“We don’t use no sails,” said Jack Bean; “sometimes, when the wind is

fair, we put up a bush to help pull along a little, and when ’tisn’t, we

row.”

The party were soon embarked on board the scow, and a couple of oars

were set in motion, and they glided slowly and pleasantly over as lovely

a sheet of water as ever glowed in the sunsetting ray. In one hour’s

time, the whole party felt perfectly acquainted with Miss Lucy Brown.

She had talked in the most lively and fascinating manner; she had told

stories and sung songs. Among others, she had given Moore’s boat song,

with the sweetest possible effect; and by the time they returned to the

landing, it would hardly be too much to say that half the young men in

the party were decidedly in love with her.

A stern regard to truth requires a remark to be made here, not

altogether favorable to Susan Jones, which is the more to be regretted,

as she was in the main an excellent hearted girl, and highly esteemed by

the whole village. It was observed that as the company grew more and

more pleased with Miss Lucy Brown, Susan Jones was less and less

animated, till at last she became quite reserved, and apparently sad.

She, however, on landing, treated Miss Brown with respectful attention,

accompanied her home to Squire Johnson’s door, and cordially bade her

good night.

The casual glimpses which the young men of Pond village had of Miss

Brown during the remainder of the week, as she occasionally stood at the

door, or looked out at the window, or once or twice when she walked out

with Susan Jones, and the fair view they all had of her at meeting on

the Sabbath, served but to increase their admiration, and to render her

more and more an object of attraction. She was regarded by all as a

prize, and several of them were already planning what steps it was best

to take in order to win her. The two most prominent candidates, however,

for Miss Brown’s favor, were Charles Robinson and Stephen Jones. Their

position and standing among the young men of the village seemed to put

all others in the back ground. Charles, whose father was wealthy, had

every advantage which money could procure. But Stephen, though poor, had

decidedly the advantage over Charles in personal recommendations. He had

more talent, was more sprightly and intelligent, and more pleasing in

his address. From the evening of the sail on the pond, they had both

watched every movement of Miss Brown with the most intense interest;

and, as nothing can deceive a lover, each had, with an interest no less

intense, watched every movement of the other. They had ceased to speak

to each other about her, and if her name was mentioned in their

presence, both were always observed to color.

The second week after her arrival, through the influence of Squire

Johnson, the district school was offered to Miss Brown on the other side

of the pond, which offer was accepted, and she went immediately to take

charge of it. This announcement at first threw something of a damper

upon the spirits of the young people of Pond village. But when it was

understood the school would continue but a few weeks, and being but a

mile and a half distant, Miss Brown would come home every Saturday

afternoon, and spend the Sabbath, it was not very difficult to be

reconciled to the temporary arrangement. The week wore away heavily,

especially to Charles Robinson and Stephen Jones. They counted the days

impatiently till Saturday, and on Saturday they counted the long and

lagging hours till noon. They had both made up their minds that it would

be dangerous to wait longer, and they had both resolved not to let

another Sabbath pass without making direct proposals to Miss Brown.

Stephen Jones was too early a riser for Charles Robinson, and, in any

enterprise where both were concerned, was pretty sure to take the lead,

except where money could carry the palm, and then, of course, it was

always borne away by Charles. As Miss Lucy had been absent most of the

week, and was to be at home that afternoon, Charles Robinson had made an

arrangement with his mother and sisters to have a little tea party in

the evening, for the purpose of inviting Miss Brown; and then, of

course, he should walk home with her in the evening; and then, of

course, would be a good opportunity to break the ice, and make known to

her his feelings and wishes. Stephen Jones, however, was more prompt in

his movements. He had got wind of the proposed tea party, although

himself and sister, for obvious reasons, had not been invited, and he

resolved not to risk the arrival of Miss Brown and her visit to Mr.

Robinson’s, before he should see her. She would dismiss her school at

noon, and come the distance of a mile and a half round the pond home.

His mind was at once made up. He would go round and meet her at the

school-house, and accompany her on her walk. There, in that winding road

around those delightful waters, with the tall and shady trees over head,

and the wild grape-vines twining round their trunks, and climbing to the

branches, while the wild birds were singing through the woods, and the

wild ducks playing in the coves along the shore, surely there, if any

where in the world, could a man bring his mind up to the point of

speaking of love.

Accordingly, a little before noon, Stephen washed and brushed himself

up, and put on his Sunday clothes, and started on his expedition. In

order to avoid observation, he took a back route across the field,

intending to come into the road by the pond, a little out of the

village. As ill luck would have it, Charles Robinson had been out in the

same direction, and was returning with an armful of green boughs and

wild flowers, to ornament the parlor for the evening. He saw Stephen,

and noticed his dress, and the direction he was going, and he at once

smoked the whole business. His first impulse was to rush upon him and

collar him, and demand that he should return back. But then he

recollected that in the last scratch he had with Stephen, two or three

years before, he had a little the worst of it, and he instinctively

stood still while Stephen passed on without seeing him. It flashed upon

his mind at once that the question must now be reduced to a game of

speed. If he could by any means gain the school-house first, and engage

Miss Lucy to walk home with him, he should consider himself safe. But if

Stephen should reach the school-house first, he should feel a good deal

of uneasiness for the consequences. Stephen was walking very leisurely,

and unconscious that he was in any danger of a competitor on the course,

and it was important that his suspicions should not be awakened.

Charles, therefore, remained perfectly quiet till Stephen had got a

little out of hearing, and then he threw down his bushes and flowers,

and ran to the wharf below the store with his utmost speed. He had one

advantage over Stephen. He was ready at a moment’s warning to start on

an expedition of this kind, for Sunday clothes were an every-day affair

with him. There was a light canoe, belonging to his father, lying at the

wharf, and a couple of stout boys were there fishing. Charles hailed

them, and told them if they would row him across the pond as quick as

they possibly could, he would give them a quarter of a dollar a piece.

This, in their view, was a splendid offer for their services, and they

jumped on board with alacrity and manned the oars. Charles took a

paddle, and stood in the stern to steer the boat, and help propel her

ahead. The distance by water was a little less than by land, and

although Stephen had considerably the start of him, he believed he

should be able to reach the school-house first, especially if Stephen

should not see him and quicken his pace. In one minute after he arrived

at the wharf, the boat was under full way. The boys laid down to the

oars with right good will, and Charles put out all his strength upon the

paddle. They were shooting over the water twice as fast as a man could

walk, and Charles already felt sure of the victory. But when they had

gone about half a mile, they came in the range of a little opening in

the trees on the shore, where the road was exposed to view, and there,

at that critical moment, was Stephen pursuing his easy walk. Charles’

heart was in his mouth. Still it was possible Stephen might not see

them, for he had not yet looked round. Lest the sound of the oars might

attract his attention, Charles had instantly, on coming in sight,

ordered the boys to stop rowing, and he grasped his paddle with

breathless anxiety, and waited for Stephen again to disappear. But just

as he was upon the point of passing behind some trees, where the boat

would be out of his sight, Stephen turned his head and looked round. He

stopped short, turned square round, and stood for the space of a minute

looking steadily at the boat. Then lifting his hand, and shaking his

fist resolutely at Charles, as much as to say I understand you, he

started into a quick run.

“Now, boys,” said Charles, “buckle to your oars for your lives, and if

you get to the shore so I can reach the school-house before Stephen

does, I’ll give you half a dollar a piece.”

This of course added new life to the boys and increased speed to the

boat. Their little canoe flew over the water almost like a bird,

carrying a white bone in her mouth, and leaving a long ripple on the

glassy wave behind her. Charles’ hands trembled, but still he did good

execution with his paddle. Although Stephen upon the run was a very

different thing from Stephen at a slow walk, Charles still had strong

hopes of winning the race and gaining his point. He several times caught

glimpses of Stephen through the trees, and, as well as he could judge,

the boat had a little the best of it. But when they came out into the

last opening, where for a little way they had a fair view of each other,

Charles thought Stephen ran faster than ever; and although he was now

considerably nearer the school-house than Stephen was, he still trembled

for the result. They were now within fifty rods of the shore, and

Charles appealed again to the boys’ love of money.

“Now,” said he, “we have not a minute to spare. If we gain the point,

I’ll give you a dollar apiece.”

The boys strained every nerve, and Charles’ paddle made the water fly

like the tail of a wounded shark. When within half a dozen rods of the

shore, Charles urged them again to spring with all their might, and one

of the boys making a desperate plunge upon his oar, snapped it in two.

The first pull of the other oar headed the boat from land. Charles saw

at once that the delay must be fatal, if he depended on the boat to

carry him ashore. The water was but three feet deep, and the bottom was

sandy. He sprung from the boat, and rushed toward the shore as fast as

he was able to press through the water. He flew up the bank, and along

the road, till he reached the school-house. The door was open, but he

could see no one within. Several children were at play round the door,

who, having seen Charles approach with such haste, stood with mouths and

eyes wide open, looking at him.

“Where’s the schoolma’m?” said Charles, hastily, to one of the largest

boys.

“Why?” said the boy, opening his eyes still wider, “is any of the folks

dead?”

“You little rascal, I say, where’s the schoolma’m?”

“She jest went down that road,” said the boy, “two or three minutes

ago.”

“Was she alone?” said Charles.

“She started alone,” said the boy, “and a man met her out there a little

ways, and turned about and went with her.”

Charles felt that his cake was all dough again, and that he might as

well give it up for a bad job, and go home. Stephen Jones and Lucy Brown

walked very leisurely home through the woods, and Charles and the boys

went very leisurely in the boat across the pond. They even stopped by

the way, and caught a mess of fish, since the boys had thrown their

lines into the boat when they started. And when they reached the wharf,

Charles, in order to show that he had been a fishing, took a large

string of the fish in his hand, and carried them up to the house. Miss

Lucy Brown, on her way home through the woods, had undoubtedly been

informed of the proposed tea-party for the evening, to which she was to

be invited, and to which Stephen Jones and Susan Jones were not invited;

and when Miss Lucy’s invitation came, she sent word back, that she was

_engaged_.

* * * * *

THE FAREWELL.

Farewell, farewell—O! ne’er from me

Till now that word hath hopeless passed;

But, sweet one, faltered forth to thee,

It seems this once as ’twere the last—

The last that thou wilt ever hear

From him who knows thy worth too well;

I’ll stifle one relenting tear,

That mingles in this last farewell.

* * * * *

HARRY CAVENDISH.

BY THE AUTHOR OF “CRUISING IN THE LAST WAR,” “THE REEFER OF ’76,” ETC.

CONCLUSION.

