"'By my trowel and hammer!' says the Gubbaun, to himself, 'if that's

the case, its full time to be goin' ourselves likewise;' and when they

were going to work, he told Boofun every word, for _he_ never

suspected. 'But never fear,' says he, 'we'll get out of this scrape,

if they did their worst and their best, and if they were seventeen

times wiser than they are, and if they had all the guards in his

kingdom to watch me; but howld _your_ tongue, and don't let on a word

of what I've said.'

"Next morning, when the king was up, and in his room, where he

transacted all his affairs, the Gubbaun came and sint up word that he

would be glad to see his majesty about something that was wanted for

the palace. Now the Gubbaun, sir, was always welcome; and it was only

because the king had _too good_ an opinion of him, that he was going

to kill him. When he was admitted, 'Well,' says the king, (mighty

grand,) 'is my palace finished, _or_ what do you want with _me_?' says

he.

"'Why, plaze your majesty's reverence,' says the Gubbaun, (for he was

a fine spoken man,) 'your majesty's palace is _not_ quite complately

turned out of my hands yet,' says he, 'nor I can't exactly call it

finished, nor let the people that's to come after me speak of the name

of the Gubbaun Seare along with it, unless one thing is done, that

_should_ be done, if your majesty raylly wishes it to be _perfect_.'

"'Well, spake your wishes, _and then, if I plaze_, they shall be

attinded to,' says the king.

"'Well, then, plaze your majesty, there is an instrument, and without

it, your statues, and your images and pillars can't be polished nor

complayted unless I get it, and that instrument is at home with me,'

says he.

"'What may be the name of it?' says the king.

"'Why, we call it,' said the Gubbaun, (of course they spoke in Irish,)

'_Khur enein khur, agus khaoun enein khaoun!_' (and that, your honor,

manes, the tricks upon tricks, and the twists upon twists;) 'no one in

Ireland owns such an instrument but myself, or at any rate not half

such a good one; and if your majesty plazes, I'll go home and get it.'

"'No,' says the king, '_you must never laive me_; when I've this

palace built, I'll build another, and I'll want you; if I let you go

now, may be you'd meet something better, though _that_ you could

hardly do, I believe; but may be you'd die on the road, and I'd never

see you again. _No_,' says he, 'you must _never_ laive me!'

"'Do you think so?' says the Gubbaun to himself. 'By my trowel and

hammer, though, I think you're considerably wrong! Why, indeed, your

majesty,' answered the Gubbaun, 'tis yourself that was ever and always

the good friend to me and my son; and, indeed, so happy am I here,

long life and good luck to your majesty!' says he, 'and may you

incrayse, and long reign,' says he, 'that I would certainly never wish

to part from you, and I'd be satisfied to build palaces for you all my

life; may be, then, in that case, your majesty would be graciously

plazed to allow my son, Boofun, to set out and get the khur enein

khur, agus khaoun enein khaoun?'

"'_No!_' says the king, says he, 'I'm nearly as fond and as proud of

Boofun as yourself; and it's my orders to double his wages, and to

double your own from this minute.'

"'Well, very well, your majesty, let it be so, then. I would tell no

common fellow here where it is, he'd just break it on the road; and if

I'm not, nor Boofun, to go for this instrument, things must stop as

they are, and the palace will remain unfinished to the end of the

world.'

"The king considered for some time; at last, 'Gubbaun Seare,' says he,

'I _must_ have my palace finished, and yet I _must_ have your

instrument; now my son, the prince, has nothing on earth to do--and

will you be satisfied if I send him? I will be your security that he

takes the greatest care of it.'

"'Well, your majesty, your will must be law. O! O! my poor instrument,

if any thing should happen you!'

"So, sir, the prince was ordered up, and the Gubbaun gave him all

kinds of directions how to carry it, and towld him where he'd get it,

'in the big chest, over the chimney-piece.'

"The next day the prince set out, and took but one companion with him;

and who should that be but his younger brother, a young lad that

wished for some divarsion--and the two only thought it a pleasant

ride.

"In a few days they reached the Gubbaun's cottage, and when Boofun's

wife saw them coming, she was sure something was wrong. Some of her

people were in the house, but she bundled them out; 'Be ready,

though,' says she, 'for fear I'd want you, but leave those lads to

me.' So they came in, and the prince saluted her most kindly, towld

her who he was, and begged lave to put up his horse. Then she asked

him 'how her husband and the Gubbaun were?' But he gave her a full

account of all I've told you, as far as he knew. 'But, ma'am,' says

the prince, very gracious intirely, 'there is an instrument that the

Gubbaun can't do without, that he wants to polish the stones,' says

he, 'and my father's so fond of them both,' says he, 'that he wouldn't

let him or Boofun home,' says he, 'and the Gubbaun wouldn't let any

common fellow come, for fear he'd break it, and so I'm sent to ask you

for it.'

"'And plaze your highness,' says she, 'what may be the name of this

instrument? for he left so many afther him here, in that terrible big

chest over the chimney-piece, that raylly I don't know which it could

be.'

"'Ah! sure enough,' he said, 'it was in the big chest,' says the

prince, 'and the name of it is--let me see, I dare say you know it

ma'am--the khur enein khur, agus khaoun enein khaoun.'

"'O, yes, your highness!' says she, 'I know the twists upon twists,

and tricks upon tricks very well, and a very fine, useful kind of

instrument it is, as you'll soon see. I don't know whether I'll be

able to get it out av the chist or not, but if I'm not able, you can

do it aisy, for you're a fine, tall young man, and may you live long!'

says she. So she got up on a chair and tried, and all she could reach

was the lid av the chest. Then she put another chair on that one, and

tried again, but she could only get her hand a little way in, and,

says she, 'O, the lid's mighty heavy! but do you try, and I'm sure

you'll bring it, for I can just reach it; I can almost feel it.' So

the prince fell to laughin', and mounted on the chairs in no time, and

opened the big lid av the chest, and looked in, while she gave the sly

wink to one of her brothers.

"'O!' says the prince, 'but it's very deep! I can't see the bottom av

it yet, it's so dark,' says he; 'get a candle.'

"'O, no!' says she, 'creep down, your highness; the instrument is

quite at the bottom, I'm sure,' says she. 'Now,' says she to her

brother, 'when I say _you're very near it_, catch a howlt av his legs,

and bundle him into the chest.' Now the prince's brother all this time

was ayten some bread and milk, and never suspected a ha'porth.

"'O, ma'am,' says the prince, 'I _can't_ reach it,' says he, bendin'

over, and balancin' his body on the edge av the chist, 'is it here at

all?' says he.

"'O, you're very near it now!' says she. And, sir, in a minute they

had him doubled up an' pitched into the chest, and caught a howlt of

the young brother and tied him neck and heels.

"'Ha! ha! what your highness asked for, you got,' says she. 'In all

your life now, did you ever see a finer trick or a nicer twist? Faix!

I think it was a rale trick upon trick, and a twist upon twist! Your

brother may go back now, as quick as he likes, and tell his father

that as soon as the Gubbaun is done polishin' the statues, we'll be

very glad to see him back, and Boofun too, and we'll take iligant care

of yourself until he comes; it was a good messenger he found to go for

the khur enein khur, agus khaoun enein khaoun. That's a fine fellow,'

says she, (to the young chap,) 'pelt away home, and when we see the

Gubbaun and Boofun in view of this house, we'll release your brother;

but mind me! if they are not in this house within one week from this

day, your father will never see the prince again!'

"So he rode home, tearin' over the roads like mad, and as soon as he

was gone, sir, she had the prince taken out av the chest, (for he was

a'most smothered,) and took him up the mountains in hide, and fed him

well, and took care av him.

"But O! your honor, how can I tell you how mad the king was, when he

saw the _hare_ that the Gubbaun had made av him, and how he wouldn't

spake a word all day, but cursin'. However, next mornin' he considered

that after all it was useless to fret, and that no time must be lost,

or he'd lose the prince.

"So he put a good face on the business, and called the Gubbaun and

Boofun to him, but took great care to explain to the Gubbaun how he

didn't mean to harm him, and all that, and they say that kings and

sich like people were always tolerable good hands at the _blarney_.

And he paid them all their full amount of wages, and made them

presents, and sent to the stables, and had two of the most splindid

hunters that could be found saddled and bridled, and gave them to

them.

"Well! they set out, and weren't long till they got home, and glad and

thankful they were for their great escape; and to be sure Boofun's

wife was proud indeed to see them, and she went and had the prince

brought down, and the Gubbaun invited all his friends, and a great

intertainment was prepared in honor of his return, and in honor of the

prince.

"In the evening, or rather the morning of the next day, the prince

asked leave to take his departure, but the Gubbaun wouldn't let him go

till he had written a letter to the king, and I think this was the

letter:--

"'_May it plaze your majesty_--I returned here quite safe, but I can't

let his highness the prince off without returnin' you many thousand

thanks for all you have done for me. You have made a family

comfortable and happy for life, and, by my trowel and hammer, I will

forever pray for your majesty's reverence! However, plaze your

majesty, _the instrument I have safe here_, which the prince wasn't

able to _make out_; and in all my expayrience I never yet met with one

that answered my purpose better than the Khur enein khur, agus khaoun

enein khaoun.

THE GUBBAUN SEARE.'"

EDITH MAURICE.

BY T. S. ARTHUR.

[SEE ENGRAVING.]

How many beautiful, lovely-minded women do we meet in society, who are

united, by marriage contract, with men whose tastes, habits and

characters, cannot but be in every way uncongenial. And on the other

hand, how often do we see the finest specimens of men unequally joined

to women who seem to have no true appreciation of what is really

excellent in morals or social life. The reason for such inequality is

very apparent to all who observe with any intelligence. The affinities

which govern among those who enter life's dazzling arena, are, in most

cases, external instead of internal. Accomplishment, personal

appearance, and family connections, are more considered than qualities

of the heart. Beauty, wit, station and wealth, are the standards of

value, while real merit is not thought of or fondly believed to exist

as a natural internal correspondent of the external attractions so

pleasant to behold. In this false and superficial mode of estimating

character lies the bane of domestic happiness. Deceived by the merest

externals, young persons come together and enter into the holiest

relation of life, to discover, alas! in a few years, that there exists

no congeniality of taste, no mutual appreciation of what is excellent

and desirable in life, and, worse than all, no mutual affection, based

upon clearly seen qualities of the mind. Unhappiness always follows

this sad discovery, and were it not for the love of children, which

has come in to save them, hundreds and thousands, who, in the eyes of

the world, appear to live happily together, would be driven angrily

asunder.

Aunt Esther, whose own experience in life, confirmed by much

observation, made the evil here indicated as clear as noonday to her

perceptions, saw the error of her beautiful niece, Edith, in courting

rather than shunning observation while in society.

"You wrong yourself, dear," she would often say, "by this over

carefulness about external appearance. You attract those who see but

little below the surface, while the really excellent and truly

intelligent avoid instead of seeking your society."

"Would you have me careless about my appearance, aunt?" Edith would

sometimes say, in reply to these suggestions.

"By no means," Aunt Esther would reply. "A just regard to what is

appropriate in externals marks the woman of true taste and right

feelings. But you go beyond this."

"Then I violate the principles of taste in dressing."

"I will not say that you do very broadly. Most persons would affirm

that you display a fine taste, and in using the word display would

express my objection. I think a woman infringes good taste when she

so arrays herself as to attract attention to her dress."

