CHAPTER VII.

Let the silence of despair rest upon the sufferings of the unhappy

Mildred after those fatal words had passed her lips.

Among other artful devices agreed upon between Mr. Donaldson and

Perozzi, previous to Mildred's return, was that of keeping her

entirely secluded from society, lest some other suitor might wrest the

hand of the doomed girl from him. But now that a consent to their

infernal measures had been torn from her, it was resolved that a

magnificent _fete_ should mark the _debut_ of the affianced bride. The

evening previous to the wedding was the time fixed upon for this

important event, and accordingly invitations were immediately issued

for a grand _bal masque_, including the governor's family, together

with all the _elite_ of the island.

For weeks all was hurry and confusion at the Cascade--artisans of many

trades were busily engaged pulling down and putting up--the

drawing-rooms--the halls--verandas, all newly decorated--in fact, the

whole establishment, through the purse of Perozzi and the good taste

of Mrs. Donaldson, completely revolutionized. Mildred in the meanwhile

remained in strict seclusion in her apartment, unless dragged thence

by the importunities of the Spaniard, so sad, so perfectly overwhelmed

with the wretchedness of her lot, that it seemed most probable death

might claim the young bride ere the day of sacrifice came. In vain her

mother strove to interest her in the gay proceedings--entreating she

would at least choose a costume for her expected _debut_.

"Do with me as you will, mother," Mildred would reply, with a faint

smile.

In the sleeping-room of Mrs. Donaldson there hung a portrait of a

beautiful Turkish maiden. This picture was a favorite with Mildred,

and it occurred to Mrs. Donaldson that a similar costume would well

become the style of her daughter's beauty. A careful examination of

her own and Mildred's ward-robe convinced her the thing could be done,

and she set herself diligently to prepare the dress--Mildred passively

obeying her directions.

At length all was finished, and in its swift course Time brought round

the appointed evening for the _debut_ of the wretched Mildred, so soon

to become a more wretched wife. At an early hour those guests who

resided at a distance began to arrive, and after partaking of the

grateful refreshments provided for them were conducted to their

dressing-rooms, to prepare for the festivities of the evening--all

being expected to appear _en masque_.

Mrs. Donaldson, the still handsome mistress of the _fete_, wore a

splendid dress of the tartan, in compliment to the Scottish tastes of

her husband, who himself appeared in the costume of a Highland Chief,

and had already entered the drawing-room, in readiness to welcome the

gay throng. The victim, too, was ready. Passive as a lamb in the hands

of the destroyer, she had suffered her mother and her maid to array

her, and now sat like some marbled image, awaiting the coming of

Perozzi to lead her forth.

How lovely she was, nor yet casting one look to the mirror wherein her

exquisite form and beautiful face were reflected. The robe her mother

had chosen was the same as the picture, of a pale rose color, floating

like a summer cloud around her lovely person, and confined to her

waist by a broad girdle of white satin, wrought with gold and clasped

by a superb diamond. The sleeves of the same airy fabric as the caftan

were long and loose, revealing in their transparency the fine contour

of her snowy arm, and were ornamented upon the shoulders and around

the graceful fold of the outer edge with rich embroidery seeded with

pearls. The caftan was slightly open at the bust, displaying an under

vest of thin white gauze gathered in maidenly modesty over her lovely

bosom, and fastened by a magnificent cluster of diamonds and rubies. A

_talpec_, or head-dress, of white velvet, around which were wound two

rows of the finest pearls, was placed low on her pale brow, from which

her beautiful hair fell in long natural ringlets, looped here and

there with sprigs of the white jasmine and orange buds.

Gently the wind swayed the orange boughs, and creeping through the

flowery links of the jessamine and passa-flora, kissed the pale cheek

of Mildred as she sat there in her misery--twilight stole on with

saddened step, and from out the cloudless heavens one by one the stars

looked down upon her wretchedness. Then over the distant mountains

rose up the full-orbed moon, bathing their summits with gladness and

flooding the valleys with calm and holy light. On she came, majestic

and serene, o'er her glorious path, and as her mild beams quivered

through the thick clustering blossoms around the window they touched

the heart of Mildred as the smile of angels. Throwing open the

jalousie she stepped into the veranda, and leaning over the balustrade

gazed upon the peaceful landscape stretching before her in all the

chastened loveliness of the moonlight.

There was something in the scene which brought with it the "light of

other days" to her sad heart. For a few brief moments she was

happy--present sorrows lost themselves in past pleasures. Once more

upon the ivy-clad battlements of Norcross Hall she was standing with

Helen and Rupert, while the scene upon which the moon looked down

identified itself with the woods and dells of that beloved spot. Her

bright dream was brief--the voice of Perozzi in loud and angry

altercation with some one awoke her too rudely to her misery.

"O, Rupert!" she exclaimed, clasping her hands in agony as she turned

to re-enter her chamber--"Rupert, farewell--farewell forever!"

"Dearest Mildred!" cried a voice whose tones leaped into her heart

with a strange thrill of joy--"dearest Mildred!"

Did she still dream--or was it indeed Rupert to whose breast she was

now folded with a bliss too great for words!

"Thank God, Rupert, you have come!" cried Mildred.

"Mildred," said Rupert, (for it was indeed Rupert,) "what mean these

tears? Are you not happy--this marriage--"

"A--h!" shrieked Mildred, clinging to him as though the basilisk hand

of Perozzi were already upon her, "_save me--save me_, Rupert!"

"_Save_ you! dearest, beloved Mildred--tell me--tell me quick--this

marriage--is it not your own choice?"

"O no, no, no!" sobbed Mildred.

"Then no power on earth shall compel you to it! You are mine--mine,

dearest Mildred!" and clasping her once more in his arms, Rupert

kissed the tears from her beautiful eyes, as full of hope and love

they met his beaming gaze.

"But my grandfather!" she cried, starting up.

"He is here, dear girl."

"Here! then lead me to him quickly--let me implore him to have pity

upon me!"

The arrival of Mr. Dundass upon the scene was wholly unlooked for by

Mr. Donaldson--need we say as wholly unwelcome. Guilt and fear paled

his cheek and almost palsied his tongue as his lips feigned a

welcome--nor was Perozzi less moved. To define the feelings of Mrs.

Donaldson would be difficult. Her love for her daughter had been held

in complete subjugation to the will of her husband, and while she

grieved deeply for the sorrows heaped upon her, her love and fear of

Mr. Donaldson, and her knowledge of his pecuniary distress caused her

at the same time to exert all her influence to rivet the chain around

poor Mildred--so strange is human nature! What then was to be the

result of her father's unexpected visit--was it freedom for

Mildred--was it to heap disgrace upon her husband?

In the mean time Mr. Dundass had been shown to a private room in a

remote wing of the building, while Mr. Donaldson and Perozzi were

already planning new schemes. They resolved that Mildred should be

kept in ignorance of her grandfather's arrival as long as possible--of

Rupert's they themselves knew nothing--and that on no account should

she be allowed to speak with him privately. The marriage should take

place at an early hour the following morning--_that_ consummated they

would defy even the devil himself!

Mr. Dundass was sitting sad and sorrowful in the apartment to which he

had been conducted, for this marriage filled him with grief, wondering

that Mildred did not appear to welcome him, or that Rupert did not

return, when the door suddenly opened and Mildred rushed in, and

falling at his feet exclaimed:

"O dearest, dearest grandfather, pity me--O sacrifice me not to

Perozzi!"

"Sacrifice you, my darling child! Come to my arms--what mean

you--_sacrifice_--I thought it was your happiness I was securing by

consenting to your union."

"_Happiness!_ O grandfather--rather my misery!"

"What does this mean?" exclaimed Mr. Dundass. "There must be treachery

somewhere! God knows how it has grieved my heart to think of your

union with that man--I know him to be a villain, and when repeatedly

urged to consent to the marriage, I as repeatedly refused, until your

own letter--"

"_My_ letter--good heavens!" exclaimed Mildred.

"Written in the most moving language, at length won my reluctant

consent!"

All was now explained, and the villainy of Mr. Donaldson and his

coadjutor made clear.

"Courage, courage, my darling," said Mr. Dundass, "come with me. Come,

Rupert, I will 'beard the lion in his den,' and make known this

infamous plot--come."

"My mother--spare _her_, dear grandfather--forgive them all--I am

happy now--let us not mar the pleasure of the guests," interceded

Mildred.

"You say right, my child--to-morrow will be soon enough. But come with

me, children--let us join the gay assembly--nay, fear not, Mildred.

Perozzi, the villain, he shall not dare even to look upon you!"

Now strains of delicious music filled the air--lights gleamed--jewels

flashed--feathers waved, and on every side the merry laugh and gay

badinage met the ear from prince and beggar--wild roving gipsy and

sombre nun--knights in armor--minstrels--flower-girls--jugglers and

staid Quakers, as in confused _melee_ they swept through the

rooms--yet all stood aside in silent admiration as the lovely Mildred

Ward in her graceful Turkish costume, her face beaming with happiness,

entered the saloon leaning on the arm of her gray-haired sire.

Muttering curses through his closed visor, Perozzi (who was dressed as

a knight of Old Castile) hastily left the scene. He had sought Mildred

in her chamber--she was not there, and well did his guilty fears

surmise where she might be found. One glance at her speaking

countenance was enough. He saw in a moment all was over--that the

fiendish plot so near consummation was betrayed! With terrible oaths

he mounted his mule, and plunging his spurs rowel-deep into the sides

of the poor beast rushed, armed as he was, like some terrible demon

through the peaceful moon-lit vale until he reached the Pen--vowing

that on the morrow he would seize at once with the grip of a harpy

upon the estates of Mr. Donaldson.

But here, too, he was foiled! Mr. Donaldson, it is true, did not

deserve so much mercy, but when, like a penitent, he came before Mr.

Dundass and confessed his crime, the heart of the old man was moved to

pity. He generously advanced the necessary funds, and wrenched the

Cascade from the clutches of Perozzi. Touched by such unmerited

goodness and generosity, Mr. Donaldson resolved to become a better

man, and to repair by his future conduct the errors of the past.

At Mount Dundass, whither the whole family accompanied its venerable

proprietor, Rupert received the hand of the happy Mildred, and after

the death of Mr. Dundass, which took place only a few months later,

took his beautiful young bride to England.

A LAY.

BY GRACE GREENWOOD.

The glorious queen of heaven who flings

Her royal radiance round me now,

As with clasped hands and upturned brow

I watch her pathway fair and free,

Is not so silvery with the light

She pours o'er darkened earth to-night,

As in the gentle thoughts she brings

Of thee, dear love, of thee!

The night-wind trembling round the rose--

The starlight floating on the river,

The fearful aspen's silvery shiver,

The dew-drop glistening on the lea,

Night's pure baptism to the flowers--

All, all bring back our dear, lost hours,

Till every heart-string thrills and glows

For thee, dear-love, for thee!

And when dawn wakes the Earth with song,

And Nature's heart, so hushed to-night,

Goes leaping in the morning light,--

While waves flash onward to the sea.

While perfumed dews to heaven arise--

While glory flashes o'er the skies--

Still through my soul shall sweet thoughts throng

Of thee, dear love, of thee!

Ah, thou beloved, whose heart hath thrilled

To blessed dreams and joys with mine,

What power shall change thy love divine,

Or shut its presence out from me!

Since all bright things, from flower to star,

Its types and sweet reminders are

To this fond heart, this soul so filled

With thee, dear love, with thee!

We part not, though we said adieu--

Since first thy thoughts chimed in with mine,

And from those glorious eyes of thine

A heaven of love looked down on me,

My very life round thine is poured--

Thy words within my soul I hoard--

Still true, in every heart-throb true

To thee, dear love, to thee!

THE SAILOR'S LIFE-TALE.

A TRUE REMINISCENCE.

BY SYBIL SUTHERLAND.

(DEDICATED TO MY COUSIN MARY S----.)

"There's many an 'o'er true' tale, coz,

That comes to the listening ear,

That makes the cheek turn pale, coz,

And brings the glistening tear."

During the last summer, Mary mine, I was one of a party of friends,

who, tired of the bustle and confusion of the busy city, resolved to

lay aside business and all other engagements, for the brief space of

one day, which was to be devoted to a picknick in some retired country

location. The destined spot for our intended _fete_ was, after

considerable consultation, at length decided upon, and we unanimously

agreed to spend the day in a pleasant woods in the neighborhood of New

Brighton.