I was now alone in the world; I had neither ship, nor home; and she I

had loved was wedded to another. It is strange how misanthropical a man

becomes, after disappointment has soured his disposition, and destroyed,

one after another, the beautiful dreams of his youth. When I sat down

and thought of the hopes of my earlier years, now gone forever; when I

speculated upon my future prospects; when I recalled to mind how few of

the friends I had begun life with remained, an indescribable sadness

came over me, and, had it not been for my manhood, I would have found a

relief in tears. My zest for society was gone. I cared little for the

ordinary business of life. I only longed for a fitting opportunity to

re-enter the service, and distinguish myself by some gallant deed, which

I did not care to survive, for even fame had become hateful to me, since

it reminded me how insufficient it was to win or retain the love of

woman. In a word, I had become a misanthrope, and was fast losing all

the energy of my character in sickly regrets over the past.

Of the St. Clairs I had not inquired since my return, and their names,

from motives of delicacy perhaps, were never mentioned in my presence.

Yet they occupied a large portion of my thoughts, and often would I

start, and my heart flutter, when, in the streets, I fancied, for a

moment, that I recognized the form of Annette. But a nearer approach

made evident my mistake, and dissipated my embarrassment. Much, however,

as I thought of her, I had never inquired to whom she had been married;

yet my curiosity on this point continually gained strength; and when I

had been a fortnight in Newport without hearing any allusion to her, I

began to wish that some one would break the ominous silence which seemed

to hang around her and her family. Still I dared not trust myself to

broach the subject. I continued, therefore, ignorant of their present

situation, and of all that concerned them.

There is, not far from the town, and situated in one of the most

beautiful portions of the island, a favorite resort which has long been

known by the familiar and characteristic name of “The Glen.” The spot is

one where the deity of romance might sit enshrined. Here, on a still

summer night, we might, without much stretch of fancy, look for fairies

to come forth and gambol, or listen to the light music of airy spirits

hovering above us. The whole place reminds you of an enchanted bower,

and dull must be his heart who does not feel the stirrings of the

divinity within him as he gazes on the lovely scenery around. He who can

listen here unmoved to the low gurgle of the brook, or the light rustle

of the leaves in the summer wind, must be formed of the coarsest clods

of clay, nor boast one spark of our immortal nature.

The glen was my favorite resort, and thither would I go and spend whole

afternoons, listening to the laughing prattle of the little river, or

striving to catch, in pauses of the breeze, the murmur of the

neighboring sea. A rude bench had been constructed under some trees, in

a partially open glade, at the lower extremity of the ravine, and here I

usually sat, indulging in those dreamy, half-sick reveries which are

characteristic of youth. The stream, which brawled down the ravine, in a

succession of rapids and cascades, here glided smoothly along on a level

bottom, its banks fringed with long grass interspersed with wild roses,

and its bed strewed with pebbles, round and silvery, that glistened in

the sunbeams, which, here and there, struggled through the trees, and

shimmered on the stream. Faint and low came to the ear the sound of the

mill, situated at the upper end of the ravine; while occasionally a bird

whistled on the stillness, or a leaf floated lazily down into the river,

and went on its way, a tiny bark. The seclusion of my favorite retreat

was often enlivened by the appearance of strangers, but as they

generally remained only a few minutes, I had the spot, for most of the

time, to myself. Here I dreamed away the long summer afternoons, often

lingering until the moon had risen, to make the scene seem even more

beautiful, under her silvery light. I had no pleasure in any other spot.

Perhaps it was because I had once been here with Annette, when we were

both younger, and I, at least, happier; and I could remember plucking a

flower for her from a time-worn bush that still grew on the margin of

the stream. God knows how we love to haunt the spot made dear to us by

old and tender recollections!

I was sitting, one afternoon, on the rude bench I have spoken of,

listlessly casting pebbles into the river, when I heard the sound of

approaching voices, but I was so accustomed to the visits of strangers,

that I did not pause to look up. Directly the voices came nearer, and

suddenly a word was spoken that thrilled through every nerve of my

system. It was only a single word, but that voice!—surely it could be

none other than Annette’s. My sensations, at that moment, I will not

pretend to analyze. I longed to look up, and yet I dared not. My heart

fluttered wildly, and I could feel the blood rushing in torrents to my

face; but, if I had been called on at that instant to speak, I could not

have complied for worlds. Luckily the tree, under whose shadow I sat,

concealed me from the approaching visitors, and I had thus time to rally

my spirits ere the strangers came up. As they drew near I recognized the

voice of Mr. St. Clair, and then that of Annette’s cousin Isabel, while

there were one or two other speakers who were strangers to me. Doubtless

one of them was Annette’s husband, and, as this thought flashed across

me, I looked up, impelled by an irresistible impulse. The party were now

within almost twenty yards, coming gaily down the glen. Foremost in the

group walked Isabel, leaning on the arm of a tall, gentlemanly looking

individual, and turning ever and anon around to Annette, who followed

immediately behind, at the side of her father. Another lady, attended by

a gentleman, made up the rest of the company. Where could Annette’s

husband be? was the question that occurred to me—and who was the

distinguished looking gentleman on whose arm Isabel was so familiarly

leaning? But my thoughts were cut short by a conversation which now

began, and of which, during a minute, I was an unknown auditor—for my

position still concealed me from the party, and my surprise at first,

and afterwards delicacy, prevented me from appearing.

“Ah! Annette,” said Isabel, archly, turning around to her cousin, “do

you know this spot, but especially that rose-bush yonder?—here, right

beyond that old tree—you seem wonderfully ignorant all at once! I

wonder where the donor of that aforesaid rose-bud is now. I would lay a

guinea that it is yet in your possession, preserved in some favorite

book, pressed out between the leaves. Come, answer frankly, is it not

so, my sweet coz?”

I could hear no reply, if one was made, and immediately another voice

spoke. It was that of Isabel’s companion, coming to the aid of Annette.

“You are too much given to believe that Annette follows your example,

Isabel—now do you turn penitent, and let me be father confessor—how

many rose-buds, ay! and for that matter, even leaves, have you in your

collection, presented to you by your humble servant, before we had pity

on each other, and were married? I found a flower, last week, in a copy

of Spenser, and, if I remember aright, I was the donor of the trifle.”

“Oh! you betray yourself,” gaily retorted Isabel, “but men are

foolish—and of all foolish men I ever met with, a certain Albert

Marston was, before his marriage, the most foolish. I take credit to

myself,” she continued, in the same playful strain, “for having worked

such a reformation in him since that event. But this is not what we were

talking of—you wish to divert me from my purpose by this light Cossack

warfare—but it won’t do,” she continued, and I fancied she stamped her

foot prettily, as she was wont to do at Clairville Hall, when she was

disposed to have her way; “no—no—Annette must be the one to turn

penitent, and I will play father confessor. Say, now, fair coz, was it

not a certain fancy to see this same rose-bush, that induced you to

insist on coming here?”

During this conversation the parties had remained nearly stationary at

some distance from me. Strange suspicions began to flash through my

mind, as soon as Isabel commenced her banter; and these suspicions had

now been changed into a certainty. Annette was still unmarried, and it

was Isabel’s wedding at which I had come so near being present, at

Clairville Hall. Nor was this all. I was still loved. Oh! the wild, the

rapturous feelings of that moment. I could with difficulty restrain

myself from rising and rushing toward them; but motives of delicacy

forbade me thus to reveal that the conversation had been overheard. And

yet should I remain in my present position, and play the listener still

further? I knew not what to do. All these considerations flashed through

my mind in the space of less than a minute, during which the party had

been silent, apparently enjoying Annette’s confusion.

“Come, not ready to answer yet?” began Isabel; “well, if you will not,

you shan’t have the rose from that bush, for which you’ve come. Let us

go back,” she said, playfully.

The whole party seemed to enter into the jest, and laughingly retraced

their steps. This afforded me the opportunity for which I longed.

Hastily rising from my seat, I glided unnoticed from tree to tree, until

I reached a copse on the left of the glen, and advancing up the ravine,

under cover of this screen, I re-entered the path at a bend some

distance above the St. Clairs. Here I listened for a moment, and caught

the sound of their approaching voices. Determining no longer to be a

listener to their conversation, I proceeded down the glen, and, as I

turned the corner, a few paces in advance, I came full in sight of the

approaching group. In an instant the gay laughing of the party ceased,

and I saw Annette shrink blushing behind her father. Isabel was the

first to speak. Darting forward, with that frankness and gaiety which

always characterized her, she grasped my hand, and said—

“You don’t know how happy we all are to see you. Where could you have

come from?—and how could you have made such a mistake as to

congratulate Annette, instead of me, on being married? But come, I must

surrender you to the others—I see they are dying to speak to you.

Uncle, Annette—how lucky it was that we came here to-day!”

“My dear boy,” said Mr. St. Clair, warmly pressing my hand, “I cannot

tell how rejoiced I am to see you. We heard a rumor that you were lost,

and we all wept—Isabel for the first time for years. It was but a few

days since that we heard you were at Newport, and, as we were coming

hither, I hastened my journey, determined to search you out. We are on

our way there now, and only stopped here a few minutes to relieve

ourselves after a long ride. This day shall be marked with a white

stone. But here I have been keeping you from speaking to Annette—we old

men, you know, are apt to be garrulous.”

My eyes, indeed, had been seeking Annette, who, still covered with

blushes, and unable to control her embarrassment, sought to conceal them

by keeping in the back ground. As for me, I had become wonderfully

self-possessed. I now advanced and took her hand. It trembled in my own,

and when I spoke, though she replied faintly, she did not dare to look

into my face, except for a moment, after which her eyes again sought the

ground in beautiful embarrassment. My unexpected appearance, combined

with her cousin’s late raillery, covered her face with blushes, and, for

some time, she could not rally herself sufficient to participate in the

conversation.

What more have I to tell? I was now happy, and for my misanthropy, it

died with the cause that produced it. Mr. St. Clair said that the

wedding need not be delayed, and in less than a month I led Annette to

the altar. Years have flown since then, but I still enjoy unalloyed

felicity, and Annette seems to my eyes more beautiful than ever. It only

remains for me to bid my readers FAREWELL!

* * * * *

THE HOLYNIGHTS.

BY HENRY MORFORD.

Some say that ’gainst the time that season comes

Wherein our Savior’s birth is celebrated

The bird of dawning singeth all night long,

And then they say no sprite dares stir abroad,

The nights are wholesome then, no planets strike,

No fairy takes or witch hath power to charm,

So hallowed and so gracious is the time.

Hamlet.

Hushed be the voice of mirthfulness,

And stilled be the plaintive tones of care,

That from too many a heart recess

Go forth to float on the midnight air;

It is no time for the wild excess,

No time for the loose unbridled reign

That passion gives to her votaries

When they sever away the golden chain.

Stilled on the ears of the seraph choir

Let the lingering hymns of the season go,

As they sweep their hands o’er the golden wire

To the anthem of love and peace below;

And let us keep in a holy mood

The coming hours of that sacred time

When the word went forth for the hush of blood

And the passing knell for the soul of crime!

