PART II.

We will now return to Mr. Alfred Oakly, and learn how the world in the

interim has fared with him. Prosperity at the helm, his richly freighted

vessels careered over the wide ocean, no devastating fires destroyed his

dwellings, no whirlwinds up-rooted his forests, no blight or mildew

stole over his fields to nip the golden harvest, and yet, with all this,

there was many a beggar who gleaned the refuse from his kitchen, who

knew more of happiness than did this cold, selfish man. In the first

place his wife had never recovered from the shock to her affections in

being forced to yield up her unfortunate child—not only her health but

her temper suffered severely. Toward her husband in particular this

change seemed pointed, and as much as she had loved him previously her

coldness was now proportionate. Unhappily, too, for Louisa, the innocent

cause of this rupture, it extended itself even to her, and thus

childhood, that rainbow-tinted period of life was to her clouded and

joyless. Her father, stern and morose, secluding her from playmates of

her own age—her mother seldom greeting her with a word of affection or

a smile of encouragement—her caresses met by both with coldness, and

all the winning graces of childhood frowned down with disfavor. Her

education, however, went on as though her frame were formed of iron.

There was a stiff governess, whose cold gray eye was ever on her, to

watch that she did not loll in sitting or stoop in walking—that her

toes turned out and her elbows turned in—that she neither spoiled her

mouth by laughing (little danger!) nor her eyes by crying. Then came the

music-master with commands for six hours daily practice for those little

fingers—and the dancing-master, saying “_Ma’amselle_, you must be very

gay—you cannot never learn de dance ven you do look so vat you call

fat-i-gued.” Then came the drawing-master, and the professor of

languages; nor were these all to which her mind was tasked, for besides,

were those branches which her governess professed to teach—her

governess, Miss Pinchem, with whom in comparison Miss Blimber of Blimber

Hall would have shrunk into insignificance!

Poor little Louisa!

She would sometimes wonder if the little children she read of in the

Bible had to learn all such things to make them good—for Miss Pinchem

was great on goodness—always beginning and ending her exhortations

with, “Now, Miss Louisa, you must be _good_, and not raise your eyes

from your book”—“You must play that tune with more scientific grace,

Miss Louisa, or you will not be _good_”—“You must turn out your toes if

you want to be _good_”—“You will never be _good_ if you don’t pronounce

better”—in short there was a great deal of goodness on Miss Pinchem’s

wiry tongue, let people say what they would, and though Louisa wondered

_what_ made _Miss Pinchem_ good!

No sooner had Mr. Oakly accomplished his object in ridding his sight of

the poor deformed, than he would fain have held himself excused from all

obligation to the widow—but he dared not act out his wishes, fearful in

such case that she would claim her own, and thus betray his disgraceful

secret. When he received Mrs. Oakly’s letter informing him of her

intended marriage, his apprehensions were anew awakened. Could it be

possible she would keep the secret from her husband! Doubtless she would

scorn the imputation that so unsightly a child as Agatha was her own

offspring, and thus to preserve her maternal pride forfeit her word! O!

a thorny pillow was that Mr. Oakly nightly pressed! How often in his

dreams did the pale corse of his injured brother rise up before him, and

ever in its fleshless arms it bore the shrunken form of Agatha! But as

month after month rolled on, swelling finally to years, and hearing

nothing further from the late Mrs. Oakly, he felt more at ease, so much

so that he entirely forgot her request relative to the future advantage

of his discarded child! an oversight very natural to such a man!

Louisa reached her seventeenth year, and as the bud gave promise so

proved the flower, beautiful indeed and lovely. Mr. Oakly was really

proud of this! He mentally contrasted her light elegant figure with the

_probable_ appearance of Agatha, and congratulated himself that he had

not to bear about the shame of acknowledging the latter! Still, he did

not _love_ Louisa—strange that he almost hated her for possessing those

very attributes of loveliness for which he had preferred her above his

own offspring!

When Louisa emerged from the seclusion of the school-room to the

brilliant circles of fashion, she was caressed, flattered, adored.

Wealth and beauty tripping hand in hand seldom fail to win favor, and

brought a throng of admirers to the feet of the heiress, who, however,

did not seem easily moved; and many were the suitors to her favor who

met with a kind but firm refusal. But, beware, Louisa, your affections

will be held by your tyrant father just as much enslaved as your person;

and now, wo to you, should they centre where he does not approve.

* * * * *

Moonlight, golden, twinkling stars, fragrant zephyrs, sweet from the lip

of the lily, soft music from tinkling leaves, a murmur from the rippling

river, and through the winding shrubbery, slowly along the path

tesselated by the moonbeams, which glint through the leafy curtain,

Louisa is straying—but not alone. A youth is by her side, one whose arm

her own encircles, who clasps her willing hand in his; one whose

whispers are of love, and to whom her own voice, gentle and low, speaks

of hope and happiness in return.

Ah! foolish, foolish Louisa! what are you thinking of? Only a poor

painter—and _you_ in love! True, he has talent, worth, grace,

refinement, but—_no money_! And you, unfortunate youth, why did you

love this beautiful maiden? Know you not that man of heartlessness and

pride, her father, would gladly crush you to the earth for lifting your

eyes heaven-ward to his daughter; that he would sooner buy her

winding-sheet than that she should don her wedding-robe for _thee_! And

yet, even now, closer and closer are you both riveting the chain,

drawing heart to heart, which no hand but death can loose.

It was the second summer after Louisa’s initiation into the gay world

that the Oakly family were once more assembled at Oak Villa, their

annual resort during the warm months of July and August. With no taste

for reading, a mind not attuned for meditation, and the querulousness of

an _ungraceful_ old age gradually stealing upon him, Mr. Oakly found the

time drag most wearily on amid those quiet groves. In his extremity an

idea suddenly flashed across his brain, which he eagerly caught at, as

it promised to relieve somewhat of that tedious vacuum between those

hours when such a man and happiness may alone be said to look each other

in the face: viz., the hour of meals—and this was to summon an artist

to the villa, for the purpose of decorating the walls of the saloon with

the portraits of its inmates. He had not thought of it before, but,

quite luckily, it now occurred to him that he already had the address of

a young artist in his pocket, for whom some friend of struggling genius

had solicited patronage. Now he could kill two birds with one stone, as

it were, secure the plaudits of the world by taking the artist by the

hand in so flattering a manner, and at the same time pull away the drag

from the wheels of time. He looked at the card—“Walter Evertson,”—and

to Walter Evertson did he immediately address a letter, requesting his

presence at the villa.

