For months after his death, during the "long bright summer hours," a

child was seen almost daily to visit his grave, lingering when all had

gone. It was Lillias--and I thought if the departed spirit were

hovering near, how often it would echo those words, "_They_ are all

gone, yet _thou_, my sweet Lillias, art with me still."

One year had elapsed, and a funeral train wound again through Mount

Auburn, pausing at the grave of Willie. Lillias was no more. She

ceased not to mourn for her brother, and during her last illness she

spoke of little, save that she should find him in heaven. Once more

that angel-mother sat by a dying child, breathing words of holy hope

and trust, and her eye grew bright, and her heart was warm, as she

spoke of a joyful reunion in heaven.

"Mamma," said the child, "we will keep a place for you and dear papa,

and will you come soon?"

Years have since passed, but often at the holy twilight hour those

gentle children are with me still; and when my rapt soul pierces the

azure vault, I seem to see Willie in angel robes, and listen,

entranced, to the tones of spirit-melody from his tiny golden harp--a

form as radiant as his own is ever near him, and I fancy, as I mark

the delighted look that ever greets a seraph strain from the beloved

lips, that I hear in sweet tones, "_thou, my sweet Lilias, art with me

still_."

THE CHRISTIAN HERO'S EPITAPH.

Say, doth the sculptor's ready tool engrave

A _mournful_ stanza o'er a _conqueror's_ grave?

Or bid the willow bend, or cypress twine?

Or doleful tokens to his fame combine?

Then trace no saddening sentence o'er the place

Where rests the victor in a heavenward race;

Meeter the laurel and the trumpet-strain

For one who fought a fadeless crown to gain!

Bring the memorials of a warrior true,

The "sword," the "helmet," and the "breast-plate" too;

Write on the marble that by _these_ he won,

And bid the gazer do as he hath done!

Write of his faith; how humble, yet how bright,

Diffusing round a clear and heavenly light;

Write of his zeal; how quenchlessly it burned,

How many a wanderer to the skies it turned!

And, mourner, when thou comest with a tear,

Love's costless tribute to remembrance dear,

Bend there thy trembling knee upon the sod,

And lift thy homage to the conqueror's God!

THE LADY OF FERNHEATH.

BY MARY SPENCER PEASE.

CHAPTER I.

ISOLETH.

How shall I describe her? Who ever described the sun, or one of the

glorious stars, or the white, witching moon; or who, even the least

and simplest of the exquisitely, perfectly fashioned wild-flowers,

that grow upon the humblest road-side? If these are indescribable, how

much more so, in its highest perfection, is the most beautiful, most

perfect of all God's beautiful, perfect creations--woman? Who ever

depicted her one half as lovely and loving as she is? Who ever, amid

all the wild, rapturous praise that has been so profusely lavished

upon her, said one half that is her due for her truth and gentleness

and beauty, her untiring devotion, her unwearying patience, her ever

unselfish forgetfulness of self, her--,but what has been so many times

vainly attempted, _I_ cannot accomplish. How, then, shall I describe

thee, beautiful Isoleth? Loveliest, lovingest, glowing, glorious Lady

Isoleth! Bright Lady Isoleth!--wild as a hawk, and beautiful as Love.

Thy every motion was grace, thine every look was truth. Bewitching

little Isoleth! Her form was as lithe and flexible as a willow bough,

and light and graceful as a young fawn's. Her queenly little head sat

most proudly upon the daintiest, softest, whitest neck and bosom you

ever saw. Two deep wells of light and love were her eyes, revealing

every feeling of her beautiful soul. When she was sad, they looked

out, half shut, through their long shining lashes, dewy, dark and

tender; and when her mood grew merry, they danced in very joy. None

yet agreed on their color. One would have sworn they were the softest,

warmest brown--he saw them only when they were looking love, and he

was--but of him anon. Another would have told you they were pure,

clear blue--but he was the Lady Isoleth's confessor, with her when her

thoughts dwelt upon things holy. By turns were they violet and gray,

and all imaginable colors, in fact, except, indeed, green, or any

other such unrighteous shade that eyes sometimes take upon themselves.

Then her little, ripe, tempting mouth--ah! was it not just the mouth

one loves to kiss? small, dimpled, with soft, rose-red lips; and

tremulous ever--trembling with the love and gladness that filled her

young heart. Most beautiful was the Lady Isoleth of Fernheath.

CHAPTER II.

THE BIRTH-DAY.

"My lady!" exclaimed a bustling, good-natured little old body,

entering the room, which Wilhelm Gottfried, Baron of Arnhiem--the Lady

Isoleth's uncle and guardian--ever pleased himself with calling the

Lady Isoleth's menagerie, because, forsooth, the little lady delighted

herself with feeding and taming countless birds that had been brought

from all the known quarters of the globe. "My lady," spoke she, "do

you know that this is your ladyship's birth-day, that you this day

have arrived at an age which behooves you to put away childish things,

and take upon yourself the cares that belong--"

"You wise, dear little nurse! don't put on so much of the awful; don't

talk of care, you make me shiver at the bare idea.

"Where the bee sucks, there lurk I:

In the cowslip's bell I lie,

There I couch when owls do cry,

On the bat's back do I fly,

After summer merrily,

Merrily, merrily!"

And thus merrily sung the little airy Ariel, dancing around the room,

scarce touching the floor as she sung.

"Bless her light, little, happy heart! What a sin that love must come,

and with love, the self-loving, proud husband, that will bend that

bright will to his own; and then old age, and care, sure enough, and

wrinkles--and then that light, fairy-bounding step will be slow and

leaden, and that--alas! alas! that such perfect beauty--!"

"What is that you are muttering about, nursey dear? You must not let

me see one sad look to-day, for am I not this day sixteen--bright,

merry sixteen!"

"Yes, my dear lady, sixteen to-day--sixteen to-day;" and the little

dame, recovered from her momentary sadness, gave her lady a

mysterious, quizzical look, as she once more repeated, "sixteen

to-day!"

"Well, dear nurse, what would you have me do, or what shall I leave

off from doing, now that I have grown so exceedingly old?" asked

Isoleth, smiling that precious smile of hers--ten thousand dimples

danced around it--ten thousand loves nestled in each dimple.

"Sixteen to-day!" replied the queer little old body, with what she

meant for a very significant look. "Your guardian, the noble Baron of

Arnhiem, comes this day--"

"As he does every year to see me, dear nurse, staying several weeks,

sometimes months, with me."

"He comes not alone this year, my sweet lady," added the little woman,

looking still more significantly.

"I suppose we shall have my dear prim old maiden aunt of Hansfeldt,

with her snuff and lap-dogs, or is it my dear, sweet, beautiful

cousins Blumine and Alida? Tell me, nursey, if they are coming. You

shake your head. I guess, then, my proud uncle and aunt of Allwrath,

and my aristocratic cousins, their haughty sons and daughters?"

"None of them, sweet lady--that is, just yet."

"My beautiful, loving-cousin, Alice of Bernstorf, who has been living

these six years alone and lonely in her castle with only her younger

son and daughters. Is she or any of hers coming here again? And when

will my cousins of Bernstorf return from those hideous wars? I have

not seen them for so many years I should not know them."

"Now, dear lady, you are approaching nearer the fire, as the children

say in the play."

"You dear, queer little old nurse, don't look so mystical and

mystified, my circle of acquaintance, by reason of my father's will,

is not so very extensive but that the roll might soon be gone through

with. Come, unfold thy important, mysterious budget--who is it?"

"Who should it be, dear lady, but your noble cousin, Ferdinand, Prince

of Bernstorf! My lady, there is a clause in your father's will, that

you were not to know until your sixteenth birth-day, revealing a

compact between your noble father and your Cousin Ferdinand, the

reigning Duke of Bernstorf, that gave you as bride to your cousin,

Prince Ferdinand Of Bernstorf. There, now, my lady, 'tis out. The

secret has half-choked me these twelve years."

"Very kind and considerate in my father; but his child does not choose

to become the bride of any one just yet, least of all of one old

enough to be her grandfather."

"Old!" exclaimed the dame, throwing back her hands in amazement, "Old!

why, my dear lady, he is a mere boy; he will be but twenty-eight--"

"Twenty-eight! and I sixteen! why they would have me marry my

grandfather." And the little lady threw back her head, and with it its

world of soft brown curls, and laughed in very glee.

"He will be but twenty-eight, two--no, three days after this coming

Christmas. But, dear lady, do leave these screaming, noisy jack-daws

and mackdaws, and come and let me dress you in the beautiful new

court-dress your guardian sent you this morning."

"You naughty nurse! to abuse my beautiful birds. I have only one

jack-daw, and these are my pretty West Indian macaws, _not_ mackdaws,

wise nursey. And those are my bright-eyed canaries, and that is--but

you will not remember their names, although I have told them to you so

often."

"I see some are blue, and some bright red, and I know that little

Jenny, who helps you take care of them, loves them as well as you do.

But will you not come now and try on your splendid dress? I would have

you look your best and prettiest when your cousin comes."

"I know I shall not like him, and if I do not, my guardian will not

force me to marry him."

"But your father's will--"

"I will not think of that now, nor will I dress, dear nursey. I will

go ride my pony, and gather some of those wild-flowers my guardian

loves so well." And away flew the bright, happy little maiden; she

herself, of all the glad, sweet wild-flowers that grew among the

shades of Fernheath, the gladdest, sweetest, merriest and wildest;

and the one of all the rest her guardian uncle loved the best.

Little Dame Hildreth, while she flew about preparing for the reception

of Baron Arnhiem and the prince, could not help sadly bemoaning the

strange perversity of her young lady, in preferring birds and

wild-flowers and ponies to court-dresses and husbands.

The Lady Isoleth soon forgot that she had arrived at the advanced age

of sixteen, and that she had to put away childish things, and all

about her father's will, and the awful prince. She rode her pony

through the wood down to the sea; then ran a race with him upon the

beach--the pony playfully allowing his mistress to win. She climbed

the highest rocks in search of wild-flowers, and wove the sweet

flowers into garlands; at length, recollecting how long she had been

gone from home, she mounted her pony and galloped on toward the

castle, her head wreathed with holly, and her arms full of flowers. As

she entered the avenue there stood her impatient nurse awaiting her.

"My dear, darling young lady, what an age you have been away. We have

all been watching--"

"Has he come?"

"Who, the prince?"

"My dear uncle--has he come?"

"Yes, my dearest lady. They both came, Prince Ferdinand and your

guardian, soon after you left, and have been here for three long

mortal hours waiting for you very anxiously. The prince looks very

noble and handsome, and is dressed most magnificently. You must not be

disappointed though, dearest lady, for he is somewhat changed."

"Changed! How changed, dear nurse? I have not seen him these six or

seven years, ever since, you remember the time, he and my cousin duke,

his father, with so many others, went to fight those horrid Turks."