It was upon a balmy June morning, when, with light hearts, but heavier

baskets, laden with provisions, sun-bonnets, books, music, and sundry

et caeteras indispensable upon such an occasion, we found ourselves

snugly ensconced upon the deck of one of those spacious steamboats

which hourly wend their way toward the sunny shores for which we were

bound; and after an exhilarating sail of half an hour's duration, we

landed at Snug Harbor, and proceeded toward our place of destination,

which was situated about ten minutes' walk distant.

It was to the Sailor's woods that our steps were bent on the morning

of our picknick. Sauntering slowly through a shady lane we first

passed the great gate leading to the Sailor's Snug Harbor, an

institution which, as you doubtless know, Cousin Mary, was, through

the munificence of a certain private individual, erected some years

since as a place of refuge and repose to the weary, wayworn seaman.

Walking a short distance beyond these stately buildings, we found

ourselves within "the deep solitudes of the leafy wood."

How shall I describe to you, gentle coz, that dear old woods, as on

that eventful day its beauties and wonders first greeted my gaze? We

had not advanced far within its recesses, when a welcome sound fell

upon our ears, and in a moment more

"The flashing ray

Of joyous waters in their play,"

came gladly upon our sight. A laughing little streamlet rose before

us, its bright waters rippling and dancing, and here and there

illuminated by a stray sunbeam that stole softly and faintly through

the thick foliage of the sturdy old trees above. The brook was narrow,

and one could have crossed it almost at a bound; but there was no

necessity for the exertion, for glancing but a few yards ahead, we

beheld a rustic bridge, which, on nearer approach, proved to be of

cedar, and was ornamented with a sofa of the same material.

Upon this rude couch we rested awhile till our friend C----, whom we

had elected master of ceremonies, went forward to take a more extended

survey of the woods and its surroundings. In a few minutes we heard a

loud and very expressive halloo from our absent companion, and looking

about to find whence the sound proceeded, we beheld him standing upon

a stone-fence at some distance, and beckoning us to hasten immediately

to his side. The mandate was obeyed, and after a scramble over the

stones, we succeeded in mounting the desired eminence, when a pleasant

sight met our delighted visions. The waters of the brook were here so

managed as to form two sylvan lakes, divided from each other by a

bridge similar to the one previously mentioned. The borders of these

lakes, through one of which glided two stately swans, were supplied

with seats formed of cedar wood, and so arranged as to resemble

lounges, _tete-a-tetes_, and arm-chairs, whose appearance seemed to

invite repose. And here we would fain have lingered, but asserting

that he had something to show us in another direction, C---- bade us

follow him a few steps farther.

Descending from our elevation, and roaming through a shadowed path, we

at last halted at the door of a diminutive and picturesque-looking

cottage, within which, to our astonishment, was a table, round which

were ranged seats more than sufficient for our number. In no measured

terms did we now express our surprise and delight at thus finding in

the very heart of the wilderness accommodations so necessary,

wondering at the same time whether the fairies had not been there

before us to provide every thing for our convenience.

Beside the door of this rustic dwelling an old man, evidently nearing

the allotted "three score and ten," was seated upon a rude bench,

busily engaged weaving a small and dainty-looking basket. He was

dressed in a sailor's garb, but there was an indescribable something

in his appearance, betraying that he did not belong to the lowest rank

of seamen. There was a cloud of melancholy upon his countenance, and

though the sounds of laughter and mirth were floating around him, he

desisted not from his occupation, nor even once gazed into the bright

faces by which he was surrounded. Absorbed in his own meditations, he

seemed not to heed nor care for aught else; and it was some time ere

any of us presumed to address him. But after awhile C----, who was on

every occasion the most venturesome of our group, approached the old

man, and endeavored to lead him into conversation. He did not resist

the attempt, and we now learned that the various adornments of the

woods were entirely the handiwork of an aged sailor, to whose taste

and ingenuity many a previous picknick party had owed the greater

portion of its pleasures. He showed us a spring near by, where we

regaled ourselves with a libation of the purest and coldest water, and

told us of a fitting place for a dance, an even, grass-grown spot in

another part of the woods. He also described to us a moss-house, which

he said was located just below the opposite hill, informing us at the

same time that it belonged to the estate of Mr. G----, one of New

York's merchant-princes, who kindly and unselfishly left it free and

open to the inspection of the curious, and wonder-loving community.

And to this latter domain my friends now agreed to adjourn--but much

to my regret, I was unable to accompany them. A severe headache, the

usual result of excitement of any kind, was now exerting its influence

over me; and I was confident, from experience, that my only way of

soon getting rid of it would be by remaining where I was and keeping

perfectly quiet. All of my friends expressed their sorrow at my sudden

indisposition, and each one kindly offered to stay and bear me

company; but unwilling to deprive them of any enjoyment, I declined

their offers, alleging that I should not be altogether alone, as the

old man whom we found there would doubtless continue where he was till

their return. The sailor looked up as I spoke, and said that it was

his intention to remain there for the rest of the morning, adding that

he frequently passed the entire day in the woods. So, assured that I

would not be actually solitary, they at last allowed themselves to be

persuaded to go without me in search of the moss-house.

After watching their forms till they had quite receded from my view, I

re-entered the arbor where the old sailor was still at work, and

seated myself very comfortably in a rocking-chair. It was somewhat of

an oddity, too, Mary--that rocking-chair; and though I had almost

forgotten to mention the circumstance to you, the first discovery of

such an article of furniture in the woods had been a source of

infinite amusement to my companions and myself. It was built of cedar,

to correspond with the other various decorations of the woods, and

though hewn of the roughest material, for ease and grace of motion, I

might confidently challenge the drawing-room of a fashionable lady to

produce its equal. Again, I say, it was an oddity--that rocking-chair.

But the powers of my simple pen being scarcely adequate to a

description of it, this being, as I have styled it, a true

reminiscence, I would advise and invite you, dear Mary, if you wish to

behold the rocker, and judge of its _indescribable_ merits, to

accompany me on the first summer's day you may have to spare, to the

pleasantest and most romantic spot in the immediate vicinity of New

York--the Sailor's Woods at Snug Harbor.

But to go on with my record. After enjoying for a space the easy

lulling motion of this inimitable chair; and after bathing my head

repeatedly in water from the woodland-spring, I began to feel

considerably revived, while the pure air, and the stillness that

reigned around, were of especial benefit to my aching temples. The

pain gradually grew less and less tormenting, till at length it was no

longer felt, and again I found myself watching the old sailor, who sat

at a few paces from me weaving his pretty, delicate basket. Gathering

courage, I entered into conversation with him. He had stated

previously that his abode was at "the Harbor," so I now made some

inquiries concerning that institution, its regulations, &c., and he

very readily gave me all the requisite information.

"They must be very happy, are they not?" I asked, referring to the

members of the institution of which we were speaking; "very happy and

very thankful, too, to have had so pleasant a home provided for them

in their old age?"

"They are generally contented," was the reply, "but there are many

among their number who, having no fears for their earthly future,

allow their minds to dwell too earnestly upon the past--and wo be to

them, if one voice from the memories of bygone days comes back with

reproachful accents!" He sighed heavily--and for some moments there

was a pause. At length, raising his eyes hastily to mine, he said,

"Young lady--do you think that _I_ am happy?"

The question was altogether so abrupt and unexpected, that I scarcely

knew what to answer; but, after some little hesitation, I replied, "I

do not, sir. There is too much of sadness in your countenance to speak

of a mind quite at ease. I should think that you had known many

sorrows."

"You are right," he rejoined, in a voice of emotion, "I have, indeed,

borne the burden of many griefs; but, alas! I do not mourn them so

much as the errors of a heart but for whose weakness they had never

oppressed me. I know not what it is, young lady, that prompts me to

confide to you my history. But, perchance, it may serve you as a

warning--it may impress more strongly upon your mind that divine law

of forgiveness inculcated by Him who pardons _our_ trespasses, 'as we

forgive those who trespass against us.' There is a passage in the

'Book of Books' that never fails to convey to me a reproof, for I

remembered not the lesson till it was too late to profit by it. 'Then

came one of his disciples unto him, and said, Lord, how oft shall my

brother sin against me, and I forgive him? till seven times? Jesus

saith unto him, I say not unto thee until seven times; but until

seventy times seven.'"

Though somewhat surprised at the turn matters were taking, yet, as the

speaker had paused, and was now apparently awaiting some token on my

part of interest in his proposed narration, _I_, of course, entreated

him to proceed. Nor was he long in complying with my desire.

It was truly a touching story, dear Mary. I would, indeed, that I

could "tell the tale as 'twas told to me." And yet I would not, if I

possessed the power, portray the mournful accents of that old man's

voice, and the sorrowing expression of his countenance--for the

picture would make you weep. I may not attempt to recall the sketch in

the language of the aged sailor, for that it would be utterly

impossible to do; but I will strive to repeat it to you after my own

peculiar fashion, and to the best of my ability. Could I boast your

incomparable grace of diction, Mary, I might do full justice to my

subject. But I know that with your accustomed kindness you will

overlook the faults which I humbly trust that time and practice may

enable me to overcome. So, having thus worthily delivered my preface,

let me hasten at once to my task.

Some sixty years since, there dwelt in the city of Boston, a merchant

by the name of Sydney--a man justly beloved and respected for

benevolence of character, integrity of purpose and of principle, and

envied by the worldly for the enormous income which enabled him to

surround his family with every luxury that money could procure. Early

in life he had married a beautiful girl, to whom he was tenderly

devoted. A son, whose name was Arthur, and who, to come at once to the

point, was the original narrator of this story, was the sole offspring

of this happy union, and, as may be supposed, the pride and idol of

his parents. They watched over him with the most untiring affection,

and endeavored to instil into his young mind those firm and honorable

principles which rendered their own lives so lovely. But at the age of

ten years the hand of death deprived Arthur Sydney of his gentle

mother, and daily he missed her counsels and her embrace, and most

bitterly did he mourn for the footstep that was to come no more.

The loss of his wife was a stunning blow to Mr. Sydney. He never

married again, for he had loved the departed one too well to think for

an instant of supplying her place; and so four more years elapsed, and

his child continued to be the only object of his cares. But at the

termination of that period this good and just man was called to a

mansion beyond the skies, doubtless there to claim the crown of

immortality. And then Arthur was left alone in the wide world--a young

and almost broken-hearted orphan.

Upon searching into Mr. Sydney's affairs soon after his decease, to

the surprise of every one, instead of leaving his son in the

possession of an immense estate, there was not quite sufficient to

meet the demands of creditors. When Arthur Sydney became older, he

could not help suspecting that there was some mystery about this, for

strictly honest as he had ever known his father to be, he could not

believe that he would ever have swerved thus from the path of right.

What was in reality the cause of this deficiency, whether it was

owing, as his son afterward thought, to the craft and fraud of his

executors, can only be answered from the curtain of futurity.

The mansion where Arthur's early years had passed so happily, was now

sold, with all its effects, and the lonely orphan took up his abode

beneath the roof of an uncle. But, alas! it was not like the home he

had lost--the dear hearth of his sunny childhood. His relative, Mr.

Lindsay, was a far different being from his deceased parent, and

though, like the latter, he lived in splendor, he knew not how to

enjoy it. Devoid of that generosity of spirit which Mr. Sydney had

possessed, he was also of a morose, exacting, and passionate nature,

and his family, instead of hailing his presence with delight, shrunk

from him ever with indifference, and sometimes with trembling.

Governed by the law of fear instead of that of love, it was scarcely

to be wondered at that his children resorted to every petty means of

covering their faults, and were often guilty of deception and

falsehood. Arthur Sydney's education had been widely different, and he

despised the meannesses which his cousins practiced; but when he

expostulated with them, as he frequently did, his words invariably

drew upon himself a torrent of invectives. They taunted him with his

dependence upon their father's charity, and asked what right a beggar

had to preach to _them_; and then the youth's proud heart would swell

within him, and he would rush to his own little room, and there,

unseen, give full vent to his wounded feelings.

His eldest cousin, Alfred Lindsay, who was always foremost in every

plan of mischief, and the most perfect adept in concealing the part he

had taken in it, was a twelvemonth Arthur's senior. From earliest

childhood the two had evinced a dislike to each other's society, and

as they grew up, the feeling did not diminish. At school they had been

rivals, and Arthur had now far outstripped Alfred in their course of

study. In various other ways he had also quite unintentionally foiled

his cousin's ambition; and he was convinced that at the first

opportunity Alfred would have his revenge. Too soon was the

fore-boding realized.