He came—a fine, handsome youth of three-and-twenty, with an eye like an

eagle, and hair dark as a starless night—a dangerous companion, we must

allow, for the gentle Louisa. He was met with condescending affability

made most apparent by the master of the house, and by Mrs. Oakly, who

seldom manifested much interest in any thing, with cool indifference. No

wonder, then, that he turned with a thrill of pleasure tingling his

heart-strings, to the gentle Louisa, whose manners, at once so courteous

and refined, offered so agreeable a contrast.

There are some, perhaps, whose hearts have never yet felt the power of

love, who rail about love at first sight as a theory too ridiculous to

dwell upon—a chimera only originating in the heads of romantic

school-girls and beardless shop-boys; very well, let them have it so; I

only assert that both Louisa and the artist, at that first interview,

were favorably impressed; and that a brief intercourse under the same

roof cemented their young hearts with all the strength of a first and

truthful affection. Love (himself a sly artist) traced each on the other

a heart in fadeless tints. Sincere and unselfish was the love which

Walter Evertson had conceived for Louisa; a love which he intended to

bury within his own throbbing breast—for he dared not flatter himself

that it would be returned—she, the heiress of thousands—he, the poor,

unfriended artist. Vain resolve! It was the evening with which this

chapter commences, that, in an unguarded moment, he had revealed to her

his love, and received the blest assurance of her own in return. But

their cup of joy was even then embittered by the consciousness that her

father, in his cold, selfish nature, would tear their hearts asunder,

even though he snapped their life-strings.

In the meantime the business which had brought him to the villa was

being accomplished. Mr. and Mrs. Oakly saw themselves to the life on

canvas, and now it only remained to consummate his work by portraying

the features of Louisa. Delightful, yet difficult task! Mrs. Oakly had

so far aroused herself from her usual lethargy, as to insist that the

figure of Louisa herself should be but secondary in the picture about to

be executed. She was tired, she said, of those stiff, prim figures on

sombre-tinted ground, looking out from gilded frames with eye-balls ever

coldly glaring upon one, and would have a large painting of rare design

and skill—woods, fountains, birds, and flowers, to relieve the form and

face of Louisa from this dull sameness. Various were the sketches

brought forward for her approval; and whole days, which Evertson wished

might never end, were spent in vain endeavors to settle upon some one of

them for the purpose. Accident, however, at length furnished the desired

_tableau_ although it would be doing injustice to Evertson to imply that

he lacked talent or originality—fine as were his sketches, they failed

to please Mrs. Oakly, because—she would not be pleased.

One morning Louisa strolled out alone, and unconsciously pursued her

ramble until she reached a beautiful meadow fringed with fine old trees,

whose branches bent down to meet their dark, leafy shadows in the bright

waters of the Susquehanna. Birds were singing merrily, butterflies

sported their golden wings, and the grasshopper chirped, blithely

leaping through the tall grass. Here and there, where the rays of the

sun had not yet penetrated, were the gossamers of elfin

broidery—mantles dropped by fairies on their merry rounds in the

checkered moonlight beneath those old trees; there was a drop of bright

nectar, too, left in the cup of the wild-flower, and the large, red

clover-tops were sparkling with dew-gems. I cannot assert that Louisa

saw all the beauties of this fine morning; for, absorbed in pleasing

thoughts, upon which we will not intrude, satisfied as we ought to be

that the artist occupied a full share, she seated herself beneath one of

those shadowing trees, and resting her chin within the palm of her

little hand, most likely, I am sorry to say, heard neither the warble of

the birds, the cheerful chirping insect, or saw the bright glancing

river, with the little boat which was just then dancing over its silver

ripples.

The sound of voices approaching in the opposite direction suddenly broke

in upon her trance, and she then, for the first time, reflected that she

had passed the boundaries of her father’s land. The estate adjoining had

lately been purchased by a wealthy Englishman, it was said. For many

weeks repairs had been going on in the old mansion, which for several

years had been tenantless; and the family were daily expected to arrive.

That they had now done so was Louisa’s conclusion. The voices drew

nearer; but, trusting to the thick foliage for concealment, she remained

perfectly still; when apparently within but a few paces of her the party

stopped.

“What a lovely view!” exclaimed a soft female voice. “I wish ma’ma had

not turned back, she would have been so delighted.”

“It is truly fine,” was the reply, in a masculine tone; “it is even more

beautiful than the view from the lawn we so much admired last evening;

what if you were to sketch it.”

“If I had only brought my crayons, I would do so now. How lovely it is!”

answered the lady.

“If you have strength for it after your long walk,” was the reply, “I

will return for your portfolio; here is a nice shady seat for you—I

will soon be back, but do not ramble away from this spot.”

Louisa heard the retreating footsteps, and was about to make good her

own, when a beautiful Scotch air, very sweetly warbled, arrested her

attention. The song ceased abruptly, giving place to a scream so loud

and shrill, as blanched the cheek of Louisa with the hue of death. She

sprang to her feet, and panting with terror, emerged from her shelter

into the open meadow just as the scream was again repeated. She now

almost breathlessly looked around to detect the cause of alarm. In a

moment she saw it all. A noble stag, having probably leaped the

park-pailings, came bounding swiftly across the meadow directly toward

the spot where Louisa was now standing, no doubt with the intention of

slaking his thirst at the tempting stream. The terrors of Louisa were at

once allayed; and she now hastened to the spot whence the screams

issued, to soothe, if possible, the fears of the unknown.

Trembling with fright, and clinging to a tree for support, was a female,

dwarf-like in stature, and deformed in shape. Her countenance was deadly

pale, and her eye-balls, almost fixed with terror, were strained upon

the animal, as he came leaping onward. Ere Louisa could speak he had

approached within a few paces, and, as if now first aware of their

presence, he suddenly halted, arched his beautiful, glossy neck, and

bending his antlered head, stood at bay. Seeing how utterly helpless was

the poor unknown, Louisa sprung forward, and telling her not to be

alarmed, quickly placed herself before her; but the noble stag, as if

disdaining to war with women, after gazing upon them a few seconds with

his wild eyes, suddenly turned, and tossing his head proudly, trotted

off in another direction.

At that moment how rejoiced was Louisa to see her lover rapidly

approaching—for the stranger had already fainted.

“Water! water!” she cried, “quick, or she will die!”

Without speaking, Evertson rushed to the river, and filling his hat with

its cooling waters, was in a second at her side.

“Poor girl! she will die with terror, I fear. What fine features, and

what beautiful hair!” said Louisa, as she swept back the long tresses

from her neck and brow, purer than alabaster.

In a few moments the object of their solicitude opened her eyes. She

could not speak, but pressing the hand of Louisa to her lips, pointed

toward a mansion just discernible through a dense shrubbery at some

distance.

“Shall I bear you home?” inquired Evertson.