"As I do?"

"Yes, Edith, as you do. If you disguise from yourself the fact that

you both love and seek admiration for personal appearance, you do not

do so from others--at least not from me."

Aunt Esther did not wrong her niece by this judgment. It was Edith's

weakness to love admiration; and what we love we naturally seek.

Without actually infringing the laws of taste and harmony, she yet

managed to dress in a style that always attracted the eye, and set off

her really fine person in the most imposing manner. The consequence

was that she had many admirers, some of whom were elegant and

attractive young men. But none of these were drawn to the side of

Edith from a love of her moral beauty. It was the beauty of her

person, the fascination of her manners, and the sparkle of her wit,

that made her an object of admiration.

Edith had a friend whom she dearly loved; a sweet, gentle,

true-hearted girl, named Mary Graham. Those who were dazzled by an

imposing appearance, passed Mary with indifference; but the few who

could perceive the violet's odor by the way-side, as they moved along

through life, sought her company, and found, in the heart of a loving

woman, more of beauty and delight than she ever gives as a creature of

show and admiration.

Different as they were, in many respects, Edith and Mary were alike in

the possession of deep affections. Both loved what was pure and good;

but, while one had an instinctive power of looking beneath the

glittering surface, the other was easily deceived by appearances.

While one shrunk from observation, the other courted attentions. The

consequence was, that Edith had hosts of admirers, while only the

discriminating few lingered near the retiring Mary. The one was

admired for what she appeared to be, the other was loved for what she

was.

Two young men, entirely dissimilar in character, yet thrown together

as friends, by circumstances, met one evening, when one of them, whose

name was Ashton, said to the other,

"Erskine! I met a glorious creature last night--a perfect Hebe!"

"Ah! Who is she?"

"Her name is Edith Maurice."

"She's a showy girl, certainly."

[Illustration: W. Drummond

J. Addison

EDITH MAURICE.

Engraved Expressly for Graham's Magazine.]

"Showy! She's a magnificent woman, Erskine. And so you've met her?"

"A few times."

"Were you not enchanted?"

"No. Your glorious creatures never turn my brain."

"You're an anchorite."

"Far from it. I delight in all things lovely; and, above all, in the

presence of a lovely woman."

"A lovelier woman than Edith Maurice _I_ have not seen for a

twelvemonth."

"Though I have."

"You have, indeed!"

"I think so. She has a friend, named Mary Graham, whom _I_ think far

more interesting."

"Pray introduce me."

"I will, when opportunity offers."

Not long afterward an introduction took place, and Ashton spent a

short time in the company of Mary Graham.

"That's your lovely woman," said the young man to his friend, in a

tone of contempt, when they next met.

"To me she is exceedingly interesting," returned Erskine.

"Interesting! A duller piece of human ware it has not been my fortune

to meet for these dozen years. I should say she has no soul."

"There you are mistaken. She is all soul."

"All soul! If you want to see a woman all soul, look at Edith

Maurice."

"All body, you mean," replied Erskine, smiling.

"What do you mean by that?" inquired Ashton.

"All external. It is rather the beauty of person than the beauty of

soul that you see in Edith; but, in Mary, every tone and motion but

expresses some modification of the true beauty that lies within. Edith

bursts upon you like a meteor; but Mary comes forth as Hesperus,

scarcely seen at first, but shining with a purer and brighter light

the more intently you gaze upon her."

"Not a meteor, my dear fellow," replied Ashton. "I repudiate that

comparison. Edith is another Sirius, flashing on the eyes with an

ever-varying, yet strong and beautiful light. As for your evening

stars, with their unimpassioned way of shining--their steady,

planet-like, orderly fashion of sending forth their rays--I never had

any fancy for them."

"Every one to his taste," said Erskine. "As for me, I like true

beauty--the beauty of the mind and heart."

"Oh, as for that," returned Ashton, lightly, "let people go in for

hearts who understand such matters. I don't profess to know much about

them. But I can appreciate, ay, and love a magnificent woman like

Edith Maurice. You can have Mary Graham, and welcome; _I_ will never

cross your path."

From this time Ashton became the undisguised admirer of Edith. The

young man was handsome, well educated, and had a winning address; yet,

for all this, there was something about him from which the pure-minded

girl at first shrunk. Erskine she sometimes met; and whenever she

happened to be thrown into his company, she was charmed with his

manners, and interested in his conversation. Unobtrusive as he was,

she admired him more than any man she had yet seen. But the showy

exterior of Edith hid from the eyes of Erskine her real worth. He

looked upon her as vain, fond of admiration, and of course, as

possessing little heart--and turned from her to find a congenial

spirit in her friend Mary. Had Erskine sought to win the favor of

Edith, a man like Ashton would have proved no rival. But Erskine

evinced no disposition to show her any thing more than ordinary polite

attentions, and with an inward sigh, she suffered the heart which

shrunk at first with instinctive repugnance, to turn with its

affections toward Ashton.

Vain with the thought of having so imposing and beautiful a woman as

Edith for a wife, Ashton did not stop to inquire whether there was a

relative fitness for mutual happiness, but pressed his suit with

ardor, and won her consent before the half-bewildered girl had time

for reflection. Friends, who understood the character of the young

man, interposed their influence to save Edith from a connection that

promised little for the future; but their interposition came too late.

She was betrothed, and neither could nor would listen to a word

against the man with whom she had chosen to cast her lot in life.

A brilliant and beautiful girl, Edith was led to the altar by one,

who, as a man, was her equal in external attractions; but he was far

from possessing her pure, true, loving heart. It did not take many

months to lift the veil that had fallen before the eyes of Edith.

Gradually the quality of her husband's mind began to manifest

itself--and sad, indeed, was her spirit, at times, when these

manifestations were more distinct than usual.

The experience of a single year was painful in the extreme. The young

wife not only found herself neglected, but treated with what she felt

to be direct unkindness. She had discovered that her husband was

selfish; and though, to the world, he showed a polished exterior, she

had found him wanting in the finer feelings she had fondly believed

him to possess. Moreover, he was a mere sensualist, than which nothing

is more revolting to a pure-minded woman. External attractions had

brought them together, but these had failed to unite them as one.

No wonder that, in such a marriage, a few years robbed the cheeks of

Edith of their roundness and bloom, and her eyes of their beautiful

light. Those who met her, no longer remarked upon her loveliness, but

rather spoke of the great change so short a period had wrought. A

certain respect for himself caused Ashton to assume the appearance of

kindness toward his wife, when any one was present; but at other times

he manifested the utmost indifference. They had three children, and

love for these held them in a state of mutual toleration and

forbearance.

Ill health was the understood reason for the change in Edith's manner

and appearance. Few, if any, knew the real cause. Few imagined that

the fountain of her affections had become sealed, or only poured forth

its waters to sink in an arid soil. In society she made an effort to

be companionable and cheerful for the sake of others; and at home,

with her children, she strove to be the same. But, oh! what a weary,

hopeless life she led; and but for the love of her little ones, she

would have died.

Mary Graham was united to Mr. Erskine, shortly after the union of

Edith with Mr. Ashton--and it was a true marriage. A just appreciation

of internal qualities had drawn them together, and these proved, as

they ever do, permanent bonds.

Mary and Edith had retained a tender regard for each other, and met

frequently. But in all their intercourse, with true womanly delicacy,

Edith avoided all allusion to her own unhappy state, although there

were times when her heart longed to unburden itself to one so truly a

sympathizing friend.

One evening--it was ten years from the time of Edith's marriage--her

husband came home in his usual cold and indifferent way; and while

they sat at the tea-table, something that she said excited his anger,

and he replied in most harsh and cutting words. This was no unusual

thing. But it so happened that Edith's feelings were less under her

control than usual, and she answered the unkindness with a gush of

tears. This only tended to irritate her unfeeling husband, who said,

in a sneering tone,

"A woman's tears don't lie very deep. But it's lost time to use them

on me. I'll go where I can meet cheerful faces."

And then rising from the table, he put on his hat and left the house

to spend his evening, as usual, in more congenial society.

Edith dried her tears as best she could, and going to her chamber,

sought, by an effort of reason, to calm her agitated feelings. But

such an effort for a woman, under such circumstances, must, as in this

case, ever be fruitless. Calmness of spirit only comes after a more

passionate overflow of grief. When this had subsided, Edith remembered

that she had promised Mrs. Erskine, who lived only two or three doors

away, to come in and spend the evening. Had she consulted her feelings

now, she would have remained at home, but as she would be expected,

she rallied her spirits as much as was in her power, and then went in

to join her friend.

How different was the home of Mary to that of Edith. Mutual love

reigned there. The very atmosphere was redolent of domestic bliss. Mr.

Erskine was away when Edith joined Mary, and they sat and talked

together for an hour before he returned. A short time before Edith

intended going home, he came in, with his ever cheerful face, and

after greeting her cordially, turned to his wife, and spoke in a voice

so full of tenderness and affection, that Edith felt her heart flutter

and the tears steal unbidden to her eyes. It was so different from the

way her husband spoke. The contrast caused her to feel more deeply, if

possible, than ever, her own sad, heart-wrung lot.

Rising suddenly, for she felt that she was losing the control of her

feelings, Edith excused herself, and hastily retired. Mary saw that

something had affected her friend, and, with a look, made her husband

comprehend the fact also. He remained in the drawing-room, while Mary

passed with Edith into the hall, where they paused for a moment,

looking into each other's faces. Neither said a word, but Edith laid

her face down upon the bosom of her friend, and sobbed passionately.

"What is it that pains you, Edith?" Mary asked, in a low, tender

voice, as soon as her friend had wept herself into calmness.

Edith raised her face, now pale and composed, and pushing back with

her hand a stray ringlet that had fallen over her cheek, said, with a

forced but sad smile,

"Forgive my weakness, dear--I could not help it. A full heart will at

times run over. But, good-night--good-night!"

And Edith hurried away.

A few years more and the history of a hopeless, weary life was closed.

Is the moral of this history hard to read? No; all may comprehend it.

STANZAS.

Vain our hopes with pleasure glowing,

False the light ambition burns,

Swift the tide of time is flowing,

And the dial quickly turns.

Mark the flowers how they wither,

As the north winds pass them by,

And the sparrow passing thither

At the falcon's luring cry:

So our movements straight are bearing

Courses to the silent grave,

All alike its terrors sharing,

E'en the monarch and the slave.

From its verge there's no retreating,

Wayward, helpless masses throng;

Nature's wheels are still repeating

Revolutions swift and strong.

Onward with the current rushing

Atoms and their kindred blend;

Worlds to dust in fragments crushing,

As they proximate the end.

Thus all things, in perfect keeping,

Point direct to that dread day

When the trump shall wake the sleeping,

And this orb shall fade away:

When the planets wildly rolling,

As by Heaven's fierce lightnings hurled,

Thunders deep, like curfew's tolling

Requiems of the dying world:

Then shall join, in quick succession,

Stars, celestial bodies, all,

Form the trembling, vast procession

At their Maker's final call. S. S. HORNOR.

A DAY OR TWO IN THE OLDEN TIME.

BY A NEW CONTRIBUTOR.

[It is related of Justin Martyr that, while a young

man, walking upon a certain occasion on the seashore

near Alexandria, and meditating doubtfully on the

immortality of the soul, he met a stranger of

venerable appearance, who accosted him, and

discovering the subject of his thoughts, revealed to

him the doctrines of the Gospel on that subject.

