 12mo._

Here is a work by a brave and intelligent soldier, relating to the

battles of General Taylor in Mexico, of which he was an eye-witness.

It has the freshness which might be expected from a writer who mingled

in the scenes he describes; and the plates of the different

battle-grounds enable the reader intelligently to follow the

descriptions of the author. Spite of the numerous books relating to

the subject already before the public, Captain Henry's volume will be

found to contain much not generally known, and to describe what is

generally known better than most of his precursors in the task.

* * * * *

_The Consuelo. By George Sand. In Three Volumes. New York: W. H.

Graham, Tribune Buildings._

_The Countess of Rudolstadt. By George Sand. [Sequel to Consuelo.] 2

vols. Same Publisher._

_The Journeyman Joiner, or the Companion of the Tour of France. By

George Sand. Same Publisher._

_The Devil's Pool. By George Sand. Same Publisher._

The above editions of the somewhat too celebrated George Sand are got

up, by our enterprising friend the publisher, in a style superior to

that generally used on this species of literature. The translation by

F. G. Shaw, Esq. has been generally, and we think justly, commended.

The works themselves, and their tendencies and results, have been made

the subject of various opinions both here and abroad. We are not among

those who are prepared to enter the lists as their champion. The

translator himself remarks in relation to Consuelo: "That it has not

found fit translation before, was doubtless owing to prevailing

impressions of something erratic and _bizarre_ in the author's way of

living, and to a certain undeniable tone of wild, defying freedom in

her earlier writings." The censure of the moral portion of the

community is thus softly and mercifully expressed: We will not at

present add to it.

* * * * *

_The Last Incarnation. Gospel Legends of the Nineteenth Century. By A.

Constant. Translated by F. G. Shaw, Esq. New York: Wm. H. Graham._

A well printed and cheap volume.

* * * * *

_The Scouting Expeditions of M'Culloch's Texas Rangers. By Samuel C.

Ried, jr. Zieber & Co. Philadelphia._

This work contains a spirited and vivid sketch of the Mexican war as

prosecuted under Taylor. It is full of incident and interest, is

written with spirit, and illustrated by a number of engravings.

* * * * *

DESCRIPTION OF THE FASHION PLATE.

TOILETTE DE VILLE.--Dress of gray satin, with a plain skirt; corsage

plain, with a rounded point; sleeves above of violet-colored velvet,

closed on the top, and trimmed with very rich lace; small pelerine to

the waists, and terminated at the seam of the shoulder, trimmed with

lace. Hat of yellow satin, long at the cheeks, and rounded, ornamented

with a bouquet of white flowers resting on the side, arid a puff of

tulle on the inside.

RICHE TOILETTE D'INTERIEUR.--Dress of blue cashmere, ornamented with a

row of silver buttons down the front of the skirts; corsage plain,

with buttons, and terminating in two small points; sleeves rather

short, and under ones of three rows of lace: neck-dress of lace. Cap

also of lace, resting flat upon the front of the head, and forming

folds behind, trimmed with bows of ribbon, of rose-colored taffeta,

below the lace to the depth of the strings.

* * * * *

ERRATUM.--In the article on Stoke Church and Church-yard, page 77,

12th line from bottom of 2d column, "1779" should read 1799.

Transcriber's Note:

Some likely incorrect spellings and probable dialect have been left as

printed, but the following corrections have been made:

1. Page 83--'for the lady lacked neither wit not humor, and the ....'

changed to 'for the lady lacked neither wit nor humor...'

2. Page 83--superfluous word 'his' removed from sentence '...he had

nothing on but his his shirt, and...'

3. Page 85--typo 'centipeds' corrected to 'centipedes'

4. Page 85--superfluous word 'his' removed from sentence '...constant

to his his first love, mourning...'

5. A number of contracted forms, such as 't is, shortened to 'tis, in

order to preserve the scansion of poetry

6. Page 106--typo in sentence '...up the mill-stream, und as we

returned...' replaced by 'and'

7. Page 106--typo 'outre' in sentence '...however strange or outre;

and there is...' changed to 'outre'

8. Page 106--typo 'evious' in sentence '...would turn up an evious

nose, and...' corrected to 'envious'

9. Page 110--typo 'widows' in sentence '...sitting by the widows of

the summer-house,' changed to 'windows'

10. Page 113--typo 'then' in sentence '...was upon then--the eye of

Agnes;...' changed to 'them'

11. Page 121--typo 'clasped' corrected to 'clasped'

12. Page 125--typo 'giver' in sentence '...until he saw her giver her

arm...' corrected to 'give'