The stranger looked her thanks; and lifting her in his arms as tenderly

as if she were a babe, he proceeded with his almost lifeless burthen in

the direction pointed out.

Thus met, for the first time, the discarded Agatha and the innocent

usurper of her rights.

The fancy of Walter Evertson seized at once upon a scene so interesting

as the one he had just witnessed. No sooner did he part with Louisa at

the door of the saloon, than, hastening to his studio, he began

sketching the outlines of his truthful conceptions. Rapidly did he

hasten on his own misery—blissfully unconscious the while of the sad

termination of his labors. Never had he wrought so well and so

rapidly—not a stroke but told. There was the beautiful meadow, with its

brave old trees, and the river gleaming through their branches; the fine

stag, his antlered front bent toward the two females; the graceful form

of Louisa standing beneath the old oak, shielding the terrified

stranger, one arm thrown around her, the other slightly raised as if

motioning the animal away. Love surely guided his hand; for, without a

sitting, the artist had transferred from his heart to the canvas the

gentle features of Louisa with an accuracy undisputable. Strikingly,

too, had he delineated the form and face of the deformed—her long,

waving tresses—her pale countenance—her large eyes fixed in terror

upon the stag, and her small, mis-shapen figure. Something, too, had he

caught, even in that short interview, of the features of Agatha. He

could not, however, proceed in his task until it had received the

approbation of the master and mistress of the mansion. He had purposely

requested Louisa to be silent respecting the morning’s adventure, that

he might, by surprise, obtain the mastery over the whims of Mrs. Oakly,

so hard to be gratified. They were now respectfully invited to the

picture-room, together with Louisa, to pass judgment upon his (to him)

beautiful sketch.

To depict the scene which followed the withdrawal of the curtain he had

placed before it would be impossible. Mrs. Oakly gave one look, and with

a dreadful shriek, exclaiming, “_My child!_” fell senseless to the

floor. Mr. Oakly, foaming with rage, his face livid and distorted,

rushed upon the astonished artist, and in a voice choked with passion,

cried,

“Out of my house, villain! Ha! do you beard me thus! Who are you, that

have thus stolen my secret, and dare to show me that picture—dare to

place that hateful image before me? Out of my house, I say, ere I am

tempted to commit a worse crime!”

Astonished, bewildered, confounded, Evertson for a moment could not

speak, nor would the enraged man hear him when he did. In vain Louisa,

while striving to restore animation to her mother, interceded,

explained, expostulated—alas! her tears and agitation only betraying to

her father a new source of anger. Seizing her by the arm, and bidding

her seek her chamber, he thrust her from the room, and then turning once

more to the artist, as he raised the still inanimate form of his wife,

“I give you half an hour to make your arrangements for leaving my

roof—beware how you exceed that time; when you are ready, you will find

the sum due you in this cursed room—begone, sir!”

Without any attempt to see poor Louisa again, and trusting he might be

able to communicate with her in a few days, Walter Evertson left the

villa.

When Mr. Oakly next entered the painting-room the money of the artist

was still there—but the fatal picture had disappeared.

* * * * *

A few years after his marriage, Mr. Sullivan took his family to Europe,

where they remained until within a few months previous to the singular

meeting of Louisa and Agatha.

In a beautiful cottage on the borders of Loch Katrine, their lives had

been one uninterrupted scene of happiness—always excepting the yearning

of a mother’s heart for her lost child. The education of Ruth and Agatha

had formed their chief care, and was such as a kind-hearted, intelligent

man like Mr. Sullivan was proud to give them, sparing neither money nor

precept, and aided, too, by the superior judgment and example of their

excellent mother. Ruth had grown up lovely and amiable, and at the time

the family returned to America, was affianced to a fine young Scotchman.

Poor Agatha had become even more unsightly in figure, yet retained all

the simplicity and amiableness of her childhood. Whatever may have been

her own private feelings upon her unfortunate deformity, it was rare,

indeed, that she ever made allusion to it. When she did, it was with

meekness and resignation to her Maker’s will; for early in life had

Agatha given herself to Him whose love is more precious than all earthly

advantages. She seldom mixed with society, yet when she did, even

strangers, after a slight acquaintance, thought no more of her

unshapeliness. The sweet expression of her countenance interested, her

intelligence charmed them.

When Mrs. Sullivan took possession of her new residence on the

Susquehanna, little did she dream how short the distance which separated

her from her youngest born; and when Agatha related the fright she had

received during her morning ramble, and spoke with such enthusiasm of

the beautiful girl who had so nobly come to her assistance, how little

did she think _whose_ arms had encircled the trembling Agatha, _whose_

voice it was had tried to soothe her fears.

Mr. Sullivan avowed his determination of calling immediately upon their

neighbors to express his thanks to the fair maid, and the gallant young

gentleman who had so opportunely come to the assistance of dear Agatha,

his pet and favorite. He did so the next day, but he was too late—the

house was deserted.

Agatha evinced much regret at the circumstance.

“How sorry I am!” said she; “O, I do hope we may hereafter meet again;

the countenance of that charming girl haunts me like a dream—so lovely,

and somehow so familiar to me—a stranger, sad yet not a stranger.

Sometimes, ma’ma, when you look at me as you do now, I almost fancy her

eyes are on me; and then again, only for being a blonde, it appears to

me she greatly resembled dear Ruth.”

Mrs. Sullivan changed color, and evidently much agitated, she inquired

of her husband if he knew the name of their late neighbor.

“I do not,” was his reply, “and our servants are as ignorant as

ourselves. Ah! here comes an honest lad with berries to sell—and a fine

tempting load, too. I will ask him while I purchase the fruit.”

As the boy measured out the berries, Mr. Sullivan said,

“Well, my son, can you tell me who lives in the fine old stone house

just at the bend of the river?”

“Oakly, sir—_Squire_ Oakly we call him here.”

“Quick, quick, father, ma’ma is fainting!” screamed Ruth, springing to

her side.

For a moment all was alarm and confusion; but at length Mrs. Sullivan

slowly opening her eyes desired to be led to her chamber.

“I will lie down a few moments—I shall soon be better; it is

nothing—nothing,” she answered to their affectionate solicitude.

When alone, then did she give way to her joy. What happiness! her dear

Louisa—her long lost was found. She was good, too, and lovely; her

kindness to a stranger proved the former, and the assertions of the

grateful Agatha the latter. She might now hope by some fortunate chance

to see her—they might now meet. O, how could she keep down her

throbbing heart; how would she be able to refrain from clasping her to

her bosom, and avowing herself her mother. When she thought she had

recovered sufficient composure, she again joined the family; but it was

almost as soon dissipated by the conversation which followed her

entrance into the sitting-room.