Mr. Lindsay one afternoon entered the room where his children

generally spent their leisure hours, and with threatening looks

announced that he had lost a ten dollar bank note. He had missed it

under such circumstances that he was sure it must have been purloined

by one of the younger members of his family; and he now declared his

intention of searching both their persons and their apartments, that

he might, if possible, discover the guilty one. Very pale were the

young faces that now gathered round him; and though Arthur's heart was

free from reproach, he, too, trembled with fear for the criminal. I

need not dwell upon the details of that search, but suffice it to say

that the bank-note was found--found in _Arthur Sydney's_ apartment,

within a little box that always stood upon his dressing-table as the

honored receptacle of his parents' miniatures. Vainly did he assert

his ignorance as to how it came there--his uncle refused to listen to

his words, and loaded with passionate reproaches, he was dismissed to

his own room, there to remain till he received permission to leave

it.

It was a long while ere the boy became sufficiently calm to reflect

upon what had occurred, for the thought that he was accused of theft

came with such bitterness to his soul that for several hours he was

almost frantic. But as he grew more composed he became confident that

this was the work of Alfred, and he remembered the triumphant leer

that stood upon his cousin's countenance when the hiding-place of the

missing note was proclaimed.

Just at this moment his meditations were disturbed by the sound of

footsteps stealthily approaching his door, and the next instant it was

opened, and Alfred Lindsay stood upon the threshold, gazing exultingly

upon Arthur's misery, while a malicious smile wreathed his lips as

pointing his finger exultingly at him, the single word, "thief!" fell

upon the ear of his victim. Oh! how that undeserved epithet stung the

innocent and sensitive boy; and, almost maddened by the sense of his

injuries, he rushed toward the offender, impelled by but one

thought--the wish for revenge. But, coward-like, Alfred fled from his

approach, and then closing the door, and locking it, Arthur threw

himself upon his couch in tearless, voiceless agony. It was not until

the shades of evening had closed in that he roused himself from the

stupor into which he had been thrown by those overpowering emotions.

And now came a determination that he would no longer remain in his

uncle's house, where he knew that he must ever after be subjected to

the sneers and gibes of his cousins. He resolved to quit Mr. Lindsay's

dwelling, though he knew not of any other roof where he might find a

shelter for his aching head.

That night, when the unbroken stillness that reigned around gave

assurance that the family had all retired to rest, Arthur Sydney stole

softly down the stairs, and taking with him nothing but a small bundle

of clothing, and the few treasured memorials of other days that he

could lawfully call his own, he left forever the mansion of his uncle.

And as he looked his last upon the home of Alfred Lindsay, there rose

in his heart a wild, dark resolve, that if he ever possessed the

power, his cousin should one day reap the fruits of his evil deed.

For hours the youth wandered listlessly through the now deserted

streets of the city, till at last overcome with fatigue, and

completely unnerved as the full sense of his desolate situation burst

upon him, he seated himself near the edge of one of the wharves, and

wept long and bitterly. Suddenly a hand was laid upon his shoulder,

and a voice whose tones though rough were yet full of sympathy,

inquired the cause of his grief, and looking hastily up, he beheld a

man apparently about fifty years of age, and habited in a seaman's

garb. Touched with his kindness, in the first impulse of the moment,

Arthur gave him a brief account of his misfortunes. When he had

concluded, much to his surprise, his listener informed him that he had

known his father, who had, years before, rendered him an important

service, in return for which, he said that he would now willingly do

all in his power to serve the child of one to whom he was so deeply

indebted. He told Arthur that he was at present commander of a large

vessel lying close at hand, and which was to sail the following day

for South America, and asked if he would be willing to accompany him,

and learn to be a sailor like himself. The idea was a novel one, and

the boy seized upon it with avidity, as beside being his only

available means of obtaining life's necessaries, he knew that by

embracing it he should lose the chance of meeting those relatives whom

he cared no more to behold. And when he at once expressed his

readiness to go, his new friend patted his head in token of approval,

prophesied that he would prove a brave mariner, and then taking his

young companion by the hand, led him toward the ship which was

henceforth to be his abiding-place. The next day Arthur bade adieu to

his native city, and commenced his career as a seamen. But upon the

events of that career I have not time to linger. For years Captain

Carter, for such was his patron's name, continued to treat his

_protege_ with unremitting favor, sharing with him all the nautical

knowledge he had acquired, and using every endeavor for his

advancement. At the age of eight-and-twenty, through this kind

friend's interest, Arthur was himself raised to the post of captain,

and took possession of a packet-ship sailing between the ports of New

York and Southampton. He had now attained the summit of his hopes, for

a way was opened before him of obtaining, what had long been his

desire, a competence, which would enable him to resume that station in

life which his father had occupied, and of supplying also to his

parent's creditors the sum of which they had been so strangely

defrauded. And at the close of five more years he had the satisfaction

of knowing that this latter purpose was accomplished.

It was about this period that an incident occurred which had a

material influence over the future destiny of Arthur Sydney. During

one of his voyages, accident revealed to his notice the wreck of what

had once apparently been a noble vessel. He immediately despatched a

boat with a portion of his crew to survey the ruins, and ascertain if

any of the passengers survived. They returned, bringing with them the

inanimate form of a lovely girl, seemingly not more than eighteen

years old. Every effort was used for her speedy restoration to

consciousness, but it was nearly two hours ere she opened her eyes,

and then she was so weak as to be quite unable to move or speak. Her

delicate frame was evidently exhausted by long fasting, and the

fearful scenes she must have witnessed; and for the whole of that day

Sydney watched beside her with feelings of the strongest sympathy for

her sufferings. The next morning she was much better, she could

recline in an easy chair, and had acquired sufficient strength to

relate her history. She was a native of Italy--the youngest daughter

of an ancient and noble family, whose father having been undeservedly

regarded by the government with suspicion, was threatened with

imprisonment, and had barely time to escape with his household on

board of a ship bound for America. That vessel was the one whose wreck

Captain Sydney had espied, and of the large number of souls within

it, who had departed but a few weeks before from Italia's sunny

shores, but one remained--that gentle and helpless maiden. For three

days she had continued upon the wreck without the slightest

sustenance, haunted by the memories of the terrible past, and

expecting that each instant would dash the frail fabric to pieces, and

precipitate her also into the deep, dark sea, till at length

consciousness forsook her, and in a death-like swoon she forgot the

dangers by which she was surrounded.

With tears of anguish she now spoke of the dear ones lost to her

forever on earth--the loved mother, the noble father, the darling

sisters, and the cherished brother, over each one of whom she had

beheld the wild waves close. Then she lamented her desolation, utterly

destitute, and nearing the shores of a foreign land, where no familiar

voice would accord her a welcome. There was a similarity in her

situation to what had once been his own, and as Sydney listened, the

story inspired him with an interest in that fair being such as he had

never till then experienced for a fellow-creature. He used every

effort to console her--gave her an account of his own early life, and

bade her trust in the kind Providence who in the hour of need had

given _him_ a friend. He assured her also that he, at least, would not

forsake her, but that he would endeavor to place her in some way of

gaining her own livelihood till she could write to and hear from her

friends in Italy; and begged that she would look upon him as a

brother. She heard him with glistening eyes, and clasping his hand in

hers, with child-like earnestness expressed her thanks for his

kindness.

During the rest of that voyage Captain Sydney spent every leisure

moment by the side of his beautiful charge. Returning health imparted

a bloom to her cheek, and a lustre to her soft, dark eyes, and as

Arthur gazed upon her, he often thought that earth had never owned a

fairer flower. It was not long ere he became fully conscious that she

daily grew dearer to him, and great was his joy as he marked the flush

that invariably rose to her pure forehead when he approached. And when

at length he poured his tale of love into the ear of the sweet Leonor,

the reply that he sought was given with an impassioned fervor that

sent a thrill of rapture to his soul.

They were united the day that they landed at New York, and renting a

small but pretty cottage in the outskirts of the city, Captain Sydney

installed his Leonor as the mistress of that pleasant domain. Here,

amidst flowers and birds, and enlivened by the music of two loving

hearts, the time glided tranquilly away till the hour of separation

arrived--and, for the first time, Sydney quitted the land with regret,

and embarked once more upon the deep blue ocean.

Eight years after his marriage, Captain Sydney was destined to weep

over the cold corpse of his lovely wife. She had never enjoyed

uninterrupted health since her residence beneath the variable clime of

her adoption, and at last she fell a victim to consumption. Vainly did

the anxious husband consult the most celebrated physicians--the

disease was incurable, and ere the blossoms of spring again burst

forth, Leonor slumbered beneath the sod. Wild, indeed, was the grief

of the bereaved one at her loss--but he recovered the first effects of

his sorrow, and leaving his only child, Harry, a brave boy just six

years of age, under the guardianship of a friend who had loved the

departed mother, Sydney resumed his former vocation.

Years again fled. Harry Sydney attained the age of manhood--and every

one that knew him loved him, for he was a fine, manly fellow,

honorable and generous in every impulse, with a heart susceptible of

the warmest sympathies. He inherited his mother's ardent temperament,

and was of a sensitive and impassioned nature. Captain Sydney had

destined him for a merchant, and as such he had just commenced life

with every prospect of success. Had he been allowed to take his own

inclination as a guide, Harry would fain have followed the sea. But to

this his father was averse, and early, at his command, he relinquished

the desire.

Upon his son all the hopes of Captain Sydney were centered. It was his

earnest wish to see him happily married, and determined to express the

desire to Harry, he one day sought his side for that purpose. Both to

his surprise and approval, the latter informed his father that he had

already met one to whom his heart's warmest affections were given. He

added that the young lady, though poor and dependent upon her own

exertions for her support, and that of an invalid father, was the

descendant of a family said to be highly respectable. "Her

grandfather," he continued, "was Robert Lindsay, a well-known merchant

of Boston; and though his son, Alfred, has dissipated the patrimony

left him by his parent, and now relies solely for maintenance upon the

proceeds of his daughter's needle, I am sure, my dear father, this

praiseworthy effort, on the part of one so young and lovely as Ida,

will but elevate her in your estimation?"

"Robert Lindsay! Alfred Lindsay!" were the exclamations of Captain

Sydney, in a voice full of passion, as those well-remembered names

fell upon his ear for the first time in many years; "boy--did you say

that _Alfred Lindsay_ was her parent? Then be assured that never,

while life lasts, will I give my consent to your marriage with the

daughter of him who was the enemy of my unprotected youth!"

"Father--what mean you?" asked Harry, in tones of amazement, for the

tale whose memory had so sudden an effect upon his companion, had

never been breathed to him. And suddenly recalled to a sense of his

son's ignorance upon the subject, Captain Sydney now hurriedly

sketched the history of the past.

"It is very strange," said Harry, musingly; "but they never mentioned

that they were related to me. It is probable that Ida's father, if

aware of the fact, concealed it from her knowledge."

"Or rather that he instigated her to keep it a secret, that in the end

she might reap the benefit of his injured cousin's wealth," was the

rejoinder.

"Oh, no, father!" replied the young man, warmly. "I could not wrong

Ida by a suspicion of that kind. She is too good and pure-hearted to

countenance deception, and," he added, after a moment's hesitation,

"I cannot give her up and wreck both her own happiness and mine, for

the sake of her parent's faults."

These words aroused Captain Sydney's indignation. He accused his son

of want of spirit in refusing to resent the occurrences that clouded

his youth; and when Harry responded that he felt them deeply, but

could not on their account brand himself with dishonor, by breaking

the troth already plighted to Ida Lindsay, his father parted from him

in anger, declaring that if his son married Ida, he might never expect

his blessing.

The thought of uniting his son by indissoluble ties to the child of

his early foe, was, indeed, repugnant to the heart of Captain Sydney;

and while he remembered his resolve uttered on the night when he went

forth from his uncle's roof a desolate, friendless and dishonored

being--dishonored through the machinations of his cousin Alfred--he

was determined that it should be fulfilled, even though in so doing he

thwarted the earnest wishes of the one dearest to him.