When the hosts of the upper region stirred

That another star came forth to shine,

And the rush of an angel’s wing was heard

O’er the moonlit plains of Palestine,

And a softer light o’er the earth was flung

And the pale stars waxed no longer dim,

And forth on a thousand harps outrung

The rising notes of the angels’ hymn.

The same bright stars that then looked down

With a guardian watch o’er hill and plain,

Unfading gems in the starry crown

Glittering on in the blue remain,

And the solemn awe that crept them round

As they watched their flocks that holy time,

An echo with us to-night has found

In the new-born light of another clime.

It has been felt this many a year,

The sacred spell of the season’s death,

And the brighter glow of the starry sphere

As it came that time with the angels’ breath,

For brighter yet the stars gleam out

As the noisome vapor shrinks away

From the open glade that it hung about

Darkened and damp this many a day.

List how the spirit-breathings come

Upon our ears from the voice sublime

Of him who ruled in the spirits’ home,

Who wrote and sang for the end of time!

Hark how he tells when the time is near,

The bird of the dawn sings all night long

And the fairy legions disappear

When he comes abroad with his matin song.

No spirits forth, nor the rank compound

That glows with the witches’ midnight toil,

No deeps of the forest-close resound

With the wizard shriek and the caldron boil.

No planets chill the warm heart’s blood

With the mockery of a demon fire,

No vapors veil with a sickly shroud

The moss-grown top of the old church spire,—

For he who stood in that dreadful watch

On the gray rampart of Elsinore

Told how they ceased from their revel catch

And their reign at the Christmas time was o’er;

We feel it now, as he felt it then,

That the air is full of holiness,

And we need not forms from the earth again

Of the starry hosts to guard and bless.

Then stilled on the ears of the seraph choir

Let the lingering hymns of the season go,

As they sweep their hands o’er the golden wire

To the anthem of love and peace below;

And let us keep in a holy mood

The passing hours of that sacred time

When the word went forth for the hush of blood

And the passing knell for the soul of crime!

* * * * *

THE LADIES’ LIBRARY.

BY W. A. JONES.

That admirable manual of “_les petites morales_,” and even of higher

matters occasionally, the Spectator, contains a paper which we hesitate

not to accept as a just specimen of cotemporary satire on female

education; we refer to the catalogue of a Ladies’ Library. This

heterogeneous collection embraces heroical romances and romancing

histories, the ranting tragedies of the day, with the libertine comedies

of the same period. In a word, it leads us to infer pretty plainly the

insignificant pretensions the gentle women of Queen Anne’s day could lay

to any thing like refinement of education, or even a correct propriety

in dress and demeanor. Tell me your company, and I will disclose your

own character; speak that I may know you, are trite maxims; but give me

a list of your favorite authors is by no means so common, though at

least as true, a test. The literary and indirectly the moral depravity

of taste exhibited by the women of that age, is easily accounted for,

when we once learn the fashionable authors and the indifferent

countenance given to any authors but those of the most frivolous

description. The queen herself was an illiterate woman, and we are told

never once had the curiosity to look into the classic productions of

Pope. King William, the preceding sovereign, was so ignorant of books

and the literary character, as to offer Swift, with whom he had been

agreeably prepossessed, the place of captain of a regiment of horse.

Indulging ourselves in a rapid transition, we pass from this era to the

epoch of Johnson and Burke, and Goldsmith and Sheridan, we come to the

reign of George III. Here we find the scene altered. From the gay saloon

we are dropped, as if by magic, into the library or conversation room.

We read not of balls, but of literary dinners and æsthetic teas, and we

meet for company, not thoughtless, dressy dames of fashion and minions

of the goddess of pleasure, but grave, precise professors in petticoats,

women who had exchanged a world of anxiety for the turn of a head-dress,

or the shape of a flounce for an equally wise anxiety about the

philosophy of education, the success of their sonnets and tragedies, and

moral tales for the young. The pedantry of authorship and dogmatic

conversation superseded the more harmless pedantry of dress. Then we

read of the stupidest company in the world, which arrogated to itself

the claim of being the best. A race of learned ladies arose; _bas

bleus_, the Montagues, the Mores, the Sewards, the Chapones, patronized

by such prosing old formalists as Doctors Gregory and Aiken, and even by

one man of vigorous talent, Johnson, and one man of real genius,

Richardson. The last two endured much, because they were flattered much.

When we speak thus contemptuously of learned ladies, we intend to

express a disgust at the pretensions of those who pass under that name.

Genuine learning can never be despised, whoever may be its possessor;

but of genuine learning it is not harsh to suspect a considerable

deficiency where there is so much of display and anxious rivalry. Even

where the learning is exact and solid, it is to be remembered that many

departments are utterly unsuited to the female mind; where, at best,

little can be accomplished and that of a harsh repulsive nature. We want

no Daciers, no Somervilles, no Marcets, but give us as you will as many

Inchbalds, Burneys, Edgeworths, Misses Barrett, as can be had for love

or money.

From the ladies we seek literature, not learning, in its old scholastic

sense. They certainly have received pleasure from books, and are bound

to return the gratification in a similar way by delighting us. And this

they can do in their legitimate attempts. It shall be a prominent object

of the present general introduction to a short series of critical

sketches, to attempt a definition of the limits which should bound those

attempts, and also to endeavor at suggesting the proper studies for

ladies, and the authors that ought to rank as favorites with the fair.

In a list of the latter, female writers should bear a considerable

proportion, and will assuredly not be forgotten.

We believe the question as to the relative sexual distinctions of

intellectual character, is now generally considered as settled. There is

allowed to be a species of genius essentially feminine. Equality is no

more arrogated than superiority of ability, and it would be as wisely

arrogated. The most limited observation of life and the most superficial

acquaintance with books, must effectually demonstrate the superior

capacity of man for the great works of life and speculation. It is true,

great geniuses are rare and seldom needed, and the generality of women

rank on a par with the generality of men. In many cases, women of talent

surpass men of an equal calibre of mere talent, through other and

constitutional causes—a greater facility of receiving and transmitting

impressions, greater instinctive subtlety of apprehension, and a

livelier sympathy. We cordially admit the female intellect, in the

ordinary concerns of life and the current passages of society, has often

the advantage of the masculine understanding. Cleverness outshines solid

ability, and a smart woman is much more showy than a profound man. In

certain walks of authorship, too, women are pre-eminently successful; in

cases narrative of real or fictitious events, (in the last implying a

strain of ready invention,) in lively descriptions of natural beauty or

artificial manners; in the development of the milder sentiments,

especially the sentiment of love; in airy, comic ridicule. On the other

hand, the highest attempts of women in poetry have uniformly failed. We

have read of no female epic of even a respectable rank: those who have

written tragedies, have written moral lectures (of an inferior sort)

like Hannah More; or anatomies of the passions, direct and formal, like

Joanna Baillie; or an historical sketch, as Rienzi. We are apt to

suspect that the personal charms of Sappho proved too much for the

admirers of her poetic rhapsodies, otherwise Longinus has done her foul

injustice; for the fragment he quotes is to be praised and censured

solely for its obscurity. This would have been a great merit in

Lycophron.

In the volume of British Poetesses, edited by Mr. Dyce, it is

astonishing to find how little real poetry he has been able to collect

out of the writings of near a century of authors, scattered over the

surface of five or six centuries. It must be allowed that some of the

finest shortest pieces by female writers have appeared since the

publication of that selection. In the volume referred to, much sensible

verse and some sprightly copies of verses occur; a fair share of pure

reflective sentiment, delivered in pleasing language rarely rising above

correctness; of high genius there is not a particle,—no pretensions to

sublimity or fervor. The best piece and the finest poem, we think, ever

composed by woman, is the charming ballad of Auld Robin Gray. That is a

genuine bit of true poesy, and perfect in the highest department of the

female imagination in the pathos of domestic tragedy. In the present

century we have Mrs. Howitt and Mrs. Southey, but chief of all, Miss

Barrett.[6] The finest attempts of the most pleasing writer of this

class, do not rise so high as the delightful ballad above named. They

are sweet, plaintive, moral strains, the melodious notes of a lute,

tuned by taper fingers in a romantic bower, not the deep, majestic,

awful tones of the great organ, or the spirited and stirring blasts of

the trumpet. The ancient bard struck wild and mournful, or hearty and

vigorous, notes from his harp—perchance placed “on a rock whose

frowning brow,” &c. and striving with the rough symphonies of the

tempest; but the sybil of modern days plays elegant and pretty, or soft

and tender airs upon her flageolet or accordion, in the boudoir or

saloon.

A poet is, from the laws both of physiology and philology,—masculine.

His vocation is manly, or rather divine. And we have never heard any

traits of feminine character attributed to the great poet, (in the Greek

sense,) the Creator of the universe. The muses are represented as

females, but then they are the inspirers, never the composers, of verse.

So should be the poet’s muse, as she is often the poet’s theme. There

are higher themes, but of an abstract nature, in general: ethical,

religious, metaphysical. Let female beauty then sit for her portrait

instead of being the painter. Let poets chant her charms, but let her

not spoil a fair ideal image by writing bad verses. If all were rightly

viewed, a happy home would seem preferable to a seat on Parnassus, and

the Fountain of Content would furnish more palatable draughts than the

Font of Helicon. The quiet home is not always the muses’ bower; though

we trust the muses’ bower is placed in no turbulent society.

Women write for women. They may entertain, but cannot, from the nature

of the case, become instructors to men. They know far less of life,

their circle of experience is confined. They are unfitted for many paths

of active exertion, and consequently are rendered incapable of forming

just opinions on many matters. We do not include a natural incapacity

for many studies, and as natural a dislike for many more. Many kinds of

learning, and many actual necessary pursuits and practices, it is deemed

improper for a refined woman to know. How, then, _can_ a female author

become a teacher of men?

Literature would miss many pleasant associations if the names of the

best female writers were expunged from a list of classic authors, and

the world would lose many delightful works—the novel of sentiment and

the novel of manners, letter writing, moral tales for children, books of

travels, gossiping memoirs—Mrs. Inchbald, Madame D’Arblay, Miss

Edgeworth, Lady M. W. Montague, Miss Martineau, and Miss Sedgwick, with

a host besides. Women have sprightliness, cleverness, smartness, though

but little wit. There is a body and substance in true wit, with a

reflectiveness rarely found apart from a masculine intellect. In all

English comedy, we recollect but two female writers of sterling value,

Mrs. Conley and Mrs. Guthrie, and their plays are formed on the Spanish

model, and made up of incident and intrigue, much more than of fine

repartees or brilliant dialogue. We know of no one writer of the other

sex, that has a high character for humor—no Rabelais, no Sterne, no

Swift, no Goldsmith, no Dickens, no Irving. The female character does

not admit of it.