Justin shortly after embraced Christianity--became one

of the brightest ornaments of the church--and suffered

martyrdom at Rome, at a very advanced age. From this

text the following sketch was produced, which may be

considered rather as a fanciful outline of what might

have befallen any Christian in the days of Rome's

fierce domination, than as faithfully following the

history of any real personage.]

CHAPTER I.

The sun was setting over the wide waste of sand which surrounded the

ancient city of the great Alexander. The sultry heat of a summer day

was beginning to give place to a refreshing coolness. All was calm and

still--the bustle of the mighty city, faintly heard in the distance,

seemed to enhance the quiet of the solitary shore upon which walked

one alone and in deep thought. He was a man in his youthful prime, but

clad in the grave robes of one devoted to the study of philosophy, and

his face was marked with the lines of much thought and study.

Sometimes he moved slowly on, his eyes fixed on the sand which the

retiring tide had left a firm and even footing. Anon he paused to look

at the play of the little waves, as they came murmuring in, and curled

their light foam over the last traces of his footsteps. Far as the eye

could reach, the blue waters of the Mediterranean spread themselves,

scarcely agitated by the faint breeze, and reflecting, in a long line

of undulating light, the glory of the setting sun. As the bright

luminary sunk, the eye of the wanderer rested on it, and a shade of

deep melancholy gathered over his face.

"Another day thou hast fulfilled thy task, O sun! and done thy Makers

bidding--again thou hidest thyself in the ocean's bosom, to arise

to-morrow with renewed splendor. Thou art no enigma, to give the lie

to all the conclusions of philosophy. Clear as thy light is the

purpose for which thou wast hung on high; steady as thy Maker's will

is thy bright obedience. _Thou_ fulfillest thy destiny--but man,

man--I and such as I--alas! we but resemble these useless waves which

foam out their little moment and vanish on the barren sand. Alas!

shall it never be that we shall find a solution of the mystery of our

being? How aimless, how useless, appears our existence. Confined to

this narrow stage, how vain are our mighty energies, our inexhaustible

wishes, our infinite hopes. Where now," he exclaimed, as turning to

retrace his steps, his eye was caught by the towers and temples of the

distant city, lit by the sun with transitory splendor, "where now is

the mighty hero who founded yonder city? He is gone forever from the

stage of being, as little regarded or remembered as the dust which the

hurrying crowd tramples in its streets. O for some certainty, some

assurance that this life is not _all_; that hereafter permitted to

awake from the sleep of death, man shall yet fill a part worthy of

his mighty spirit, shall yet find in infinite perfection an object on

which to expend those treasures of thought and feeling which corrode

hidden here in his heart, or are wasted on idols as vain as yonder

vapor which rises from the sea."

Absorbed in mediation, he had not perceived until now that another was

approaching, walking at a slow pace along the margin of the sea. As

the stranger came nearer, the young philosopher could not avoid

observing him with interest. He was apparently very aged. Long locks

of white hair streamed on his shoulders and mingled with the hair of a

beard equally as white. His robe was arranged with careful soberness,

and in his hand he carried a staff, though his erect and firm figure

did not seem to need its support. In his clear, bright eye, his ruddy

cheek and benign expression, appeared intelligence, health and

goodness, all the beauty of a green old age, all the charm of the

fully ripened autumn of life. As they drew nearer each other, the

stranger looked earnestly on the young philosopher, who regarded him

with increasing interest.

"Dost thou know me, my son," said the old man, at length, "that thou

lookest on me so earnestly?"

The young man bowed reverently as he answered.

"No, father; but I wondered to see one like thee here at such an

hour."

"I am here," replied the stranger, "to meet one who promised to be

with me at this place. But what, my son, brings thee to this lonely

spot, when yonder busy city is thronged with whatsoever can minister

to pleasure or the thirst of knowledge?"

"It is therefore I am here; for it is when alone with the great Author

of Nature, among his works, that we can best seek that highest wisdom

which is learned only by meditating on His nature and the end of our

being. The fountains of divine philosophy may be found even here in

the cold sea-sand."

"Alas! my son, and if they be, of what avail shalt thou find them? The

sand upon which the showers descend vainly for centuries, is not more

barren nor more unstable than that philosophy of which thou makest thy

boast."

"I boast not--I am but a seeker after Truth."

"Ay, so say all you philosophers; but what profit shalt thou have of

that truth which cannot be practiced in life, nor console thee at

death?"

"My father, it was but now that I lamented to myself my own useless

and aimless existence, and the vanity of those speculations wherewith

we strive in vain to pierce the mystery of our being. There are

moments when that foundation of reason on which I build my hopes of

eternal life seems to shift beneath my feet, as unstable as this sand;

when life and its purposes, death and its consequences, seem to me a

mystery more unfathomable than yonder sea. What assurance have I that

my existence will not terminate like that of the beasts which perish?

What certainty that, with my mortal frame, this spirit which I feel

within me shall not also die and disappear forever? It is true, there

are many probabilities that the soul is immortal, nature and reason

seem alike to teach that it is so, but still I have no assurance,

still that mighty hope at times seems vain, often it is eclipsed

entirely, and my soul is shrouded in darkness."

"My son, what wouldst thou give to one who could give thee an

assurance, a positive certainty, that thy hopes of immortality are not

vain?"

"Did there exist one able to give me that assurance I would deem the

devotion of my whole life a poor return for so vast a blessing. But

thou mockest me with so vain a hope. No created being is able to give

me such assurance, or is worthy of belief did he promise it. No--the

great Maker of my spirit alone can reveal to me if it be immortal; but

where shall I seek him to ask for that revelation? He is to be found

only in his own works, and I can but go back to that school, and

strive by meditation on Him to strengthen my spirit in the only faith

which gives any value to life."

The stranger regarded the young man with a long and wistful gaze.

"Wouldst thou believe me, my son, were I to tell thee that I possess

that assurance? that I am as firmly convinced of my existence after

death, as I am that I am now a living, breathing man? that I feel an

absolute certainty that you and I will meet, immortal spirits, before

the throne of God, who is the Judge of all men?"

The young philosopher smiled mournfully, regarding the aged man with a

look of affectionate pity.

"Thou thinkest now that this is delusion, but it is a truth, a hope

full of immortality. Listen, my son; has God left himself without a

witness of his own existence? Is it not written on the heavens and on

the earth in characters as clear as the light that he is, and that his

hand hath made all these things? Behold the sun which performs his

daily task so perfectly, the stars which write all over the heavens

the story of God's glory. Go forth into the field and behold his work.

See him preparing the bright cloud, which the winds gently upheave,

from whose bosom drops the softening shower--how richly the grass

springs in the valley--how the golden grain steals splendor from the

sunbeam which has smiled on it so long--how his hand is ever at work

providing for the wants of his creatures, and ever reminding men by

this silent ministry that he is the Author and Giver of every good and

perfect gift. If God hath so clearly revealed the great truth of his

own existence, is it not reasonable to suppose that he hath in like

manner revealed to man that truth concerning his own destiny which it

is most important for him to know?"

"That it is, indeed," replied the young philosopher, "on which we

build our hopes. It is reasonable, and it may be hoped that God will

yet make such a revelation--but, alas! it is only a hope."

"My son, my son, it is no longer a faint, uncertain hope, it is a

matter of perfect certainty, and if thou wilt abide by my words thou

wilt find it so, and it shall give thee, after a season, a peace past

all understanding. If thou wilt but submit thyself to God's teaching

thou shalt no longer grope as the blind at noonday, but a light above

the brightness of the heavens shall shine into thy soul."

The young man bowed his head, and crossed his arms upon his breast, as

he sadly replied, "God's teaching--but where, O, my father, may it be

found, save where I have vainly sought--among his works?"

The old man, without reply, drew a manuscript from his bosom, and

laying his hand on the arm of the other they walked forward together

over the smooth sand, while he read aloud high and burning words,

which the ear of his companion drank eagerly in. Upon that silent

shore, in the still evening air, arose that clear voice, uttering to

the astonished sense of the young heathen philosopher the argument of

Paul the Apostle, in which he persuades the Corinthians of the

resurrection of the dead. He read on and the other listened as one in

a dream, and the sun had gone down over the wide sea and outspread

sands where they walked alone, and one silver star came forth in the

west, the lovely Vesper, and looked at its image in the quiet wave, as

the old man read, with tears which would not be restrained, the mighty

conclusion, "O Death, where is thy sting? O Grave, where is thy

victory?"

CHAPTER II.

Behold another scene in the shifting panorama of a life. In a poor and

humble chamber, on a mean couch, lay one dying. It is evening, and he

is alone. Fearfully sounds the gasping breath and the low moan,

terrible is the look cast upward in anguish. The hurrying tread of the

busy multitude is heard without, the sound of music and merry voices,

and trampling of steeds and rattling of wheels, and still he lies

there alone. He is aged and poor, and his kindred have forsaken him,

for the heathen creed taught nothing better than the leaving such as

he to struggle alone with the last enemy. The light of evening waxes

fainter and fainter, and now a step is heard on the threshold, and a

form enters, dimly seen in the fading twilight. It is the same we

beheld on the seashore hearkening to the words of eternal life. The

seed there sown germinated soon under the culture of that faithful

teacher. In that heart it found a good soil, and it sprung up, and

bore fruits manifold of faith and temperance and heavenly wisdom. That

divine word taught him to seek his suffering fellow mortals and

minister to their necessities. This was not his first visit to this

poor dying man, and he was welcomed even now with joy and gratitude.

How gently did he smooth the pillow, how tenderly support the sinking

frame, how kindly bathe the brow and wet the parched lips. Philosophy

had not taught him this. O, no! occupied in high meditation, she swept

past the couch of suffering humanity; "commercing with the skies," she

forgot that man's mission is to his fellow man, and that his life's

business is to do, not altogether to think. Christ had taught this

young disciple a new, a different and a better lesson; and he sat

there now, patient and humble beside the dying man, regarding him, not

as an atom, soon to be swept from an aimless existence, but as an

immortal spirit shaking off encumbering clay and preparing for a new

and glorious state of being. With his own hands the young Christian

lighted the little rude lamp which hung from the ceiling, and sat down

on a low stool by the bed-side, and drawing a manuscript from the

folds of his robe, read aloud the same hallowed words he had first

heard on the seashore in the still twilight of a summer evening long

past away. Sometimes he paused to add a word of comment or

explanation, and when he had finished reading, he kneeled down to

pray. He was famed even then in the schools of philosophy. He had been

the envy of his fellow-disciples in the academic grove for his

profound wisdom and various learning. But had one of those

fellow-students stood there and beheld him, he would have scorned him.

He kneeled on the stone-floor. The dim light of the lamp fell on his

bowed head and long, dark robe, and lit faintly the couch of the dying

beggar. The only sounds to be heard were the voice of earnest,

heartfelt prayer, and the quick breathing which told that life was

ebbing fast with him for whom that prayer was offered with trembling

accents and tears fast falling. But, ah! there was a presence there

better than philosophy, greater than Plato, holier than Socrates,

"higher than the kings of the earth," even of Him "that sitteth on the

circle of the heavens," and saith "To this man will I look--even to

him that is poor, and of a contrite spirit, and trembleth at my word."