A few days afterward Captain Sydney departed upon one of his

accustomed voyages, and was absent several months. On his return he

found his son just recovering from a lingering fever, brought on, as

the physician averred, by distress of mind. He looked very pale and

thin, and his father could scarcely help feeling a sensation akin to

reproach, as he gazed upon that colorless cheek and wasted form. He

knew that this indisposition was occasioned by the manner in which he

had treated his son's engagement, for, through the medium of a friend,

he had learned that Ida Lindsay had nobly refused longer to encourage

attentions, which, as she learned from Harry, were tendered in

opposition to his father's desires. Alfred Lindsay, too, had died a

few weeks before, and the object of his resentment being no more,

Captain Sydney began to feel less reluctant to the match which he had

at first looked upon with such violent disapprobation. Conscience told

him he had acted cruelly in thus casting a blight over his child's

sweetest hopes, and he was determined that he would now do all in his

power to further them. And when Harry grew strong enough to bear a

conversation upon the subject, he communicated the change in his

feelings. Both startled and appalled was he at his son's reply.

"My father, would you mock me with this show of kindness, when it is

too late to profit by it? Know you not that she is now dying of

consumption? I was sure that _she_ was too delicate to endure the

steady occupation necessary for her support--and my presentiment has

been verified. Yes, Ida Lindsay is dying! I would have saved her--I

would have borne her to a more genial clime, where she might, perhaps,

have revived; but she refused to give me a right to be her guardian,

for it was against the will of my parent, without whose sanction, she

said, our union would never prosper."

He bowed his face, while for an instant his frame shook with emotion.

Hastily his father drew nearer to him, but he turned shudderingly

from those words of penitence and self-reproach, and dashing aside the

extended hand, rushed from the apartment.

It was, indeed, too true--Ida Lindsay was dying! The constant

confinement called for by her continued exertions to obtain a

livelihood, had proved too much for a constitution by no means

strong--and it was his anxiety for her failing health which had caused

the illness of Harry Sydney. Oh! what would not the erring father have

given for power to recall the past; but it was too late--too late! A

few hours after the interview with his son the intelligence of Ida's

death was received, and during the whole of the succeeding evening

Captain Sydney could plainly distinguish the sound of Harry's

footsteps as he wildly paced his chamber, and each echo sent a thrill

of remorse to his soul. Little did the repentant and sorrowing parent

then think it was the last time that footfall would ever resound in

his dwelling--for that night Harry Sydney departed from his home,

leaving no trace of his destination. Days, weeks, months passed on,

and the heart of his father grew dark with the anguish of despair, for

he felt most surely that he should behold his son no more. Whither the

latter had gone was a mystery he tried in vain to solve, though

sometimes he remembered Harry's predilection for a mariner's life, and

blighted as he had been in his affections, might he not now have

followed the yearnings of former times, as the only means of gaining

oblivion of his sorrows? So, night after night, Captain Sydney sat

alone at his deserted hearth--a father, and yet childless, with a host

of dark recollections pressing heavily upon his spirit. And at last he

sought forgetfulness of his errors in the sparkling wine-cup, whose

draught he drained with an intense eagerness, for it enabled him to

mock at his misery.

And so five more years passed on, during which period his mind was

seldom free from the delirium produced by the practices to which he

had resorted; and having, in utter recklessness of spirit dissipated

his property, deprived, through his own weakness, of his rank as

captain, he was at length forced to lower himself to the grade of a

common sailor, for the purpose of obtaining the means of subsistence.

Then a severe illness, caused by free indulgence in intoxicating

liquors, overtook him--and with sickness came reflection, and he

resolved to yield no longer to the voice of the tempter. He recovered

from his dangerous indisposition, but remaining fearfully weak, the

physician declared that his constitution was completely shattered, and

that he was no longer fit for service. At first he insisted upon

resuming his wonted occupation, for he had no other way of maintaining

himself. The physician seemed to comprehend his reluctance to obey his

command, and he now reminded his patient of an institution in the

vicinity of New York, where the indigent mariner might find a home.

It was then that Captain Sydney--for so let me still continue to call

him--sought the peaceful shades of "the Harbor," where for two years

he had, indeed, found all the external comforts of a home, and but

for the voices of the past he would have had no cause to repine.

About a twelvemonth after his arrival at "the Harbor," a new inmate

was admitted there, in the person of an invalid sailor, who was said

to be in a deep decline. He seldom left the apartment allotted to him,

save now and then of a warm sunny day, when he would go forth, leaning

upon the arm of an attendant, and seating himself upon a bench in the

garden beneath the shade of a tree, remain there for hours, gazing

silently upon the blue waters of the bay before him. Regarded by all

as in a dying state, no one strove at these times to disturb his

reverie. His situation had excited universal sympathy, and frequently

the other sailors would steal to his side and softly deposit there a

small basket of fruit, or some little delicacy which they knew would

prove acceptable to him on whom it was bestowed.

Habitually reserved, and cultivating but little intercourse with those

around him, it was scarcely a matter of surprise that for some weeks

Captain Sydney took but little notice of the sailor of whom I have

been speaking. But chance at length brought him more fully beneath the

scope of his observation. While one day walking in the garden, buried

in thought, almost unconsciously he neared the spot generally occupied

by the invalid. But he heeded not the vicinity till startled by the

sound of a hollow cough, and looking hastily up, he met the gaze of

the feeble stranger. A half-suppressed cry burst from the latter, and

springing quickly forward, Captain Sydney caught him in his arms,

while the words, "Harry! my son--my son!" came in a tone of agony from

his lips. But he heeded not the caresses--he answered not the words of

mingled endearment and reproach which his parent murmured as he bent

wildly over him; and when at length the stricken father became calm

enough to summon assistance, they told him that the spirit of his

child was at rest.

* * * * *

Such, my dear cousin, was the old man's history; and as he ceased, his

head leaned droopingly upon his hand, while his whole attitude

betokened the most intense mental suffering. For some moments there

was silence between us, for I felt that words were insufficient to

console him. But suddenly the stillness was broken by the sound of

lively voices approaching, and I recognized the tones of my

long-absent companions, and knew that they were close at hand. In a

few seconds more, they appeared near the stone-fence, which I have

once before alluded to. The old sailor evidently wished to avoid them,

for their gayety was discordant to his feelings. Rising from his seat,

he now drew closer to the spot where I was stationed.

"Farewell, young lady," were his parting words, as he clasped my

extended hand, and for a moment that pale, sad face, looked so

mournfully into mine, that tears of the deepest commiseration sprung

involuntarily to my eyes, "we may never meet again, and I trust you

will forgive me, if the repetition of my sorrows has cast a shadow

upon your heart. Remember me in your prayers, if you will, and ask

that I may soon be borne to my last repose in the little grave-yard

yonder, where my son lies sleeping. Farewell."

An instant more and he was gone--and for some moments I remained

seated where he had left me, patiently awaiting the approach of my

friends, and meanwhile musing earnestly and sadly upon the Sailor's

Life-Tale.

THE MOURNERS.

Where'er I wander forth I view the mournful ones of earth:

They tread no more, with buoyant feet, the radiant halls of mirth;

Around their trembling frames are drawn the weary weeds of wo;

Their sighs, like cold November rains, with saddened cadence flow;

From the dead hopes and faded joys of bright departed years,

They twine a garland for the brow, impearled with many tears;

Upon the graves of buried loves they sit awhile and sigh,

Then, mid the ruin-mantled waste of time, lie down to die.

They close their weary eyes upon God's calm and holy light;

They dwell girt round with misery as with a starless night;

They fold a thick and icy shroud their care-worn bosoms round,

And rest beneath the baleful charm like streams by winter bound;

They nurse their sorrow till of all their thoughts it grows a part,

And, like a cold and mighty snake, twines round the bleeding heart;

And then its hissing tones descend in drops of fiery rain,

And scathe, as lightning flashes blast, the weak and wandering brain.

The mourners chant, with voices low, a sweet and sighing strain,

That moans, as on a rocky shore, the solemn sounding main:

It breathes alike when summer fades and when the violets spring;

It mingles with the morning light and evening twilight dim.

This is the burden of that faint and melancholy lay:

"The cloud of wo hath hid the smiles and beauty of the day;

The glow of earth, the radiant gleam, the bliss of life is o'er;

The rose of human love may bloom for us no more--_no more_."

Arise, be strong, O, mournful ones! The Future is your own;

There Love may weave her rosy nest, there Joy erect a throne.

Though youth's pale buds in early Spring were blighted and laid low,

Thine yet may be the peerless bloom of life's rich summer glow.

The blissful ones, the glorified, build up their own bright state.

Let but the slumbering spirit learn "to labor and to wait,"

Then, like a bird of tireless wing, 'twill rise above the storm,

And bathe its flashing pinions in the glory of the morn!

REV. T. L. HARRIS.

REFLECTIONS

ON SOME OF THE EVENTS OF THE YEAR 1848.

BY JOSEPH R. CHANDLER.

_Annus Mirabilis._

We are approaching the close of the year--a year marked by greater

vicissitudes in the affairs of nations than any in which we have

lived--any indeed of which we have read. History gives us accounts of

the rapid march and equally rapid conquests by ambitious kings, who

seemed only happy in the unhappiness of others, and only proud of

destroying that which constituted the pride of others. From time to

time ambitious men have exhibited themselves in the great theatre of

the world, and their greatness has been measured by the extent of

misery they have produced; and their claims to permanent fame have

rested upon the rapidity that marked their destruction of cities,

kingdoms and empires. While between the epochs which are distinguished

by these promoters of extensive mischief, there have at all times been

humble imitators of their crimes, whose limited power of doing

confined their actions to provinces, and compelled them to be

ministers of local vengeance, and the enjoyers of that petty infamy

which results from numerable murders and calculable crime. It is but

too evident that order has had its antagonists, at all times and in

all degrees, and if history has been employed with the works of those

whose extensive scale of action gives larger consequence to their

movements, it cannot be doubted that society has been convulsed at its

centre by the restless and the bad, who have been as efficient in

their sphere of wrong doing as have been those who occupied a larger

space. The latter struck the elevated, and disturbed public relations;

the former sent home its weapon to the humble, and brought disturbance

and misery into the more limited circle, reaching social life and

stabbing even to the heart of domestic peace.

Such great events have marked epochs, or made them; and such small

occurrences have been the characteristics of almost all times; so that

the wars of the present century may be considered but as continuations

of the belligerent movements of other times, modified indeed by the

improvement of the present age, but still of the same spirit and from

the same motives. But the events of the past year are of another kind.

The disturbances that have distinguished the history of Europe in that

time are not the result of the mad ambition of a conqueror to add to

his possessions, and subjugate kings and kingdoms as a means of

gratifying ambition; foreign conquest and invasion from abroad are not

now the occurrences which European rulers fear or anticipate. The

convulsions that distinguish every empire from the Atlantic to the

Black Sea, has nothing to do with the ambition of other _rulers_ but

are referable to the rising spirit of their own _people_. No longer do

the States of Germany combine to repel the assaults of the ruler of

France. Each member of the nominal confederacy is looking to itself as

possessing the active means of revolution, and each leans toward a

combination that shall sustain the rights of the people and put a

specific limit to the power of princes.

No longer do men startle at the grasping avarice of the upper powers

demanding new possessions and the recognition of enlarged prerogative;

no longer is the peace of nations disturbed by the attempts of an

ambitious ruler to extend his domains and enlarge his power. The

convulsions that are everywhere in Europe felt, come from the

up-heaving of the lower masses; deep down in the bosom of empires is

heard the voice of multitudes crying out for newly understood rights.

Up from that stratum comes a convulsive heave, that is toppling down

the thrones that have rested upon the hearts of the people, and not

outside the national limits, not at the terminal portions, not at the

"outer walls" of the capital is the movement felt--but within, at the

heart of the nation, within the shadow of the palace, along the quays

where business is pursued, in the narrow walks of trade, over the

bench of the artisan, or in the boudoir of beauty, is planned the

movement that is subverting thrones and leveling up society. For

nearly a century past have there been at work the elements of such

convulsion. The struggle of the antagonistic powers has been such that

results were postponed--only postponed--while the injurers lost power,

and the injured gathered strength. Premonitory movements were

observed, and in some instances seconded, as in France, in others

allayed by power or concessions, as in Austria and Great Britain. But

when the whole is only a right, the acquisition of a part is only a

prelude to a struggle for more, and this has been seen in every nation

where concession was made to the people, or wrung by force from the

rulers.