“My dear,” said Mr. Sullivan, “do you know these foolish girls are for

making out a relationship between themselves and our runaway

neighbors—claiming a cousinship, even if several degrees removed, to

the fair heroine of Agatha’s story—can it be so, think you?”

“This Mr. Oakly may possibly have been some connection of their

father’s,” faltered Mrs. Sullivan.

“Had papa no brothers?” said Agatha.

“Yes, one; but some unhappy family disagreement, however, prevented any

intercourse. They were as strangers to each other.”

“What if this Mr. Oakly should prove our uncle. Had he any family,

ma’ma?” asked Ruth.

“I believe—one—one daughter,” was the almost inaudible reply.

“Do not say any more,” whispered Agatha to her sister, “don’t you see

how it distresses ma’ma?”

Mr. Sullivan had observed the same thing, and the subject was dropped.

In a few days the papers announced among the list of passengers sailed

for Havre, the name of Mr. Alfred Oakly, lady and daughter.

* * * * *

Another flight of years, and behold what changes in the fortunes of Mr.

Oakly. Adversity had at last seized its victim, gorging to the full its

revenge for those years when its existence had been but as a phantom to

the wealthy merchant; he now felt its iron clutches to be something more

tangible than shadows. The sea had swallowed his vessels; flames had

greedily swept over his warehouses; blight had devastated his fields;

failures of firms he considered as good as the bank—nay, even the bank

itself failed; and in the short space of one year, Mr. Oakly found

himself stripped of all save a mere pittance, which, with the most

scrupulous economy, could hardly support his family. The teachings of

adversity upon the cold, selfish heart, are sometimes blessed with happy

fruits. And thus it proved with Mr. Oakly.

True, the change was not instantaneous; he lost not his property to-day,

to become a Christian, a philosopher to-morrow. But as a drop of water

will in time wear away the hardest rock, so, little by little, were the

flinty feelings of his heart softened and purified. The wicked and

selfish deeds of his past life arose up before him, each with its own

accusing tongue. That fortune, for which he had risked his soul, had

crumbled away, but these stood out plain and distinct, only to be

effaced through the mercies of One whose most sacred obligations he had

violated.

Mrs. Oakly met this reverse of fortune humbly and uncomplainingly.

Happily, she was ignorant of the sin of her husband, in having, like a

second Cain, destroyed his brother. Yet she felt that for another

crime—_the disowning of his own offspring_—the punishment was just.

Her own conscience, too, reproached her for the unjust feelings in which

she had indulged toward the innocent Louisa; and now, almost for the

first time in her life, she treated her as a daughter.

Kind, gentle, affectionate Louisa! only that she saw her parents

deprived of many comforts which would have soothed their declining

years, she would have rejoiced in a change of fortune which had brought

with it their love. In her heart there was a secret sorrow which she

might breathe to none—it was her love for Walter Evertson. Never, since

that fatal day, had she seen or heard again from him; but that he was

faithful, and would be faithful unto death, her trusting heart assured

her. When ease and affluence surrounded her, this sudden separation from

her lover, and under such afflicting and inexplicable circumstances, had

seemed to paralyze her energies. Books, music, travel, all failed to

excite more than mere mechanical attention; but now, in the sorrows of

her parents, she lost the selfishness of her own, and strove in every

way to comfort them.

What now had become of the once proud merchant? His name was no longer

heard on ’change, unless coupled with a creditor’s anathema; and summer

friends, like the sun on a rainy day, were behind the cloud.

* * * * *

It was a cold, cheerless day in December; one of those days when one

hugs close to the fire-side, and when even a glance at the dull,

sombrous out-of-door atmosphere makes, or ought to make, one thankful

for the blessings of a pleasant fire, to say nothing of the society of a

friend, or the solace of a book. With all these comforts combined, the

family of Mr. Sullivan had assembled in the breakfast parlor. There was

the grate, heaped to the topmost bar of the polished steel, with glowing

anthracite; the soft carpet of warm and gorgeous hues; luxuriant plants

of foreign climes, half hiding the cages of various little songsters,

whose merry notes breathed of spring-time and shady groves; and the face

of grim winter shut out by rich, silken folds of crimson drapery.

The pleasant morning meal was already passed, and the breakfast things

removed, with the exception of the beautiful coffee-set of Sevre’s

china, which Mrs. Sullivan was so old-fashioned as to take charge of

herself; in preference to trusting it with servants. Seated at the head

of the table, a snowy napkin in her hand, she was now engaged in this

domestic office. Mr. Sullivan and Mr. Danvers (the husband of Ruth) had

just gone into the study, to talk over some business affairs. Ruth had

taken the morning paper, and upon a low ottoman by the side of her

mother, was reading the news of the day—now to herself, or, as she

found a paragraph of peculiar interest, aloud for the general

entertainment. Agatha was reclining upon the sofa, and nestling by her

side was a beautiful boy of two years old, playing bo-peep through the

long, sunny curls of “Aunt Gatty,” his merry little shouts, and

infantile prattle, quite overpowering ma’ma’s news.

“Why what can this mean?” suddenly exclaimed Ruth; “do hear this, ma’ma.

‘If the former widow of Mr. John Oakly (the name of her present husband

unknown) be still living, or the children of said John Oakly, they are

requested to call at No. 18 —— street, and inquire for A. O., or to

forward a note to the same address, stating where they may be found.’

What can it mean, ma’ma?”

Without answering, Mrs. Sullivan rose from her chair; she trembled in

every limb, and her countenance was deadly pale.

“Ruth, dearest,” said she, “ring the bell, and order the carriage

immediately to the door.”

“Ma’ma, you surely will not go out alone,” said Ruth.

“Yes, alone! do not disturb your father,” answered Mrs. Sullivan; “alone

must I meet this trial. My dear girls,” she continued, “ask me no

questions. God knows what I am about to learn, whether tidings of joy or

sorrow; but I trust all may be explained when I return.”

In a few moments the carriage was at the door, and tenderly embracing

Ruth and Agatha, she departed upon her anxious errand.

After passing through so many streets that it seemed they must have

nearly cleared the city, the carriage turned into a narrow street, or

rather lane, and stopped at No. 18, a small two story wooden building.

Mrs. Sullivan alighted and rang the bell. The door was opened by a

little servant-girl, to whom she handed a card, on which she had written

with a trembling hand, “A person wishes to speak with A. O.”

In a few moments the girl returned and ushered her up stairs into a

small parlor. Her fortitude now nearly forsook her, and it was with

difficulty she could support herself to a chair. As soon as she could

command herself she looked around to see if she could detect aught which

might speak to her of her child. Upon the table on which she leaned were

books. She took up one, and turned to the title-page; in a pretty

Italian hand was traced “Louisa Oakly.” Several beautiful drawings also

attracted her eye—they, too, bore the name of “Louisa Oakly.” But

before she had time to indulge in the blissful hopes this caused her,

the door opened, and Mr. Oakly, with an agitation nearly equal to her

own, entered the room.