The whole night through the young Christian was a patient watcher by

the bed of death. Once he had wasted the midnight oil in the study of

vain wisdom and false philosophy, utterly forgetful that thousands lay

all about him perishing in ignorance and misery. Now how rich was his

reward when the glazing eye opened with a gleam of intelligence, and

the pale lips murmured the sweet hope of pardon, or strove to frame

the language of some remembered promise from the word of God. The

noise of the great city had long ago subsided. Solemn, indeed, was the

stillness; and the spirit of that faithful watcher almost quailed when

the King of Terrors laid hold of his victim with the last, inexorable

grasp. Long did he struggle in that savage hold with agony not to be

described. At last it was over, and he lay calm and scarcely

breathing. The beams of the cold, pale dawn stole in and dimmed "the

ineffectual fire," of the lamp, as the young man bent over that form

to ascertain if life yet lingered in it. As he did so the dying eyes

opened. How full of consolation was that look! He pressed the hand

that still held his; a faint, sweet smile stole over his face, and he

whispered in a tone so low that the eager ear of the listener could

scarcely catch it. "Thanks be unto God who giveth us the victory

through Jesus Christ our Lord!" They were the last words. As the

golden sun rose once more to light the towers and temples of the city,

he sent one rich beam into that humble chamber. The Christian was

alone with the dead now. He had composed the body in decent order with

his own hands, and reverently covered it over. The face was still

visible, but no distortion was there; the lips were gently closed, and

the eyes, as if in slumber; the white locks fell quietly down over the

hollow temples and wasted cheeks, and over all was written the

fulfillment of the promise, "Thou shalt keep him in perfect peace

whose mind is stayed upon Thee." Awful is the presence of Death

always; and when he has set his seal on the aged servant of God, there

is a holiness there which every human spirit must bow down before. No

matter how rude the form, how coarse the features--with his plastic

hand he moulds them into lines of superhuman grandeur. He robs the

face of the hues of life, and it becomes as pure as marble. He touches

the white hair, and it falls into beautiful repose. He breathes on the

distorted brow and smoothes every wrinkle. We know that the messenger

who has wrought this wondrous change is none other than the servant of

God, that he is the last commissioned of the ministering spirits to

the earthly tabernacle, that he hath no more that he can do, and he

compels us to look on his handiwork and stand in awe.

Long did the young Christian gaze on the face of the dead with solemn

thoughts and unuttered prayers--not, indeed, for the departed spirit,

for he knew that with that his business was accomplished and over for

ever--but for himself, that his latter end might be such. His

thoughts, not unnaturally, went forward into the distant future, and

speculated on his own dying hour, and he wondered what might be its

accompaniments. He prayed that it might be as peaceful as this he had

just witnessed, that he might descend into the grave as a shock of

corn fully ripe; that he might lie down with the sweet consciousness

that his work was done, and his reward sure. With no unhallowed

curiosity did he strive to pierce the future, but had some evil genius

been permitted at that moment to lift the veil which hid his own

death-scene, how would he have shrunk and shuddered, and his yet young

faith fainted in the contemplation.

CHAPTER III.

It was a bright, busy day in Imperial Rome. Never had her resplendent

sun shone more brightly on her marble palaces, her gorgeous temples,

her lovely groves and gardens. The scented air stole in through open

windows, where sat secluded lovely damsels and noble matrons; and it

wantoned, too, over humbler homes, where little children played and

sung and shouted joyously. It fanned the cheek of the pale student,

as he paced the lonely grove in silent meditation, and lightly touched

the troubled brow of the orator as he took his way to the forum. It

wooed the captive, in his cell, to dream of freedom and

long-remembered home. In the streets were heard quick footsteps, and

loud, merry voices. Traffic went on in the crowded mart, and pleasure

was pursued in the luxurious halls of the noble. Here, flower-crowned

guests reclined at the banquet, listening to sweet music, while yonder

the squalid miser counted his gold, and there a fair young mother

smiled upon her children. Just the same passions crowded into human

hearts that day, just the same delusions were followed, the same

pleasures felt, arid the same griefs deplored on that bright day in

Imperial Rome, as now agitate, or delight, or torture us who have

beheld that great city a living tomb.

While all this went on in the fresh air and sunshine of a summer-day,

far down, beneath the earth which upheld the city, were other and

sadder sights. In those terrible caverns, which run in veins of

darkness under its foundations, which travelers now fearfully explore

by torch-light, human beings, guilty of no crime but that of bearing

the name of Christians, were shut up, expecting, hoping no release

until summoned to a frightful death. In a solitary cell, small, damp

and noisome, lighted by a dim lamp, an aged man sat alone. It is easy

to picture to ourselves the hideous gloom, the walls sweating

unwholesome vapors, the oppressive thickness of the air, never stirred

by a fresh breath from heaven, the jar of water and mouldy crust, the

miserable garments, the pallid face and emaciated form of a prisoner

in such a place. It is less easy to guess what might be the thoughts

of one sitting there in expectation of an instant summons to

execution. More than seventy years had laid their weight upon him. His

hair was quite white, but his eye was bright and beaming, his whole

countenance informed with a noble, thoughtful expression, and

beautified, despite of man's cruelty, with benevolence. It was plainly

to be seen that only the outer tabernacle of the spirit was suffering

and declining, while that within was burning brighter and higher as

the mortal part drew toward extinction. He knows that his days are

numbered, but he meditates peacefully on the change which awaits him.

He knows that his death will be painful and ignominious, but he knows

not yet the exact manner of it--at least, it will be the end of his

long course, and then remain only the reward and rest. He has now

nearly arrived at a long-desired period, and he finds all the

sweetness of that immortal hope which first dawned upon his soul on

the seashore beside far-distant Alexandria. It seems as if that

glorious faith could only be known in its perfection of consolation in

such a dungeon, and awaiting such a doom; and promise after promise

from the word of God comes upon his memory, making that living grave

"all glorious within." Yea, it will be a blessed change. To-day he

will be done forever with sin and sorrow, and to-morrow he will be

"where the wicked cease from troubling." To-day he will take farewell

of a world lying in wickedness, and to-morrow will behold him a

companion of "just men made perfect." To-day he will quit his dungeon

and miserable garments, and wear to-morrow a crown of glory and robes

of righteousness.

As these promises and hopes crowded upon his mind, his meditation was

disturbed by a long, low, sullen roar, which seemed to shake the

ground he rested on. He started up with anguish and terror in his

face. He listened. Again it came, distincter than before, with a

sharper, deeper cadence. He shuddered visibly, and his face grew paler

in the dim light, and large drops of sweat broke out upon his

forehead. The third time it was repeated, and then all was silent. He

listened long, with strained ear and eye, which seemed to pierce his

dungeon walls; but he heard no more. He sunk back, and covering his

face prayed in an agony. Now, too well he knew what was to be his

doom. He had heard the voice of his executioner. It was the desert

lion roaring for his prey. Now he remembered that in these caverns

were confined the Christians reserved for martyrdom, and, in still

lower cells, the wild beasts to which they were to be surrendered in

the bloody amphitheatre. It is no wonder that mortal terror, for a

season, took possession of the soul of the aged Christian. He shrunk

with unutterable horror when he thought of the savage beast, rendered

fiercer by protracted hunger; of the crowded amphitheatre, the gazing

eyes, the exulting shouts, the unpitying human hearts. It was long

before he could bring himself to look beyond these and upward to Him

who sat enthroned on high and watched tenderly the falling sparrow. He

was a Christian hero, but he was also a man. His sensitive human

frame, his natural human will shuddered and revolted at the execution

of this frightful doom, and it was not until hours had passed, and he

had wrestled mightily in prayer, that he learned to contemplate it

calmly. Then great consolations were vouchsafed him; his crown

glittered bright before him; the passage to death was shown him as

short, though terrible, the hereafter, long, long and glorious, even

glory forever and ever. Above all he was shown the cross; and, O, how

inexpressibly dear was the Lord who hung there; and how sweet was that

most beautiful of all the promises, "God himself shall wipe away all

tears."

It needs not to tell how his furious jailors burst in upon his

solitude. How they dragged him to the arena. How, when the blindness

from the intolerable sunlight had passed, he beheld the crowded rank

on rank of eager spectators, and heard the shout which greeted a fresh

victim. He looked upward to the clear, blue sky, where soft, lovely

clouds floated here and there, and he inhaled the sweet, elastic air.

There was the usual offer of reprieve, pardon, life, at the cost of a

single act of idolatry. There was heard at the same instant, the

savage roar of the hungry lion, now kept near in waiting for his prey.

There was the shout of triumph when that last offer was refused,

calmly, contemptuously. Then he quickly found himself alone in the

vast arena. Other victims had been there before him. He saw the

blood, hastily and slightly covered--he looked round once more; alas!

there was no human eye to pity, and no hand to spare. With a bound the

mighty beast was in the arena, and close upon him.

It was soon over. This was the conclusion of the day's spectacle, and

plebeian and patrician Romans were on their way homeward, talking of

this and that, merrily, carelessly; and the so lately crowded

Amphitheatre was solitary and deserted. But the sun, with his mighty

eye, looked down upon the guilty spot, and his hot beam drank up a

portion of the fresh blood, and the winds of heaven sighed round it,

and the clouds came and cast their shadows over it; and centuries have

passed since then, and still the sun and winds and clouds have gone

about it, day after day, and still the eye of God beholds, and its

dumb walls and crumbling arches cry aloud for vengeance.

GAME-BIRDS OF AMERICA.--NO. X.

THE RAIL. (_Rallus._ LINNAEUS.)

Taken altogether, the generic characters of the several kinds of Rail

may be stated to be as follows: the bill longer than the head,

straight or slightly curved, compressed at the base, and cylindrical

toward the tips, the upper mandible channeled, the nostrils opening

longitudinally at the base of the bill in the grooves, open through

and through, but in part closed with membrane; legs very stout, bare

of feathers to some distance above the tarsal joints, with three long

toes to the front and one to the rear, articulated on the tarsus, the

front toes free or divided to their bases; the wings of mean length

and rounded, the first quill being shorter than the second, and the

third and fourth the longest in the wing.

The Clapper Rail, or Mud Hen, is one of the most remarkable, and like

its relative, the Corncrake of England, makes its note heard all the

night long. It is fourteen inches in length and eighteen in the

stretch of the wings; the bill is two inches and a quarter long,

slightly bent, and of a reddish-brown color; the upper part is black,

and streaked with dull brown; the chin and streak over the eye are

brownish-white; the fore neck and breast are reddish-brown; the flanks

and vent black, with white tips to the feathers; the coverts of the

wings are dark chestnut-brown, and the tail-feathers and quills dusky,

without any margins; the legs are dull brown, and the irides dark red.

This species is very common, during the summer, through all the

latitudes of the United States, keeping near the sea-coast, as it

prefers the salt marshes to the waters of the interior. It is a very

noisy bird, especially during the night and before rain, which are, of

course, the times when the _molusca crustacea_, and other small

animals, upon which it feeds in the marshes, are in the greatest

activity, and most easy to be obtained.