Women cannot write history. It requires too great solidity, and too

minute research for their quick intellects. They write, instead,

delightful memoirs. Who, but an antiquary or historical commentator, had

not rather read Lucy Hutchinson’s Life of her Husband, than any of the

professed histories of the Commonwealth—and exchange Lady Fanshawe for

the other royalist biographers.

Neither are women to turn politicians or orators. We hope never to hear

of a female Burke; she would be an overbearing termagant. A spice of a

talent for scolding, is the highest form of eloquence we can

conscientiously allow the ladies.

Criticism is for men; when women assume it, they write scandal. The

current notion of criticism with most, is that of libelous abuse. From

all such, Heaven defend us.

Women feel more than they think, and (sometimes) say more than do. They

are consequently better adapted to describe sentiments, than to

speculate on causes and effects. They are more at home in their letters,

than in tracts of political economy.

The proper faculties in women to cultivate most assiduously are, the

taste and the religious sentiment; the first, as the leading trait of

the intellectual; and the last, as the governing power of the moral

constitution. Give a woman a pure taste and high principles, and she is

safe from the arts of the wiliest libertine. Let her have all other

gifts but these, and she is comparatively defenceless. Taste purifies

the heart as well as the head, and religion strengthens both. The

strongest propensities to pleasure are not so often the means of

disgrace and ruin, as the carelessness of ignorant virtue, and an

unenlightened moral sense. This makes all the difference in the world,

between the daughter of a poor countryman, and the child of an educated

gentleman. Both have the same desires, but how differently directed and

controlled. Yet we find nineteen lapses from virtue in the one case,

where we find one in the other.

Believing that what does not interest, does not benefit the mind, we

would avoid all pedantic lectures to women, on all subjects to which

they discover any aversion. Study should be made a pleasure, and reading

pure recreation. In a general sense, we would say the best works for

female readers are those that tend to form the highest domestic

character. Works of the highest imagination, as being above that

condition, and scientific authors, who address a different class of

faculties, are both unsuitable. An admirable wife may not relish the

sublimity of Milton or Hamlet; and a charming companion be ignorant of

the existence of such a science as Algebra. A superficial acquaintance

with the elements of the physical sciences, is worse than total

unacquaintance with them.

Religion should be taught as a sentiment, not as an abstract principle,

or in doctrinal positions, a sentiment of love and grateful obedience;

morality, impressed as the practical exercise of self-denial and active

benevolence. In courses of reading, too much is laid down of a dry

nature. Girls are disgusted with tedious accounts of battles and

negotiations, dates and names. The moral should be educed best filled

for the female heart, and apart from the romantic periods, and the

reigns of female sovereigns, or epochs when the women held a very

prominent place in the state, or in public regard. We would have women

affectionate wives, obedient daughters, agreeable companions, skilful

economists, judicious friends; but we must confess it does not fall

within our scheme to make them legislators or lawyers, diplomatists or

politicians. We therefore think nine tenths of all history is absolutely

useless for women. Too many really good biographies of great and good

men and women can hardly be read, and will be read to much greater

advantage than histories, as they leave a definite and individual

impression. The reading good books of travels, is, next to going over

the ground in person, the best method of studying geography. Grammar and

rhetoric,[7] (after a clear statement of the elements and chief rules,)

are best learnt in the perusal of classic authors, the essayists, &c.;

and, in the same way, the theory of taste and the arts. The most

important of accomplishments is not systematically treated in any

system—conversation. But a father and mother of education, can teach

this better than any professor. Expensive schools turn out half-trained

pupils. Eight years at home, well employed, and two at a good but not

fashionable school, are better than ten years spent in the most popular

female seminary, conducted in the ordinary style. Such is a meagre

outline of our idea of female education, into which we have digressed

unawares.

Female authors should constitute a fair proportion of a lady’s

library—and those masculine writers who have something of the

tenderness and purity of the feminine character in their works. The

subjects and authors we propose for occasional consideration, will

embrace specimens of each, in prose and poetry, fiction and reality,

satire and sentiment. We think we may promise a less erudite paper for

the second number, though to some readers all that is not very lively is

proportionably dull.

-----

[6] This lady’s failure in an attempt to translate Æschylus, is a fair

confirmation of our opinion of the inability of the female imagination

to soar beyond a certain height.

[7] The benefit flowing from _these_ studies is chiefly of a negative

character.

* * * * *

[Illustration: A. L. Dick.

__The Pastor’s Visit__

* * * * *

THE PASTOR’S VISIT.

ILLUSTRATION OF A PICTURE.

The noon is past—the sun declines

Below the western hills;

Upon the peasant’s face joy shines.

And peace his bosom fills.

He stands beside the cottage door,

His wife and children round,

With that content which evermore

Doth with the true abound.

The pastor, pausing on his way,

Surveys the happy scene;

If all mankind were pure as they

Slights tasks for him, I ween!

Not in the peasant’s cottage dwell

Sin and her joyless train,

He thinks of palace, dome and cell,

And passes on again!

* * * * *

THE HASTY MARRIAGE.

A SKETCH FROM REAL LIFE.

BY THE AUTHOR OF “THE BRIDAL.”

How few “look before they leap,” even in an affair of so much moment as

matrimony. We fear the fault is in our system. We educate our daughters

superficially—for _display_ rather than usefulness—to catch the eye

rather than win the heart. Our girls are taught in early life, either

directly or indirectly, that marriage is the great object of woman’s

ambition, and in endeavoring to secure that object, and to surpass in

the race of conquest their companions and rivals, they sometimes wed

rashly and to the sacrifice of happiness. Difficult, we are aware, is

the task of discrimination with the young and inexperienced. Pure and

artless themselves, they are apt to imagine the possession of like

virtues by all others, and to conceive it impossible for a fine form and

a handsome face to be associated with a false heart. Alas! how often are

they disappointed! How frequently do the sudden attachments of early

life prove hollow and unsubstantial! How often is it discovered that the

first dream of love, which has been so extravagantly eulogized by poets

and romancers, was a mere delusion that would not bear the test of time

and of reason! With what bitterness of disappointment have many started

from this dream! Stripped of the rainbow coloring with which the fancy

is apt to paint an object of idolatry, how prominent appear the darkness

and the deformity! How broad the contrast between the just view of truth

and the rapid and prejudiced survey of passion! How often do we see

beings standing before the altar, pledging themselves to each other for

weal and for wo, who, comparatively speaking, were strangers but

yesterday! Knowing little of each other’s lives and dispositions, merits

or demerits, they are willing to risk peace of mind for long years, and

to identify destinies for time, perhaps for eternity! Can we wonder that

strife sometimes mars the domestic circle—that wives are left lonely

and deserted—that the agency of man should so often be invoked to part

beings who have been joined together by an ordinance of God!

A happy union is indeed a scene upon which, without irreverence, we may

suppose the angels in Heaven gaze from their bright places of abode with

delight and approval. An unnatural or a discordant marriage, on the

other hand, must form a source of delight to the arch enemy of mankind,

for in it he can recognize the soul of evil. That the young should seek

for and cling to a kindred spirit is natural. The undivided possession

of a pure heart is perhaps the very acme of human felicity. “One home,

one wife, and one God,” is the sentiment of one of the wisest of his

race, and it is only when man is on the shady side of fifty that he

begins to appreciate the truth of this philosophy in all its solemnity

and force. Then his pleasures of life are derived as much from the past

as the future, and the associations of that past, if mingled with

virtue, fidelity, patriotism and religion, are indeed blissful.

We pity the lonely and the desolate—the loveless and the unloved—the

being without a wife or a friend—without one trusting and confiding

spirit, to whom the heart may turn in its hour of sorrow and pour out

its inmost and saddest thoughts. The cold and selfish mortal who passes

year after year without experiencing the delightful concord of sentiment

to be found in a kindred soul, is indeed the most miserable of his

species. Even his joys are robbed of half their delight, because

unshared by another, by one to whom he is allied by love and friendship.

Wretched indeed is the isolated individual who, mingling with the

multitude, can single out no destiny identified with his—no faithful

and devoted heart, the breath of whose existence seems bound up with

his. Nature has denied to such a being the holiest impulses that warm

and agitate the human breast. Even the birds are mated, and without a

ministering angel “a sweet companion,” the first born was lonely and

desolate in the garden of Eden. So it must ever be with the frail and

feeble things of mortal existence. If Paradise could not be appreciated

and enjoyed alone, how can man reconcile loneliness to his fallen

condition? The desire of the heart is for sweet companionship—the

inward craving of the spirit is for a being to love. Can we wonder then

that in this country, where early marriage is taught to be desirable, so

many should choose rashly?

We remember Annette Delisle as a being of yesterday. She sang well—she

danced well—and in many respects she was a beauty. Not one of our

beauties at the time, for her form was too slight and sylph-like,—her

joy was too gushing—her spirits too redundant. She dressed from early

childhood with taste and elegance, and wore her dark hair in long

ringlets over her shoulders. She had many friends, and even at sixteen

her admirers were liberal in number and profuse in flattery. Her mother,

a weak and vain woman, was proud of her daughter—proud of the attention

that daughter received, and eager to display her on every occasion. Thus

she not only frequently accompanied her to public balls, which were then

more fashionable and somewhat more select than at present, but she

permitted her to accept of numerous invitations to parties, and to

mingle almost nightly during the winter season in the gay scenes of our

metropolis. The father, good-natured man, was a manufacturer, and was so

wedded to business, that he could not spare time even for the proper

care of his favorite child. Alas! this good nature in fathers! It

sometimes degenerates into a sad vice, and is the source of much misery

in after life. The man who lacks the energy to control his own

household,—who is either too negligent, or too weak to point out the

true path and to direct the footsteps of his offspring therein, is

guilty of much that is unpardonable.

But such a father was Mr. Delisle, while the mother, worse if possible,

gave the reins almost wholly into the hands of her daughter, and was but

too fond of the hollow and unmeaning admiration which the practiced in

art and in compliment among the sterner sex are so apt to bestow upon

the vain and empty, whether old or young.

The result of this course upon Annette Delisle may well be imagined.

While she sparkled in the ball room, and glittered in the giddy throng,

her heart, her mind, and her morals were neglected. The mazes of the

world, its quicksands and its hypocrisy were unknown to her. She

flirted, laughed and trifled with the many, caught one hour by a fine

form, another by a rich voice, and a third by a dashing exterior. And

yet, in the depths of that young girl’s breast, were rich and true

affections. Properly trained, she would have graced any circle. Her mind

was good by nature—her spirit was benevolent and cheerful—and many of

the lights of beauty flashed and brightened around her. Despite her

artificial manner, and her air of coquetry, her feelings were deep and

strong. Her being was one of impulse, and her attachments, even to her

school companions, were animated by truth and fidelity. Thus it was when

Annette discovered that the society of Howard Leroy possessed an unusual

charm for her—that she saw him approach with pleasure—that she

listened with more than her wonted attention to his remarks—that she

felt the blood mount to her cheek at his compliments—that she found her

eyes following as he wandered through the ball room—that she lisped his

name even in her dreams.