Many years had flown since they met, and time on both had laid his

withering hand; but while Mrs. Sullivan presented all the beautiful

traits of a peaceful, happy decline into the vale of years, the

countenance of Mr. Oakly was furrowed and haggard with remorse, and all

those evil passions which had formerly ruled his reason. Quickly

advancing, he extended his hand, and attempted to speak, but emotion

checked all utterance, while the big tears slowly rolled down his cheek.

“O, speak—speak! tell me—Louisa!” cried Mrs. Sullivan, alarmed at his

agitation.

“Compose yourself,” replied Mr. Oakly, “Louisa is well. I have sought

this interview, that I may make all the reparation now left me for my

injustice and cruelty. You see before you, madam, a miserable man,

haunted by remorse, and vain regrets for past misdeeds. From my once

proud and lofty standing,” he continued, glancing around the apartment,

“I am reduced to this. Yet think not I repine for the loss of riches.

No! were millions now at my command, I would barter all for a clear,

unaccusing conscience. Wealth, based on fraud, on uncharitableness, must

sooner or later come to ruin. I once despised poverty, and cherished a

haughty spirit toward those I arrogantly deemed my inferiors. Have I not

my reward!”

“But my child—tell me of my child!” interrupted Mrs. Sullivan, scarce

heeding his remarks, “where is she? May I not see her!”

“Bear with me a little while longer,” said Mr. Oakly, “in half an hour

she shall be yours forever!”

“My God, I thank thee!” exclaimed Mrs. Sullivan, bursting into tears of

joy.

“Yes, I yield her to your arms,” continued Mr. Oakly, “the loveliest

daughter that ever blessed a mother, and relieve you forever from the

charge of an unfortunate, to whom my conduct has been both brutal and

unnatural. Listen to me, madam, for a few moments.”

He then as briefly as possible made confession of the base part he had

acted toward his brother, and the means employed to ruin him with his

father; the selfish motives which led to the exchange of the children;

related the incident of the picture, and consequent removal from Oak

Villa—for well did he divine _who_ the deformed was. He then spoke of

Louisa; of her uniform loveliness of character, and the gentleness with

which she had borne, as he acknowledged, his oft repeated unkindness.

“She knows all,” said he in conclusion, “and waits even now to receive a

mother’s embrace. I will send her to you, and may her tears and caresses

plead my forgiveness!” So saying, Mr. Oakly quickly withdrew.

A moment—an age to Mrs. Sullivan—the door gently unclosed and mother

and child were folded in each other’s arms!

There are feelings which no language can convey—and which to attempt to

paint would seem almost a sacrilege!

In a short time Mr. Oakly re-entered, accompanied by his wife. The

meeting between the mothers was painful—for each felt there was still

another trial for them! Mrs. Oakly now really loved Louisa, and that

Mrs. Sullivan was most fondly attached to poor Agatha the reader already

knows.

“O she has been a solace and a comfort to me!” said she to Mrs. Oakly.

“A more noble-minded—a more unselfish, pure being never lived than our

dear Agatha! believe me, to part from her will cause a pang nearly as

great as when I first gave my darling Louisa to your arms!”

Another hour was spent in free communion, and then tenderly embracing

her new found daughter, the happy mother returned home—the events of

the morning seeming almost too blissful to be real!

It was sometime ere she could command herself sufficiently to the task

before her. At length summoning all her resolution she made known to her

astonished husband and Ruth the strange secret she had so long buried in

her breast.

Mr. Sullivan undertook to break the intelligence to Agatha.

Poor Agatha was very much overcome, and for several hours her distress

was such as made them almost tremble for her reason. Although the

circumstances were related in the most guarded and delicate manner, nor

even a hint given as to the motives of an act so unnatural as her father

had been guilty of toward her—her sensitive mind too well divined the

cause.

“Yet how can I blame them,” said she, glancing in a mirror as she spoke,

“who could love such a being! Ah forgive me,” she cried, throwing her

arms around the neck of Mrs. Sullivan, who now joined them—“forgive

me—_you_—_you_ received me—my best, my dearest, my only mother—_you_

took the little outcast to your arms—_you_ could love even the

mis-shapen child whom others loathed!”

Mrs. Sullivan strove by the most gentle caresses to sooth her agitation,

and at length succeeded so far that Agatha listened calmly to all she

had to say, and expressed her desire to be guided by her in every thing

relating to this (to her) painful disclosure.

Almost in a fainting state was Agatha given to her mother’s arms, and at

sight of her father she shuddered and buried her face in her hands.

O the pang that went to the soul of her wretched father as he witnessed

this!

“Agatha, my _child_, will you not then look upon me! will you not say

you forgive me?”

She extended her hand wet with tears:

“Father, I have nothing to pardon. I am not now less hideous in form

than when to look upon me caused you shame and sorrow. In giving me to

my dearest aunt you gave me every blessing, every happiness, this world

has for me—but do not, O do not now tear me from!”

“O God! I am rightly punished!” exclaimed Mr. Oakly—“my own child in

turn disowns me!”

“Agatha,” said Mrs. Oakly, “will you not love _me_—love your mother,

Agatha?”

Agatha hesitated, and her beautiful eyes streamed with tears—

“_Mother!_ I can give that name to but _one_!—_here—here_ is my

_mother_!” turning and throwing her arms around the neck of Mrs.

Sullivan.

Not so was it with Louisa. Like a dove long panting for its rest, she

had at last reached that haven of love—a mother’s heart!

Indeed so much distress did the thought of being separated from her more

than mother cause poor Agatha, that, fearful for her health, Mr. and

Mrs. Sullivan prevailed upon her parents to take up their residence with

them for a few months, to which request they finally acceded.

Soon after her first interview with Mr. Oakly, Mrs. Sullivan presented

him with a deed of the cottage, which so many years before he had given

her, little dreaming that any reverse of fortune would ever make _him_

grateful for so humble a shelter!

“The rent,” said she, “has been regularly paid into the hands of a

faithful person, who also holds in trust the remittances which you from

time to time forwarded me. I placed them there for the benefit of

Agatha, should she survive me. It came from you originally—it is again

your own—then hesitate not to receive it from my hands.”

“Excellent, noble woman!” exclaimed Mr. Oakly, overwhelmed with emotion,

“how little have I merited this kindness!”