Wilson's account of the casualties to which it is exposed in the

breeding season, is so graphic, that we shall in part quote it. "About

the twentieth of May," he says, "they usually begin building and

laying at the same time; the first egg being usually dropped in a

slight cavity lined with a little dry grass pressed for the purpose,

which, as the eggs increase to their usual complement, is gradually

added to till it rises to the height of twelve inches or more,

doubtless to secure it from the rising of the tides. Over this the

long, salt grass is artfully arched, to conceal it from the view

above; but this very circumstance enables the experienced egg-hunter

to distinguish the spot at the distance of thirty or forty yards,

though, imperceptible to a common eye. The eggs are of a pale clay

color, sprinkled with small spots of dark red, and measure somewhat

more than an inch and a half in length by an inch in breadth, being

rather obtuse at the small end. These eggs are delicious eating, far

surpassing those of the domestic hen. The height of laying is about

the first of June, when the people of the neighborhood go to the

marshes _an egging_, as it is so called. So abundant are the nests of

this species, and so dexterous some persons at finding them, that one

hundred dozen of eggs have been collected by one man in a day. At this

time the crows, the minx, and the foxes, come in for their share, but,

not content with the eggs, these last often seize and devour the

parents also. The bones, feathers, wings, &c., of the poor mud hen lie

in heaps by the hole of the minx, by which circumstance, however, he

himself is often detected and destroyed." It seems as if the very

elements were in conspiracy against these birds; they "are subject to

another calamity of a more extensive kind; after the greater part of

the eggs are laid there sometimes happen violent north-east tempests

that drive a great sea into the bay, covering the whole marshes; so

that at such times the Rail may be seen in hundreds floating over the

marsh in great distress; many escape to the main land, and vast

numbers perish. On an occasion of this kind I have seen, at one view,

thousands in a single meadow, walking about exposed and bewildered,

while the dead bodies of the females, who perished on or near their

nests, were strewed along the shore. The last circumstance shows how

strong the tie of maternal affection is in these birds, for, of the

great number which I picked up and opened, not one male was to be

found among them, all were females; such as had not yet begun to sit

probably escaped. These disasters do not prevent the survivors from

recommencing the work of laying and building anew; and instances have

occurred in which their eggs have been twice destroyed by the sea, and

yet in two weeks the nests and eggs seemed as numerous as ever. If all

is well, the young are soon able to run about, which they do with

great swiftness, and tread the grass and other marsh plants with

wonderful dexterity. They can swim in smooth water, though they are,

of course, ill able to contend with an inbreak of the sea. Swimming is

a much more severe action in them, however, than in birds which have

the feet webbed or lobed; though they strike powerfully, their stroke

tells but little upon the water; and the rapidity of their stroke

proves their distrust of that element--their feet are for the land,

not for the water, and on the level ground and the leaves of floating

plants, they run with astonishing rapidity."

The Virginian or Lesser Clapper Rail is scarcely distinguishable from

the true Clapper, except by its reduced size; and in every part of

America it appears to be a somewhat rare species. It confines itself

to the fresh-water marshes, and thereby escapes many of the mishaps

which befall its relative. This circumstance also has caused the

people of New Jersey to bestow upon it the name of the Fresh Water Mud

Hen, and renders it not unknown on the bogs and swampy grounds near

the Ohio and Mississippi. Their flesh is not inferior to that of the

Soree, but their diminutive size renders them little sought after as

game. The Soree or Common Rail of America, than which, perhaps, none

affords a more delicious repast, or more agreeable amusement, is now

before us.

[Illustration: CAROLINA RAIL. (_Crex Carolinus._ BONAPARTE.)]

The natural history of the Rail, or Soree, or Coot, as it is called in

the Carolinas, is involved in much mystery, the process of incubation

being still more unknown than the exact places where it is effected.

The general character of the Sorees is the same as that of the two

other species of Rail already mentioned. They run swiftly, fly slowly,

and usually with the legs hanging down, become extremely fat, prefer

running to flying, and are extremely fond of concealment. In Virginia,

along the shores of the James River, the inhabitants take advantage of

the effect produced upon the Rail by fright much in the following

fashion. A mast is erected in a light canoe, surmounted by a grate, in

which is a quantity of fire. The person who manages the canoe is

provided with a light paddle, and at night, about an hour before high

tide, proceeds through and among the reeds. The birds stare with

astonishment at the light, and as they appear, are knocked on the head

with the paddle and thrown into the boat. Three negroes have been

known to kill from twenty to eighty dozen in the space of three hours.

The reeds attain their full growth along the shores of the Delaware in

August, when the Rail resort to them in great numbers to feed upon the

seeds, of which they, as well as the Rice Birds, are excessively fond.

The eloquent Wilson, than whom no one could more enjoy the pleasures

of Rail-shooting, thus speaks of the sport: "As you walk along the

bank of the river at this period, you hear them squeaking in every

direction like young puppies. If a stone be thrown among the reeds,

there is a general outcry and reiterated kuk, kuk, kuk, something like

that of a Guinea-fowl. Any sudden noise, or the discharge of a gun,

produces the same effect. In the meantime none are to be seen, unless

it be at or near high water; for, when the tide is low, they

universally secrete themselves among the interstices of the reeds, and

you may walk past, and even over them, where there are hundreds,

without seeing a single individual. On their first arrival they are

generally lean, and unfit for the table, but as the reeds ripen they

rapidly fatten, and from the twentieth of September to the middle of

October, are excellent, and eagerly sought after. The usual method of

shooting them in this quarter of the country is as follows: The

sportsman furnishes himself with a light batteau, and a stout,

experienced boatman, with a pole of twelve or fifteen feet long,

thickened at the lower end to prevent it from sinking too deep into

the mud. About two hours or so before high-water they enter the reeds,

and each takes his post, the sportsman standing in the bow ready for

action, the boatman on the stern-seat pushing her steadily through the

reeds. The Rail generally spring singly, as the boat advances, and at

a short distance ahead, are instantly shot down, while the boatman,

keeping his eye on the spot where the bird fell, directs the boat

forward and picks it up as the gunner is loading. It is also the

boatman's business to keep a sharp look-out, and give the word 'Mark!'

when a Rail springs on either side without being observed by the

sportsman, and to note the exact spot where it falls until he has

picked it up; for this, once lost sight of, owing to the sameness in

the appearance of the reeds, is seldom found again. In this manner the

boat moves steadily through and over the reeds, the birds flushing and

falling, the gunner loading and firing, while the boatman is pushing

and picking up. The sport continues till an hour or two after

high-water, when the shallowness of the water, and the strength and

weight of the floating reeds, and also the backwardness of the game to

spring as the tide decreases, oblige them to return. Several boats are

sometimes within a short distance of each other, and perpetual

cracking of musketry prevails along the whole reedy shores of the

river. In these excursions it is not uncommon for an active and expert

marksman to kill ten or twelve dozen in a tide. They are usually shot

singly, though I have known five killed at one discharge of a

double-barreled piece. These instances are rare. The flight of these

birds among the reeds is usually low; and shelter being abundant, is

rarely extended to more than fifty or one hundred yards. When winged

and uninjured in their legs, they swim and dive with great rapidity,

and are seldom seen to rise again. I have several times on such

occasions discovered them clinging with their feet to the reeds under

the water; and at other times skulking under the floating reeds with

their bill just above the surface. Sometimes, when wounded, they dive,

and rising under the gunwale of the boat, secrete themselves there,

moving round as the boat moves until they have an opportunity of

escaping unnoticed. They are feeble and delicate in every thing but

the legs, which seem to possess great vigor and energy, and their

bodies being so remarkably thin or compressed as to be less than an

inch and a quarter through transversely, they are enabled to pass

between the reeds like rats. Yet though their flight among the reeds

seems feeble and fluttering, every sportsman who is acquainted with

them here must have seen them occasionally rising to a considerable

height, stretching out their legs behind them, and flying rapidly

across the river where it is more than a mile in width."

[Illustration: PURPLE GALLINULE. (_Gallinula Porphyrio._ WILSON.)]

Before concluding this article, we would say a few words in behalf of

the Gallinule, called, from its resemblance to the domestic fowl, the

Water Hen. In respect to manners, it is, according to Latham, a very

docile bird, being easily tamed and feeding with the common poultry,

scratching the ground with the foot like the latter. It will feed on

many things, such as roots of plants, fruits, and grain, but will eat

fish with avidity, dipping them in the water before it swallows them;

will frequently stand on one leg and lift the food to its mouth with

the other, like a parrot. Its flesh is exquisite in taste. This bird

was famous among the ancients under the name Porphyrion, indicating

the red or purple tint of its bill and feet--a far more appropriate

appellation than that now vulgarly applied to it. It is known to breed

in Georgia, whose thick swamps favor the concealment to which it is

partial. It is extremely vigilant and shy, and cannot be shot without

great difficulty. They move with grace upon the water, and run with

equal facility on the ground or on the leaves of water plants.

MY LOVE.

BY J. IVES PEASE.

I love! and ah, 'tis bliss to feel

My breast no longer lone and cold;

To know, though Time all else should steal,

The _heart_ can never all grow old!

I love! and now I _live_ again!

The world looks brighter to my eyes;

There is a gladness on the plain--

A newer glory in the skies.

I love! Her smile is o'er my path

Like sunlight in sweet April hours:

Her voice steals o'er me like the breath

Of morning to half-withered flowers.

I love! Ah _she_ may never know

How wild my love! I have no sigh--

I have no word--nor look to show

How much I'm blessed when she is nigh.

And it is well!--my hapless love

May never dare to ask return--

Enough that her glad smiles may move

_My heart--I ask not hers to burn!_

Ah no. 'Tis better thus to meet

With equal pulse and tranquil brow--

Drink, through her eyes, delirium sweet.

Can madness from such fountains flow?

I know not! Dearest, still, oh still,

"Look love upon me," sweet and kind!--

Let thy glad thought, in music, thrill

Bright witchcraft through my longing mind.

I clasp thee to my breast--in dreams!

Thy lips rain kisses warm and fast--

And I half hate the morning beams

That scare thee to thy home at last.

Thy "home!"--ah, would it ne'er had been--

Thy home and mine are wide apart--

The world's grim shadow glooms between--

And my life lives but where thou art.

Ah, dearest, we're not happy! Life

Yields not the bliss 'twas meant to do:

Discord _might_ come of wrong and strife--

Should sorrow spring from duty, too?

Thou art not happy, dearest, thou!--

A shade has fallen on thy young years;

Thou art not happy: even now

Thine eyes are full of unshed tears.

And this our fate? My Life!--my "world!"--

Too late beloved--too rarely seen--

And we, as o'er Time's tide we're hurled,

Can only say "WE MIGHT HAVE BEEN!"

LIFE.

BY A. J. REQUIER.

In every life there is a stream

Whose waters flow,

Dark as the current of a dream,

And seem to throw

On cup and hall and summer beam

A sign of wo!

In every life there is a ray

That shineth still,

From noon to night and night to day,

Through every ill;

And serves to light our solemn way

Go where we will.

Oh, traveler! of that stream beware

Which cannot glow;

It floweth only where a snare

Is lying low,

To deal upon thee unaware

A fatal blow.

Oh, traveler! seek that gentle ray

Which constant gleams,

So beautiful that none can say

Like what it seems;

The star predestined on thy way

To throw its beams.

For in that stream of leafless shade

A fiend is hid;

And on thy fall his heart is laid,

Thy fall amid

The sinner's shriek and shroud and spade

And coffin-lid.

And in that ray so pure and bright

A buoyant form,

Will bear thee through the darkest night

Away from harm;

Swift as the rainbow's graceful flight

Out of the storm.

Let fate be stern--let fortune fly--

Their chastening rod

Strikes not the soul whose strength is high

Above its clod;

Thy heart may bleed to breaking nigh--

But trust in God!

GEMS FROM LATE READINGS.

BY MISS ELLEN PICKERING.