"He looks older, much older than he did--that, though, must be--yes,

it must be on account--"

"Older! why you simple, queer little nurse, he _is_ older. Why should

he not look--I expect to see him look half as old as Methuselah at

least. How shockingly old one must feel if they live to be

twenty-eight."

"Yes, he _does_ seem older than I expected to see him--though, to be

sure, he has been, for the last seven years engaged in the wars; yes,

that must be it. Nothing makes one grow old so fast as fighting. But,

dear lady, come, now, and dress, there's a darling. You will have just

about time enough before dinner. But where is your bonnet?"

"Up in the branch of a tree, nursey dear. It will make some bird a

delightful nest next spring. I lost it getting this curious white

flower. Look at it. It grew in an almost inaccessible spot upon the

cliff by the sea."

"You are a dear little kid clambering among those ugly rocks. Let me

take some of your flowers, your bundle is nearly as big as yourself.

The saints preserve us! if there are not your uncle guardian and the

prince! And you in such a tattered plight. For the love of Heaven,

dear lady, come in here among these bushes until--"

But the little dame had to finish her speech to the winds, for the

impulsive Isoleth had sprung from her pony, and was clasped in her

guardian uncle's embrace before her nurse was half through beseeching

her to hide.

"Why, my dear child, have you turned gipsy? You are as ragged as one,

and are as brown as a berry. But I can see through your long, thick

curls that the last year has improved you most wonderfully. Let me

introduce you to your cousin, Ferdinand of Bernstorf."

Isoleth looked up and beheld--gracious me! He was every day as old as

her guardian, and positively had gray hairs. She was sure she saw

white hairs among his black curls. She could give him only one glance,

for his dark, handsome eyes were fastened searchingly upon her. Her

eyes fell beneath his admiring gaze, and fell upon her torn muslin

dress--the rocks and briars had paid no respect to it--rather _had_

paid their best respects to it; and, without vouchsafing a word in

reply to her uncle or handsome cousin, she sprung, light as a fawn,

into her saddle, and was out of sight in the twinkling of an eye.

"What say you, Cousin of Bernstorf, to such a bride as that for the

proposed alliance--a wild one, is it not?"

"I like her exceedingly. By the holy mass! but she is the most

beautiful creature I ever saw. We will take her to court, she will

bewitch us all, old and young. By my faith, but she is--"

"Yes, yes, she _is_," replied the baron, smiling at Ferdinand's

earnestness. I thought she would surprise you. I cannot conceive of

any thing one-half so beautiful as she."

"Beautiful! you surprise me! Bless my soul! she is radiant with

beauty, and she is the greatest surprise I ever had in my life. We

will electrify the whole court with surprise and delight at her

wondrous grace and beauty, and--"

"All in good time, noble cousin. You recollect her father's will--that

she should remain at Fernheath, neither going from here, nor receiving

much company, save her own kinsfolk, until after her marriage with

your noble--"

"Yes, yes, I have not forgotten the will. 'So was it nominated in the

bond.' It delights me most exceedingly that she is so marvelously

beautiful. St. Jerome! but I feel already that I love her as dearly as

though she were my own--"

"Good gracious, cousin! You always had a spice of enthusiasm that is

delightful and refreshing to me." And the baron laughed right heartily

because he was delighted--and the laugh seemed to refresh him. "After

all," continued he, as soon as the corners of his mouth had come

within speaking distance of each other, "after all, she is but an

untrained country-girl; she--"

"Nature, and her own beautiful soul, have given her all the training

she needs. Her wild, unconstrained life, has developed her as no court

or city life could. That I can see, seeing her as little as I have."

"You think just as I do, dear cousin. My brother's will was a wise

one, that kept her thus from the deadening conventionalities of a

court life."

"By my soul! how exceedingly lovely she is. She surpasses all my

expectations. I recollect her as a little fairy thing of eight or ten.

I have not seen her until now--"

"Since just before this last war, full seven years ago."

* * * * *

If Ferdinand of Bernstorf thought the little tattered gypsey Isoleth

so inconceivably lovely, his eyes were half blinded with the radiant

beauty of the young Countess of Fernheath, as she entered the

dining-hall, clad in the shining court-robe her guardian had sent her.

Her cousin's dark eyes were fastened upon her with a look of

passionate admiration, that caused the bright blood to burn on her

face and bosom. Nor did those handsome black eyes scarce leave her

during the whole long dinner. As soon as she could release herself she

hastened to her only confidante, Dame Hildreth.

She found the little dame kneeling upon the floor, busily engaged in

unpacking boxes, while the floor was literally alive with silks, and

satins, and laces, and woman's finery.

"See here, my lady--and here--and there! Look what your uncle guardian

of Arnheim has provided for your approaching nuptials! And, dear lady,

do but look here;" and the eager, proud little dame opened a casket of

beautiful pearls--necklace, girdle, coronet, brooch and armlets. This

noble present comes from the father of your betrothed. It is to be

followed by a still more beautiful set of diamonds."

"These pearls may deck my burial instead of my bridal, for I never

will live to wed with _him_ below."

"Why, my sweetest lady!" exclaimed nurse Hildreth, glancing up in

surprise at her young mistress's flushed and excited face. "For the

love of Heaven, do not talk in that way! What objection can you

possibly have to such a noble, handsome, princely prince? He is the

oldest son and heir to--"

"Oldest, indeed! He is old enough to be my father's father."

"Mercy on us! Lady Isoleth, you talk wild. I will wager my life he is

only twenty-eight, three days after this coming Christmas. He has been

in the wars, you know--and war is no gentle nurse. Exposure in the

wars has caused him to appear somewhat older than he is. You know,

dearest lady, that war--"

"But he is gray--"

"Exposure in the wars--"

"And wrinkled--"

"Exposure in the wars--"

"But there is that about him I never could love, were he as young

as--I never can love him--I hate him, and I will not wed him."

"But, my dear, dear, dearest young lady, what _will_ you do?" The

thought never entering her head that the Lady Isoleth could do any

thing but submit to the will of others; for woman in those times was

sought and given in marriage without often consulting her own

inclination.

What will I do, dear nurse? Why I will fall on my knees at the feet of

my beloved guardian and plead with him. He never refused me any thing;

and I know he will grant--"

"But your father's will, dearest lady--"

"Shall be put aside, where his daughter's happiness is at stake."

"Would it may be as you wish, sweetest lady. But I fear. Still he is a

right noble prince, and will make a right noble husband."

"_Not_ for me."

CHAPTER III.

THE SURPRISE.

In the saddest of sad moods the Lady Isoleth betook herself to her

favorite retreat among the rocks, and there within her own little

vine-covered bower, was--not a bird, nor a squirrel, nor her tame

deer--but a man! young and wondrously handsome; with a broad, pale,

noble brow, and a host of jet-black curls shading it. There was

something in his clear, dark eye, so still and serene as it gazed

beyond this world, and something in the expression of his fine, manly

face, so tender, so almost sad, that made her forget to be afraid of

him. She approached him gently, and asked him in a soft voice,

"What are thy meditations, beautiful stranger?"

"I was dreaming of thee!" uttered he, awaking from his reverie, and

fixing his dark, earnest eyes full upon the glowing form before him.

His glance, so full of passion, so full of tenderness, so fervent,

went to her heart and woke it up--that precious little heart that had

been sleeping for sixteen long years.

"Of me! How can that be?" asked Isoleth, with a deep blush. "Dost thou

know me? Dost thou--'

"One like thee, most beautiful being!"

"One like me--just like me? How strange! What is her name?"

"Whatever is thy name, loveliest, most lovely lady, is hers."

"My name is Isoleth," replied she, with a low voice, and a deep blush.

"Art thou the Lady Isoleth of Fernheath? _Art_ thou? Stupid! that I

did not see sooner that thou art! Yes, thou art! And I am happy, most

happy, most inconceivably happy that thou art! Ah!" continued he, in a

tone of the most rapturous delight, "that my dream and my bride should

prove to be one and the same. I am most inexpressibly joyful!"--and

the large tears fell from his eyes like summer rain--"most

unutterably--and thou, wilt thou love me, and be mine, my glorious,

sweetest, loveliest cousin--my most, most beautiful bride!"

"Thy cousin! thy bride! Alas! alas! thy cousin I may be, but thy

bride--! They are going to marry me up there at the castle to an old,

ugly, cross prince; he is there now, and you cannot know how much I

hate him. I will die--"

"The devil they are! Forgive me, sweetest, most beautiful cousin, it

is a foolish way we learn of speaking in camps. But, loveliest, do not

talk of dying, let the old and the ugly die, but thou--First tell me

who this ugly, old, cross prince is, they shall not marry you to any

such."

"Why he is not so very ugly--and I do not exactly know that he is

cross; but then he is old, very old--yes, very old and very

disagreeable--and I never can love him."

"Nor shalt thou--his name, most beautiful?"

"Ferdinand, Prince of Bernstorf."

"Ferdinand, prince of ten thousand devils! I beseech of thee to

forgive me once again, sweetest cousin; but thou dost petrify me.

Ferdinand, Prince of ---- Ah! it must be--yes, yes, it must be so."

"What must be? Thou speakest in riddles, stranger cousin."

"And thou lovest him not, nor dost thou wish to wed him?" asked the

stranger, an almost provoking smile just curling his handsome mouth.

"No, no, never--never!"

"Nor shalt thou ever!" exclaimed he, his manner changing to one of

serious earnestness. Nor shalt thou ever, dearest, most beautiful--for

_I_ will prevent it, I--"

"Thou? Alas! alas! I have been betrothed to him ever since I was an

infant. How could my dear father--"

"Dearest cousin, trust to me--wilt thou not? And, dearest, sweetest

cousin, love me, and be my beautiful wife. Nay, shake not thy

loveliest head. Have I been too hasty in urging my love? I have known

thee, and loved thee, for so many years; thou hast, thy beautiful

spirit has ever, night and day, been near me, the light of my life;

but I have frightened thee by my impetuosity--and thou canst never

love me? But, no, thy beautiful eyes look tenderly upon me; and thou

wouldst not let me hold this little soft, warm hand, and imprison it

within mine, if thou didst hate me. I do not lightly ask that precious

boon, thy love. Believe me, it is as I say," continued he, earnestly

bending upon her his deep, dark, eloquent eyes--eyes that made her

little heart thrill to its very core. "It is as I tell thee, thou hast

been my dream by day and by night. See here," and he drew from his

bosom a small miniature, and handed it to her--the exact image

of--herself. "And now I will tell thee what I never before told mortal

being. Just three years ago, after a fatiguing day's fight, I lay in

my tent, awake; and thou didst come to me, just as thou now dost

appear--a vision of light and purity and glorious loveliness. Whether

it was a dream or not, or a trance, I know not; but never since has

that radiant vision left me. Thou didst lay thy little soft, white

hand upon my fevered brow, and I heard most distinctly, as thy sweet

face bent over me, these words: 'Do not love other than me, for I

alone, on earth, am destined for thee.' From my earliest boyhood have

I loved to use the pencil; and on the next morning I tried, and

succeeded in conveying to this bit of ivory the image of that most,

most beautiful vision; and I have worn it upon my heart ever since,

where I would the loved, deeply, dearly loved and beautiful original

might ever be. From then till now have I worn next to my heart that

semblance of my nightly, daily dream; but never until now have I been

blessed in seeing my dream, living, breathing before me."