Never can I forget the dashing Leroy. He was what is usually denominated

“a handsome fellow”—one of the butterflies of society—a ladies’ man,

in the general acceptation, and a favorite also with his own sex. He

rode well, talked well, and sang an excellent song. This latter

qualification was in some respects a fatal gift, for it introduced him

into many a gay circle from which he otherwise would have been

excluded—made him sought for, and vain of his voice, and thus won him

away from the more useful pursuits of life. Leroy, moreover, was fond of

poetry—was able to quote glowing passages, and had, withal, a touch of

romance in his character, which served not a little to enhance him in

the estimation of some of his female acquaintance. He assumed a

remarkable degree of independence—was rather bold and reckless in his

manner and language, and possessed the faculty of talking for hours in

relation to the prominent beauties of Moore, Byron and Bulwer. These

were the traits of character which won upon the mind and heart of

Annette Delisle. Her education and mode of life had fitted her for the

arts of such a man. She fancied him something superior to the ordinary

fop—to the mere merchant or shopkeeper. Leroy became her ardent and

enthusiastic admirer. The fact soon reached the ears of her father. He

roused himself for the moment, and proceeded to investigate the

realities of the case. Leroy he ascertained to be an idle, dissolute

pretender, and dependent, he feared, upon the gaming-table for his means

of subsistence. He was of good family, and had received a fair

education. But he had gone astray from the path of rectitude in early

life, and now contrived to appear on the principal promenades as a

fashionable lounger—but the world wondered how!

The manufacturer was terrified at the prospect for his daughter, whom he

really loved, but it was too late. Leroy saw the storm coming, and

prevailed upon Annette, by falsehood and misrepresentation, to consent

to a secret marriage. Fondly and long she clung to the delusion that her

husband had been slandered—that one who could _talk_ so well, and

_profess_ so much, could not be a villain. He _was_ not one, perhaps, in

the usual interpretation; but we can conceive of no more heartless

wretch than the man who deliberately deceives and betrays a fond and

confiding woman. Leroy never loved Annette with a true and exalted

affection. He felt himself bankrupt in fortune, and nearly so in

character, and he was base enough to become the husband of an

unsuspecting girl, in the hope of a dependency upon the bounty of her

father. Deceived in this, for the old manufacturer would have nothing to

do with him, he soon threw off the mask. At first cold and indifferent,

he speedily grew harsh and unkind. True, there were moments when his

better nature prevailed, and he would endeavor, by apparent contrition

and well turned promises, to atone for his conduct. But, they were few

and far between, and diminished in number as time rolled on. Strange,

despite the giddy character of Annette—despite the little care which

had been bestowed upon her principles, she clung to him with the true

fidelity of woman. She loved him with her whole soul, and while the

pride of her woman nature repelled the idea of any public exposure of

her situation, and while she even concealed from her parents much of the

unworthy conduct of Leroy, she still cherished a belief of his ultimate

reform. Night after night she sat in her quiet chamber, or gazed

earnestly from the window, in the hope that the form of her husband

might appear before the midnight hour. Who may paint the agony of her

mind at such moments—the jealous fears that shot like daggers through

her breast, as to his haunts and his society—the apprehension of danger

and of death—the terrible fancies which mingled him in some dreadful

scene at the gaming table—and, worse than all, the oft repelled, but

still returning conviction, that the wine cup was too familiar with his

lips!

God, in pity look down upon and impart moral courage to the lonely wives

of the world—the dejected ones to whom home is desolate, whose hearts

are breaking slowly, secretly, string by string—who live only for their

little ones, and because they know it wrong to plunge unbidden into

eternity! Beings who have ventured their all of earthly happiness, and

have lost all—who have been deceived, betrayed, and are now deserted!

Pity and console them, Great Creator, for the misery of unrequited love,

of wounded pride, of crushed affection, of hopeless despair throughout

this life, can only be soothed and softened by a heavenly influence!

Poor Annette! Step by step her husband plunged on in the downward path.

Ray after ray departed from the light of her beauty. Wider and wider

became the gulf between the manufacturer and his son-in-law. But, horror

of horrors! the crisis soon came! The resource of gambling failed at

last with Leroy, and _then_—he resorted to forgery!—ay! he forged the

name of George Delisle, the father of his wife, and fled the country in

order to escape the penalty of his crime!

* * * * *

But a few days have gone by since we saw Annette. Only five years have

elapsed since her marriage. What a change! The lily has supplanted the

rose—the eye has lost its fire—the step its buoyancy—the form its

grace. She is a doomed and broken hearted woman. Disease has “marked her

for his own.” Loss of sleep—mental anxiety—the disgrace—the

shame—the ignominy of her husband’s career, are hurrying her rapidly to

a premature grave!

Mothers, be warned! Virtue, Integrity and Religion are the only safe

companions for your budding and beautiful daughters!

* * * * *

TO THE NIGHT-WIND IN AUTUMN.

BY THE AUTHOR OF “TECUMSEH.”

Whence art thou, spirit wind?

Soothing with thy low voice the ear of Night,

And breathing o’er the wakeful, pensive mind

An influence of pleased yet sad delight.

Thou tell’st not of thy birth,

O viewless wanderer from land to land:

But gathering all the secrets of the earth

Where’er, unseen, thy airy wings expand,

At this hushed, holy hour,

When time seems part of vast eternity,

Thou dost reveal them with a magic power,

Saddening the soul with thy weird minstrelsy.

All nature seems to hear,

The woods, the waters, and each silent star;

What, that can thus enchain their earnest ear,

Bring’st thou of untold tidings from afar?

Is it of new, fair lands,

Of fresh-lit worlds that in the welkin burn!

Do new oäses gem Zahara’s sands,

Or the lost Pleiad to the skies return?

Nay! ’tis a voice of grief,

Of grief subdued, but deepened through long years,

The soul of Sorrow, seeking not relief,

Still gathering bitter knowledge without tears.

For thou, since earth was young

And rose green Eden purpled with the morn,

Its solemn wastes and homes of men among,

Circling all zones, thy mourning flight hast borne.

Empires have risen in might,

And peopled cities through the outspread earth,

And thou hast passed them at the hour of night

Listing the sounds of revelry and mirth.

Again thou hast gone by—

City and empire were alike o’erthrown,

Temple and palace, fall’n confusedly,

In marble ruin on the desert strown.

In time-long solitudes,

Where dark, old mountains pierced the silent air,

Bright rivers roamed, and stretched untraversed woods,

Thou joy’dst to hope that these were changeless there.

Lo! as the ages passed,

Thou found’st them struck with alteration dire,

The streams new-channeled, forests earthward cast,

The crumbling mountains scathed with storm and fire.

Gone but a few short hours,

Beauty and bloom beguiled thy wanderings,

And thou mad’st love unto the virgin flowers,

Sighing through green trees and by mossy springs.

Now on the earth’s cold bed,

Fallen and faded, waste their forms away,

And all around the withered leaves are shed,

Mementos mute of Nature’s wide decay.

Vain is the breath of morn;

Vainly the night-dews on their couches weep;

In vain thou call’st them at thy soft return,

No more awaking from their gloomy sleep.

. . . . . . . .

Oh hush! Oh hush! sweet wind!

Thou melancholy soul! be still, I pray,

Nor pierce this heart so long in grief resigned,

With ’plainings for the loved but lifeless clay.

Ah! now by thee I hear

The earnest, gentle voices, as of old:

They speak—in accents tremulously clear—

The young, the beautiful, the noble-souled.

The beautiful, the young,

The form of light, the wise and honored head—

Thou bring’st the music of a lyre unstrung!—

Oh cease!—with tears I ask it—they are _dead_!

. . . . . . . .

While mortal joys depart,

While loved ones lie beneath the grave’s green sod,

May we not fail to hear, with trembling heart,

In thy low tone the “still small voice of God.”

* * * * *

REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.

_Natural History of New York: By Authority. Albany, Thurlow

Weed, Printer to the State. New York, Wiley & Putnam, and D.

Appleton & Co._

We are among those who believe that, as characterizing the present age,

the cultivation of purely mechanical and natural science has been

carried much too far, or rather, has been made too exclusive and

absorbing. It is not the _highest_ science—for it concerns only that

which is around us—which is altogether outward. Man is always greater

than the world of nature in which he lives, and just as clearly must the

_science_ of man, the philosophy of his moral and intellectual being,

rank far above that of the soulless creation which was made to minister

to his wants. When, therefore, this lower science so draws to itself the

life of any age, as to disparage and shut out the higher, it works a

positive injury to the well-being of that age. Still it is only thus in

comparison with a nobler and more lofty study that we would venture to

cast the faintest reproach upon that natural science which in no slight

degree absorbs the intellectual effort of the present generation.

Regarded as related to, and a part of, a complete system of education,

it becomes most important and necessary; and its cultivation, even to

apparent excess, a cause of rejoicing and a source of the highest hope.

We need scarcely say, then, that we look upon the explorations which

have been made “by authority” into the Geology and general Natural

History of several of the most important States in the Union, as among

the proudest achievements of the present day. Most of them, it is true,

grew out of designs not the highest on the part of those by whom they

were originated. The development of resources, the discovery of mineral

wealth, or other elements of power, formed in most cases the principal

aim of those at whose instance these surveys were undertaken. But this

is of little importance. The results are, on this account, none the less

valuable to the cause of natural science, nor is our joy at their

successful prosecution the less ardent or sincere. In all the States in

which they have been undertaken, they have been fruitful of the best

results; and the facts thus brought together will be found of priceless

value to students and inquirers for ages to come.

The State of New York has just completed her survey, which has been

conducted on a scale commensurate with her wealth and enterprise. The

different departments of the survey were, in 1836, assigned to eight

gentlemen well qualified for the task, and from that time until their

completion, the explorations were conducted with energy and enthusiasm.