But there was reserved for the present year the great assertion of

human rights. The annunciation was first made in France, where tyranny

galled the sensitive portions of the people, or where a taste of

temporary freedom had created an appetite for constant enjoyment. The

flight of Louis Philippe seemed sudden--startling--almost without a

cause; and if nothing but the _emeute_ in Paris is regarded, certainly

the effect was entirely disproportioned to the cause. But the

revolution of the 22d of February was a natural consequence of the

pre-existing state of things. The fall of the leaf in autumn is not a

more natural result of a waning season than was the fall of Louis

Philippe a consequence of exhausted monarchy. The spirit of the people

had come up to that point at which monarchy must either assume the

form of absolutism, and rule by fear alone, or must yield to the

upward pressure of the people, and its possessors seek to escape the

opposing principle which they could not withstand. Louis Philippe

tried the former--it was too late--the army, that last hope of

tyrants, the sword and the bayonet _hired_ to defend the throne became

the people's support--failing in the effort to fix his power by blood,

Louis Philippe fled to save his life; a common movement of French

monarchs.

France may or may not establish republican institutions. Love of

monarchy will not prevent the fulfillment of her people's

hopes--difference of opinion as it regards degrees of freedom, and

want of self sacrifice, we mean the sacrifice of personal views,

(there will never be a want of self sacrifice of human life in

France,) will do more to retard the establishment of republicanism in

France than all the lingering attachments to monarchy that can be

hunted up in the Faubourg de St. Germain, or in all the isolated

chateux of the interior of the country. The habits, not the affections

of the mass of the French people may also be regarded as one obstacle

to true republicanism--a constantly diminishing obstacle, it is true,

but still a formidable obstacle.

The revolution in France was the signal (not the _preconcerted_

signal, as it should have been,) for a general insurrectionary

movement, and no sooner had the press announced the departure of Louis

Philippe, than forthwith Poland gave signs of life--Austria heaved

with the workings of the under stratum--Hungary demanded

independence--Prussia was in an insurrectionary state--a voice was

heard from Russia--and Italy from the Alps to the Straights of Otranto

began to try the strength of those fetters which indolence, ignorance

and ease had allowed to be fastened upon her. The history of the

revolutionary movements on this peninsula has yet to be written; it is

full of interest, and if presented impartially, with a correct

reference to causes, both of tyranny and insurrection, must prove

deeply moving and instructive. We cannot do more than refer to the

fact that Italy has been aroused; that tyranny has received a blow

from which it can never wholly recover, and that there, as well as

elsewhere, the rights of man have been proclaimed--proclaimed in

part--proclaimed with doubts, with erroneous conceptions, with false

views and an unchastened spirit, but still proclaimed, and what is

more, openly admitted--admitted with purer views of property, more

definite ideas of practicability, chastened wishes and paternal

feelings. All is right in its tendencies. The false perceptions are

owing to the suddenness of the light recently admitted. The

inclusiveness of demands spring from a want of knowledge of the

sacrifices which order requires from the friends of liberty--success

will correct these views, and experience show the path which true

patriotism opens.

Regarding, as we do, all movements as effects of Providential

direction, we cannot forbear to consider the election of Pius IX. to

the papal throne as an important part of that providence, in regard to

the Peninsula of Italy in particular, and, perhaps, to the whole

world. The correctness of the doctrine which makes that prelate a

spiritual chief, or the propriety of uniting temporal with spiritual

power, are questions to be settled elsewhere. Both exist, and both

have an influence on the movements of nations; and the character of

the new administrator of the Papal See, had at once an effect on his

own subjects and upon all the people of Italy, and, through the

people, upon the rulers. The new Pope seemed to have stepped forward a

century from the line occupied by his predecessor, and to have stood

in the front ranks of the reformers of the age. He was young, no old

habits of yielding retarded his movements. He was young, none of the

nervous tremulousness of age, that is shocked at the proposition of

_change_, made him deaf to the demands of the time. He was young, and

he had not yet been hardened into that unyieldingness of age that

distinguishes the veteran church-man, who mingles the necessity of

faith in _divine_ doctrines with the necessity of non-resistance to

human precepts. He knew and sympathized in the feelings which had

animated the Italians: he was not ignorant that the prisons had been

filled by men charged with crimes which the oppression of Austria

provoked, and which the espionage of Austria detected and caused to be

punished. He felt that his own temporal power was abused by the

overawing influence of Austria, and he pardoned those who had offended

only a foreign potentate, and were suffering under the condemnation of

their own rulers. He would have led the movement to a peaceful and

desirable result, but, alas! the oppression of centuries had made the

many mad; and their limbs had been so galled with the manacles of

political oppression that they became restive under the wholesome

restraints that order and appropriate government demand; dragged

forward by these eccentric bodies, and restrained by the timidity and

prejudices of some of his legitimate advisers, Pius has felt that his

triple crown was the means of triple sorrow; but he has also shown

that he understood the maxim, that "he only is fitted to rule who

knows how to sacrifice."

The arms of the Italian States and the influence of the Pope have been

successful against Austria, and even though that overgrown and tumid

empire should reconquer all her late possessions in Lombardy, and be

as omnipotent in Venice as she is in Triest or Vienna, still the

prestige of power is gone, and she can no longer extend an influence

over the human mind that tends upward in its views. The _taste_ of

independence has been enjoyed--the tree of knowledge has yielded some

of its fruits--and hereafter there can be no rest, no quiet, without

something of liberty, much of science.

The question has been raised as to the existence of the power of the

Pope deprived of his temporalities. That is, can the Pope yield up the

government of the Papal States to a secular ruler, and maintain the

full amount of spiritual power which he now exercises, and which he

and those of his creed deem a necessary portion of his official life.

We are noways concerned in the settlement of that question, beyond its

bearing upon the condition of Italy, and through her upon many other

portions of the earth. We do not know that there is _now_ any

probability that the Papal States will pass under another ruler than

the Pope; but we entertain no doubt that the Pope could exercise all

the functions of Bishop of Rome, with all the supremacy which he

claims for that office over other bishoprics, as well without the

appanages of temporalities as with them. There is nothing in the

office, or all that is claimed for it, that renders direct temporal

power necessary. Bishops of Rome existed for centuries with all the

spiritual supremacy now claimed, but as destitute of temporal power as

the bishops of any other city. And the custom which rendered

concurrent the temporal rule--or admitted of extraordinary pomp--has

never been deemed more than a concurrence--never a necessity. And it

is a fact that when the invasion of a foreign power has stripped the

Pope of his territories, and made even Rome the home of invaders,

attention has been at once turned to the separation of spiritualities

from temporalities, and means adopted to drop the machinery of secular

government, and keep active and useful that of the church alone.

It is, we believe, an admitted fact, that among the papers of the

Cardinal Prime Minister of Pius VII., who was carried away and kept a

prisoner in France by Napoleon, were found plans for carrying on the

spiritual offices of the Pope without the least connection with

temporal power; and Rome was to be to its bishop no more than

Philadelphia to either of the bishops who reside therein, and

administer the dioceses committed to their care.

We mention these things, and dwell upon them, because speculation is,

and has been, active with regard to the effect of the revolution in

Italy, some movements of which evidently looked to the transfer of all

temporal power to laymen; and extraordinary effects were supposed to

be the necessary results of such a change. The change seems to us very

probable, and not very remote; but it does not appear to us that the

spiritual functions (proper) of the Pope will be essentially disturbed

by any such movement.

We dwell longer on Italy than its geographical dimensions would

warrant, but that peninsula is deeply interesting to the world, not

only on account of the religious relations to which we have referred,

but from the fact that for centuries a foreign arm has held it down;

and while half of the world beside was rising into consequence, by the

science and scientific men that Italy sent forth, Italy alone of all

the geographical divisions of the earth seemed to be without profit

from her own great men. Because she _did_ decay, men believed that the

elements of her prosperity were exhausted; because she ceased to hold

the preeminence which she once possessed, it was deemed that the seal

of ruin was set upon her. These suppositions are wrong; and the new

movements in that peninsula show that the spirit of man is yet

active, and _now_ active to man's great good. What Italy needed was

concert. What other nations practiced were constant attempts to foment

jealousies among her different States, and create a demand for foreign

interference and the presence of foreign troops. At present a dream of

the ancient republic is the animating cause (or rather perhaps a sense

of the capabilities of Italy for the new republicanism of the time)

with leaders; who appeal to the recollections of the past because a

sense of the present is not to be depended on in the many; and the

shout for the old federative republics of past centuries awakens the

pride of those whose patriotism might not be strong enough to lead

them to the sacrifices which the object demands.

There seems to be necessary to the Italian mind a hope of regaining

something that has been _lost_, and if this is rightly used there can

be no doubt that the people will attain to something they _need_. The

republics of elder Italy are no more the proper object for Italian

enterprise, than would be the old colonial dependencies for the

efforts of Americans. But Italy must be aroused; she must be called up

to some general object; her great men must be stimulated to useful

efforts, and her humbler citizens must be enticed away from

insurrectionary movements to revolutionary action, and that cry which

the soonest rouses and unites them is the true watchword of

independence. Some proper hand, some well endowed mind must lead them

in the right path--must set their faces and direct their efforts

toward the proper object. The alarm cry may be the same, though the

object of rising be opposite to that announced. The same bells and the

same peels would call up the citizens of Florence to withstand or

divert an inundation of the Arno which would be used to arouse them to

check the destructive progress of a conflagration.

Italy, however, must not be kept too long in chase of the past

republics. She needs the confederation of modern democracy, and, when

once aroused, must be early directed to the true object. The Italian

who spends his power, his wealth and his influence in attempts to

restore the ancient confederacy is like the man who starts westward at

evening to overtake the departed sun. But the Italian who, roused to a

proper sense of the capability of his country, determines to secure to

her the best good that other nations now enjoy, is like the man who,

starting at dawn, proceeds in an easterly course to meet the sun in

his rising. There is a necessity laid upon both--failure is certain

for the former, success inevitable to the latter.

We give more space to the changes and the condition of the Papal

States than to the circumstances of other kingdoms of Europe, because

the double power exercised there makes any change interesting, and the

extended influence of the spiritual supremacy gives proportionate

consequence to any movement or event that disturbs the dominancy of

the Bishop of Rome. Indeed so deeply interesting is the whole state of

Italy, taking its present movement in connection with its past

history, that a whole article might be profitably devoted to a

consideration of its past grandeur, its present distressed condition,

and its means and hopes of future restoration. We may in some future

number take up the subject.

The peninsula containing the kingdoms of Portugal and Spain has been

in constant agitation for the past year--but so trifling are the

relations of Portugal that very little interest is felt in her

convulsions, and few pause to inquire which party or faction is

uppermost at the latest dates. Spain has had her semi-revolutions, but

as yet they have produced little good to the people beyond the

weakening of the power or influence of the rulers; so that when the

people shall really rise, they will have less weight to keep them

down--less power to resist--less of obstruction to overcome. But the

energies of Spain seem to be on a revival, and there are hopes,

founded on existing recent improvement, that this abundant providence

on behalf of that country will not be much longer neglected by the

people, but that from one effort to another they will rise to that

rank in the scale of nations to which the kingdom is entitled, and of

which the attempt to go beyond deprived her.

Poor Portugal! She will linger yet, and perhaps be absorbed. Her

independent existence is not of sufficient consequence to the world to

induce an effort on her behalf; and England, now that France must

relinquish her claims on Spain, can afford to withdraw her patronage

from Portugal--if, indeed, we may not rather say that in the present

disturbed and crumbling state of European monarchies, neither England

nor any other kingdom will feel that she has much superflux of power

to shake to any decaying state.

Portugal was once an integral portion of Spain, and she may again be

in union with her sister. The mountains that interpose need no longer

make enemies of these two small states, and the common wants and

common weakness of both should and will induce them "like kindred

drops to mingle into one." The language of Portugal differs from that

of Spain considerably, but almost every Portuguese speaks Spanish, and

the literature of Spain is in a great measure that of Portugal, as

that of Great Britain is shared by the United States.

Portugal and Spain are both deriving the means of true strength by the

diminution of their colonial possessions, and when they have recovered

from the shock which the exercise of power over distant dependent

states is almost sure to bring, they may, united, have an important

rank with the European powers.

Terrible has been the oppression of rulers in some parts of Germany.

That oppression has not trodden _out_, though it may have trodden

_down_, the spirit of men. And even in Austria the awakening power has

been felt within the present year--felt to the agitation of national

councils--to the terror and flight of rulers. It is perhaps a subject

for joy rather than regret, that the movements of the people have been

less radical than in some other countries. This is, after all, the

true way. Grasping at more than they can retain, a rising people lose

what might have been of service. The lesson of France in her

revolution in the last century was not lost on Germany, and the people

demanded of their rulers that which might be granted without the

disturbance of order; and then they were content with what they

received, because it was at once a proof that asking they could

receive, and receiving they could learn to enjoy.