How that young heart throbbed and bounded, almost suffocating its

loving, lovely owner with the intensity of its joyous emotion, as the

earnest tones of that low, passionate voice fell, word by word, into

its inmost centre, as the glance of those deeply, deeply loving eyes

awoke it to life and love. Her hand lay within his, and by little he

drew her more and more closely and warmly to his heart, and by little

her head gradually sunk upon his manly breast, her eyes looked up

tenderly and trustingly into his and drank in his passionate gaze, as

though it were her life. Time flew by them unheeded, each pouring out

joy and life into the heart of the other. Their very being melting and

mingling each into the other, until each felt that their two lives

were one. Nor did he sully those pure, exquisite lips, with one

earthly kiss. His soul kissed hers, and her own vibrated to his in

trembling unison.

Such moments of intense soul-rapture do not often occur to many of us

on earth, for perfect love seeks perfect fulfillment; and in the

perfect fulfillment of love is too often the satiety that deadens its

finest, most spiritual impulses.

The castle gong sounded, booming heavily through the trees. Isoleth

started to her feet like a frightened doe.

"I must go," exclaimed she, "my guardian--"

"Stay one moment, sweetest, I have something to tell thee, that thou

must hear."

"I have staid too long already," interrupted she, hastily, "my

guardian will be sending out for me--it is already growing dark. Fare

thee well;" and she gave him a farewell with her soft, brown eyes that

never left his heart--so full of unconscious love was it.

"You will meet me here again to-morrow morning? Promise me at least so

much, dearest beloved."

"Yes, yes," and with another glance from her soft, bright eyes, she

glided out of his sight.

CHAPTER IV.

SUSPENSE.

"I am glad to see thee safely at home, my dear child. Where hast thou

been? Thou knowest I hate to have thee rambling about the

castle-grounds after night-fall. I have already sent out to seek thee,

and was on the point of going in search of thee myself. But, dear

child, if walking at any time will bring thee home with such a

radiant, glowing color, I shall not quarrel with the cause or hour.

Thou art looking as bright and as happy and beautiful as I hope always

to see thee look."

"I was afraid, dear uncle," replied Isoleth, blushing still more

deeply, and casting her conscious, love-full eyes to the ground, "I

was afraid thou wouldst begin to be uneasy about me, and I hastened--I

have no one, dearest uncle, when thou art away, to take such good care

of me. I go wandering about among my favorite haunts at my own good

will and pleasure, night or day, as it happens."

"The time is coming, eh! sweet Isoleth, when thou wilt have to consult

another will save thine own," said the baron, patting her fondly on

her soft, white neck.

Ferdinand laughed, and looked very impressed and impressive, and gazed

her out of countenance with assured, admiring eyes, as he answered for

her,

"Yes, yes, we are waiting only for the goodly company that are to

witness the approaching nuptials. Is it not so, fairest lady?"

"The hideous being!" thought Isoleth, without vouchsafing an audible

reply. "Is this the one with whom I am to spend my days--but no, it

shall not be."

She did the honors of the supper-table with a suffocating throat, with

a proud rebellious heart, full of love for one she felt she ought not

to love, and full of hate for another that she knew she ought to love.

She was absent in spite of herself, and did all manner of queer things

that people do, who, for a time, take leave of absence of

themselves--answering yes, for no--and no, for yes--attempting to bite

a piece out of her little porcelain cup-plate, instead of the cook's

snowy cake; pouring her guardian's cup up with cream instead of

coffee, and sweetening it with salt instead of sugar. Many other

little pleasantries of like nature did she perform, very much to the

amusement of her guardian and the hated Ferdinand. The latter made

himself exceeding merry at her expense, at the same time showing her

every attention and gallantry that he, finished courtier, could

devise. Isoleth felt at length completely worried and tired to death,

as though she could not for one moment longer, endure the torture of

her heart's conflicting emotion.

"You look pale and tired, my beloved child," said her guardian,

tenderly taking her little cold, white hand within his. All your

beautiful color is gone. I fear that after all your walk, or the

excitement, has been too much for you. You had best retire for the

night. Shall I ring for Dame Hildreth, or some of your maidens?"

"No, dear uncle, with your permission, I will seek those I wish,"

answered Isoleth, only too glad to escape from the hated presence into

the calm stillness of her own room.

She found the good little dame awaiting her; and to her compassionate

ear she poured forth the sorrow and joy of her young heart. The

kind-hearted little woman sympathized cordially with her precious

foster-child, wishing over and over again that some benevolent fairy

would change the beautiful stranger cousin with the hateful old Prince

Ferdinand--she had to acknowledge that he did _look_ old--until after

the happy wedding was over. "And then how blank and black the prince

would look, and how astonished we all would be to find you had married

the handsome young man instead of the grumpy old one."

"Now leave me, good nurse, I would be alone. I will entreat my dear

uncle on the morrow to release me from this dreaded alliance. He

never yet refused a request of mine."

Isoleth quieted herself in the belief that her beloved guardian would

certainly grant her petition as soon as she made it known to him. In

child-like confidence, therefore, she sunk to her happy sleep, with a

pair of dark, loving eyes hovering over her and mingling with her

dreams. And never eyes gazed on more gentle sleep or lovely sleeper.

CHAPTER V.

THE APPEAL.

With a buoyant step and a sparkling eye the Lady Isoleth sought her

guardian early the next morning. He was deeply immersed in papers and

parchments, while huge, formidable-looking books were piled high

around him. He nevertheless welcomed his sweet niece with a sudden

clearing off of his thought-lined brow, and a fond, affectionate

smile.

"Forgive me, dearest uncle, if I have disturbed thy studies; but I

would see thee alone, and I feared this might be the only opportunity,

as the carriages containing our kinsfolk are even now expected; so

nurse Hildreth informed me."

"What would my pet bird have that she seeks her uncle thus early?"

"A boon that you must grant, dearest uncle, for upon it depends my

heart's happiness now and forever."

"Name it, my darling Isy--what wouldst thou have, little enthusiast?"

"Release from one I never can love. Oh! my dearest uncle," continued

she, fondly twining her soft, white arms around his neck, and lovingly

kissing his time-worn brow, "do, for Heaven's sweet love, tell me at

once that I need not wed him, for I never can love him--never, never!"

"Bless her little heart, what is the child raving about? Whom dost

thou mean, dear baby, by _him_?"

"Who should I mean, dearest uncle, but my cousin, this Prince

Ferdinand. I _need_ not be his wife. I--"

"Thy cousin, Prince Ferdinand!"

"I hate him--I abhor him--I utterly detest him! I never can love him!

I never will be his wife! I never--"

"Hold, hold! not so fast; why thou romantic little recluse! thou hast

lived alone too much by half. Thy little head is brim full of fancies.

Thy tongue is running wild. Thou _hatest_ him! Why what wouldst thou

have better? Is he not all a woman could desire? Is he not young

and--"

"Young!"

"And handsome, and--"

"Handsome!"

"And is he not a prince? And is he not heir to a powerful, wealthy

ducal throne? And will he not take thee to court--the gay, beautiful

court; and wilt thou not reign there a queen--a queen of beauty and

joy and light--and ere long queen of the throne?"

"All that does not dazzle me, dearest uncle--for what are thrones and

splendor where love is not? Oh! dear, dearest uncle, do not press

this hated match upon me. Do not doom me to eternal sorrow. Do not--"

"Hoity, toity! Why thou dost talk just as they do in those silly

romances. I wager thy head is full of them. Thou hast had bad

teachers, child, to permit thee to fill thy poor little brain with

such trash instead of useful knowledge. Or is it," said he, fixing his

gray eyes searchingly upon her, "or is it that thou hast met some

sighing Adonis in the woods? Ha! thou dost blush--have a care, child.

There, thou needest not tremble, I will not seek to know thy secret,

if secret thou hast. This much, however, know for a certainty, that

Prince Ferdinand is destined to be thy--"

"Dearest uncle!" exclaimed the little lady, her beautiful eyes filling

with tears, "thou shalt know all--all I have to tell, if thou wilt but

deliver me from this--"

"Have done with this folly, Lady Isoleth," and his cold gray eyes

sternly regarded her. "It was thy dead father's will that thou

shouldst marry thy cousin, Prince Ferdinand of Bernstorf; and thy

father's will must and shall be obeyed."

"'Folly!' 'Lady Isoleth!' 'must and shall!' He never before now spoke

one unkind word to me." And the weeping Isoleth went with a breaking

heart and shut herself in her own room, alone, and locking herself in,

she gave unrestrained vent to her passionate grief.

CHAPTER VI.

THE LAST APPEAL.

"I will seek _him_--yes, _he_ will not refuse my prayer. I will tell

him I hate him. He will be only too glad to release me when he knows

the depth of hatred I bear him. I will go this moment, for soon will

all my gay cousins be here, and then will be the horrid betrothal

ceremony--but I will not think of that--"

"Ha! my shy, beautiful cousin, Lady Isoleth!" Ferdinand was in the

library, amusing himself with books and prints. "See here, beautiful

cousin, I have found a book of rare merit, and beautifully

illuminated. I suppose, though," continued he with a quizzical look,

"that all the books here and their manifold contents are familiar to

thy bright eyes--is it not so?"

"Not exactly _all_," replied Isoleth, smiling in spite of her sorrow,

as she glanced at the endless rows of huge leather-bound tomes, that

had not even had the cobwebs dusted from them for a century at least.

"Wilt thou not deign to look over this precious book with me, most

beauteous lady? Thy sharp wit may help my slow faculties to comprehend

its quaint poetry, and thy glorious eyes will love its finely executed

prints."

"I came not to disturb thy meditations," replied she, shrinking from

his approaching steps. I came to crave a boon from thee."

"It is granted thee, fairest lady, even before thou dost utter it. But

what is it, the most beautiful, most lovely of her beautiful, lovely

sex would ask? Be it even unto the half of my kingdom--"

"It is not the half of thy kingdom, but the whole of it, together with

thy kingdom's lord, that I would be freed from."

"Thou art pleased to be facetious, most charming Lady Isoleth. Pray

explain thyself, that my dull understanding may comprehend thy

meaning."