The reports are to be published in ten magnificent quarto volumes, of

which the first is now before us. A more splendid monument of

intelligent enterprise in the cause of science, has seldom been erected

by any State. The first volume contains only a portion of the first

report on Zoology, by Mr. James E. DeKay, to whom this department was

committed. Governor Seward has written an introduction to the work,

which occupies nearly two hundred pages. It is valuable as a historical

record of the progress of the arts, the sciences, and the various

branches of enterprise and industry in the State, though as a literary

performance it can claim no especial merit. It is, indeed, little more

than a compendium of the history of the State, and of its general

statistics, of which the different portions have been contributed by

different persons. The portion of the Zoological Report which this

volume contains—relating merely to the Mammalia of the State—is highly

valuable, and, to the naturalist, exceedingly interesting. Previous to

this survey, no complete Zoology of the State had been attempted. In

1813, Samuel L. Mitchell commenced an account of the fishes of New York,

which was the first work on the subject ever undertaken; and the impulse

given to the science by his labors in fact laid the foundation for

whatever has been effected in the same department since. Several other

branches of Zoology had received some slight attention before the

commencement of the State survey. Bachman, a well known naturalist of

South Carolina, had made interesting discoveries in the families of

smaller quadrupeds, and much valuable information concerning the

ornithology of the State had been collected by Wilson, Audubon, Cooper,

Bonaparte and DeKay. Barnes had classified the Unionidæ of the lakes and

rivers, and the Mollusca of the sea coast had been well studied by Dr.

Gay, of New York city. But the report of Mr. DeKay in this department

presents by far a more full and comprehensive account of the Zoology of

New York than had ever before been made. The State was divided into four

Zoological districts: first, the western district, embracing all the

western portion of the State, as far east as the sources of the Mohawk;

second, the northern, comprising all that portion of the State lying

north of the Mohawk valley; third, the valley of the Hudson, including

all the counties watered by that river and its tributaries; and fourth,

the Atlantic district, embracing Long Island. In regard to its natural

history, the northern district is by far the most important. Strange as

it may seem to those who are accustomed to hear only of the wealth, the

refinement, and the advanced civilization of the “Empire State,” there

is embraced in this northern district a great tract of a thousand square

miles, lying in loneliness, fresh as it came from the hand of God,

untouched, and almost unvisited by man. It is clad with forests of great

and majestic beauty, echoing only the sigh of the tempest, the screams

of the untamed dwellers in its wilds, and now and then the rifle of the

hunter, who there finds game, such as in long gone times the red men

loved to chase. It is thickly overspread with lakes, embosomed in

mountains, now lying calmly and smilingly beneath the sun, and the next

hour lashed into frowns, when

“The tempest shooteth, from the steep,

The shadow of its coming.”

Travelers who would wander through it, must provide themselves with

guides, and trust to hunting and chance for food and lodging. No one

_lives_ there—the whole is one vast, solitary wilderness, untouched by

man—lying in its own majesty—unconscious even that the foot of the

adventurous Genoese has been set upon the continent.

“Still this great solitude is quick with life;

Myriads of insects, gaudy as the flowers

They flutter over, gentle quadrupeds,

And birds that scarce have learned the fear of man,

Are here, and sliding reptiles of the ground,

Startlingly beautiful.”

This vast wild region is inhabited by many animals that are rarely found

in any other portion of the State. The bear, the moose, the panther, the

deer, and most fur-bearing animals, make their homes among its

mountains. Arctic birds, too, that are never known farther south, are

seen in abundance. The whole district covers an area of about six

thousand square miles. The western district is eminent for its fertility

and beauty, and has also a high degree of zoological interest.

The number of quadrupeds enumerated in the report, as found within the

State, is something more than one hundred. Each of these is

scientifically and fully described. Included in the volume are a great

number of illustrations, taken with the greatest care from the living

animals or the best specimens that could be found. The real colors are

preserved, and in every case the relative size is indicated. The

outlines, for the purpose of accuracy, were always taken with a camera

lucida, and the illustrations, drawn by Hill, were lithographed by

Endicott.

The whole style of the work is eminently worthy the enterprise, results

of which it contains, and the State which undertook its fulfilment. We

look for the forthcoming volumes with no little interest. The botanical

department has been under the charge of John Toney; the mineralogical

and chemical were assigned to Lewis C. Beck; the geological to W. W.

Mather, Ebenezer Emmons, James Hall, and Leonard Vanuxem, and the

palæontological to Timothy A. Conrad. Beside these reports, the results

of the survey appear in eight several collections of specimens of the

animals, plants, soils, minerals, rocks and fossils, found within the

State—one of which collections constitutes a museum of natural history

at the capital of the State, and the others are distributed among

collegiate institutions. We rejoice at the completion of this great

survey, and hope soon to see a similar exploration effected in every

State of the Union. The cause of science will receive from it an aid of

which scientific men alone can rightly estimate the value.

* * * * *

_The Holy War, made by Shaddai upon Diabolus, for the Regaining

of the Metropolis of the World. By John Bunyan. Philadelphia,

American Sunday School Union._

The celebrated Dr. Owen was occasionally one of the hearers of Bunyan,

when he preached in London; and being asked by Charles the Second how a

learned man, like him, could listen to the prating of an illiterate

tinker, he is said to have replied, “May it please your Majesty, could I

possess that tinker’s abilities for preaching, I would gladly relinquish

all my scholarship.” His genius as an author was even greater than he

exhibited in the pulpit. Southey, Macauley, and other eminent critics,

regard him as one of the “immortal authors of England.” The Pilgrim’s

Progress has been the most popular of his sixty or seventy works.

Probably no book by an uninspired writer has been more universally read.

The Holy War was written ten years after the appearance of that

beautiful creation, and if not equal to it in all respects, is certainly

one of the most ingenious allegories in the language, as well as one of

the most _useful_ exhibitions of practical Christianity. The edition

before us is superior to any other printed in America, in its typography

and illustrations.

* * * * *

_The Little Gift_; _Useful Stories_; _Poems for Little Folks_.

_Three small volumes._

Mr. Colman, of New York, in the autumn of every year, publishes numerous

miniature gift books for children, with fine engravings, instructive

tales and poems, etc., of which the above are specimens.

* * * * *

_Thulia: A Poem: By J. C. Palmer, M. D., U. S. N. Illustrated

with Twelve Original Designs, by A. Agate, Artist of the late

Exploring Expedition. One volume, octavo. New York, Samuel

Colman._

This beautifully printed and illustrated volume resembles very much, in

its appearance, the elegant edition of Gray’s “Elegy,” published several

years since in London. We can say no more in praise of its typography

and embellishments. The poem itself possesses considerable merit. Doctor

Palmer was attached to the Exploring Expedition which returned to this

country last summer from the southern seas, and “Thulia” is founded on

incidents which occurred on the war-ship Peacock, and the schooner

Flying Fish, while in the Antarctic ocean. The verse is free and

melodious, and the ideas and illustrations generally appropriate and

poetical. We quote a lyric that will convey to the reader a just idea of

the poet’s style.

ANTARCTIC MARINER’S SONG.

Sweetly, from the land of roses,

Sighing comes the northern breeze;

And the smile of dawn reposes,

All in blushes, on the seas.

Now within the sleeping sail,

Murmurs soft the gentle gale.

Ease the sheet, and keep away:

Glory guides us South to-day!

Yonder, see! the icy portal

Opens for us to the Pole;

And, where never entered mortal,

Thither speed we to the goal.

Hopes before and doubts behind,

On we fly before the wind.

Steady, so—now let it blow!

Glory guides, and South we go.

Vainly do these gloomy borders,

All their frightful forms oppose;

Vainly frown these frozen warders,

Mailed in sleet, and helmed in snow.

Though, beneath the ghastly skies,

Curdled all the ocean lies,

Lash we up its foam anew—

Dash we all its terrors through!

Circled by these columns hoary,

All the field of fame is ours;

Here to carve a name in story,

Or a tomb beneath these towers.

Southward still our way we trace,

Winding through an icy maze.

Luff her to—there she goes through!

Glory leads, and we pursue.

The notes appended to the poem contain the most interesting account of

the expedition that has yet been given to the public.

* * * * *

_Scenes in the Holy Land: one volume square duodecimo.

Philadelphia, American Sunday School Union._

This work is founded on, or rather is a free translation of, the “Scènes

Evangéliques” of Napoleon Roussel, published a year or two since in

Paris. It contains an account of the principal incidents in the lives of

the Savior and of the great apostle of the Gentiles, written with

singular simplicity and perspicuity, and illustrated with numerous

etchings by a clever French artist. It is published, we believe, as a

juvenile gift book for the holiday season.

* * * * *

_Ladies’ Annual Register for 1843. New York, S. Colman._

The Ladies’ Annual Register is a neat little annuary, edited for several

years by Mrs. Gilman, of Charleston. It embraces, beside the usual

contents of the almanacs, many useful recipes for the housewife, with

anecdotes, poems, etc.

* * * * *

_Biblical and Prophetical Works of Rev. George Bush, D. D.,

author of “The Life of Mohammed,” etc., and Professor of Hebrew

in the New York City University. New York, Dayton & Newman._

Professor Bush is one of the most profound and ingenious scholars and

critics of the present age, and we perceive with pleasure that he is

rapidly multiplying the fruits of his industrious pen. To all the lovers

of sound biblical exposition it must be gratifying to know that the

Hebrew Scriptures are in a fair way to develop their riches to the

English reader more fully than ever before. Professor Bush’s

commentaries on the Old Testament, now extending to six volumes, embrace

all the works of the Pentateuch but the last two, and these, we learn,

he proposes shortly to enter upon. His careful study, his scrupulous

fidelity in eliciting the exact meaning of the original, and his

peculiar tact in explaining it, have made his Notes everywhere popular,

so that before the completion of the series, the first volume has

reached a sixth edition, the second a fifth, etc. In all of them will be

found discussions on the most important points of biblical science,

extending far beyond the ordinary dimensions of expository notes, and

amounting in fact to elaborate dissertations of great value. Among the

subjects thus extensively treated are, in Genesis, the temptation and

the fall, the dispersion from Babel, the prophecies of Noah, the

character of Melchizedec, the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah, the

history of Joseph, and the prophetical benedictions of Jacob; in Exodus,

the hardening of Pharaoh’s heart, the miracles of the magicians, the

pillar of cloud as the seat of the Shekinah, the decalogue, the Hebrew

theocracy, the tabernacle, the cherubim, the candle-stick, the shew

bread, the altar, &c.; in Leviticus, a clear and minute specification of

the different sacrifices, the law of marriage, including the case of

marriage with a deceased wife’s sister, very largely considered, and a

full account of the Jewish festivals. The sixth volume, including Joshua

and Judges, contains an ample and erudite exposition of the Song of

Deborah, and an extended discussion on the subject of Jeptha’s vow, with

a view to determine whether the Jewish warrior really sacrificed his

daughter. The Professor gives an array of very strong reasons in favor

of the negative.