The King of Prussia, in reply to the demands of the people, yielded

some points, and then drew their attention to a long-cherished idea of

a confederation of the German States, by which the differences of the

several powers should be settled by an accredited tribunal, and a

species of federal government be established to watch over those

rights conceded by the individual states to the federal power.

It is to be regretted that the King of Prussia should have found

occasion in these trying times to provoke war with Denmark, upon a

claim by Schleswig for protection, and that claim rests upon the poor

plea that--though really a _dependence_ of Denmark--Schleswig is not

of Scandinavian origin, like Denmark, and therefore is anxious to

maintain her German relations. The Scandinavian blood runs through the

veins of Sweden and Russia as well as those of Denmark, and "will

protect itself," if not now, at least when a better opportunity

occurs.

The union of the various _States_ of Germany proposed by the King of

Prussia has been formed, and Arch-Duke John has been elected "VICAR of

the German Empire." He is a man of enlarged views, of liberal

political principles. He is a relation (an uncle) of the Emperor of

Austria. He was the representative of the emperor in the German Diet,

and his substitute during his (the emperor's) absence from his

capital.

This new organization of the German powers looks to the establishment

of a common army, and the creation and maintenance of a common navy;

and the attempt to produce these means and evidences of power _may_

create new disturbances, as they are costly to support, and often

dangerous to their supporters.

Austria, to which we have already alluded, felt the common _throe_ and

manifested the general alarm. The vigilance of a jealous government

had spread over the whole empire an appearance of tranquillity, but

the first symptom of popular movement abroad roused the Austrians to

an annunciation of their own wrongs, (they did not comprehend their

_rights_,) and as they felt most directly the arm of the Prince

Metternich, the tyrannical and efficient minister of the emperor, they

demanded his dismissal; they assaulted his castle of Johannisburg;

they destroyed it and wasted the palatable contents of its

cellars--stores of many years collection of the wine that bears the

name of its place of deposit.

In the mean time the people of Hungary, and those of Bohemia, which

had come to be dependencies upon the crown, demanded _their_ rights as

nations. It is remarkable of the movement in Hungary, that though the

people of that government had enjoyed privileges unknown to any other

subjects of the Austrian Emperor, yet they were the first to demand

further concessions; a proof this that the great agitation in Europe

is not the sudden action of an oppressed people. If it were, it would

be greatest and most _exigeant_ where the oppression was the most

intolerable: but the earliest and the most thorough opposition, and

the most effective insurrections have been where the hand of power was

most lenient, and the civil privileges of the people were the

greatest; a proof that the whole revolutionary movements in Europe

have been caused by a prevailing sense of human rights, rather than a

feeling of the people's wrongs; that the mind of man is rising to the

assertion of its own dignity, and is hastening forward to the

fulfillment of its own destiny; it is not content with toleration, it

demands an acknowledgment of freedom; and whatever restrains beyond

the necessity of government--of self-government--is regarded as an

infringement of rights; and the more delicate the perception, the

greater is the intolerance of the wrong.

Austria proper has made a strong and a long stride toward _freedom_.

Comparatively she is yet in the dark, but her face is set toward the

coming light, and year after year will show her progress toward it,

and the effect of that light upon her institutions. It is now too late

for tyrants to doubt that their true interests will be found in

graceful, moderate concessions; to _give_ a little, rather than to

have much _taken_; and with all the restlessness of the people, they

seem to be disposed to remain content with a moderate progress of

improvement; but wo to those who would stay the motion of that to

which the spirit of the age has imparted the means of progress.

The spirit of revolution has been rife along the shores of the Danube,

and the numerous states, provinces, and dependencies, that lie toward

the Black Sea, have formed alliances, and will assert their rights.

The city of Prague, famous in story and in song, has been laid in

ashes, as a punishment for its oppugnation against the emperor; but

the ashes of a favorite city may be as powerful a stimulant to the

spirit of injured man as to the best portion of the vegetable

world--and power may find itself injured by a conflagration as well as

its dependence.

Russia, amidst all this confusion among the nations of the Continent,

has been able to maintain her apparent quiet. But she has felt that

the experience of Austria was soon to be understood by herself; and

when light should have pierced into the almost impervious recesses of

that kingdom, her subjects would be able to discover not only the

chains upon their limbs, but those who placed them there. Her time is

at hand. She may yield, but the empire is too large to be conciliated

by concessions. Interest and feeling are opposite, and it is probable

that the only point upon which the whole can agree will be that of

immitigable hostility to the ruling powers. She will attempt to seize

upon the revolted provinces of other powers, and jeopard her central

position by the miserable attempt to keep truth and its enjoyment from

the extremities.

Great Britain has had her share in the difficulties which have

disturbed and convulsed her continental neighbors. She has had in her

midst a party of ultras, called Chartists, that look to the subversion

of the present form of government. She has dealt with them steadily,

sternly, and, for a time, effectually; but while there is oppression

almost necessarily in a form of government, there will be a place for

opposition to stand upon, and that opposition will assume any form

which can promote its object.

England, of all nations of Europe, seems to have understood the

advantage of concession. She has denied, postponed, hesitated, and

then granted, so that the joy caused by the concession has for a time

disarmed opposition, and given new strength, or at least additional

_time_ to the government. She has yielded slowly, but still yielding

from time to time what has been asked of the government in behalf of

the people, when the power of the government and the peace of the

realm were not involved. And she has overwhelmed with power or

ridicule all attempts at subverting the monarchy. The Radicals have

been shot down as at Manchester; the Chartists ridiculed into silence;

but Catholic emancipation has been allowed, and the corn-laws

repealed.

But let no one suppose that the results of force, of ridicule, or

concession are to be the yielding of the public; the same spirit which

called into action all those opposing means, is as constantly at work

now as it was ten years ago, and the demands will be as regular and as

imperative as ever, until the last vestige of inequality shall have

disappeared. Happy will it be for Great Britain if her ministry,

practicing the wisdom of the past, allows concession to prevent

revolution, and permits what of monarchy and aristocracy is left, to

come easily to the ground rather than to be upturned by the violence

of insurrection. England, for many years, has been as much in a state

of revolution as has France. She has had fewer convulsions, but she

has made a steady progress in her orbit, and those who live out the

century, will see the end of one grand cycle.

Ireland has been made to occupy a large portion of the public eye this

year. The death of O'Connell seemed to have left the "repeal party,"

(nearly the whole nation,) without a leader. Certainly without a sage

adviser; and the great measures which that distinguished man had so

long lead, was likely to be lost by the apathy of one section, or the

rash zeal of the other. That Ireland has been badly ruled by England,

ever since its conquest, is an historical fact; that the efforts

toward redress have usually resulted in worse than failure, is known.

But the prudence of O'Connell seemed to promise as favorable results

to the _repeal_ question, (reasonably considered,) as they had wrought

in favor of emancipation. He had age, talents, learning, experience,

prudence, fore-sight; he knew when to withdraw and when to press his

claims; he could not, of course, please all who desired the same

object with him, because all could not comprehend the powerful effect

of prudent restraint, or, as a southern statesman says, of "masterly

inactivity." And his death allowed those of more zeal but less

discretion to obtain an influence which he once possessed; and Ireland

is now plunged into the miseries of a _civil_ war.

Whatever may be the power of private feelings, our intention is to

refer to the insurrectionary movements in Ireland as to those of other

countries, namely, as the consequence of the growing sense of human

rights, and as that sense must increase, must constantly augment, it

is impossible that Ireland can remain in the same situation in which

she has been kept. It is known, however, that a galling sense of wrong

stimulates the Irish; that it is not the ordinary effects of an

oppressive government that produces rebellion, but injury that extends

to the domestic hearth, injury that strikes at the rights of

conscience, injury that makes even the wise man mad. The end is not

yet.

All is quiet in Holland and Belgium; and all is awaiting the

melioration which time and wisdom must bring.

This year has seen the close of the Mexican War, in which our army

gained fame, and our nation gained territory. And now the great

question is as to the uses of that territory, and the character of the

institutions that are to be granted to these new acquisitions soon to

become sovereignties. We do not mean to take any share in what may be

considered the party politics of the country; but we may allude

_historically_ to measures as well as to events, and therefore we are

at liberty to say, that the question now pressed upon the people of

the United States by the acquisition of new territory, is that of the

extension of the institution of slavery. Shall the new _territories_

be allowed by Congress to authorize slavery within their borders? and

on that question there is much feeling, and before it can be settled

there must of necessity be more, inasmuch as it has now become one of

the elements of party movements--not merely a question _in_ the

presidential canvass, but absolutely one on which a party stands, and

on which it nominated a president, nominated not merely a nominal

candidate, but one who, having held the office once, had acquired

distinction, and having manifested interest in all public measures

since, had maintained that distinction, and was a _real_ candidate.

The sooner this question is settled the _better_; and the better it is

settled, the more for the peace and the dignity of the nation.

To this question, which has in some respect, also, assumed one of

local distinction, we will not further refer; it is one that will

agitate until settled, and being settled, will no more disturb.

It is not our intention to place before our readers an array of

political facts, nor to make out a chronological table for the year

now drawing to a close. It would be better at once to refer the reader

to the easily accessible columns of the daily papers, which have

really been crowded with statements of convulsed states, and

revolutionized governments. It has not been a question with them as to

commercial changes, the fluctuations of a market, or the variation of

stocks; but they have had to record the fate of kingdoms, and the

flight or concession of kings and emperors. And we write necessarily

so much in advance of printing, that our quarter of the globe might

change its rulers between our pen and the type of our compositor.

We have been content to notice some of the most exciting movements in

Europe, without pretending to write their termination. We see in some

kingdoms the freshness of new institutions, and in others the renewal

of contests which had been deemed closed forever; where power has had

its heels upon the neck of the people for centuries, there are tokens

of _turning_; and from all this we learn that there is a spirit in the

mind of man, and that, in spite of all attempts to crush that spirit,

or to darken it, the inspiration of the Most High is giving it

understanding, and it is asserting its high prerogative, doing justice

to its lofty teachings.

How will all these things abroad affect us here? What will be the

influence upon the United States of these revolutionary movements in

Europe?

The effect is now being felt; it is only to calculate the increasing

power to understand the augmentation of results. Rapidly and more

rapidly will the number of inhabitants be increased; the amount of

wealth will be more than proportionably great, because not only will

not immigration be limited to the poor, but those of the rich who

_cannot_ come, will send hither their hoarded means, for safety; so

that while the abundance of our fields shall make us "the exhaustless

granary of the world," the permanence of our institutions shall make

us the depository of European wealth.

It may be asked whether our own country may not be exposed to the very

convulsions which make European nations so unstable. We answer, no;

agitation may occur here, and momentary excitement lead to fear of

local violence, but he who strikes here, strikes at himself. The very

nature of our institutions are such as to make it the interest of all

to sustain them, and the very causes which operate to the disturbance

of society in other countries, can have no existence here, or if they

exist, they have nothing to act upon, that evil effects may result.

In Europe, a majority of the people are deprived of their rights, are

made to yield to the dictation of a small minority, and sustain others

whom they do not like, with their own industry. They must submit to

laws which they do not approve, or submit to the charge of treason for

their attempts to resist, that they may change their laws. In this

country, whenever a majority is satisfied that certain measures are

inconsistent with their own good, they may instruct their law-makers

to change the enactments, or they can change the law-makers. This is

the _theory_ and this the actual _practice_ of our government.

The people of Europe find the means of living unequally divided. There

is less of a surplus, as it regards the _whole_, than for a _part_;

and while the few abound in all that is desirable, nay, with the

superfluities of life, the many lack the necessaries of wholesome

existence. And this is the result of their institutions--a result

which no convulsion, no revolution can at once change--so many

centuries have passed over the abuses, that not only are they

prescriptive, but there does not seem in the people any knowledge to

apply the power they may attain, to any _immediate_ remedy of the

evil.

With the United States there is no system to change--no institution to

be remodeled; of course, every year works some change in the operation

of the system, and makes more and more beneficial the institutions of

the country. The new views of man's importance and of human rights,

which work out revolutions in Europe, only make our citizens cling

close and closer to the institutions of their own country. While blood

is poured out like water in Paris to change the rulers of the people,

the rulers of this country are changed with a quiet that would denote

almost indifference. Men talk of an exciting _contest_ for the

presidential chair; but analyze that contest, and it is found to be

only a newspaper discussion of the merits of certain existing or

proposed acts of Congress, having nothing to do with the organic laws

of the land, or with the form of government; the contest or discussion

was closed on the 7th day of November last, and men scarcely remember

the earnestness of the newspaper paragraphs, or the stump speeches.