"Ferdinand, Prince of Bernstorf--"

"Yes--"

"Is one that I never, never can love--one that I had rather should see

me in the grave ere he shall call me wife."

"Ha! well, loveliest cousin, that is plain, and easy to be understood

even by the slowest comprehension. Thou hatest him, dost thou?"

"Most cordially."

"My son thanks thee, fair cousin--and I also, in his name."

"Thy son!"

"Ay, and here he is to thank thee himself. How now, scapegrace! Thou

art tardy in paying thy respects to this beautiful, noble lady. Thou

shouldst have been here days ago. Even now thy fair cousin was on the

point of refusing thee. I tell thee, lad, thou'lt never find a fairer.

Courting was not done in this slipshod way when I was a boy."

All this while Isoleth was gazing in mute astonishment upon--yes, she

was not mistaken--he was the very one--the very most beautiful being

to whom she had given, only the night before, her precious little

heart. And those dark, earnest eyes were passionately regarding her,

drinking in rapturously her glowing beauty, until her eyes, abashed,

sought the floor, unable to bear the light of those intensely loving

ones.

"Then thou'rt the _Duke_ of Bernstorf, my father's cousin?" suddenly

asked she, of Ferdinand the elder.

"Who else, fairest cousin? Ha! thou didst then think--" a sudden light

seemed to break through the chambers of his brain. "Ha! ha! ha!"

laughed he, "Thou thoughtest that _I_ was the one. I could not wish a

fairer, more beautiful bride than thou; but--ha! ha! ha! I have one

goodly wife already, who is to be here this very day; and, between you

and I, one is more than I can manage, although she is one of the best

of her perfect, bewitching sex. Still--So, that was the reason thou

wert so shy of me, sweet flower." And the father, Ferdinand, threw

himself back in his chair, and gave way to the most uncontrollable

bursts of laughter; while Ferdinand, the son, had taken the soft,

lily-white hand of his lovely betrothed, and was talking to her in

words from his heart's heart.

"I should have told thee all this last evening if thou couldst have

waited but one instant longer. I was to have accompanied my father and

thy guardian here; but I dreaded so much to see my affianced

bride--not dreaming until last evening that my beloved and betrothed

were one and the same--that my beautiful dream was a more beautiful

reality. If I had come and found the young Countess of Fernheath one

that I could not have loved, I should certainly have moved earth and

heaven but that I would have had the contract, made by our goodly

sires, annulled--or I would have drowned or shot myself. Don't

shudder, sweetest, I shall do neither now, unless I am shot by the

lightning of your bright eyes, and drowned in the bliss--but, dearest,

I love you too dearly to speak nonsense to thee--even love nonsense.

Strange, was it not, darling, that I should not have recognized you?

It has been many a long year since I saw you a little rosy, romping,

fairy thing of only a few bright summers. We have had troublous times

since then; war and bloodshed that would--"

"Pardon me, most beautiful cousin, my long laughter hath been rude;

but, indeed, thy mistake was most droll. There, sweet cousin, I have

done! Thy blushes, however, are exceedingly becoming thy fair face. So

thou and my goodly son hast met before--is it not so? And he is not

the laggard in love I unjustly deemed him. And now I suppose the best

thing for me to do is to take myself off to another world, and resign

my kingdom and crown in this for one in the--however, we will arrange

all that after the wedding. Let us, meantime, enjoy the present. Ah!

here comes thy good uncle with a cloudy brow; something has gone wrong

with him--we must have no gloom to-day. And here also comes thundering

down the avenue all the goodly old carriages containing our expected

kinsfolk."

And here also comes,

CHAPTER THE LAST,

Which I know will delight you, dearest reader, as it containeth the

wedding; but most especially will it delight you because it _is_ the

last. The wedding was of course a splendid one, and better still, a

joyous one. Little Dame Hildreth would let no one but herself fasten

so much as a bridal ornament on her beautiful young foster-child. It

would be hard saying which moved fastest on the important day, her

hands or her tongue.

"Just to think!" exclaimed she, as she clasped those same pearls, that

had once been cast aside in scorn, upon her darling--and pure and

lovely they shone among her soft, brown curls, and on her snow-white

arms and neck, and around her lithe and slender waist--"to think that

I could have mistaken Ferdinand, the reigning Duke of Bernstorf, for

Ferdinand, the Prince. Really, though, my lady, to look at them, one

does not see much difference in their appearance--they are both so

handsome and grand-looking. Oh, yes! _you_ see a vast odds in their

looks--that's natural! These old eyes, I suppose, are growing dim--but

they are bright enough to see that thou art the dearest, loveliest,

most beautiful bride that ever the sun shone upon."

"_Sic transit gloria mundi._"

THE CITY OF MEXICO.

WRITTEN WHILE THE WAR WAS PENDING.

BY M. E. THROPP.

Pride of the South, thy glittering spires

Point to the arching sky,

While tower and palace proudly rear

Their stately forms on high;

Thy spacious squares spread far and wide

Along the valley green,

And bright above thy hundred fanes

An hundred crosses gleam.

Bland, spring-like breezes, brilliant skies,

Birds of gay song and plume,

Cool sparkling founts, wide shaded walks,

Trees, of eternal bloom,

Bright glowing flowers, as fresh and pure

As infant's rosy mouth,

Rare, tempting fruits--all--all are thine,

Sweet City of the South.

Around thee lime and citron bowers

In peaceful beauty rest,

While orange groves stretch far away

To blue Tezcuco's breast;

Beyond thee giant bulwarks stand,

Cordillera's mountain line,

And lift along thine azure sky

Their silver crests sublime.

Ah! thou hast beauty, Southern Queen,

And thou hadst wealth and power;

But wealth and beauty proved to thee

"A darkly glorious dower."

Iberia on her rocky heights

Beheld thee from afar,

And rolled o'er all thy subject clime

The lurid tide of war.

On thee the mighty torrent burst,

And with resistless sway

Bore from thy desperate, struggling sons

Their gods, their kings away.

Then followed weary, weary years,

Such as the conquered know,

When brave hearts bleed and faint ones break

Beneath their weight of wo.

Iberia's brood with iron sway

Kept down thy fallen ones,

And bonds and stripes were freely doled

To thy degraded sons;

Then spear and lance were left to rust

Along thy bannered walls,

Thine eagle drooped and strangers dwelt

In "Montezuma's halls."

Oppression's long dark night of pain

At length wore slowly on,

And, radiant 'mid receding gloom,

Hope heralded the dawn.

Day broke, and Freedom's glorious sun

Uprose o'er thine and thee,

While thy clear bells with silvery chime

Proclaimed a country FREE.

And mingling with their heavenly tones

Glad triumphs swelled the breeze,

For that bright sun dispelled the gloom

Of rolling centuries.

A flood of golden light streamed down

O'er valley mount and plain,

Thy joyous eagle plumed his wing

And soared aloft again.

Thy sons rejoiced o'er rights restored,

The joy of other years,

And gentler woman's truthful heart

Wept silent grateful tears;

And thou--bathed in thy new-born light--

Thou ancient island-gem,

Ah! to thy proud fond children's hearts

Thou wert an Eden then.

But thy stern oracles the while

Spoke ever deep and slow--

"Dark hours are yet reserved for thee,

Ill-fated Mexico!"

And after years proved all too soon,

Proved to thy bitter pain,

Thy soil's vast wealth, thy sons' best blood,

Had flowed, and flowed in vain.

How hast thou mourned the civil broils

That shook thy peaceful homes?

How hast thou mourned the broken faith

Of thy degenerate sons?

The faith thrice broken that incurred

Columbia's vengeful sword,

Till red o'er many a battle-plain

Thy blood like water poured.

Again the stranger's echoing tread

Sounds from thy ancient halls--

Again the flag of other lands

Waves o'er thy captured walls.

Thy peerless beauty, storied lore,

Thy buried heroes' fame,

Wealth, power--ah, what are they to thee

With thy dishonored name!

The foe that first beheld thy towers

Beyond the lake's green shore,

And they who fondly reared thee up,

The lordly ones of yore--

They did not dream a change like this

Could on thy pride be hurled,

Who erst amid thy mountains reigned

Queen of the new-found world.

GAME-BIRDS OF AMERICA.--NO. XI.

[Illustration: THE RUFFED GROUSE OR PHEASANT.]

In the Eastern States the true partridge is known by the name of

quail, the appellation of partridge being there given to what in

Pennsylvania is called the pheasant, and which in the Ornithologies

bears the name of the Ruffed Grouse, (_Tetrao Umbellus._ WILSON.) It

inhabits a very extensive range of country, being found at Hudson's

Bay, in Kentucky and Indiana, Oregon and the Floridas. Its favorite

places of resort are high mountains covered with the balsam, pine,

hemlock and other evergreens, and as we descend from such heights to

the lower country they become more rare; and in the Carolinas, Georgia

and Florida they are very scarce. The manners of the pheasant are

solitary, they are seldom found in coveys of more than four or five

together, and more usually in pairs, or singly. They are often shot in

the mornings in the roads over the mountains bounding the Susquehanna;

where they come for gravel. On foggy mornings very considerable

numbers may be seen in these situations, moving along with great

stateliness, their broad fan-like tail expanded to its fullest extent.

The _drumming_ of the pheasant, a sound compared by Wilson to that

produced by striking two full blown ox bladders together, but much

louder; the strokes at first slow and distinct, but gradually

increasing in rapidity till they run into each other, resembling the

rumbling sound of very distant thunder dying away gradually on the

ear. This drumming is the call of the male bird to his mate, and may

be heard in a calm day nearly half a mile. Wilson thus describes the

manner in which this singular noise is produced. The bird, standing on

an old prostrate log, generally in a retired and sheltered situation,

lowers his wings, erects his expanded tail, contracts his throat,

elevates two tufts of feathers on the neck, and inflates his whole

body something in the manner of the turkey-cock, strutting and

wheeling about with great stateliness. After a few manoeuvres of this

kind he begins to strike with his stiffened wings in short and quick

strokes, which become more and more rapid until they run into each

other, as has been already described. This is most common in the

morning and evening, though Wilson states that he has heard them

drumming at all hours of the day. By means of this the pheasant leads

the gunner to the place of his retreat, though to those unacquainted

with the sound there is great deception in the supposed distance, it

generally appearing to be much nearer than it really is. Audubon

mentions having often called them within shot by imitating the sound.

This he accomplished by beating a large inflated bullock's bladder

with a stick, keeping up as much as possible the same time as that in

which the bird beats. At the sound produced by the bladder and the

stick, the male grouse, inflamed with jealousy, has flown directly

toward him, when, being prepared beforehand, he has easily shot it.

When flushed, the pheasant flies with great vigor through the woods,

beyond the reach of view, springing up at first within a few yards,

with a loud whirring noise. Noticing this peculiarity of flight, Mr.