"An humble appreciation of your powers might save you pain; but I

doubt if your humility exceeds your knowledge. Fascinated by harmony

of tone and grace of manner, you perceive not a deficiency in

energy--a want of moral courage. You close your eyes against every

token of an over-sensitiveness to ridicule, veiled beneath the more

graceful cloak of fastidious taste. You will not understand that pride

and weakness fashion a character which, however seemingly amiable in

many other points, is not such as to repay the devotion of a woman's

love. A strong mind will make itself known; and where all is perfect

harmony, no unmodulated tone, no sudden and impulsive movement, no

springing into action, there is art, and that may not be trusted--or

there is over-refinement, wasted powers, a trivial mind, without a

noble aim--or there is weakness, which fears ridicule--a moral

cowardice: or there is mediocrity, that cannot rise above the common

herd--that dares not dare--that may pass unnoted in prosperity, but

whose powers rise not in adversity. Such should not be throned in

woman's heart! He is not worthy woman's tender, self-denying love,

whom a sneer will change--a laugh will part--he will be found

wanting--he will stand aloof when the faint heart turns to him for

consolation. Wo to you! wo to you, especially if you trust such. You

cannot always tread on flowers; choose one who can and will smooth

down a rugged path. The gilded vessel, the child's plaything, rides

gayly on a glassy sea--but life is not a glassy sea; the storm must

come. If you would reach the peaceful port, embark not in a summer

yacht; select a ship that can abide the storm--a mind that can

maintain its course--that struggles--and will conquer. Look there," he

continued, for she made no reply, taking up a highly finished drawing

from the table, the performance showing more pains than genius, and

contrasting it with a bold, free sketch which lay beside it, "there

they are exactly, the one all harmony, or insipidity as I should call

it; a model of weakness--highly finished--not a stroke

wanting--complete as a whole--but how poor a whole! Without the

possibility of amendment, too: deficient in energy--not a bold line:

and were such put in it would be out of place--it would spoil the

keeping. Now look on this! A bold and vigorous outline--the work of

mind, seizing the attention: soul, not manner; thought, not mechanism;

it may be filled up ill, but it may also be filled up well: there is

the capability of greatness: there may be faults in the petty details,

but the whole will compel admiration, and not weary in the survey.

This other makes me yawn. Better choose the bold, the frank, the

generous, with all his faults; he may be rash, unthinking, wasting the

powers whose force he knows not; but the capabilities of amendment are

within him. What say you to my exordium?"

* * * * *

It is great injustice to assert that delicacy of feeling is confined

to the higher ranks, and is the offspring of refinement and education;

these may nourish and increase, but they cannot give it. It is innate;

the child of the untutored heart; the very essence of the beautiful:

chained to no climate, bounded to no rank.

We have seen the wealthy, those who thought themselves the great ones

of the earth, take leave of those of fallen fortunes with undimmed eye

and steady voice, as though they knew not that there was cause for

sorrow, guessed not that the heart was well nigh broken, and only

stayed the expression of its grief that the cold gaze might not mock

it. We have seen the lowly ones of earth, lowly in station, but how

high in worth! part from the same; and the lip could not speak for the

heart's feeling; and the tears of the mourner, repressed before lest

the cold should mock, mingled with theirs. The first passed on with

stately step, and a cold offer of future service; the last plucked the

only rose from the favorite tree, and placed it by the traveler's

cloak with a trembling hand and quivering lip. They thought that the

traveler would prize it as a memorial of a once happy home. That

single rose, and its kind and delicate giver, can they ever be

forgotten? If all the memories of misfortune were like that who would

not be unfortunate? What feeling so endearing, so ennobling as

gratitude? Even love, though it may have more of beauty and

brightness, is not so generous and so pure.

* * * * *

What a glorious day! Not a heavy cloud in all the sky, only a few

fleecy forms floating across the rich blue vault, and the sun shining

out in all its summer splendor, as though it had never shone before,

looking down for the first time on the gladsome earth, instead of

having run its course unnumbered years--undimmed in lustre--unimpaired

in power.

Where are the works of man? his labors of the past? The eye looks on

ruin; or time hath swept away even that poor trace; and a fable or

tradition alone remains. But time hath no power over the Eternal or

the works of His hands--itself His slave.

Out! out! treading the green turf--lying on some flowery

bank--dreaming beneath the leafy shade. Who would be pent up within

four stone walls on such a day, when he could forth with the blue

above and the green below, and a thousand gleesome things around? What

though the walls are gilded, and the lofty ceiling fretted; the

Persian carpet soft as the woodland moss; whilst the luxuries of art,

the beauties of genius, lend their splendors with a gorgeous

profusion? Still it is only a magnificent prison. We see but little of

the blue heaven; scarcely more of the varied tints of earth. The air

we breathe is close; and the heart flutters to be free, as the

imprisoned butterfly on the first day of spring. Who would not rather

go forth into the fresh, free air, than be a prisoner even in a gilded

cage? And Nature, is she not more beautiful than Art? Doth not that

beauty make the step more buoyant, and the heart more light?

How one loves a summer day with all its gentle glories its murmured

music--its delicious fragrance--its warmth, gladdening, not

oppressing, its soft and soothing air--its dreamy feel, its shadows

and its lights--its brilliant visions and its stirring thoughts--and

more, far more, its loving memories!

* * * * *

SONG.

My dwelling is no lordly hall,

I rule no wide domain;

No bending servants wait my call,

No flatterers swell my train;

But roses twine around my home,

Bright smiles my presence greet;

The woodland wild is mine to roam,

Mine Summer's odors sweet.

No costly diamonds deck my hair,

No cloth of gold have I;

But gorgeous robes and jewels rare

Stay not the sad heart's sigh.

Those gems might bind an aching brow,

There is no pain in mine;

Red gold might win a faithless vow,

And I be left to pine.

BY G. P. R. JAMES.

It may seem perhaps a paradox to say that expectation is enjoyment.

Nevertheless it is so on this earth. Fruition is for heaven. With the

accomplishment of every desire there is so much of disappointment

mingled that it cannot be really called enjoyment, for fancy always

exercises itself upon the future; and when we obtain the hard reality

for which we wished, the charms with which imagination decorated it

are gone. Did we but state the case to ourselves as it truly is,

whenever we conceive any of the manifold desires which lead us on from

step to step through life, the proposition would be totally different

from that which man forever puts before his own mind, and we should

take one step toward undeceiving ourselves. We continually say, "if I

could attain such an object, I should be _quite contented_." But what

man ought to say to himself is, "I believe this or that acquisition

would give me happiness." He would soon find that it did not do so;

and the never-ceasing recurrence of the lesson might, in the end,

teach him to ask what was the source of his disappointment? Was it

that other circumstances in his own fate were so altered, even while

he pursued the path of endeavor, as to render attainment no longer

satisfactory?--was it that the object sought was intrinsically

different when attained, from that which he had reasonably believed it

to be while pursuing it?--or was it that his fancy had gilded it with

charms not its own, and that he had voluntarily and blindly persuaded

himself that it was brighter and more excellent than it was? Perhaps

the answer, yes, might be returned to all these questions; but yet I

fear the chief burden of deceit would rest with imagination, and that

man would ever find he had judged of the future without sufficient

grounds, and had suffered desire to stimulate hope, and hope to cheat

expectation. Yet, perhaps, if he would but turn back and look behind,

when disappointment and success had been obtained together, he would

find that the pleasures lasted in the pursuit, especially at the time

when fruition was drawing nearer and nearer, would, in the sum, make

up the amount of enjoyment which he had anticipated in possession.

BY JOHN G. WHITTIER.

A DREAM OF SUMMER.

Bland as the morning breath of June

The south-west breezes play;

And through its haze the winter noon

Seems warm as summer day.

The snow-plumed angel of the north

Has dropped his icy spear;

Again the mossy earth looks forth,

Again the streams gush clear.

The fox his hill-side cell forsakes,

The muskrat leaves his nook,

The blue-bird in the meadow brakes

Is singing with the brook.

"Bear up, O Mother Nature!" cry

Bird, breeze, and streamlet free,

"Our winter voices prophesy

Of summer days to thee!"

So in the winters of the soul,

By bitter blasts and drear,

O'erswept, from memory's frozen pole,

Will sunny days appear,

Reviving Hope and Faith, they show

The soul its living powers,

And low beneath the winter's snow

Lie gems of summer flowers.

The night is mother of the day,

The winter of the spring,

And ever upon old decay

The greenest mosses cling;

Behind the cloud the starlight lurks,

Through showers the sunbeams fall;

For God, who loveth all his works,

Has left his Hope with all.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "GRANTLEY MANOR."

SILENCE.

What a strange power there is in _silence_! How many resolutions are

formed--how many sublime conquests effected during that pause, when

the lips are closed, and the soul secretly feels the eye of her Maker

upon her! When some of those cutting, sharp, blighting words have been

spoken which send the hot indignant blood to the face and head, if

those to whom they are addressed keep silence, look on with awe, for a

mighty work is going on within them, and the Spirit of Evil, or their

Guardian Angel, is very near to them in that hour. During that pause

they have made a step toward heaven or toward hell, and an item has

been scored in the book which the day of judgment shall see opened.

They are the strong ones of the earth, the mighty for good or for

evil, those who know how to keep silence when it is a pain and a grief

to them; those who give time to their own souls, to wax strong against

temptation; or to the powers of wrath, to stamp upon them their

withering passage.

BY CURRER BELL.

TIME.

Life, believe, is not a dream

So dark as sages say;

Oft a little morning rain

Foretells a pleasant day.

Sometimes there are clouds of gloom,

But these are transient all;

If the shower will make the roses bloom,

O why lament its fall?

Rapidly, merrily,

Life's sunny hours flit by,

Gratefully, cheerily,

Enjoy them as they fly!

What though Death at times steps in,

And calls our _best_ away?

What though sorrow seems to win,

O'er hope, a heavy sway?

Yet hope again elastic springs,

Unconquered, though she fell:

Still buoyant are her golden wings,

Still strong to bear us well.

Manfully, fearlessly,

The day of trial bear,

For gloriously, victoriously,

Can courage quell despair!

REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.

_Vanity Fair, a Novel without a Hero. By W. M.

Thackeray. New York: Harper & Brothers. 1 vol. 8vo._

This is one of the most striking novels of the season. It bears little

resemblance in tone, spirit and object, to the other popular romances

of the day. The author follows in the track of Fielding rather than

Bulwer, and aims at representing the world as it is. Though his mind

is not creative, it is eminently delineative, and he has succeeded in

cramming into one volume a large variety of characters, each

expressing one of the different forms of worldliness, and all

belonging strictly to the world we live in. Though the novel thus

relates exclusively to the world, and indicates a most remarkable

knowledge of the selfish element in human nature, in the multitudinous

modifications which that element receives from individual

peculiarities, the general tone of the author himself is so far from

being worldly, that it is distinguished by singular manliness,

cheerfulness and generosity. There is nothing morbid, nothing of the

hater or the sentimentalist in his representations. He trusts himself

resolutely to the genuine emotions of the heart, but he guards himself

against all superfine feelings and manufactured sentiment. His

characters are so true that at first we are inclined to consider them

commonplace. In their development, however, we soon find that the

author is a master in his art, that without pretension and without

exaggeration, he touches profound springs of thought and sentiment,

and represents with a graceful decision, and in clear light, those

evanescent and unconscious transpirations of character, in which a

novelist's capacity is most truly exhibited.