In his celebrated “Treatise on the Millennium,” which merely as a

literary performance has received the highest commendations of the

critics, our author has assumed the position that the millennium,

_strictly so called_, is past. But by the millennium he does not

understand the golden age of the church, which he, in common with nearly

all good men, regards as a future era. He contends that as the memorable

period of the thousand years of the apocalypse is distinguished mainly

by the binding of the symbolical dragon, we must first determine by the

legitimate canons of interpretation what is shadowed forth by this

mystic personage, before we can assure ourselves of the true character

of the millennial age. But the dragon, he supposes, is the grand

hieroglyphic of Paganism—the “binding of the dragon,” but a figurative

phrase for the suppression of Paganism within the limits of the Roman

empire, a fulfilment which he contends commenced in the reign of

Constantine, and was consummated in that of Theodosius, his successor.

Professor Bush draws largely on the pages of Gibbon in support of his

theory, assuming all along the great foundation principle that _the

apocalypse of John is but a series of pictured emblems, shadowing forth

the ecclesiastical and civil history of the world_. From a cursory

examination of his Treatise, we are inclined to adopt the opinion of one

of the first theologians of our country, that if his premises be

admitted, his conclusion is irresistible; and that _he_ did not know how

to gainsay the premises.

In the Hierophant, a monthly publication of which he is editor, he

enters elaborately into the nature of the prophetic symbols, and in the

last number brings out some grand results as to the physical destiny of

the globe. He assumes that a fair construction of the language of the

prophets is far from countenancing the idle dreams of Miller and his

school respecting the literal conflagration of the heavens and the

earth, and does not even teach that such a catastrophe is _ever_ to take

place. He denies not that this _may_ possibly be the finale which awaits

our planet and the solar system, but if so, it is to be gathered rather

from astronomy than revelation—from the apocalypse of Newton, Laplace

and Herschell, than from that of John.

In general literature, in science and in art, America has furnished some

of the best names in the world of letters; but it is in theology and

religious philosophy that our countrymen have made the greatest

advances. We need but allude to Edwards, Dwight, Emmons, Marsh, Beecher,

Alexander, Stuart, McIlvaine, and Bush in proof of this. Perhaps we may

add to the list Orestes Brownson, who, however erratic and peculiar, is

a man of singular genius and sincerity. In our endeavors to keep the

readers of this magazine advised of the condition of our literature, we

should fail of our intent if at times we did not notice books and

authors of a grave character. The useful and the true is in every thing

the national aim. The writings of which we have spoken particularly in

this brief notice, are distinguished for remarkable directness of

language and logical clearness, as much as for profound scholarship, and

they are among the most original works of their class brought out in our

times.

* * * * *

_Songs, Odes, and other Poems, on National Subjects: Compiled

from Various Sources: by William McCarty. Three volumes

duodecimo. Philadelphia, W. McCarty._

Mr. McCarty is a bookseller, of the long established house of McCarty &

Davis, in Market street. He is an antiquary also, and has in his

chambers one of the best collections of books relating to our history

and antiquities to be found in this country. Several years ago he

“formed the plan of gathering together our national songs and ballads,

deeming the task, however humble,” he says, “one of which the result

would be acceptable to his countrymen.” He has since gleaned from all

the files of magazines, newspapers and other periodicals, in the public

libraries and in his own possession, published since Braddock’s defeat

at DuQuesne, every scrap of verse, “good, bad, or indifferent,” relating

to men, manners and events in America, and had them printed in three

neat volumes, the first of which contains the “patriotic,” the second

the “military,” and the third the “naval.” It is certainly a very

curious collection. Some of the pieces, indeed, were written by

foreigners, and have as little relation to any thing in America as to

the quackeries of Græfenberg; and others are not decidedly poetical; but

by far the greater number belong to one or another of the divisions in

which the compiler has placed them, and, as he well remarks, “the

present and future generations of Americans will hardly disdain those

strains, however homely, which cheered and animated our citizen soldiers

and seamen, ‘in the times that tried men’s souls,’ at the camp-fire or

on the forecastle.” We perceive that Mr. McCarty has copied from our

Magazine for October most of the pieces included in the article on “The

Minstrelsy of the Revolution.” We have many others not embraced in his

volumes, of which we intend to present a few additional specimens to our

readers, in connection, perhaps, with some of the most curious verses in

the books he has given us.

* * * * *

_Wing-and-Wing, or Le Feu-Follet. By the author of “The Red

Rover,” “The Pilot,” “The Path Finder,” etc. Two volumes,

duodecimo. Philadelphia, Lea & Blanchard._

We received this novel too recently to be able to do it justice in our

present number. It is a story of the sea, and from a cursory examination

we are inclined to believe it equal to Mr. Cooper’s most celebrated

naval romances. The scene is in the Mediterranean, in the memorable

years 1798 and 1799. Le Feu-Follet is a French privateer, commanded by

Raoul Yvard, a skilful, bold and chivalrous sailor, and the interest of

the tale turns principally upon the manœuvres by which he preserves her

from capture by the English frigate Prosperine. The character second in

importance on board the republican privateer is Ithule Bolt, a shrewd

Yankee, who, impressed into the British navy, had shared in the dangers

of Nelson’s victory, and now added to a patriotic hatred of the English,

some slight ill will created by what he deemed unjustifiable appliances

of the lash during his service on board the Prosperine. Blended with the

main narrative is a history of the loves of the commander of Le

Feu-Follet and a beautiful Italian girl, Ghita Giuntotardi, one of our

author’s most admirably drawn heroines. Those who would know more of the

plot we refer to the book itself, or to the Yankee lieutenant, who in

due time returned to the United Slates, married a widow, and “settled in

life” somewhere in the Granite State. He is said at the present moment

to be an active abolitionist, a patron of the temperance cause, and a

terror to evil doers, under the appellation of Deacon Bolt. We are

pleased to learn that the publishers have fixed the price of

Wing-and-Wing at half a dollar—lower by fifty per cent. at least than

an American novel was ever sold for before. For this reason, as well as

on account of its remarkable merit, we predict for it a sale equal to

that of “The Spy,” or “The Red Rover.”

* * * * *

_The Poets and Poetry of America: with a Historical

Introduction. By Rufus W. Griswold. Third edition. With

Illustrations by the First Artists._

Messrs. Carey & Hart have just issued a new edition of this work, with

beautiful illustrations from paintings by Leslie, Inman, Creswick,

Sully, Thompson, Verbryck, Hoyt, and Harding, engraved by Cheney,

Cushman, Dodson, and Forrest. We believe that no other book of so

expensive a character has passed to a second edition in the United

States during the year. The fact that this has reached a _third_ edition

in six months seems to indicate that our poetical literature is properly

appreciated, in our own country, at least. The price of the third

edition has very properly been reduced to two dollars and a half.

* * * * *

_The Little Boys’ and Girls’ Library: Edited by Mrs. Sarah J.

Hale. Six books, small quarto. New York, Edward Dunigan._

The stories in these little volumes are written with taste and

simplicity. Though Mrs. Hale’s incidents are generally pleasing, we do

not in all cases approve their tendency. With deference for her better

judgment, we think the boy who, in “The Way to Save,” bought the glass

box, was much wiser than he who bought the draught board.

* * * * *

_The Youth’s Keepsake: A Christmas and New Year’s Gift for Young

People._ _The Annualette: A Christmas and New Year’s Gift for

Children. Philadelphia, Thomas, Cowperthwaite & Co._

Two very beautiful and interesting annuals, of the character of which

the titles are sufficiently descriptive.

* * * * *

_Sporting Scenes and Sundry Sketches: being the Miscellaneous

Writings of J. Cypress, jr. Edited by Frank Forester. In Two

vols., 12mo. New York, Gould, Banks & Co., 1842._

“J. Cypress, jr.” was the late William P. Hawes, of the city of New

York; and “Frank Forester” is the name by which one of the finest

scholars, critics, and writers, whose productions have ever given a

charm to our periodical literature—Henry William Herbert, the author of

“Cromwell,” and numerous tales and other compositions in this

Magazine—is known in the “sporting world.” Mr. Hawes was educated for

the bar; his writings were generally on political or sporting topics, in

the daily gazettes, or the magazines. The admirable series of papers,

entitled “Fire Island Ana,” was written for the American Monthly, while

that work was under Mr. Herbert; and most of his later compositions

appeared in the “Turf Register.” We have not room to do them justice.

They have never been excelled in this country, in richness of humor,

freshness, or originality. Mr. Hawes had the modesty of genius. He lived

in the quiet enjoyment of the life and the scenes he so felicitously

delineated, and was unknown as a writer beyond the limited circle of his

intimate friends until they and the world were deprived of his presence.

* * * * *

_The Task, and other Poems: By William Cowper. One volume,

duodecimo. Philadelphia, Carey & Hart._

Among the poets who have written in the English language on religious

themes, Cowper unquestionably ranks next to Milton in genius, and before

him as a teacher. The Presbyterian poet is admired for his sublime

conceptions and his unequaled mastery of language and the intricacies of

rhythm; but the bard of Olney is loved by the good and the true as a

friend. The new edition of the Task is one of the most beautiful

specimens of typography produced in this country, and the etchings, by

Cheney, which illustrate it, are of course admirably executed.

* * * * *

_The Way of Life: By Charles Hodge, Professor in the Theological

Seminary of Princeton, New Jersey. One volume duodecimo, pp.

348. Philadelphia, American Sunday School Union._

Among the many very excellent works published by the American Sunday

School Union, we know of none written with more ability, or calculated

to do more good than this admirable treatise. The plenary inspiration of

the Scriptures, the great practical doctrines they teach, and the

influence which these doctrines should exert upon the heart and life,

are set forth by the learned author with candor, simplicity and

eloquence.

* * * * *

_Books for Youth: Heroines of Sacred History, by Mrs. Steele;

Philip and his Garden, by Charlotte Elizabeth; Rocky Island, by

Samuel Wilberforce; Alice Benden, by Charlotte Elizabeth;

Clementine Cuvier, by John Angell James; The Simple Flower, by

Charlotte Elizabeth; The Flower of Innocence, by Charlotte

Elizabeth; and Moral Tales, by Robert Merry. New York, John S.

Taylor & Co._

The eight volumes, of which we have given the titles above, are bound in

a uniform style, and constitute a very neat and excellent library for

juvenile readers. We know of no books that can be more appropriately

presented to the young in the approaching holidays than those of

Archdeacon Wilberforce, John Angell James, and Charlotte Elizabeth.

* * * * *

EDITOR’S TABLE.

Miss Barrett.—In this number will be found a series of sonnets by Miss

Elizabeth B. Barrett, among the first of her contributions to any

American periodical. They were originally intended for “Arcturus,” to

which magazine they were sent; but arriving after the discontinuance of

that periodical, its editors placed them at our disposal, “thinking the

good company into which they would be introduced in ‘Graham,’ would be

every way agreeable to the fair authoress.”