Audubon states that when this bird rises from the ground at a time

when pursued by an enemy, or tracked by a dog, it produces a loud

whirring sound resembling that of the whole tribe, excepting the

black-cock of Europe, which has less of it than any other species. The

whirring sound is never heard when the grouse rises of its own accord,

for the purpose of removing from one place to another; nor, in similar

circumstances, is it commonly produced by our little partridge. "In

fact," he continues, "I do not believe that it is emitted by any

species of grouse, unless when surprised and forced to rise. I have

often been lying on the ground in the woods or the fields, for hours

at a time, for the express purpose of observing the movements and

habits of different birds, and have frequently seen a partridge or a

grouse rise on wing within a few yards of the spot where I lay,

unobserved by them, as gently and softly as any other bird, and

without producing any whirring sound. Nor even when this grouse

ascends to the top of a tree does it make any greater noise than other

birds of the same size would do."

With a good dog, pheasants are easily found, and what is singular,

they will look down upon him from the branches of a tree, where they

sit, apparently stupefied, not attempting to fly, but allowing

themselves to be shot one by one until all are killed. Should one of

those on the higher branches, however, be shot first, the sight of his

fall will cause an immediate flight. A figure 4 trap is used with

success in taking them, especially when deep snow lies on the ground.

They were formerly numerous in the immediate vicinity of Philadelphia,

but the advances of the agriculturist have led them to retreat to the

interior, and but a very few can be now found within several miles.

The pheasant is in the best order in September and October, but in

mid-winter those who shoot them should be careful to draw them as soon

as possible, as the buds of laurel on which at that season they

sometimes feed, if left in the stomach of the dead bird, diffuse their

poisonous qualities over its whole body, and render it dangerous food.

[Illustration: AMERICAN PARTRIDGE, OR QUAIL. (_Perdrix Virginianus._ WILSON.)]

This well known bird, though not very migratory in its habits, has

extended its colonies from New England to Mexico. The spot where they

have been raised, if they can at all support life, is their home; and

there they will remain until the whole flock is destroyed by

sportsmen. This fact sufficiently disproves the asserted identity of

our partridge with the quail of the European continent, which is a

bird of passage, leaving Europe for Asia at the approach of winter,

and returning in very great numbers in the spring. Partridges assemble

in small families, varying according to circumstances from three to

thirty; and, except in the breeding season, they all live together in

a happy and mutual alliance. The quails on the other hand are

pugnacious to a proverb--"as quarrelsome as quails in a cage."

The partridges are nearly full grown by the beginning of September,

and associated in the usual coveys of from twenty to thirty afford

considerable sport to the gunner. The notes of the males at this time

are frequent, clear and loud, and they may by skillful imitation of

the call be deceived and induced approach. Their food consists of

grain seed, insects and berries of various kinds. The buckwheat fields

suffer severely from their depredations in September and October,

affording them at that time abundant food and secure shelter. At night

they roost in the middle of a field, on high ground, sitting round in

a circle with their heads outward. In this position they place

themselves at the commencement of a fall of snow, when their mutual

warmth is the better able to resist the effects of frost, and each

forms a guard for the whole against the approach of danger. They are

not afraid of snow, for they sometimes fly to a drift for safety; it

being only when a coating of frozen sleet resists their efforts to

leave it that they experience bad effects from it. The loud whirring

sound of their flight when flushed is well known. Its steady,

horizontal flight renders it an easy prey to the sportsman, especially

when he is assisted by a sagacious dog. The flesh of the partridge is

peculiarly white, tender and delicate, in this respect unequaled by

any other American game.

[Illustration: THE AMERICAN ROBIN. (_Turdus Migratorius._)]

This well known bird, and universal favorite, can require but a very

few words at our hands. His unassuming familiarity of manners has

caused him to be immortalized in the Songs for the Nursery, and others

of Mother Goose's collections for the little ones. His nest is

preserved from the rude hands of boyhood by a sort of instinctive

veneration for his well known and long established character, and his

cheerful, zealous singing not unfrequently causes the older sportsman

to take down the armed gun from his shoulder, and suffer the assiduous

songster to enjoy his liberty and life.

The robin is particularly fond of gum-berries, and it is only

necessary for the sportsman to take his stand near one of these trees

when it is covered with fruit, and load and fire his gun. One flock

after another will come to it without intermission during the whole

day.

TO A ROSE-BUD.

Thy leaves are not unfolded yet to the sweet light of love,

Thy bosom now is blushing like the sunset clouds above;

Thy beauteous form is perfect, thy hopes are fair and bright,

Thy dreams are sweet while sleeping in the gentle breeze of night;

And though I know a dew-drop tear hath in thy bosom been,

'Twas only sent to nourish thee, and make thee pure within:

No canker-worm corrodes thy rest, and life is life to thee,

And as the past has ever been so may the future be.

May all thy dreams be realized, thy hopes be not in vain,

Thy life pass calm and sweetly on without a sigh of pain:

And when thy leaves shall droop and fall, as droop and fall they must,

Thy lovely form will then lie low, to mingle with the dust;

And to thy long last resting-place soft winds shall be thy bier,

While the fragrance of thy loving heart will ever linger near;

To me thy memory will come back when I am lone and sad,

And thoughts of thy pure, gentle life shall make my spirit glad.

Ah! lovely rose-bud, well I know that both of us must die,

And when death comes, may I, like you, leave earth without a sigh;

May I, like you, when youth shall fade, still yield the sweet perfume,

The incense of a worthy heart, which age can not consume:

Farewell, farewell, sweet rose-bud, were I but as pure as thee,

My soul would be contented, my spirit would be free,

Each wish would then be gratified, each longing have a home,

And joy and peace would fill my heart wherever I might roam.

Y. S.

ERIN WAKING.

BY WILLIAM H. C. HOSMER.

Light streams through a rift in the cloud

That hangs over green Innisfail--

While voices of millions are shouting aloud

The satraps of Tyranny quail:

The collar of Shame hath been worn

Through ages of folly and wo--

Too long hath thy neck, O Hibernia! borne

The yoke of a merciless foe,

Whose creatures, while Perfidy sharpened the dart,

Like vultures have crimsoned their beaks in thy heart.

Hot winds from the waste of Despair

On thy blood-bedewed shamrock have breathed,

But the leaves, growing verdant in Liberty's air,

Again round her brow shall be wreathed:

And chisel of Art on the stone

Shall name of that martyr engrave

Who prayed for a sepulchre, noteless and lone,

While foot of one heart-broken slave

Polluted the green of that beautiful shore,

By steel-harnessed champions trodden of yore.

Gone forth hath the gathering word,

And under Hesperian skies

Fond exiles the call of their mother have heard,

And homeward are turning their eyes:

They send o'er the murmuring brine

In answer a shout of applause,

And drops, that give warmth to their bosoms, like wine,

Are ready to shed in a cause

That cannot march on with a faltering stride

While Truth wears a buckler, and God is a guide.

Land of the valiant! at last

The brow of thy future is bright;

In return for a shadowed and comfortless past

Is dawning an era of light:

The Lion of Britain in vain

Is baring his teeth for the fray--

Thy children have sworn that dishonoring stain

Shall be wiped from thy forehead away:

The bones of thy martyrs have stirred in the tomb,

And glimmers the starlight of Hope through the gloom.

Invaders thy valor have rued--

To deeds that will aye be admired

Bear witness, Clontarf! where the Dane was subdued,

And Bryan, the dauntless, expired:

Thy sons on the scaffold have died,

The block hath been soaked with their gore,

And long ago banished thy splendor and pride;

But idle it seems to deplore--

Unbending resolve to blot out thy disgrace,

In hearts of the brave, to regret should give place.

The Genius of Erin from earth,

Uprising, hath broken the bowl,

Whose tide to a black-crested viper gave birth,

That long dimmed the light of her soul;

And millions of high-hearted men

Who thus can wild passion restrain,

Though driven for refuge to cavern and den,

Will arm for the conflict again--

And, venturing all on the hazardous cast,

Prove victors, though worn and outnumbered, at last.

Thou isle, on the breast of the sea

Like an emerald gracefully set,

Though feet shod with iron have trampled on thee,

A brightness belongs to thee yet:

In bondage thy magical lyre

Hath thrilled a wide world with its strains,

And thine eloquent sons have awakened a fire

That fast is dissolving thy chains:--

The Saxon is watching the issue in fear--

He knows that thy day of redemption draws near.

LINES

TO A SKETCH OF J. BAYARD TAYLOR, IN HIS ALPINE COSTUME.

BY GEO. W. DEWEY.

[SEE ENGRAVING.]

The inspiration of thy smile,

Thou minstrel of the wayside song,

Yet lingers on thy face the while

I see thee climb the Alps along;

As if thy harp's unwearied lay

Sustained thee on thy rugged way.

There dwells within thy poet-eyes

The spirit of the ancient bards--

A soul in which no shadow lies--

A glance forever heavenwards;

As though the thoughts thy dreams unfurled

Hung, star-like, o'er a watching world.

Methinks the bard who saw at night,

Amid the glacier's snow and ice,

A youth ascend the spectral height,

Unfurling there "the strange device,"

Did, with a prophet's pen, foreshow

Thy form upon those mounts of snow.

And when the mists have valeward rolled,

Below thy pathway, hard and long,

Stern Death shall find thee, pale and cold,

Upon the highest _peak_ of SONG--

Still grasping, with a frozen hand,

The banner of _that_ ALPINE LAND!

[Illustration: Yours ever, Bayard Taylor

ONE OF OUR CONTRIBUTORS

Expressly engraved for Graham's Magazine]

GAUTAMA'S SONG OF REST.

BY J. BAYARD TAYLOR.

[The Hindoo philosopher Gautama, now worshiped under the name of

Buddha, lived in the fifth century before Christ. He taught the unity

of God and Nature, or rather, that the physical and spiritual worlds

are merely different conditions of an eternal Being. In the spiritual

state, this Being exists in perfect and blissful rest, whose

emanations and over-flowings enter the visible world, first in the

lowest forms of nature, but rising through gradual and progressive

changes till they reach man, who returns after death to the original

rest and beatitude.]

How long, oh! all-pervading Soul of Earth,

Ere Thy last toils on this worn being close,

And trembling with its sudden glory-birth,

Its wings are folded in the lost repose?

Thy doom, resistless, on its travel lies

Through weary wastes of labor and of pain,

Where the soul falters, as its Paradise

In far-off mirage fades and flies again.

From that pure realm of silence and of joy,

The quickening glories of Thy slumber shine,

Kindling to birth the lifeless world's alloy,

Till its dead bosom bears a seed divine.

Through meaner forms the spirit slowly rose,

Which now to meet its near elysium burns;

Through toilsome ages, circling towards repose,

The sphere of Being on its axle turns!