The animating spirit of the novel is that master-piece of address and

cunning, little Becky Sharp. Tact and talent never had a worthier

representative than this character. She indicates the extreme point of

worldly success to which these qualities will carry a person, and also

the impossibility of their providing against all contingencies in

life. Becky steadily rises in the world, reaches a certain height,

makes one inevitable mistake, and then as steadily falls, while many

of her simple companions, whom she despises as weaklings, succeed from

the very simplicity with which they follow the instinctive sagacity of

pure and honest feeling. Colonel Rawdon Crawley, a brainless

sensualist, whom Becky marries, and in some degree reforms, but who,

by having an occasional twinkle of genuine sentiment in his heart,

always was her superior, is drawn both with a breadth and a nicety of

touch which is rare in such delineations. The exact amount of humanity

which coexists with his rascality and stupidity, is given with perfect

accuracy. Sir Pitt Crawley, coarse, uneducated, sordid, quarrelsome,

his small, sharp mind an epitome of vulgar shrewdness, is a

personation to force laughter from the lungs of a misanthrope. Old Mr.

Sedley is a most truthful representation of a broken-down merchant,

conceived in the spirit of that humane humor which blends the

ludicrous and the pathetic in one. Joe Sedley, the East Indian,

slightly suggests Major Bagstock. He has the major's physical

circumference, apoplectic turn and swell of manner, with the addition

of Cockney vulgarity and cowardice. His retreat from Brussels, just

before the battle of Waterloo, is described with the art of a comic

Xenophan.

In the characters of George Osborne, Dobbin and Amelia, the author has

succeeded admirably. They are wonderfully true to nature, and indicate

even a finer power of characterization than is exhibited in the more

strongly marked personages of the work.

The test of the excellence of a novel is the clearness with which its

events and characters are remembered after it has been read. We think

that Vanity Fair will bear this criterion. All its characters are

recognized in memory as living beings, and we would refer to and quote

them with as much confidence as to any of the acquaintances we hold in

remembrance.

* * * * *

_Life, Letters and Literary Remains of John Keats.

Edited by Richard Moncton Milnes. New York: Geo. P.

Putnam. 1 vol. 12mo._

This book, the long promised, has at last appeared, and we must

confess that, from the time expended in its preparation, we expected a

more satisfactory result. The biography, though written in a style of

elaborate elegance, and pleasing enough as regards cadence of period

and felicity of phrase, tells little about Keats which is new, and

leaves many obscure passages of his life in the same darkness in which

it found them. Nothing to the purpose is told of the lady who was the

object of Keats's passionate love, and who shares with consumption in

being the dismal cause of his early death. Mr. Milnes points

triumphantly to the new facts and private letters he has included in

the volume, in proof that the common impression that Keats lacked

manliness of character, is an error; but instead of proving that Keats

was a strong man, he has very nearly proved that he himself is a

sentimentalist. The characteristic of Keats is sensitiveness to

external impressions, the characteristic of Milnes is sensitiveness to

self; the page of one throngs with delicious sensations, but leaves no

strong impression of character; that of the other is pervaded by a

thoughtful ennui, and leaves an impression of egotistic weakness of

character. Of course, Keats is the stronger man of the two, and a

stronger man even than Milnes's musical sentences indicate, but still

not a strong man in the strict meaning of the phrase.

The letters of Keats are exceedingly interesting, and some of them

fine specimens of brilliant epistolary composition, but we think there

is a general tone of languid jauntiness observable in them, which

shows a certain feebleness at the heart of his being. He seems a man

whom every one would desire to see placed in happy circumstances, but

not one who would bear bravely up under bad circumstances. The state

of his finances occupies a good portion of his letters, and it is

often very pleasantly stated. As early as 1817, he speaks of receiving

a note for L20, and avows his intention of destroying with it "some of

the minor heads of that hydra, the dun;" to conquer which he says, the

knight need have no sword or shield, but only the "Bank-note of Faith

and Cash of Salvation, and set out against the monster invoking the

aid of no Archimago or Urganda, but finger me the paper, light as the

Sybil's leaves in Virgil, whereat the fiend skulks off with his tail

between his legs. . . I think," he adds, "I could make a nice little

allegorical poem, called "The Dun," where we would have the Castle of

Carelessness, the Drawbridge of Credit, Sir Novelty Fashion's

expedition against the City of Tailors, &c., &c." There is a good deal

of this coquetry with indigence in the volume.

There is one curious letter to Reynolds, referring to Wordsworth's

calling the exquisite Hymn to Pan, in "Endymion," "a pretty piece of

Paganism." Keats took the words in a contemptuous sense, and wrote a

letter from the feelings it excited, reminding us in its style of an

essay by Emerson. We extract it as almost the best thing in the book.

_Hampstead, February 3, 1818._

MY DEAR REYNOLDS,--I thank you for your dish of

filberts. Would I could get a basket of them by way of

dessert every day for the sum of two pence, (two

sonnets on Robin Hood, sent by the two penny post.)

Would we were a sort of athereal pigs, and turned loose

to feed upon spiritual mast and acorns! which would be

merely a squirrel and feeding upon filberts; for what

is a squirrel but an airy pig, or a filbert but a sort

of archangelical acorn? About the nuts being worth

cracking, all I can say is, that where there are a

throng of delightful images ready drawn, simplicity is

the only thing. It may be said that we ought to read

our contemporaries, that Wordsworth, &c., should have

their due from us. But, for the sake of a few fine

imaginative or domestic passages, are we to be bullied

into a certain philosophy engendered in the whims of an

egotist? Every man has his speculations, but every man

does not brood and peacock over them till he makes a

false coinage and deceives himself. Many a man can

travel to the very bourne of Heaven, and yet want

confidence to put down his half-seeing. Sancho will

invent a journey heavenward as well as any body. We

hate poetry that has a palpable design upon us, and, if

we do not agree, seems to put its hand into its

breeches pocket. Poetry should be great and

unobtrusive; a thing which enters into one's soul, and

does not startle it or amaze it with itself, but with

its subject. How beautiful are the retired flowers! How

would they lose their beauty, were they to throng into

the highway, crying out "Admire me, I am a violet! Dote

upon me, I am a primrose!" Modern poets differ from the

Elizabethans in this; each of the moderns, like an

Elector of Hanover, governs his petty state, and knows

how many straws are swept daily from the causeways in

all his dominions, and has a continual itching that all

the housewives should have their coppers well scoured.

The ancients were emperors of vast provinces; they had

only heard of the remote ones, and scarcely cared to

visit them. I will cut all this. I will have no more of

Wordsworth or Hunt in particular. Why should we be of

the tribe of Manassah, when we can wander with Esau?

Why should we kick against the pricks when we can walk

on roses? Why should we be owls when we can be eagles?

Why be teazed with "nice-eyed wagtails," when we have

in sight "the cherub Contemplation?" Why, with

Wordsworth's "Matthew with a bough of wilding in his

hand," when we can have Jacques "under an oak," &c.?

The secret of the "bough of wilding" will run through

your head faster than I can write it. Old Matthew spoke

to him some years ago on some nothing, and because he

happens in an evening walk to imagine the figure of the

old man, he must stamp it down in black and white, and

it is henceforth sacred. I don't mean to deny

Wordsworth's grandeur and Hunt's merit, but I mean to

say we need not be teazed with grandeur and merit when

we can have them uncontaminated and unobtrusive. Let us

have the old Poets and Robin Hood. Your letter and its

sonnets gave me more pleasure than will the Fourth Book

of "Childe Harold," and the whole of any body's life

and opinions.

In return for your dish of filberts, I have gathered a

few catkins.[2] I hope they'll look pretty.

"No, those days are gone away," &c.

I hope you will like them--they are at least written in

the spirit of outlawry. Here are the Mermaid lines;--

"Souls of Poets dead and gone," &c.

In the hope that these scribblings will be some

amusement for you this evening, I remain, copying on

the hill,

Your sincere friend and co-scribbler,

JOHN KEATS.

[Footnote 2: Mr. Reynolds had enclosed Keats some Sonnets on Robin

Hood, to which these fine lines are an answer.]

The reader rises from the biography of Keats with the impression that

it tells one of the most melancholy stories in the history of

literature. The account of his last days is beyond measure painful.

The poems now published for the first time, though good enough to make

a reputation, will hardly add to the fame of Keats.

* * * * *

_The Women of the Revolution. By Elizabeth F. Ellet.

New York: Baker & Scribner. 2 vols. 12mo._

We are under obligations to Mrs. Ellet for the two volumes now before

us. They are the first fruits of a large harvest. And we doubt not

that the authoress will pursue the subject, and give "continuations,"

until something like justice shall be done to the women, the mothers,

sisters, wives and sweethearts of the great and good men of our

Revolution. We wish that some just appreciation of what all society

owes woman could be had. We wish that some one would sit down and show

how all great efforts have their origin in woman's devotion to her

duty, and all great men owe their position to their mother's faithful

service, and how society owes the advantages which it may possess to

the plastic mind of women. In this spirit Mrs. Ellet has prepared the

two volumes before us, and has by her labors added one other name to

the long list that claims the gratitude of Americans. Of course when

notices of one hundred and twenty-four women are crowded into two

duodecimo volumes, no great extent can be allowed to the biography of

any one. Yet by a judicious disposition of material, and selection of

prominent places for really prominent persons, Mrs. Ellet has given

enough to make her readers comprehend the character, services and

position of all her heroines. It happens to us to have known something

of the private life of several mentioned in the volumes, and while we

recollect much that is not recorded, we are bound to confess that the

character of each so far as we know is well brought out, and

additional materials might serve only to sustain the opinion formed by

what is offered. We regard Mrs. Ellet's work only as a prelude--a

rich, delightful, prelude--but it must be followed by other

performances. The work is enriched with the likenesses of several

ladies whose biographies are given--one or two of these we know are

correct. The others resemble what we recollect to have heard

denominated good likenesses.

* * * * *

_Orators of the American Revolution. By E. L. Magoon.

New York: Baker & Scribner. 1 vol. 12mo._

Mr. Magoon is a writer of great fluency and sensibility, who "wreaks"

his thoughts upon expression. He has given us a very exciting volume,

glowing with revolutionary fervor, and eloquent of revolutionary

heroes. The great difficulty is that each of his orators is described

in terms which a cool person might hesitate in applying to Demosthenes

and Cicero. Mr. Magoon writes too much on the high-pressure principle.

As we move down the Mississippi stream of his rhetoric, we are pleased

with the rapidity of the motion, and the chivalrous feeling of the

captain of the boat, but we look occasionally at the boiler and the

engine with some fear of an explosion.

Seriously, the volume will doubtless serve its purpose of impressing a

great idea of our revolutionary orators on the popular mind--to reach

which mind a certain extravagance of statement and description is now

considered necessary. The glowing mode of writing history and

biography is, doubtless, better than the dry and dead mode, but a

medium between the two, combining life and movement with accuracy and

discrimination, is better still. However, we know of no book on the

subject so good as the present. It can be read at one sitting, and it

leaves a strong impression on the mind of the power of our great

orators. Every production which forcibly conveys an idea of our

historical men as living souls, as well as living names, deserves to

succeed.