Miss Barrett’s productions are unique in this age of lady authors. They

have the “touch of nature” in common with the best; they have, too,

sentiment, passion and fancy in the highest degree, without reminding us

of Mrs. Hemans, Mrs. Norton, or L. E. L. Her excellence is her own; her

mind is colored by what it feeds on; the fine tissue of her flowing

style comes to us from the loom of Grecian thought. She is the learned

poetess of the day, familiar with Homer and Æschylus and Sophocles, and

to the musings of Tempe she has added the inspiration of Christianity,

“above all Greek, all Roman fame.” She has translated the Prometheus to

the delight of scholars, and has lately contributed a series of very

remarkable prose papers to the London Athenæum. Her reading Greek

recalls to us Roger Ascham’s anecdote of Lady Jane Grey; but Lady Jane

Grey has left us no such verses.

A striking characteristic of Miss Barrett’s prose, is its prevailing

seriousness, approaching to solemnity—a garb borrowed from the

“sceptred pale” of her favorite Greek drama of fate. She loses much with

the general reader by a dim mysticism; but many of her later poems are

free from any such defect. The great writers whom she loves will teach

her the plain, simple, universal language of poetry.

Her dreams and abstractions, though “caviare to the generale,” have

their admirers, who will ever find in pure and elevated philosophy

expressed in the words of enthusiasm the living presence of poetry. On

Parnassus there are many groves: far from the dust of the highway,

embosomed in twilight woods that seem to symbol Reverence and Faith

trusting on the unseen, we may hear in the whispering of the trees, the

wavering breath of insect life, the accompaniment of our poet’s strain.

Despise not dreams and reveries. With Cowley, Miss Barrett vindicates

herself. “The father of poets tells us, even dreams, too, are from God.”

We cannot here do justice to Miss Barrett’s volume of the Seraphim, or

to her other poems. We cannot here illustrate as we would the lofty tone

of her conceptions, which in grandeur and human interest belong to the

highest and most enduring of lyrical strains. She has thrown aside

sentimentality, the fluency without thought, the cheap eloquence that

marks a certain school of lady poets, for the genuine language of

emotion, the fire-new currency of speech forged in the secret chambers

of the heart. From two volumes of her poetry before us, (unfamiliar as

yet to American readers—they cannot be so long,) we quote one poem,

perhaps not the most brilliant of all, but inferior to none of the rest

in the pathos, the tenderness, the deep Christian sympathy with human

life, which dwell in the soul of this rare poetess.

THE SLEEP.

“He giveth His beloved sleep.”—_Psalm cxxvii. 2._

Of all the thoughts of God that are

Borne inward unto souls afar,

Along the Psalmist’s music deep—

Now tell me if that any is,

For gift or grace surpassing this—

“He giveth his beloved sleep?”

What would we give to our beloved?

The hero’s heart, to be unmoved—

The poet’s star-tuned harp, to sweep—

The senate’s shout to patriot vows—

The monarch’s crown, to light the brows?—

“He giveth _His_ beloved sleep.”

What do we give to our beloved?

A little faith, all undisproved—

A little dust, to overweep—

And bitter memories, to make

The whole earth blasted for our sake!

“He giveth His beloved sleep.”

“Sleep soft, beloved!” we sometimes say,

But have no tune to charm away

Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep:

But never doleful dream again

Shall break the happy slumber, when

“He giveth His beloved sleep.”

O earth, so full of dreary noises!

O men, with wailing in your voices!

O delved gold, the wailers heap!

O strife, O curse, that o’er it fall!

God makes a silence through you all,

And “giveth His beloved sleep!”

His dew drops mutely on the hill;

His cloud above it saileth still,

Though on its slope men toil and reap!

More softly than the dew is shed,

Or cloud is floated overhead,

“He giveth His beloved sleep.”

Ha! men may wonder while they scan

A living, thinking, feeling man,

In such a rest his heart to keep;

But angels say—and through the word

I ween their blessed smile is _heard_—

“He giveth His beloved sleep!”

For me my heart that erst did go,

Most like a tired child at a show,

That sees through tears the juggler’s leap,—

Would now its wearied vision close,

Would childlike on _His_ love repose,

Who “giveth His beloved sleep!”

And friends!—dear friends!—when it shall be

That this low breath is gone from me,

And round my bier ye come to weep—

Let me, most loving of you all,

Say, not a tear must o’er her fall—

“He giveth His beloved sleep!”

Stars that Have Set in MDCCCXLII.—Among the dead of the year now

drawing to a close, America laments her Marsh and Channing, and Europe,

Sismondi and some less brilliant luminaries.

The Rev. James Marsh, D.D. was, at the time of his death, the third day

of July, Professor of Moral and Intellectual Philosophy in the

University of Vermont. He was a calm, chaste scholar, an earnest and

profound thinker, and a powerful and eloquent advocate of the highest

principles of religion and philosophy, with the perfect simplicity and

grandeur of whose life were blended the rarest virtues that adorn

humanity. His principal published writings, excepting a few articles in

the leading reviews, and some translations from the German, are devoted

to those high and spiritual principles of philosophy, of which Coleridge

and Kant were the most celebrated European exponents. We are pleased to

learn that Professor Torrey, one of the dearest friends of the departed,

is now superintending the publication of a complete edition of his

works.

The name of William Ellery Channing has been long familiar to the

readers of America and Great Britain. He was equally popular in both

countries, and in both was regarded as one of the greatest authors of

the age. The first edition of his collected writings we believe was

published some five or six years since in Glasgow, and the last, in six

octavo volumes, in Boston, in the winter of 1840. We presume his later

productions, unprinted sermons, etc.—sufficient to fill several

additional volumes—will soon be published, with his memoirs. Doctor

Channing was for a long period the leading divine of the Unitarian

belief, and though an ardent controvertist, was regarded by all men with

love and reverence. The purity of his life, his high aims, his candor,

and the dignity and beauty of his diction, won for him a reputation that

will endure when most of the names now prominent in the world of letters

are forgotten. He died in Bennington, in Vermont, on his return way from

an excursion among the Green Mountains in search of health, on the

second day of October.

John Charles Leonard de Sismondi was one of the most celebrated

historical, political and æsthetical writers of the time. He died near

Geneva, on the twenty-fifth of June, in his sixty-ninth year. He was the

author of New Principles of Political Economy, A History of the Italian

Republics, A History of the Literature of Southern Europe, A History of

France, Julia Severn, a romance, and several other works, making in the

aggregate about one hundred and fifty volumes, in the French editions.

As a historian he has rarely been surpassed, and in every department of

letters he exercised a powerful influence for nearly half a century.

Mr. James Grahame, author of the excellent History of the United Slates

which bears his name; Sir Robert Kerr Porter, the traveler; Theodore E.

Hook, the novelist, biographer, and dramatic writer; and Robert Mudie,

author of several works on natural history, etc. were better known in

this country than any of the other literary characters who have died in

Europe during the present year.

* * * * *

New Books.—We received several new works too late to be noticed

properly in our present number, of which we have space to mention

particularly only Mr. Norman’s “Rambles in Yucatan,” and Mr. Lester’s

observations on “The Condition and Fate of England,” both from the press

of Messrs. Langley, of New York. The first is an exceedingly interesting

work, and the last quite as good as the same author’s “Glory and Shame

of England.” We shall endeavor to do them full justice in our Magazine

for January.

The End of the Year.—With the present number we bring to a close

another year of the publication of Graham’s Magazine. The many

improvements which since our last anniversary have been effected in the

work, and the extraordinary accessions to our subscription list—between

twenty and thirty thousand in twelve months!—impart to us a

satisfaction which we trust is shared in some degree by our million

readers.

Since the commencement of the present year, Rufus W. Griswold has become

associated with the proprietor in the editorship of the Magazine; and to

our corps of contributors have been added William C. Bryant and Richard

H. Dana, the first American poets, and the equals of any now living in

the world; James Fenimore Cooper, the greatest of living novelists;

Charles F. Hoffman, one of the most admired poets and prose writers of

our country; Elizabeth B. Barrett, the truest female poet who has

written in the English language; J. H. Mancur, the author of “Henri

Quatre;” George H. Colton, the author of “Tecumseh;” H. T. Tuckerman,

the author of “Isabelle, or Sicily,” etc.; the author of “A New Home”

and “Forest Life,” who, under the name of “_Mary Clavers_,” has won a

reputation second to that of none of the writers of her sex in America;

Mrs. E. F. Ellet, the well known author of “The Characters of Schiller,”

etc.; Mrs. Seba Smith, whose elegant and truthful compositions are as

universally admired as they are read; and several others, whom we have

not now space to mention. All these, with our favorite old writers,

Professor Longfellow, George Hill, Edgar A. Poe, Mrs. Embury, Mrs.

Stephens, and others, we shall retain for our succeeding volumes.

We shall likewise receive regular contributions during the ensuing year,

from N. P. Willis, whose many admirable qualities as a writer have made

his name familiar wherever English literature is read; T. C. Grattan,

the popular author of “Highways and Byways,” “The Heiress of Bruges,”

etc.; “_Maria del Occidente_,” the author of “Zophiel,” and many others,

whose names will from month to month grace our pages.

Let our Past speak for our Future. The improvements made in Graham’s

Magazine, in 1842, will be surpassed by those that we shall introduce in

1843. In all the departments of our work we shall remain in advance of

every other candidate for the public favor.

* * * * *

The Author of the Sketch Book.—In a notice of the Miscellanies of Sir

Walter Scott, in the number of this Magazine for September, we made

allusion to reviews of various publications of Mr. Washington Irving,

which we had good reason for believing were written by that gentleman

himself. We learn with pleasure, from one who speaks on the subject by

authority, that Mr. Irving is guiltless of the imputed self laudation.

He did indeed write the article in the London Quarterly on his

“Chronicles of Grenada,” and received for it the sum we mentioned; but,

like so many of the modern “reviews,” it had very little relation to the

work which gave it a title, or to its author.

* * * * *

H. Hastings Weld.—We notice that this talented and agreeable writer,

formerly editor of the Brother Jonathan, has taken the editorial charge

of the United States Saturday Post, a family newspaper of the largest

class and circulation. We feel assured that the humor and vivacity of

Mr. Weld’s pen will tend to make the paper still more popular, and to

add greatly to the already enormous subscription list. This paper

already circulates more copies weekly than any other family newspaper in

the Union.

* * * * *

Transcriber’s Notes:

Table of Contents has been added for reader convenience. Archaic

spellings and hyphenation have been retained. Obvious punctuation and

typesetting errors have been corrected without note.

In the story _Malina Gray_, this concluding installment had two parts

titled Chapter III. The second Chapter III has been corrected to Chapter

IV.

[End of _Graham’s Magazine, Vol. XXI, No. 6, December 1842_, George R.

Graham, Editor]