Filled with the conscious essence that shall grow,

Through many-changed existence, up to Man,

The sighing airs of scented Ceylon blow,

And desert whirlwinds whelm the caravan.

On the blue bosom of th' eternal deep

It moves forever in the heaving tide;

And, throned on giant Himalaya's steep,

It hurls the crashing avalanche down his side!

The wing of fire strives upward to the air,

Bursting in thunder rock-bound hills apart,

And the deep globe itself complains to bear

The earthquake beatings of its mighty heart!

Even when the waves are wearied out with toil,

And in their caverns swoon the winds away,

A thousand germs break through the yielding soil,

And bees and blossoms charm the drowsy day.

In stillest calms, when Nature's self doth seem

Sick for the far-off rest, the work goes on

In deep old forests, like a silent dream,

And sparry caves, that never knew the dawn.

From step to step, through long and weary time,

The struggling atoms rise in Nature's plan,

Till dust instinctive reaches mind sublime--

Till lowliest being finds its bloom in Man!

Here, on the borders of that Realm of Peace,

The gathered burdens of existence rest,

And like a sea whose surges never cease,

Heaves with its care the weary human breast.

Oh! bright effulgence of th' Eternal Power,

Break the worn band, and wide thy portals roll!

With silent glory flood the solemn hour

When star-eyed slumber welcomes back the soul!

Then shall the spirit sink in rapture down,

Like some rich blossom drunk with noontide's beam,

Or the wild bliss of music, sent to crown

The wakening moment of a midnight dream.

Through all the luminous seas of ether there,

Stirs not a trembling wave, to break the rest;

But fragrance, and the silent sense of prayer,

Charm the eternal slumber of the Blest!

MY FATHER'S GRAVE.

BY S. D. ANDERSON.

It is a sweet and shady spot

Beneath the aged trees,

Where perfumed wild flowers lowly bend

Unto the passing breeze;

And joyous song-birds warble there

Rich music to the sunny air,

And many a golden-tinted beam

Fails on the spot like childhood's dream.

The moss-clad church is standing there,

The stream goes laughing by,

Sending its gurgling music out

Along a summer sky;

The rose has found a dwelling here

Beside the coffin and the bier;

And here the lily rears its head,

Within this _Eden_ of the dead.

The sunlight glances on the scene

With many a sombre hue,

Caught from the cypress near the stream,

Or from the funeral yew;

And, spirit-like, above each stone

Is heard the night-wind's whispered tone,

As if the spirit lingered there,

Enchanted with a scene so fair.

The wild bee revels 'mid the flowers

That climb the ruined wall,

And, gently drooping, shroud the tomb

With Nature's fairest pall;

And dirge-like sings the trickling rill,

At evening's hour when all is still;

Whilst echo answers back again

In mimic notes the plaintive strain.

But moonlight gilds the scene anew,

Now all is hushed and calm;

The very winds seem sunk to rest,

O'erladen with their balm;

The stars, pale watchers of the night,

Look brightly out on such a sight;

Whilst from the hill the bird's low wail

Is wafted on the evening gale.

Be mine the lot, when life's dull day

Has drawn unto a close,

And dreams of Love, and hopes of Fame,

Have sunk to calm repose,

By all forgot, to rest my head

Unmarked beside the silent dead;

Hushed by the murmurs of the wave

That moans around my FATHER'S GRAVE.

VOICES FROM THE SPIRIT LAND.

WORDS BY JOHN S. ADAMS.

COMPOSED AND ARRANGED FOR THE PIANO FORTE

BY VALENTINE DISTER.

Presented by George Willig, No. 171 Chestnut Street.--Copyright

Secured according to Law.

[Illustration: music sheet 1]

In the silence of the midnight,

When the cares of day are o'er,

In my soul I hear the voices

Of the loved ones gone before;

[Illustration: music sheet 2]

And the words of comfort whisp'ring,

Tell they'll watch on ev'ry hand,

And I love, I love to list to

Voices from the spirit land,

And I love, I love to list to

Voices from the spirit land.

2.

In my wanderings, oft there cometh

Sudden stillness to my soul;

When around, above, within it

Rapturous joys unnumber'd roll;

Though around me all is tumult,

Noise and strife on every hand,

Yet within my soul I list to

Voices from the spirit land.

3.

Loved ones that have gone before me

Whisper words of peace and joy;

Those that long since have departed,

Tell me their divine employ

Is to watch and guard my footsteps:

Oh, it is an angel band!

And my soul is cheered in hearing

Voices from the spirit land.

GEMS FROM LATE READINGS.

BY THE AUTHOR OF KATE WALSINGHAM.

Oh, there is many a spot in this every-day world of ours as bright and

beautiful as those of which we dream, or go miles away to visit and

admire; but we must seek for them in the right spirit, ere the dimness

will pass away from eyes blinded by the love of foreign novelties. Our

own land, ay, even our own city--the crowded mart of commerce, and the

vast haunt of poverty and crime, is rich in many a quiet nook, which,

although it might arrest the attention if depicted on the gemmed page

of the picturesque annual by some summer tourist, it is considered

plebeian to notice as we pass them in our daily walks.

We have sat beneath the vines and blue skies of Italy, and heard from

her moonlight balconies such strains as made us hold our breath to

listen that we might not lose a note ere the perfumed breeze bore it

lingeringly away: and in after years, in those English balconies we

have described, wept, beneath the same moon, tears that had more of

joy than grief in them, at some rude and simple strain which, sung by

loved lips, made the charm of our careless and happy childhood. We

have stood awe-stricken before the walls of the Colosseum, at Rome,

and dreamt of it for evermore! But we have likewise paused opposite

the Colosseum in the Regent's Park, investing it in the dim twilight

with a thousand beauties that made it an object of interest. We can

well remember lingering in the neighborhood, before the mimic church,

or convent, as we had been taught to call it, of St. Catharine, with

the moonshine gleaming through its arches, and the flickering lights

appearing here and there in the diamond-paned windows, watching

eagerly for the appearance of those white-robed nuns with which our

childish fancy had peopled that quiet place--wondering that they never

came. And amid all the architectural glory of foreign churches and

cathedrals, since visited, have failed again to realize that simple

love of, and faith in the beautiful, which then invested every scene

with its peculiar charm. Where the mind makes its own picturesque, it

never yet failed to find materials, and is often gifted with a strange

power to charm others into seeing with its own loving eyes! So the

poet immortalizes the humble home of his boyhood, and in after years

men make pilgrimages to the time-worn stile, the

Rustic bridge--the willow tree;

Bathing its tresses in the quiet brook;

which his genius has redeemed from obscurity, and rendered hallowed

spots for evermore.

BY MRS. EMMA C. EMBURY.

Oh! tell me not of lofty fate,

Of glory's deathless name;

The bosom love leaves desolate

Has naught to do with fame.

Vainly philosophy would soar--

Love's height it may not reach;

The heart soon learns a sweeter lore

Than ever sage could teach.

The cup may bear a poisoned draught,

The altar may be cold,

But yet the chalice will be quaffed--

The shrine sought as of old.

Man's sterner nature turns away

To seek ambition's goal;

Wealth's glittering gifts, and pleasure's ray,

May charm his weary soul;--

But woman knows one only dream--

That broken--all is o'er;

For on life's dark and sluggish stream

Hope's sunbeam rests no more.

BY LADY GEORGIANA FULLERTON.

How strange it is to those who are in some sense new to the world, to

see the way in which time plasters over wounds which we should have

imagined that nothing could have healed: wounds which we should have

expected to see bleed afresh at the sight of the inflictor, as it was

said of old that those of the murdered did at the approach of the

murderer. Sometimes we almost feel as if nothing was real in that

singular existence called _the world_. Like the performers, who laugh

and talk behind the scenes after the close of some dreadful tragedy;

we see around us men who have ruined the fortunes and destroyed the

happiness of others, women who have betrayed and been betrayed, whose

existence has been perhaps devoted to misery and to infamy by the

first step they have taken in the path of guilt, and whose hearts, if

they did not break grew hard; we see the victims and the destroyers,

those who have loved and those who have hated, those who have injured

and those who have been injured, mix together in the common

thoroughfares of life, meet even in social intimacy, with offered

hands and ready smiles; not because "Blessed are the merciful, for

they shall obtain mercy;" not because "To those who forgive, shall

much be forgiven;" but because what is genuine and true, what is deep

and what is strong, takes no root in that worn-out soil on which we

tread, thrives not in that withering air which we breathe in that

fictitious region which we live in, and which we so emphatically and

so presumptuously call _the world_.

BY MRS. LUELLA J. CASE.

CHARITY.

Speak kindly, oh! speak soothingly,

To him whose hopes are crossed,

Whose blessed trust in human love,

Was early, sadly lost;

For wearily--how wearily!

Drags life, if love depart;

Oh! let the balm of gentle words

Fall on the smitten heart.

Go gladly, with true sympathy,

Where want's pale victims pine,

And bid life's sweetest smiles again

Along their pathway shine.

Oh, heavily doth poverty

Man's nobler instincts bind;

Yet sever not that chain, to cast

A sadder on the mind.

BY G. P. R. JAMES.

He was a fool, and not a philosopher, who said that uncertainty was

the just condition of man's mind. In trust, in confidence, in firm

conviction, and in faith, is only to be found repose and peace.

Assurance is what man's heart and understanding both require, and the

very fact of the mind not being capable of obtaining certainty upon

many points, is a proof of weakness, not of strength.

EDITOR'S TABLE.

THE CLOSE OF THE YEAR.--The year is closing on us--and the change

suggests reflections, which, if rather melancholy, may nevertheless be

profitable. We acknowledge that the divisions of time are rather

arbitrary--and therefore may vary, as they do vary, in different parts

of the world. But whenever we arrive at one of these important epochs,

whatever that may be, and wherever it constitutes a point in the

popular calendar, we have passed one period of our life, and have so

much the less to spend.

If we _feel_ the rapidity of time's march in our ordinary festivity,

and regret the approaching dissolution of the pleasant assembly, by

how much the more do we feel if we pause to think that we are

approaching the time when all our associations in life must cease, and

we be remembered--not known--and that remembrance day by day growing

less and less distinct, as new objects occupy the public eye, or new

associations are taken up by those we leave. Nor would we "jump the

life to come," by neglecting to make our approximation to that an

occasion for such a solicitude as would lead to a preparation.

But we would not have all those reflections gloomy. We would not cloud

the close of the year, nor the evening of life with moroseness, as if

all were vanity that we had enjoyed, and all were vexation of spirit

that was left. Such a use of the season would be a poor return for all

the good things which Providence has wrought in our behalf. We know at

this season of the year that the mountain summits are covered with

snow, and in some places the drooping sides are whitened with the

treasures of the clouds, but even these things, chilling as they may

appear, are good in their season, and the beauteous covering of the

hill-tops may glisten with the reflected rays of the sun, and seem to

enjoy the visiter that has descended upon them. All the trees that

yield their leaves to the season have for weeks been bare, ready to

receive the weight of snow which might fall upon them, and teaching

man that preparation is necessary to meet the evils of life and

sustain its burthens. Here and there a few evergreens retain their

foliage, and appear doubly beautiful amid the waste that is around

them.