* * * * *

_Historical and Miscellaneous Questions. By Richard

Mangnall. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 12mo._

This has been one of the most successful educational books ever

published. The present edition is from the _eighty-fourth_ London

edition. The sale in England has reached a hundred thousand copies. A

mere glance at the book will explain its popularity. It embraces the

elements of Mythology, Astronomy, Architecture, Heraldry, as well as

Ancient and Modern History, and gives exactly that kind of information

which every body needs. The first principles and foundations of

knowledge are often imperfectly understood by persons moderately

learned. Few have any system in reading or study, but cram their minds

with miscellaneous matter of various kinds, without regard to

arrangement, and with no clear perception of the principles of any

thing. Such a book as the present is needed not only by youth, but by

many men and women who would be offended at the charge of ignorance.

No person can read it without some addition to his knowledge. It is

got up with remarkable skill, and covers a very wide extent of

erudition.

* * * * *

_Thrilling Incidents of the Wars of the United States:

Comprising the most Striking and Remarkable Events of

the Revolution, the French War, the Second War with

Great Britain, and the Mexican War. With Three Hundred

Engravings. By the Author of the Army and Navy of the

United States. Philadelphia: Carey & Hart. 8vo._

This is a large octavo volume, filled with deeply interesting

historical anecdotes, illustrated with engravings--a volume which will

create a taste for the whole series of American history, while it

gratifies in part a useful appetite. The work is beautifully printed

and admirably got out.

* * * * *

_Amelia._ This is one of Miss Leslie's novels, and it

is worthy of that lady's fame, founded on liberal

efforts to improve the heart, and make men and women

better, by setting before them instances of folly and

examples of virtue.

EDITOR'S TABLE.

THE TOTAL ECLIPSE OF THE MOON.--In the month of September--the night

of the 12th and 13th--there was a total eclipse of the moon. Those who

would know all about it--exactly what was done when the adumbration

commenced, when and how long total obscuration was observable, and

when exactly the satellite passed out of the shadow of her principal

planet--have nothing to do but read in the almanacs the predictions

and calculations of the event--for exactly to a second the whole was

performed as set down by the astronomers. It was a beautiful sight for

those who love to watch the phenomena of the heavens, and there was

not a cloud, not a passing scud, to prevent a complete view of the

whole movement, from the first stain upon the eastern limb of the moon

until the whole passed off from her western side.

This eclipse of the moon is caused by that planet's passing through

the shadow of the earth, projected far into space; and in proportion

to the proximity of the moon is the duration of the eclipse--so that

we who occupied the side of the earth to which the eclipse was

visible, really saw the moon darkened by the intervention of our own

shadow. How like life is this! How many thousands are daily condemned

for some apparent fault, which they have indeed acquired from those

who condemn. How many live and suffer in the shadow of those who

sneer--and persecute while they impart the cause. How many parents, by

their errors, keep the sunlight of Truth and Religion from their

children, and yet condemn them for the shadow which rests upon their

mind, and makes them objects of undesirable notoriety--profitless

members of the social circle.

Go and inquire of that heart-broken, condemned female, why she ceased

to be the light of the circle in which she was placed--and she will

answer that the very beings whom she was to bless, and from whom she

was to derive blessings, darkened her pathway by the interference of

injudicious kindness or ill-timed severity, and she became totally

eclipsed. Ask the youth who has just made shipwreck of his wealth and

his fame, and he will tell you that in passing through the shadow

which relatives and associates had thrown across his path, his eclipse

was so long that society had no patience to await his return to

light--no mercy for the obscuration which their ill-timed lenity to

others had made him suffer.

But the moon on the morning of the 13th September passed out of the

obscuration, and went on her course diffusing light to all, and

maintaining her supremacy, in apparent size and real lustre, above all

the stellar orbs. And thus it is with man. The shadow of misfortune or

error, of indiscretion, is always projected across his path--he is

liable with every change to suffer some obscuration, some diminution

of his brightness, some eclipse of that portion bestowed on man. Let

society wait--let him toil onward--let there be a little faith, a

little confidence, a little hope, and he will recover all he has lost,

he will emerge from the shadow that is upon him and be bright and

profitable as before. In the deepest obscuration of the full, or the

earthward face of the moon, when all but its bare existence seemed

blotted out, the upper, heavenward surface was undimmed, and reflected

all the stellar glories of the higher planets. And thus is it with

man. Sorrows, disappointments, errors, wrongs, darken his way, and all

that is visible to those around him seems sullied and obscure, and he

is left to toil onward through the deep shadow of misery and

shame--the earthward side of his heart in a total eclipse--but the

heavenward portion, the cherished and the blessed, though beyond the

gaze, and often beyond the comprehension of the worldly--is bathed in

the holy light of heavenly influences--it knows no diminution of

brightness, no darkness from earthly shadows, no dimness from worldly

cares or worldly sorrow, but, turned away from the observation and

uses of mankind, its phaze is one of unalterable quiet, of undimmed

and shadowless lustre. Earth is not permitted to project one shadow

upon its plane, while heaven and heavenly light lie beautiful and

beautifying upon its surface.

* * * * *

THE WOMEN OF THE SCRIPTURES.--Our booksellers are making judicious

preparations for the approaching holydays, and it may be anticipated

that the next "Christmas times" will afford a most varied and elegant

assortment of gift books for the choice of purchasers. Among those

that we have been favored with a sight of, one of the most beautiful,

both in design and execution, is a volume entitled "_The Women of the

Scriptures_," which Messrs. LINDSAY & BLAKISTON have gotten up to

correspond with those favorite works "Scenes in the Life of the

Saviour" and "Scenes in the Lives of the Apostles," heretofore issued

by them. The new publication has been edited by the Rev. H. HASTINGS

WELD, who has been well sustained by the artists, printers and binders

in their several departments. The purchaser will find in this volume

articles from many of the most able and popular writers in the

country, and we are sure that it cannot fail to commend itself, in an

eminent degree, to the favor of the public.

* * * * *

Messrs. Carey & Hart are about to publish an edition of Mrs.

Sigourney's poetry, to be illustrated by some of the best productions

of the American burin, samples of which we have seen and admired. It

is fitting that the writings of Mrs. Sigourney should be thus set out.

The same publishers have caused to be prepared for the festive season

a handsome volume, of the Souvenir family, called the Ruby. A portion,

indeed most of its pictorial embellishments are of the first class of

engraving, and the letter-press contains poetry and prose worthy of

perusal. The work is a beautiful addition to the centre-table, and

will of course find favor.

* * * * *

"IT IS NOT ALWAYS NIGHT."--The heart chilled by adversity or

languishing in sorrow, may find consolation and peace in the thought

which forms the caption of this article, and which we find so

beautifully woven into the harmony of numbers by our contemporary,

WILLIAM C. RICHARDS, Esq. Editor of the "Southern Literary Gazette."

It is not always night! Though darkness reign

In gloomy silence o'er the slumbering earth,

The hastening dawn will bring the light again,

And call the glories of the day to birth!

The sun withdraws awhile his blessed light,

To shine again--it is not always night!

The voices of the storm may fill the sky,

And Tempest sweep the earth with angry wing;

But the fierce winds in gentle murmurings die,

And freshened beauty to the world they bring:

The after-calm is sweeter and more bright;

Though storms arise, it is not always night!

The night of Nature, and the night of Storm,

Are emblems both of shadows on the heart;

Which fall and chill its currents quick and warm,

And bid the light of peace and joy depart:

A thousand shapes hath Sorrow to affright

The soul of man, and shroud his hopes in night.

Yet, when the darkest, saddest hour is come,

And grim Despair would seize his shrinking heart,

The dawn of Hope breaks on the heavy gloom,

And one by one the shadows will depart:

As storm and darkness yields to calm and light,

So with the heart--it is not always night!

* * * * *

THE FUTURE.--By the time another number of the "Magazine" is laid

before its numerous readers, the bustle and din of the presidential

election will have subsided, and the people will set themselves to

thinking seriously of the selection of useful and entertaining

publications, to render perfect the enjoyment of the long, calm, quiet

winter evenings at home. Of course, none who take "Graham's Magazine"

now, will consent to deprive themselves of it for the future,

especially as the new volume, commencing in January, will be rendered

as attractive as means, energy, industry and application can make it.

We shall soon lay before our hundred thousand readers our new

Prospectus, in which will be given a bird's-eye view of the plan of

our prospective operations. Nothing will be promised that we will not

fully and faithfully perform; and, unrivaled as this "Magazine" has

heretofore been, we intend so to improve upon it, that the new volume

shall bear away the palm, and command the universal admission that it

is more excellent than ever!

* * * * *

CHEAP PUBLICATIONS.--In these days of cheap publications, the means of

gratifying a love for reading are within the reach of all. There is an

abundant supply to feed the mental appetite, and our neighbor, T. B.

PETERSON, caters for the public taste with great energy and success.

To the lovers of light literature it may not be amiss for us to state,

that Mr. P. has published uniform editions of the works of those

popular and approved writers, MRS. GREY and MISS PICKERING--ladies

whose writings are always worth reading, and always convey a good

moral. A late publication, "The Orphan Niece," by Miss Pickering,

appears now, for the first time in this country, and is as excellent

and interesting as those from the same pen with which the public are

more familiar.

* * * * *

[illo--finger] Were we inclined to copy one-half of the very handsome

compliments bestowed upon our Magazine by our friends of the press, we

could not find room to do so. We feel, however, rejoiced at and

grateful for these evidences of their favor, and will strive to render

ourselves yet more worthy of their commendations. The motto of

"Graham's Magazine" is EXCELSIOR; and as it has hitherto stood

immeasurably above all competitors in the public estimation, so shall

it maintain its enviable position, and merit the success it has

enjoyed.

* * * * *

[illo--finger] Our engraver, WM. E. TUCKER, Esq., has in hand and will

have ready for the next volume, some brilliant specimens of his art.

We promise our patrons--and we do so without a single fear that our

promise will not be fully redeemed--more magnificent embellishments

than any literary work in the country has ever presented. This, of

course, will involve an immense expenditure of money, but we never

place cost in competition with the duty we owe our patrons, and our

desire to merit their favor.

* * * * *

[illo--finger] We expect to give, in our next number, a life-like

portrait of our late correspondent and now co-editor, J. BAYARD

TAYLOR. He is a modest gentleman, and may not be pleased with the idea

of so public an introduction to the readers of this Magazine, but we

know that he is a favorite with them, and the admirers of his articles

will be gratified to see "what manner of man he is."

* * * * *

WINTER FASHIONS.--Our friend _Oakford_ knows how to cap the climax of

human perfection, if we may judge from the various styles and fashions

of Hats, Caps, &c., presented in his card on the cover of our

"Magazine." His establishment is a favorite place of resort for all

who desire to be well fitted; and they must, indeed, be hard to

please, who cannot find something there to suit their fancy.

* * * * *

[illo--finger] If we were inclined to be boastful, we think we might

raise a high note of exultation upon the character of the present

number of the "American Monthly Magazine." But, as "good wine needs no

bush," we lay our offering before the public, confident that its

manifest excellence will be discovered without the necessity of a word

from us to point out its varied beauties. While, however, we believe,

and feel assured that the public will concur in the belief, that this

number is one of surpassing beauty and merit, it may not be improper

to hint that the arrangements we have consummated for the future, will

enable us to improve even upon our present high standard of

excellence, and keep us, as ever, far, very far in advance of the most

labored efforts of all contemporaries. Our course is onward, and he

must bestir himself actively who would excel us.

Transcriber's Note:

Some archaic spellings have been retained to preserve the historicity

of the book. Simple changes in punctuation have been made without

comment. Obvious typos or printer's errors have been corrected without

comment.