Indeed, together with principal and interest, what at first was but a

trifling sum, had in the course of eighteen or twenty years amounted to

quite a little fortune. It was now settled that as soon as the Spring

opened Mr. and Mrs. Oakly were to take possession of the little cottage,

and rather than be separated from their dear Agatha, the Sullivans were

soon to follow and take lodgings for the summer months.

* * * * *

“But, my dear madam,” says the reader, “you have entirely forgotten to

tell us what became of the unfortunate artist, the lover of Louisa, whom

you appear to think happy enough in her present situation _without_ a

lover.”

“O no, dear reader—but this is not a love-story, you know—if it were I

would tell you the particulars of a most interesting love scene between

Walter Evertson and his adored Louisa. Suffice it to say, they were

married, and that the picture which caused their unhappy separation

occupies a conspicuous place in their beautiful villa, a few miles from

the city of P——.”

* * * * *

ON A SLEEPING CHILD

Step softly! step lightly! I would not disturb her!

She’s wrapt all unconscious in innocence’s charms;

Her slumbers are peaceful, her dreams are as gentle

As when she reposed in her fond mother’s arms.

And thus may it last—may no cause for repining

E’er darken the unsullied days of her youth—

May she as age deepens, when backward reviewing,

Find mem’ry well stored with Virtue and Truth.

S. E. T.

* * * * *

THE RASH OATH.

TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH BY MRS. JANE TAYLOE WORTHINGTON.

During my childhood my mother carried me every year, toward the close of

autumn, to spend a month with one of my aunts. It has been a long while

since then, but, nevertheless, the memory of my sojourn with her appears

as vivid as the events of yesterday, and I fancy myself once more in her

handsome château, which was situated on the right branch of the river

Meuse, at the place where the stream, still far from its mouth, has not

attained its greatest width, and where it is bordered with rugged rocks

and precipitous steeps, which remind one of many portions of

Switzerland, and of the delicious banks of the Rhine.

To linger near a beloved sister was a great pleasure to my mother; she

had arrived, too, at that age when the glories of nature produce the

deepest impression, and enjoyed with enthusiasm the exquisite landscape

unrolled before our eyes. As to myself, I dwelt but little on the

picturesque charms of the country. I was too young for the inhabitants

of the château to interest themselves much concerning my amusements, and

left to follow my own will, I discovered sources of happiness which I

tested with all the eager vivacity of a child. First I found an orchard

filled with young fruit, which, though still indifferent, I gladly

availed myself of; then in the mountain I claimed a grotto, whose

entrance I closed with boughs of trees, and pompously styled it my

house; and lastly, I delighted in a gallery that was narrow and dimly

lighted, and hung on both sides with old family portraits.

I saw there, warlike men, clothed in complete armor, the hand clenched,

the head held high and proudly; others, habited in black, wearing

immense ruffs, and having their hair braided, and their beards cut in a

point; and others were handsome gentlemen, with coats of embroidered

velvet, and _coiffés_, with enormous wigs, which covered even their

shoulders.

The ladies there were yet more numerous. Some of them wore their hair in

small curls, and long robes bordered with fur; others had hoops, and

powdered heads, laden with plumes, pearls, and flowers, carrying in

their hands an immense rose, or a very small bird. Several were in fancy

costumes; there were Dianas, the quiver on their shoulders, the crescent

on their brows; Floras, in white satin, sprinkled with blossoms; and

shepherdesses, with a crook, and tiny hat.

I passed in this gallery every moment I could steal from my lessons and

my mother. I glided there unperceived, and remained until I imagined all

those figures, their eyes fixed on mine, seemed to move from their

frames; sometimes I thought their features grew more stern, their smiles

more scornful—and I would depart hastily, in fear and trembling, with

the firm resolution to return no more. But what is it at last—the firm

resolution of a little girl. By the next day I had forgotten the terrors

of the preceding one, and found myself again in the gallery, feverish

with emotion, and drawn by some powerful attraction I could not resist,

to gaze on those old pictures I had so often contemplated.

Among these paintings, the one that I loved the best, that I always

sought for, and that never frightened me, was the portrait of a youthful

woman, dressed in a black robe. The sleeves were looped with agrafes,

inlaid with pearls, leaving uncovered the loveliest arm in the world,

and long, fair hair, entirely unadorned, flowed in large waves on her

shoulders. With her large, blue eyes, her peculiarly regular features,

and singularly gentle expression, her beauty would have been faultless,

but for the frightful paleness which spread itself over her countenance.

She was as white as the column of marble against which her brow was

pictured as leaning; and I have frequently thought since, that there

was, perhaps, something of coquetry in this posture. The melancholy face

of the young lady, contrasted with the smiling visages of the dames who

surrounded her, and this strange sadness, combined with the languid

grace of her position, exercised over my mind a sort of inexplicable

fascination. In my childish admiration, I asked myself if a being so

beautiful had ever really existed. The impression produced by her

haunted me every where; and I remembered it even in my dreams. One day,

which had been appointed for a visit in the neighborhood, I contrived to

escape, for the purpose of seeing again my cherished favorites, before

leaving them for several hours. I had intended remaining with them but a

moment; and I flattered myself my absence would be unperceived by the

family. But gradually I forgot the anticipated trip, the pleasure

awaiting me, my aunt, my mother, in fact, every thing, and lingered, as

if chained to my stand, with eyes fixed rapturously on the Pale Lady,

(it was thus I designated her,) and blending her image with the wildest

adventures my youthful imagination could conceive.

Already I had been called twenty times, and the domestics were sent to

search for me; but my abstraction was so profound, that I was insensible

to all, and still lingered motionless before the portrait, when my aunt

opened the door, and surprised me in the gallery. My lengthened absence

had begun to occasion alarm, and the frightened manner of my aunt

recalled suddenly my wandering thoughts. Perhaps conscious of my fault,

or it may be, ashamed of being thus entrapped, I threw myself into my

aunt’s arms, and a few tears moistened my cheeks. The reprimand died

upon her lips, but yielding to the astonishment inspired by my intense

admiration for these old pictures, she said,

“My child, you are beholding a woman who has been very beautiful, and

very unhappy.”

“Very unhappy!” I had then imagined rightly. “Dear aunt, will you relate

to me her history!”

“Not this morning, they are waiting for us; and beside, you are yet too

young.”

“Too young to hear her history? Ah! how unfortunate that is! But never

mind, by our next visit I shall be twelve years of age, then I will be

tall—promise I may hear it then.”

She granted the wished for promise, and a few days afterward we quitted

the château.

The following year we repaired, as usual, to my aunt’s, and had scarcely

exchanged the greeting caresses, before, longing to satisfy my impatient

curiosity, I seized my aunt’s hand with an air of gravity whose cause

she did not comprehend. I conducted her to the gallery, and pausing

before my favorite picture, “Good aunt,” I said, “now is the time to

fulfill your promise!” She regarded me, surprised and smiling, and

deferred only until that evening the recital of the history so much

desired.