But it is not alone for their beauty that these objects are worthy of

consideration--they teach also. They are full of instruction. Every

leaf that glistens with winter's frost, or is crushed dry and rustling

beneath our feet, has its lesson--it is well that all do not retain

their position--they would be less monitory, less worthy our thought.

Nature, in her use of foliage, acts upon the plan which the sybil of

old adopted--she writes her lessons upon the leaves--and yet so

arranges the truths they should convey, that they become more and more

apparent, more and more valuable, as the hand of destructive time

diminishes their number.

Elsewhere we have given reflections upon those events by which

kingdoms and empires have been shaken in the year now coming to a

close. Let us come nearer the heart, and speak of some of those

changes by which human affections and individual attachments have been

disturbed. Not, however, to quote the instance exactly--that would be

to drag up into life the hidden sorrow, and expose to observation the

grief which is sanctified for the recesses of the heart, whither in

moments of leisure the wounded retire and sit and brood in profitable

reflection over the affliction which Providence has allowed. We dare

not drag up to day and its exposure each grief that lies buried deep

in the grave of the mourner's heart. How truly beautiful, however, is

the reflection that the stone of the sepulchre may be rolled away,

and that in appropriate seasons the afflicted one makes a retreat from

the business and the pleasures of life, and "goeth unto the grave to

weep there." Sanctified--as beautiful--be the sorrow that hath not its

exponent in the public assembly, that hath no signal by which its

existence is to be denoted--no condition of countenance by which its

extent is to be measured. Perhaps the _sufferer_ had not yet obtained

permission to call the object hers--and thus is deprived of the

privilege of admitted mourning--how deep is _that_ grief--it has known

only the hope of life which takes with it all of the sunlight that

_makes_ the rainbow; without one drop of the storm from which that bow

is reflected. Perhaps the young WIFE sits solitary in the chamber

which affection has blessed, and pines amid the thousand emblems of

the taste or customs of the dead--perhaps her grief is her

inspiration, and she gives to story or to song the promptings of her

sorrow, which the world supposes is the gift of joyous inspiration.

Perhaps the _mother_ is pausing in the midst of renewed anguish for

the departure of her gifted, her only child, and sits enumerating all

his perfections, the greatest of which, and that which sanctified all

other virtues, and hid the very shadowings of error, was his deep,

constant love for her. Oh, how the maternal heart, smitten by the

heaviest of griefs, bathes itself in the fountain of filial love; and

when, at last, the over-wrought frame yields to the undermining

sorrow, the mourner comforts herself with the reflection of the

afflicted monarch of Israel, "I shall go unto him, he shall not come

again unto me." These reflections, with all of blighted hopes which

parent, lover, friend and patriot have indulged, the falling leaves of

autumn suggest; but the evergreen tells us of the survival of

affections, of friends, of beauty, and, perhaps, of attainments, and

teaches us that while we bend, and may bend in bitter anguish--anguish

long indulged beneath the rod of affliction--it is good for us also to

kiss the rod--for it has the power of budding anew in the hand of Him

who wields it; and the same might which made it the instrument of His

afflictive dealings can make it also the means of after joy and peace.

Perhaps, upon the leaves that we examine, the sybil, with rearward

glance, has recorded some event for joyous reflection. Have we not

been made participants of high gratifications--domestic, social,

public associations of instructive and pleasant operation? Have not

new affections warmed the heart, or old ones sent out new tendrils to

cling with a stronger hold upon us? Perhaps we have had the

acquisition of wealth without the augmentation of desires, so that we

can make ourselves happy by judicious distribution. Perhaps, above

all, and over all, we are better, by the passage of the year, better

by newly acquired, and especially newly exercised virtues--virtues

that bless others, and, through them, bless ourselves. If so, surely

we have grounds for pleasant reflections on the close of the year, and

may hope that we have not lived in vain.

The virtues of the human heart are like the water-springs of the

earth, their worth is measured by what overflows; nay, as an

accumulation even of the purest water must become stagnant, profitless

and offensive without an outlet, so what we call the virtues of man

become useless and even injurious, unless they extend to others, by

overflowing the fountain breast. Virtue is communicable; and those who

associate with the good, find an influx of affection and piety, as the

woman of faith was cured by touching the hems of the garment, that

covered the source and example of all health and goodness. If we have

sought to acquire good for ourselves, and to do good to others during

the present year, reflections upon its approaching close need not be

painful; it should be to us a source of high gratification, that,

enjoying as we have enjoyed, and mourning as we have mourned, we are

nearer the union of the good who have gone before us, and further from

the ills that follow upon our footsteps; and as we close our year, or

close our life, may we throw back from joyous, grateful hearts, a

smile of virtuous pleasure, which shall enrich the stern clouds that

have passed us with the bow of promise of pleasures that are to come.

C.

* * * * *

GRAHAM'S MAGAZINE FOR 1849.--The new volume of Graham's Magazine, to

be commenced with the January number, will, beyond all doubt, be the

most elegant volume that has ever been issued of this most popular of

all the American monthlies. The ample experience and liberal

expenditure of money by the publishers, the ability of its host of

contributors, the editorial tact which will be brought into service,

and the genius and skill of the artists engaged to embellish it, must

more than sustain the high position it has heretofore held in public

estimation. The magazine literature of this country is destined to a

warmer appreciation in the public regard, as it becomes purged from

the sickly sentimentality which degrades public taste, and when the

first minds in the nation are found devoting solid thought to adorn

and elevate it. A few years since, the highest aim of contemporary

competition seemed to be to fill a given number of pages with the

silly effusions of a class of writers whose feeble powers and false

taste were gradually undermining public regard, and bringing this

branch of national literature into contempt and disgrace, but the

higher aims of the publishers of the now leading periodicals, evinced

in the engagement of the brightest intellect of the country, have

raised American periodicals to a scale second to none in the world.

Blackwood and Frazer, in England, and The Knickerbocker and "Graham's

Magazine," in America, now stand side by side, and by paying liberally

for talent, command the very highest. It may be doubted, however,

whether in this country the _force_ of periodical writing has not been

in some degree impaired, by a diversion of the public eye and taste in

the smaller class of magazines with feeble aims, to engravings and

pictures, many of which are but the refuse of the English Annuals, and

the efforts of second rate artists in this country; and also how far

those magazines which are marked by ability, and which, as magazines

of ART as well as of LITERATURE, embracing in their object and scope,

the improvement of a very laudable branch of art--that of

engraving--as well as the adornment of the work, should be drawn aside

into a competition in the _number_ of their engravings, instead of the

_worth_ which should mark each one of them. It appears to us that this

degrading of magazines into picture-books for children, by

impoverishing the literary department to swell the number of wretched

engravings in a department of art, so called, must impair the value

and shorten the existence of any periodical thus conducted.

For ourselves, we have marked out a course in regard to the mere

illustrations of this periodical, from which we shall not be diverted.

We shall continue to furnish to our readers the most finished and

elegant specimens of the American engraver's skill, keeping at the

same time in view the value aside from the mere _ornament_ of the

engraving, thus catching the public desire in the portrait of a person

who may have some claim upon posterity, even though the face may not

be the most beautiful; and in sketches of such scenes as deserve to

live in the pages of this magazine, either from their own great

beauty, from their grandeur, or from association which gives them

value to the American eye and mind.

* * * * *

THE FEMALE POETS OF AMERICA.--Messrs. Lindsay & Blakiston have

presented to the public a delightful volume prepared by Caroline May.

It embraces biographical sketches, and extracts from the productions

of many of our own native female writers, and serves to render us

familiar with those whose sweet strains have often charmed our hearts.

The style of execution of the volume in question, corresponds with the

excellent character of its contents, and the authoress, publishers and

printers have executed their respective parts with great skill and

effect.

* * * * *

BURNS, AS A POET AND AS A MAN.--The admirers of the gifted Scottish

bard, will find an interesting and well executed review of his

character as a Poet and a Man, in a volume, prepared by S. Tyler,

Esq., of the Maryland bar, and just issued by Baker and Schriver, of

New York. We are indebted for a copy to Messrs. Lindsay & Blakiston,

of this city, who are ever skillful in catering for the intellectual

taste of their literary friends.

* * * * *

[Illo: pointing finger] We lay our present number before our readers

with feelings of pride and pleasure, confident of the admission, on

their part, that a richer or more varied treat has never been

presented in the pages of any magazine. Our contributors have supplied

us with admirable articles--our artists have acquitted themselves with

great ability--our printers have acted well their part--and now, we

trust, our patrons will complete our gratification, by being as much

pleased with the number before them as we are in making the offering.

* * * * *

[Illo: pointing finger] We thank our editorial brethren throughout the

country for the favorable manner in which they continue to notice our

Magazine. They do us but justice when they say that all our efforts

will be put in exercise to keep our Magazine in the enviable position

we have so long occupied. Always in advance of every contemporary, we

shall show in the new volume upon which we are entering, what

enterprise, zeal and energy can accomplish in the elevation of the

standard of literature and the arts.

* * * * *

KATE WALSINGHAM.--This is another of Miss Pickering's delightful

novels, just issued from the press of <sc>T. B. Peterson</sc>. The story is an

interesting one, and the book abounds with brilliant and sparkling

beauties.

* * * * *

LAYS AND BALLADS, _by T. B. Read_.--A volume from the pen of Mr. Read,

one of the most accomplished of our contributors, has just been

published by Mr. Appleton. The lateness of the hour at which a copy

reached us prevents us from noticing it at present as we desire to do.

We shall therefore make it the subject of a paragraph in a future

number.

* * * * *

J. BAYARD TAYLOR, Esq.--A life-like portrait of our friend and

co-laborer, J. B. Taylor, graces this number of the Magazine. We know

our readers--our fair ones especially--will admire him; and we would

remark, _en passant_, for their information, that well-looking as he

unquestionably is, his merits in this particular are fully equaled by

his good qualities of head and heart.

REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.

_Principles of Political Economy, with some of their

Applications to Social Philosophy. By John Stuart Mill.