Broad and expanded are the views of a true Republic; there can be no

narrowness in the institution--it is for all men, and for all times;

and never since the first gathering of people into a political body

was there such a foundation for national greatness and diffused

individual happiness, as is laid in this country. Wealth, true wealth,

the means of general comfort, abounds. A variety of climate ensures

the produce of almost every section of the world, and the right to

cultivate a portion, gives to all the means of enjoyment; there can

never be in this country (without a special visitation of

Providence,) real want among any considerable number.

We have over twenty millions of inhabitants, and raise more than a

thousand million bushels of grain, and one hundred million bushels of

potatoes. With these means to be multiplied indefinitely, and a free

mind, what has America to fear?

It is not our purpose to make a eulogy upon our country, or to

anticipate the great results from the full operation of our system of

government with the immense natural advantages which we possess. But

we may remark, that with the progress of civil freedom in this country

has been the diffusion of morals and piety; and with the enjoyment of

political advantage, have been the enlargement of social delights, and

the augmentation of domestic happiness. Woman has found her rank in

the scale of existence, and enjoys that eminence in refined estimation

which the delicacy of her feelings, the purity of her sentiment, and

the intensity of her affections demand. And every where her influence

is felt, in the melioration of the public mind, as in the limited

circle at the home fire-side. Nay, it is _from_ the fire-side that the

circle of her influence expands, and she is respected abroad as she is

loved at home. This is one of the results of the free institutions of

this country; and while it is seen now as a result, it will be felt

hereafter as one of the powerfully operating causes of constantly

increasing human freedom and human happiness.

How beautiful the thought, that she who is the light of our hearts and

our homes is becoming the blessing of our country; and that not less

than domestic delight is political freedom to be derived from the

sanctifying influences of woman's gentleness and woman's purity.

ANGELS ON EARTH.

BY BLANCHE BENAIRDE.

It sometimes chances, in this world of wo,

That lovely flowers in gloomy forests grow,

Which freely lend their sweetness to impart

A sense of pleasure to the stranger's heart.

They come to cheer and bless, like showers of rain

That fall in mercy on the parched plain,

And bloom in beauty, fair as though the light

That shines from heaven had never been from sight.

These flowers are emblems of the angels fair

That oft appear, man's lot to bless and share.

He dwells within a dreary forest wild,

No cheering sun has ever on him smiled,

His way is hedged with thorns, his soul is sad--

He spies an angel in love's vestment clad;

Kind words are spoken, and his grief has flown,

His heart is cheered--for he is not alone;

An angel ministers to him and points above,

Bidding him cast his care on endless love.

He lifts his eyes to heaven, and there behold,

The azure sky, touched with a tinge of gold,

Giving him promise of a brighter day,

A life more calm, more clear his onward way.

And angels, too, appear when Death comes nigh,

To wipe the bitter tear from Sorrow's eye--

They whisper of that bright and blessed shore

Where pain and suffering will be no more.

Oh, there are angels near us all the while,

That guard our homes and sweetly on us smile!

They minister _to all_--sometimes unseen--

And change life's desert to a living green.

MRS. TIPTOP.

OR THE NEW MINISTER.

BY MRS. E. C. KINNEY.

The tongue can no man tame; it is an unruly evil, full

of deadly poison. JAMES iii. 8.

Few villages in the Union could exceed Green Valley in local beauty

and advantages; embosomed in hills, embellished with trees, and

watered by a willow-shaded stream that meandered through its centre.

Situated, too, within twenty miles of the great emporium, and skirted

by a railway leading to it, the cultivators of a soil, that ever

fulfilled more abundantly the hopes of the husbandman, could ask

nothing more favorable to the ready disposal of their crops. The

inhabitants of Green Valley were mostly farmers, who, besides "owing

no man any thing," had each a comfortable dwelling and ample outhouses

of his own, nothing better than his neighbors, but equaling theirs in

the well-to-do look of the fences, the garden and door-yard. That the

village was originally settled by Quakers, and half peopled by this

drab-coated sect at the date of our story, no stranger needed to

inquire, after passing through its straight-cut roads, or breathing

its air of purity and quietude. Long had its simple-minded,

true-hearted people lived in the daily enjoyment of mutual kindness

and love; till contentment seemed written not only on the broad brims

of the farmers, but on the bridles of their docile beasts, and on

their very implements of husbandry. In the course of time, other

religious denominations were established in Green Valley; but as the

descendants of Penn continued to "work in quietness and eat their own

bread," strangers intermeddled not with them; while the savor of their

peaceful spirits seemed so diffused among other sects, that all

"agreed to disagree" with one another, and for years unbroken harmony

was the result. But _we_ have only to do with the Congregational

church of Green Valley, and will forthwith introduce the reader to the

shepherd of this little flock. Mr. Worthiman was a plain man of

God--middle-aged, of respectable scholastic attainments, and one who,

for his sound judgment and exemplary "walk and conversation," had ever

a "good report of them that were without." The law of kindness dwelt

in his heart and on his lips, and in all the offices of exemplar,

teacher and comforter of his charge none was more worthy than he. The

church at its earliest organization, without a dissenting voice,

invited Mr. Worthiman to become its pastor--his prayer dedicated the

house of worship, and each succeeding Sabbath for a series of years

found him at his post, breaking the Bread of Life to a grateful,

confiding people. Nor were his pastoral duties less regularly

fulfilled: One afternoon of every week was devoted by himself and his

wife (whose living example was "such as becometh woman possessing

godliness,") to visiting in rotation the families of his congregation;

and so well timed was this custom, that the farmers' wives could

calculate each her honored turn to a day; so that the substantial

hospitalities of a generous board were added to the warm welcomes of

heart and hand.

Besides the neat parsonage reared for the minister and his increasing

family, he was, through the generosity of his parishioners, the owner

of an old-fashioned chaise, and a horse gentle and well-ordered as his

master. These were always in requisition on visiting afternoons; and a

right comfortable sight it was to see the minister and his wife

jogging along over the smooth roads, blessing all they passed with the

smile of true benignity, and receiving the heart's blessing of all in

return; while the good dame to whose dwelling their course was

directed, having all things in readiness for the pastoral visitation,

stationed one of her cleanly-attired children at the window, to watch

for the first appearance of the reverend chaise wending up the lane to

the farm-house, at which signal, with beaming eyes, the child hastened

to open the gate, dreaming in the simplicity of her rosyhood, of no

greater honor than to usher in the respected pair. On these occasions

the farmer usually left the field, and donned his Sunday suit, the

good wife appeared in her best cap and snowy kerchief, and the maid

came from the dairy, with tidy apron, to claim her seat in the snug

parlor, that alike they might sit under the lips that dropped wisdom

for all. Then, when they gathered around the lengthened table, the

pastor's blessing was music in their ears, and supper being over, his

elongated prayer, comprehending the wants of each, and all, closed the

privileges of the pastor's visit. Mr. Worthiman was equally

satisfactory in his visits at the bedside of the sick--in his

consolations to the dying, and his sympathy in the house of mourning.

The aged leaned on him for support--the middle-aged walked hand in

hand with his counsels, and the young looked up to him for guidance;

while no austerity on his part forbade the merriment of their sports:

so far from this, it was his custom at weddings, after a salutation to

the bride, and a commendation of the bride's loaf, to take early

leave, lest his presence should restrain the music and dancing that

usually sum up a country bridal entertainment.

Such _was_ the pastoral position of Mr. Worthiman, and such the

unmolested happiness of Green Valley! But, alas! the serpent that

looked with envious eyes on the paradise of our first parents, was

about to creep stealthily among the vine-clad cottages of the peaceful

villagers. And as in Eden his poison first insinuated itself through

the mind of woman, so from woman was it to be communicated to these

homes of contentment and love.

Among the few merchants of all-wares that had come in to supply the

growing population of Green Valley, was a young man of more amiability

than vigor of mind, who, having lived a single but quiet and peaceable

life some years in the village, brought unexpectedly, from a town

near-by, a wife to divide or double his blessedness. Kate Tiptop was

cousin to the young man, and did not change her name in marrying him.

She was the only daughter of parents who lived just long enough to

spoil by indulgence a child whose native faculties of mind were more

than ordinarily vigorous and acute; such as, under a disciplinary

course of education, united with healthful moral training, would have

ripened her into the noblest development of woman; but her first idea

took the form of self, instead of truth, and growing perception

brought only increasing self-consciousness. In short, she had early

imbibed the belief that the world in which she moved was made for her

accommodation; and her inherent passion--love of power--became more

and more apparent as she increased in years. Had she been beautiful in

person, this might have shown itself in more vain, but less injurious

forms; as it was, she desired to sway hearts, not to receive their

flattering unction in return, but to strengthen and confirm her own

sense of ability to do it. Love of _action_ alone induced her to

engage in the practical duties of domestic life, and she married more

for the sake of being the head of a family, than from any motives of

affection. To accomplish this desire, she well knew that her husband

must be her inferior in mental strength; while the additional

inducement that fixed her choice on her cousin was, that in uniting

herself with him, she would not even have to yield her name. Mrs.

Tiptop soon became a pattern-card to all housewives--always having her

work _done_, and _well_ done; and never lacking time nor tongue to

entertain visiters, nor health, leisure, or purpose to visit among the

neighbors herself. She was one of those women whose husbands are

super-numeraries at home, while their wives are mouth-pieces for them

abroad.

Her go-_aheaditiveness_ was a new revelation to the plodding

villagers; it not only made her household cares a mere song, but

enabled her to preside over her husband's business affairs with a

dexterity of calculation that soon rendered his own position but a

sinecure. In short, Mrs. Tiptop was a trump-card at home, and every

where, always winning the game of domestic differences, and turning

the chances of all neighborly or church variances, which began to

spring up simultaneously with her introduction there.

In person Mrs. Tiptop was tall, of slender frame, and thin, almost to

emaciation, giving no indications of physical or mental strength,

save that it was "all in the _eye_"--black, penetrating, "wise as the

serpent," and possessing the optical versatility of seeing all sides

in a twinkling; yet when its latent forces were single-eyed to a

purpose, that end was achieved as unquestionably as when acknowledged

by many witnesses.

No sooner did that eye peer through the bridal veil at Mr. Worthiman,

on Mrs. Tiptop's introduction to the village church, than her purpose

was formed and executed as truly as when carried out through all the

intricate passages leading to its accomplishment.

She had determined to be _felt_ in the village, and Mr. Worthiman's

godly power over his unsophisticated people was then and there

destined to totter from its long settled foundations. Before the next

communion season Mrs. Tiptop had sent in her certificate, and was

placed on the list of church-members. Here was a footing on which she

could stand to use the instruments that would be needed in the

premeditated revolution. The initiation of a communicant into a

country church is generally succeeded by a call from its officers on

the new member. Nothing could be more gracious than Mrs. Tiptop's

reception of this church police, who paid her the complimentary visit

during the week subsequent to her admission; but in this instance, on

Deacon Heedful alone fell the _charm_ of her serpentine eye. Quick as

thought in discernment, she penetrated at once through the deacon's

tractable physiognomy to his more flexible mind; and while the good

man was inwardly congratulating his church on the acquisition of so

worthy a member, she was fastening around him the toils in which he

was hereafter to do her bidding, as willingly as the dray-horse works

in the harness. Deacon Heedful belonged to that small minority of

human beings who know nothing of double-meanings or double-dealings;

pure in himself, he was the embodiment of that "charity that thinketh

no evil" of others; but, unfortunately, of stronger heart than head.

Perhaps an innate sense of this _crowning_ weakness made him lend a

more ready ear to the suggestions of other minds; at any rate, Mrs.

Tiptop soon had him under her easy control, through that psychological

law by which superior intellect ever governs its inferior. This

accomplished, it were unnecessary to carry the reader through the

winding ways which led her, with the deacon, to that point where she

could spread out before him the spiritual position of Mr. Worthiman

and his church, and convince him that they were "far behind the

times." Now this was "a secret" that she had not even communicated to

her husband, but in which she could not be mistaken, having come from

a town where all was "stirring" in the cause of religion--where the

preachers were "wide awake," and dead-level homilies, like Mr.