Orders were issued to prepare the gallery for our reception, and in the

presence of the portrait of Wilhelmine de Cernan, I learned the strange

misfortunes of her life. They appeared to me so interesting that I have

since endeavored to find further details to fill the deficiency of my

memory; and it is her history which, in my turn, I am about to relate to

you.

Wilhelmine de Cernan, reared by her mother in the country, had grown to

girlhood in the seclusion of her own family, and the intimacy of a few

cherished friends. Her simple tastes prompted her to love retirement,

and her disposition, naturally a melancholy one, shrunk timidly from

much which usually makes the happiness of women. The pleasures of

society, those gay balls and animated assemblies youth is prone to love

so intensely, had for her no attractions. Her mother, by whom she was

idolized, never imagined that this tendency of character could injure

her daughter; she therefore never sought to subdue it, and only throve

to inculcate those doctrines of piety which had formed the basis of her

own education.

Religion appeared to the spirit of Wilhelmine robed with all its noblest

and sublimest coloring; and its mystical beauty tinged for her the most

trivial details of life. She seemed almost like an angel, who claimed

communion every day, every moment, with heaven. God and her mother! in

these two thoughts lay all her existence.

When she had attained the age of eighteen, the Baron de Breuil was

presented to her as a desirable connection, and scarcely pausing to

interrogate her heart as to the nature of her sentiments, she tranquilly

accepted his hand, confident that she could repose on her mother the

care of her happiness. Wilhelmine could not, in truth, have made a

selection more worthy of her, for M. de Breuil was in all respects a

good and estimable man. His château was but a league distant from the

residence of Madame de Cernan; the mother and daughter met daily, and

nothing was changed for Wilhelmine. The baron believed himself the most

fortunate of men, and was unceasingly occupied in cultivating the powers

of his young wife. He lavished all his care to adorn her intellect, to

direct her talents, and to elevate her mind to the appreciation of

whatever is truly grand and beautiful. One portion of their time was

dedicated to reading, another to drawing, a third to music and exercise;

and they never concluded a day without a visit to some poor dwelling,

where their presence carried consolation and benefit. In the midst of

these peaceful employments and pure pleasures, the life of Wilhelmine

glided tranquilly on. The spectacle of crime had never saddened her

eyes; and misery had appeared to her only to be relieved. It seemed as

if an existence so uniform, so gentle, should have lasted long; but He

whose will is not as our will, had ordained otherwise. At the end of two

years of happiness, the Baron de Breuil was attacked by violent illness,

and the physicians soon declared his life was in imminent danger.

Wilhelmine, bathed in tears, never quitted the bedside of her husband,

but, unable to conceal the agony of her grief, she lavished upon him all

the attentions of the truest tenderness. Himself resigned to death, but

profoundly grieved by the deep affliction of his wife, he endeavored to

console her by the most comforting expressions; but Wilhelmine, overcome

by anguish, would listen to nothing he could say. She sunk at length

into a state of torpor, from which she could scarcely be aroused, even

by her desire to attend on the invalid.

“God is merciful!” at last said M. de Breuil to her, “he will sustain

you in your misfortune, he will enable you once more to find charms in

existence. You are young; the future proffers you bright days; the

prospect of life before you is calm and smiling. Alas! I fondly hoped we

might have trodden its pathway together; but Heaven has ordained

otherwise. Perhaps another—”

“Never!” exclaimed Wilhelmine, “never! _I_ love another after loving

you! _I_ unite my lot with another’s! _I_ forget you! Ah! rather would I

die a thousand times!”

“Wilhelmine! Wilhelmine! grief at this time distracts you, but remember,

nothing here is eternal, not even an affection as pure is ours. Believe

a man who has had much experience; your heart will feel the ‘strong

necessity of loving.’ Happy will he be who fulfills that want! May he be

worthy of that enjoyment!”

Wilhelmine covered her husband’s hands with kisses; she seemed almost

indignant at being thus misunderstood, thus illy judged; she repulsed

these mournful predictions; but the dying one drew her gently toward

him, “My love, life departs, the last moment approaches. Here, take back

this ring, I release thee from all thy promises!”

“Ah! have pity on me! retain this ring, and if ever your fatal

prophecies should be realised; if ever I bestow on another the affection

you should bear with you, unbroken in the tomb, it is from yourself I

will demand the right; it is in your grave I will seek this ring; it is

from your finger I will dare to take it! _Most solemnly I swear it!_”

“Wilhelmine! no impious words—no rash oaths!” The baron pronounced

these words with difficulty—and they were his last. He revived only to

fall into renewed paroxysms, and after a few hours, expired in the arms

of his despairing wife.

Wilhelmine sincerely mourned for the man who had acquired so many claims

on her gratitude. During a long period the young widow remained shut up

in her château, surrounding herself with all objects calculated to

recall her past felicity, and seeming to revel in her sorrow, by

refusing every means by which it might have been alleviated.

At the end of three years, an event obliged her to leave this solitude.

Madame de Cernan fell dangerously ill. Wilhelmine, terrified by the

peril of her mother, forgot her grief, and made preparations for

immediate departure. A celebrated physician resided at Brussels, and it

was decided they should travel to that city. The tenderness of a

daughter is sometimes as inexhaustible as that of a mother; and only

those who have seen their parents on the brink of the grave, who have

experienced the agony of their loss, can comprehend the profundity of

filial love. Wilhelmine dreaded the moment when she might read in the

physician’s eyes, the sentence of life or death for her mother; and at

length that moment, so feared while it was desired, arrived. The doctor

reassured her concerning the illness of Madame de Cernan; but her

convalescence, he said, must be tedious, and they must not think of

removing their residence for several months.

Wilhelmine was for some time faithful to her preconceived plan of living

alone with her mother. She could not, however, refuse forming a few

acquaintances. Madame de Cernan had met with one of her early friends;

and the _sauvagerie_ of the young widow was not proof against the

pressing solicitations of this lady. She consented at first to see her

unceremoniously, then accepted invitations to her _soirées_, and finally

avowed she found them exceedingly entertaining. In truth, the very best

society was to be found in the saloons of the Comtesse D’A——, for they

united all that Belgium contained of the lovely and the intellectual.

Among the gentlemen, the nephew of Madame D’A——, Edmond de Gaser, was

distinguished by the beauty of his person, the original tone of his

mind, and the uncommon variety of his acquirements. Among the ladies,

Wilhelmine soon occupied a prominent station; and her gentleness and

reserve prevented the jealousy her loveliness and talent were calculated

to awaken.