Boston: Little & Brown. 2 vols. 8vo._

Mr. Mill is almost the model man of science of his age. To habits of

deep and thorough investigation, and rigid, penetrating, exhaustive

thought--pursuing a principle through all the details of its

application, and never stopping halfway to pause or digress--he adds a

calm but strong sympathy with the philanthropic movements of the age;

and the tendency of all his writings is to advance the cause of truth,

justice and benevolence. But he is a reformer in a peculiar sense, not

practically understood by many who bear the name. A comprehensive and

patient thinker, and discussing every question bearing on the

interest, happiness and elevation of mankind with a conscientious as

well as rigid logic, he indulges in no vituperation, uses none of the

weapons of passion and malice, and irresistibly conveys the impression

to the most prejudiced mind that it is truth he is seeking, not the

gratification of vanity or antipathy. The consequence is that he is

the only radical thinker in England who is read by all parties, and

who influences all parties. With more industry, mental vigor and

scientific precision than Mackintosh, he has a great deal of that

beneficence of spirit, that judicial comprehension, and that strict

impartiality of understanding, which enabled Mackintosh to reach minds

separated from his by the walls of sect and faction. Mill is one of

those rare men who make no distinction between moral and logical

honesty; who would as much disdain to utter a sophism as to tell a

lie; and who can discuss questions which array the passions of a

nation on different sides, without adopting any of the opposite

bigotries with which they are usually connected. As a matter of course

the prejudiced and the bigoted themselves, in those hours of calmness

when they really desire to know the truth and reason of the things

they are quarreling about, go to a man like him with perfect

confidence. Thus Mill, a philosophical English radical, is ever

treated with that respect which clings to a profound and conscientious

thinker, even by the most violent of his Tory opponents. One of the

late numbers of Blackwood's Magazine--a periodical accustomed to

blackguard the men it cannot answer, and in which Mackintosh himself

was ever treated with coarse invective or affected contempt--has a

long article on Mill's present work on political economy, admitting

its claim to be considered one of the greatest works of the century,

even though it takes strong ground against many of the cherished

absurdities of the Tory political creed.

The reputation of Mr. Mill was sufficiently established before his

political economy was published. As the writer, over the signature of

A., of several articles in the Westminster Review, such as those on

Coleridge, Bentham, and the Privileged Classes, and the author of the

profoundest and most complete treatise on Logic ever written, he

needed no introduction to the public. "The Principles of Political

Economy" is a book bearing on every page the decisive marks of his

strong and accurate mind. It is a work after the model of Smith's

Wealth of Nations, in which principles are always associated with

their applications, and economical questions considered in their

relations to social philosophy, and the general well-being of man. As,

since the time of Adam Smith, political economy and social philosophy

have both made a perceptible advance, Mr. Mill's work purports to

supply the deficiency of a complete system of political economy,

including all the latest discoveries, and combining a strict

scientific exposition of the abstract principles of the subject with

their practical applications. The result is that he has produced the

most complete and satisfactory work of the kind at present in

existence, and, on the whole, the most important contribution to

political economy since the time of Adam Smith.

We, of course, have no space to refer at any length to his treatment

of the different branches of his subject; but the book has one

characteristic which we hope will have the effect to make it generally

read. The style is so clear, vigorous, simple and lucid, and the

illustrations so apt and copious, that the work can be readily

understood by those readers who are commonly repelled by the dry and

abstract character of other treatises on the science. The author

intended that his book should be popular as well as profound, and has

exerted his full strength of mind in simplifying the more abstruse

principles of his subject; and we trust that his labor will not have

been spent in vain. Every legislator, merchant, manufacturer, and

agriculturist, every man who is in any way connected with the creation

or distribution of wealth, should read this book.

_An Oration Delivered Before the Society of Phi Beta

Kappa, at Cambridge, August 24, 1848. By Horace

Bushnell. Cambridge: George Nichols._

Dr. Bushnell has within a year or two taken a prominent position among

New England divines, and promises to rank high among the influencing

minds of the day. To deep and scholarly culture, he unites a strong,

independent, and singularly keen and ingenious intellect, and a

beautiful and bountiful spirit of cheerfulness and charity. The

present oration is a fine poem, expressing rather a mood of mind than

a system of philosophy, but grouping together with fine art many facts

of consciousness, and applying them to the phenomena of life. Every

thing, in fact, is surveyed in the light of two ideas, Work and Play,

and though the application is sometimes more fanciful than reasonable,

the result is a series of beautiful representations, original in

conception and finely felicitous in expression. There is room for

considerable difference of opinion in the oration, but none will be

inclined to doubt the author's ability or keenness. As a specimen of

the style we extract a passage relating to war, which he calls an

imposing and plausible counterfeit of play, or inspiration.

"Since," he says, "we cannot stay content in the dull uninspired world

of economy and work, we are as ready to see a hero as he is to be one.

Nay, we must have our heroes, as I just said, and we are ready to

harness ourselves, by the million, to any man who will let us fight

him out the name. Thus we find out occasions for war--wrongs to be

redressed, revenges to be taken, such as we may feign inspiration and

play the great heart under. We collect armies, and dress up leaders in

gold and high colors, meaning by the brave look, to inspire some

notion of a hero beforehand. Then we set the men in phalanxes and

squadrons, where the personality itself is taken away, and a vast

impersonal person called an army, a magnanimous and brave monster, is

all that remains. The masses of fierce color, the glitter of the

steel, the dancing plumes, the waving flags, the deep throb of the

music lifting every foot--under these the living acres of men,

possessed by the one thought of playing brave to-day, are rolled on

to battle. Thunder, fire, dust, blood, groans--what of these?--nobody

thinks of these, for nobody dares to think till the day is over, and

then the world rejoices to behold a new batch of heroes."

_Three Sisters and Three Fortunes; or Rose, Blanche and

Violet. By G. H. Lewes. New York: Harper & Brothers._

Mr. Lewes is an author very little known in this country. This is the

first work of his which has been reprinted. But in England he has

considerable reputation among the higher class of readers and men of

taste for his brilliant powers of mind and extensive acquirements. His

Biographical History of Philosophy we have never seen, but we have

observed allusions to it in other publications, exalting it to a very

high rank among thoughtful books. For some time, if we are not

mistaken, he was the chief literary critic of the Westminster Review,

and many of his articles were marked by strong and deep thinking, a

little injured by vagaries of expression. In a novel by such a writer

we should naturally expect more than a mere love story, more than a

narrative of incidents and representation of passions; and he has not

disappointed expectation. Indeed one can easily see that the book is

based on a philosophical system, and that more is meant than directly

meets the eye. The characters and events all illustrate some problems

in metaphysics and ethics, and refer more to the understanding than

the imagination. The story does not lack interest, nor the personages

character, but both are o'erinformed with meditation. Fine as the

novel undoubtedly is, the author has not given it the requisite

artistical finish to produce an harmonious impression. Speculation on

matters connected with literature, art and politics, essays on the

passions and the will, appear in their naked character amid romantic

incidents and imaginative representation. The author, in short, ought

to have made his book altogether didactic or altogether dramatic, to

fulfill the requisitions of either department. Had he fused all his

abstract thought and practical speculation in the alembic of the

imagination, and accordingly represented all in the concrete form of

character and events, t

he result would have been a much better

novel.

_Euthanasy; or Happy Talk Toward the End of Life. By

William Mountford, Author of Martyria, &c., &c. Boston:

Crosby & Nichols. 1 vol. 12mo._

The author of this volume is one of the most profoundly meditative

writers living. We are not aware that his productions have had an

extended circulation out of New England, where they are very popular,

and if they have not, we hardly know of a better service we could do

our readers than to advise them to seek his companionship. Martyria

and the present work are two books which no one can read without being

benefitted--without having a deeper sense of the "dread soul within

him," and without feeling a warmer love of his race. "Euthanasy" is

one of those volumes which win their way into the heart with a soft

unconscious persuasiveness, and abide there when they have once found

an entrance. The author's spirit is rich, sweet, thoughtful,

tender--seeking the beautiful and the good by a spontaneous instinct,

and discerning them often, with the subtilty of purity in things which

seem valueless to the common eye--and while it soars into the highest

regions of spiritual contemplation, can still survey practical life

with a wisdom and sagacity which almost seem incompatible with its

loftiness. The truth is that the author possesses one of the rarest

things ever seen in this world--a truly spiritual mind, in which there

is established no divorce between the practical and the spiritual,

the common and the ideal. Spirituality with him is a life--no hearsay

or imagination, but an experience. He consequently spiritualizes the

human and humanizes the spiritual.

The work, in addition to its own stores of original thought, has many

a golden sentence and rhyme from the meditative poets of Germany and

England, which lend it increased richness and beauty.

_Ellen Middleton; a Tale. By Lady Georgiana Fullerton,

Author of Grantly Manor. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1

vol. 12mo._

Grantly Manor is a novel of high and peculiar excellence, and has had

a great run. Its readers threw themselves upon the present work as

soon as it was published, their expectations whetted by the memory of

the last. The result has been comparative disappointment. The truth is

Ellen Middleton preceded Grantly Manor, and is altogether a less

pleasing production. Considered, however, as the first work of the

author, it is rich in promise and by no means insignificant in

performance. The characters are strongly drawn and well discriminated,

and the passions with which it deals are of that potent kind which

test a novelist's strength and daring. The difficulty with the book is

not its lack of power, but its lack of homely interest. The characters

and incidents are too much made up in the author's mind--enclosed, as

it were, in a peculiar domain, and colored by one peculiar experience

of life--to give that satisfaction which results from a delineation of

actual life, or from vivid and beautiful ideal creations. There is too

much agony, and anguish, and hyperbolical emotion, and splitting of

the heart, and such like rioting in spiritual misery and ruin. The

elegance, eloquence and sweetness of the author's style, and the high

moral and religious character of her mind, appear, however, in Ellen

Middleton as in Grantly Manor, and with the advantage of as good a

story would produce as agreeable an impression.

_History of Mary, Queen of Scotts. By Jacob Abbott.

With Engravings. New York: Harper & Brothers. 1 vol.

16mo._

This is one of a series of popular histories which Mr. Abbott is

preparing for his countrymen. The tone and object will considerably

differ from the common historical works in circulation. Mr. Abbott

considers that the situation and principles of American readers

require views of historical events different from those they would

obtain from foreigners. The present work is devoted to one of the most

romantic and thrilling stories in historical literature--the Life of

Mary, Queen of Scotts. It is elegantly and truthfully written, and the

mechanical execution of the volume is exceedingly beautiful.

_Macaulay's History of England._

The Harpers have received from the author, in sheets, the first and

second volumes of "The History of England, from the Accession of James

II., by T. B. Macaulay." For these they pay one hundred guineas a

volume. The work itself will doubtless create as great a stir as any

book published within the last twenty years. Every body is curious

especially to discover the style which Macaulay has adopted--that of

his Essays being too brisk, brilliant and epigrammatic for an

historian. It will probably be something like that of the Preface to

the "Lays of Ancient Rome," or that of his latest article on Lord

Chatham.

Transcriber's Note:

Printer's errors and typos were corrected without comment. Irregularities

or archaisms in spelling or grammar were preserved.