Worthiman's, were not tolerated; for her part, she should soon

languish under such enervating sermons as his; and here her fears

being profusely watered by tears, began to take root in the heart of

Deacon Heedful, who gave her a sympathetic squeeze of the hand on

parting with her one evening, and turned, poor man! to the sleepless

pillow where she had planted a thorn. He, however, determined to

deliberate some days before communicating his fears, even to his

brother officers in the church, and never to do it, unless reflection

sanctioned Mrs. Tiptop's hints.

But seeds of discontent sown in one mind, are by some Mesmeric

sympathy conveyed into another, and _another_, till a rapid,

wide-spread growth is the unlooked for consequence; yet Mrs. Tiptop

waited for another visit from the deacon, before breaking the subject

to any one else, even to "dear Mr. Tiptop;" so _she_ was not to blame

for the disaffection that was springing up around her. Deacon Heedful

arrived even sooner than she had anticipated--and most _unexpected_ to

her was his account of the spreading influence that had so

_mysteriously_ come to light. The deacon's doubts were now matured

into a strong sense of duty, and, to the complete satisfaction of Mrs.

Tiptop, he had decided to take a _stand_ in the matter.

The only proposition she made was that the leading clergyman of her

native town should be invited to exchange one Sabbath with Mr.

Worthiman. This he promised should be effected, and took his leave for

the purpose. As the parsonage was in his way home, he called to pay

his respects to his minister, whom he found confined to the house by

an indisposition that would prevent his preaching the following

Sabbath; so he requested the deacon to read a sermon, as usual under

such circumstances. This was opportune for proposing to call in the

aid of a neighboring minister, which Mr. Worthiman acceding to, the

matter was soon arranged, and word given out through the village that

Mr. Newlight would fill the pulpit the coming Sabbath.

Providence, or _some_ invisible agent, seemed on the side of Mrs.

Tiptop, under the inspiration of which she went from house to house,

promising the parishioners a treat new to them from Mr. Worthiman's

pulpit.

The Sabbath was an anxious one to her, and an eventful one in the

Congregational church of Green Valley; the spirit-stirring tones of

Mr. Newlight's voice--his forceful manner, and novel forms of

presenting old truths, had such an electric effect upon his audience

that Mrs. Tiptop's eyes drank their fill of satisfaction, and

gratified ambition began to revel in her brain. Nothing was talked of

the succeeding day but Mr. Newlight's great sermon; and wishes were

openly expressed, mostly by the younger members of the congregation,

that Mr. Worthiman was more like him. Dissatisfaction spread like an

infectious disease, and before the year expired, a meeting had been

called to confer on the subject--the church was divided against

itself, and the iron had entered the soul of poor Mr. Worthiman. But

the oldest and best of his people, those who had been the pillars of

the church, were not to be so easily moved out of place, and the

result was, that the disaffected members--including at least one

half--immigrated in a body, under the lead of Deacon Heedful and Mrs.

Tiptop; were formed into another church, built a modern house of

worship, and called a new-school minister to fill its pulpit.

Mr. Lion was a man of strong sense, strong principle, and strong will.

His wife was an English lady of family and attainments, who, under the

influence of a fervid attachment, had left a high-born circle of

friends in her native land, to share the lot of an humble American

clergyman, when too young to have attained that maturity of

good-breeding which accommodates itself, without apparent effort, to

the accidents and diversities of society. Having few attributes of

mind, and no tastes in common with the secluded inhabitants of Green

Valley, but possessing a kind heart and an amiable temper, she

endeavored to conform, so far as native refinement would permit, to

the habits and wishes of her husband's pastoral charge.

For the first six months succeeding Mr. Lion's installation the

triumph of the immigrants seemed complete. Deacon Heedful was

reappointed to the office he held under Mr. Worthiman's ministration,

and Mrs. Tiptop assumed her undisputed place of honor next to the

minister's wife--introduced a maternal association, and a female

prayer-meeting among the women of the congregation, in the exercises

of which she invariably took the lead, and made herself so

_prominently_ useful, that Deacon Heedful often prayed that she might

live to be "a mother in Israel." Even the spirit of discord for a time

appeared to be exorcised from their midst, while admiration of the new

minister and his lovely wife was the absorbing passion of the day.

But the evil spirit that had built the church was not long to be

denied his right to a place in it, and before many months began to

show himself in various forms and guises. First, there arose an

indistinct murmur that Mr. Lion did not visit his people familiarly

and often enough; nor did he make pastoral tea-visits with his wife,

as was Mr. Worthiman's custom. Then a whisper was heard that Mrs. Lion

seemed to consider herself of "better flesh and blood" than others;

that even Mrs. Tiptop wasn't a confidential friend of hers; but they

guessed her piety was no better than theirs, by the fashionable way in

which she dressed. Then, the new minister and his wife cared more for

each other than they did for their parishioners, as they frequently

walked out together without stopping to call on any of them. Thus, in

various quarters, discontent began to show itself, and somehow or

other could always be traced back to Mrs. Tiptop, who evidently felt

chagrined at not being invited to share the secrets of Mrs. Lion's

household.

But now an unlooked for arrival at the new minister's gave fresh

impulse and direction to the evil genius of Green Valley. The

new-comer was a sister of Mrs. Lion's, just from England, who, it was

understood, would be a future inmate of the family. Miss May proved to

have the _disadvantages_, in the eyes of the village belles, of

beauty, accomplishments, and independence of mind and purse. Brought

up, and having just completed her education in the city of London, she

was now a bird let loose in the free air of the country, whither she

had been drawn by affection for her sister, and a desire, not

unmingled with romance, to see the land of liberty, and exult in the

freedom of its rural scenes. And exult she _did_--now in the woods and

fields gathering wild-flowers, and now, mounted on her English pony,

galloping over the hills and away--the villagers said, "none knew

where"--the stared-at of all starers, if not "the admired of all

admirers." Though Miss May was sweet enough to savor all the village

with amiability, and musical enough to harmonize the whole, the venom

of the serpent made her sweetness gall to the senses of her brother's

envious flock, and her music was discord in their ears.

One morning, as Miss May was riding rapidly over a bridge, her pony

stumbled on a loose plank and threw her over his head so violently,

that she was taken up senseless by a miller who lived on the stream,

and conveyed into his humble abode, where the good man committed her

to the care of his wife, while he went for the doctor. Now the village

physician, who was a middle-aged, married man, had a bachelor brother

connected with him, who was the envy of the village beaux for his

gentlemanly air and good looks, _he_ it was who, in this instance,

hastened to answer the urgent call of the miller. Dr. Mannerly, on his

arrival, found Miss May recovering from her unconsciousness, and quite

alarmed at seeing herself in such strange circumstances; but his

gentleness, joined with the homely manifestations of kindness and

concern on the part of the miller and his wife, soon composed her

mind, and after the doctor had taken some blood from her beautiful

arm, she was enabled to rise and receive his assurance that she had

sustained no very serious injury by the fall. Being, however, too much

bruised to mount her pony again, she accepted the doctor's polite

offer to take her home in his buggy.

Before night Miss May's adventure was the gossip of the village;

especially her ride homeward with the doctor, who was observed to look

uncommonly interested, and to be engaged in earnest conversation with

his fair companion; nor did it escape the vigilant eye of Mrs. Tiptop

that the doctor's buggy stood at the minister's gate every day for a

week thereafter, and longer each successive time than _she_ thought

necessary for a professional call. And then, when Miss May appeared

again on her pony, Dr. Mannerly was by her side, on his own

high-mettled horse, (the doctor never rode a _tame_ animal, nor

perpetrated a tame remark;) this happened, too, again and again, so

that it was soon a settled matter that Miss May and the doctor would

be a match.

In the course of a few months, an unusual stir was apparent at the new

minister's; the blinds were thrown open in the east parlor, and people

were seen bustling through the hall as if in preparation for some

important event. As Mr. Lion never received "donation visits," as the

custom is with village-ministers, the bustle meant nothing less than

Miss May's wedding--and for once, the gossip had some foundation in

truth.

Late in the afternoon a handsome carriage drove up to the house, from

which alighted a foreign-looking gentleman, of some twenty-five years,

who was pronounced to be an English acquaintance of Mrs. Lion's who

had been invited to the wedding. And a wedding, true enough, it was,

for Dr. Mannerly came hurrying along toward the minister's about dark,

equipped from top to toe, and wearing the white vest that decided him

to be the happy man. And now the uninvited multitude envied the very

lights that made brilliant "the east room," and no language could

express their mortification, when the honest chaise of Mr. Worthiman

dropped himself and wife at the new minister's door.

But a greater surprise awaited them the following morning, when the

carriage that brought the Englishman to the village, was seen rolling

rapidly away, and in it, seated by the stranger, was the heroine of

all their surmises.

The doctor visited his patients as usual on that day, and the village

newspaper announced the marriage, at Green Valley, of Sir Edward

Sterling, of London, England, to Miss Rosina May, of the same

metropolis.

Mrs. Tiptop and her followers were dumb-founded! But the evil genius,

paralyzed for the time, revived ere long again with fresh vigor, and

became so vexatious to Mr. and Mrs. Lion, that a dismissal was asked

for and obtained from the Second Congregational Church of Green

Valley, which, at the last accounts, was about calling a NEW MINISTER.

THE GARDENER.

BY GEORGE S. BURLEIGH.

From dewy day-dawn to its dewy close,

Between the lark's song and the whippo-wil's,

With life as fresh and musical as fills

Their varied round, in quiet joyance goes

The faithful gardener, spying out the foes

Of queenly Beauty, whom, for all the ills

They wrought her reign, his hand in pity kills.

That pure-eyed Peace may in her realm repose.

He bears cool water to the drooping flowers,

And gently crops o'erflushed exuberance;

Trains the young vines to crown imperial bowers,

And guardeth well fair buds from foul mischance;

Let others find what prize befits their powers,

_His_ deeds put smiles on Nature's countenance.

ONE OF THE "SOUTHERN TIER OF COUNTIES."

BY ALFRED B. STREET.

A realm of forest, hill and lake I sing,

Nestling in wild and unknown loveliness

Beneath the "Empire State's" protecting wing;

But be not too inquisitive and press

Its name--my motto must be, reader! "Stat

Nominis umbra"--I'll not tell that's flat.

But this much I will say; it bears the name

Of a brave warrior, who, in times of old,

Burst through the forests like a flood of flame,

And on the savage foe deep vengeance told.

And well that warrior kept unstained the wreath

Reaped by his sword in fields of blood and death.

And to be more explicit--on the west

The Chihohocki[1] laves its mountain sides;

East the grim Shawangunk uprears its crest,

And monarch-like this forest-land divides

From that whose name superfluous 't were to utter

If mention's made of golden "Goshen butter."

Within this realm Dame Nature's mantle wide

Has scarcely yet been rent by human toil;

Here tower the hill-tops in their forest pride,

There smile the sylvan valleys, though the soil

Is such, in truth, no wonder people chose

To leave Dame Nature to her wild repose.

Yet pleasant are the sights and sounds when Summer

Wakens the forest depths to light and life;

The woodpecker, a red-plumed, noisy drummer,

Times to the thrasher's clearly flourished fife;

The partridge strikes its bass upon its log,

And with his deep bassoon chimes in the frog.

The stream reflects the leaf, the trunk, the root,

The sunlight drops its gold upon the moss,

Whose delicate fringes sink beneath the foot

Of the quick squirrel as it glides across;

And, glancing like a vision to the eye,

Through the tall trees the deer shoots, dream-like, by.

Fancy your wearied foot has clambered now

The Delaware's steep hill, and then glance back.

The splendid sight will put you in a glow!

There winds the river in its snake-like track,

Whilst rural beauty laughs upon your view--

Meadows of green, and fields of golden hue,

And then White Lake, expanding far away!

Oh, its pure waters gleam before me now!

It sheds upon my world-worn heart a ray

Bright as the crystal beauty of its brow.

Loveliest of lakes! this pulse must cease to beat

Ere I forget thee, beautiful and sweet!

M., too, (the village,) is a lovely place,

Clustered midst grain-fields rich and orchards green,

With the grand woods around--in blended grace

Nature and Art at every point are seen.

Brimmed is it with good fellows, and those pearls

Of man's prosaic being--witching girls.

Yet there are places in this rising county

Where Nature seems determined not to grow;

Where travelers merit an especial bounty

For perseverance, where the starving crow

Would pass, disdaining to arrest his flight;

(But these things in strict confidence I write.)

The earth is sprinkled with a scanty growth

Of ragged, scrubby pine, and here and there

A lofty hemlock, looking as if loath

To show its surly head--while grim and bare

The ghosts of former trees their mossy locks

Shake, but all else is one great bed of rocks.