There was a continual contest as to who could most surround her with

homage, who bestow the most flattering tokens of friendship.

Edmond de Gaser speedily became very devoted to Madame de Breuil, and,

indeed, this conquest could not have failed to gratify the vanity of any

woman less destitute of _coquetterie_—for Edmond had been reared with

strict principles; his few years of life had already been shadowed by

trouble, and he had acquired by severe and philosophic studies a

judgment of rare solidity. Edmond combined with the advantages of rank

and fortune, those qualities of mind which, in all social communities,

elevate a man above those otherwise his equals.

Wilhelmine never dreamed of incurring danger in encouraging the

sentiments of benevolence and interest inspired by M. de Gaser. Knowing

nothing of what is commonly called love, except through the medium of a

few novels, she imagined the dawnings of passion were attended by the

violent and peculiar emotions of which she had read such false

portraitures; and she calculated on defence from these in the purity of

her own heart. This dangerous security proved fatal to her peace.

When she at length perceived the nature of her sentiments, it was too

late to subdue them—for she loved M. de Gaser with all the devotedness

of an ardent nature, and a vivid imagination; remorse even added depth

to her affection. Since the moment she had comprehended that her feeling

for Edmond was neither esteem nor friendship, but a more absorbing

attachment, the recollection of her husband arose in her heart with all

the impetuosity of an appealing conscience. She would have taken refuge

in flight, but winter was at its height, and she dared not cause her

mother to undertake at that time, a journey whose consequences would

have been fatal to her health. Every thing was in opposition to poor

Wilhelmine; the representations of her mother, who treated the griefs

which engrossed her as mere idle scruples; the opinion of the world,

which might have served to authorise in her own eyes a second marriage;

and, more than all, the constant presence of Edmond—for had she ceased

to see him, it would have seemed a tacit confession of weakness. The

tears she almost continually shed, destroyed her health; and when, on

the arrival of spring, they prepared to leave Brussels, it was not for

Madame de Cernan, but for Wilhelmine, the journey offered dangers, so

completely had she been, in a short time, exhausted by grief.

Nevertheless, the day for their departure was fixed. Wishing to avoid a

final interview with M. de Gaser, she denied herself to visitors; but

Edmond, charmed at the thought of Wilhelmine’s no longer suffering,

entered by a different door, and penetrated into the garden of the

hotel. He stood fixedly regarding the windows which he supposed were

those of Madame de Breuil’s apartment, when suddenly, in a turn of the

path, he perceived her walking slowly, her eyes bent on the ground, like

a person giving way to most profound abstraction. The exclamation

uttered by Edmond on recognising her, aroused her from her reverie.

Wilhelmine being no longer able to control her emotion, Edmond realised

that he was beloved; and this belief lent him courage to declare a

tenderness which had until now been only told by his looks. Troubled and

irresolute, Wilhelmine seemed not to hear him, but, nevertheless, every

word re-echoed through her heart. At last, with that impetuosity of

determination which sometimes succeeds to prolonged uncertainty, she

answered, “In six months I will be your wife!” and then hastily quitted

him, leaving M. de Gaser intoxicated with happiness.

The next day Madame de Cernan and her daughter were on their homeward

way. The nearer Wilhelmine approached the places she had frequented with

M. de Breuil, the sadder became her thoughts. When the sombre turrets of

the castle became visible, enveloped in the morning clouds, a torrent of

tears flowed from Wilhelmine’s eyes. “Never! never!” she passionately

exclaimed, and threw herself in the arms of her mother. Madame de Cernan

did not endeavor to repress the emotions which the aspect of these

places was calculated to call forth in the refined mind of her daughter;

she waited patiently until time should familiarize her to these

memories; but the time which calmed the paroxysms of sorrow, also

restored all her incertitudes. No longer to love Edmond, seemed a

sacrifice beyond her strength; and would he not, then, have the right to

reproach her with the loss of the happiness she had promised him?

Unfortunate woman! she should have concealed her love; then, at least,

she would have suffered alone. There were even moments when Wilhelmine

wished to go and reclaim her marriage-ring; when she would revel in all

the horror inspired by the thought, and encourage it in a spirit of

penitence; again, she would repel it with fright and indignation; but,

nevertheless, this idea pursued her incessantly, and even in her sleep

she heard a voice murmur to her, “Go, seek thy ring in the tomb!”

Madame de Breuil consulted the venerable priest who had always

instructed and guided her. Under the sacred seal of confession she

implored his counsel; prostrate at his feet, she entreated him to decide

her destiny. Never had the confessor directed a penitent in a case so

difficult; he paused for many moments, and seemed unwilling to

pronounce—but the young widow insisted.

“My daughter,” at last said the minister of truth, “it has been said,

‘Thou shalt not swear!’ and you have failed to follow this command; you

have disobeyed God—you ought to submit to the consequence of your

fault. It has been before Heaven; beside a dying bed you have pronounced

a terrible vow—this vow you must fulfill.”

“O, mercy! mercy!” cried the penitent

“Yes, my daughter, I but repeat the words spoken to you by the voice of

conscience; I only say to you what you say each day to yourself. Either

renounce Edmond, or demand from the dead your marriage-ring.”

“My father!” replied Wilhelmine, trembling and overwhelmed, “my father,

to renounce Edmond is impossible, I love him a thousand times more than

myself; he is dearer even than M. de Breuil, whom I loved so well. In

mercy, curse me not! for all will be expiated to-day. You decree that I

should descend into our family vault. I will go. You tell me to touch

the hand of a skeleton. I will touch it. You order me to ask from the

dead the ring which alone can unite me to Edmond. Well, I will ask it,

even if I must die in the sad place I go to sully with my presence!”

The worthy confessor, alarmed by this tone of excitement, sought to calm

her, and recommended the deferring until a future period an undertaking

so solemn.

“Father! it is this very hour I must perform the deed; but my mother

knows nothing of it. My poor mother! she would never consent to her

child’s passing through such an ordeal. One person only must accompany

me in this mournful visit, and he is the man who knew the secret, the

man who advised it—yourself! Will you consent to follow me?”

The venerable priest, surprised by a resolution so sudden, surprised,

above all, by the change which had come over the mind and language of

Wilhelmine, could not resist the impetuosity of his penitent, and

yielded, in opposition to his better judgment, to the ascendency of a

strong and overbearing will.

“I will follow you!” was his reply. He silently selected the key of the

vault, where lay the remains of the members of the family of Breuil, he

lighted a torch, and advanced toward the chapel, beneath which the tomb

was situated.

“Madame!” he said impressively to Wilhelmine, “this is the moment to

have courage. The action you are about to commit is a solemn one, but it

should not dismay you. You are fulfilling a sacred promise, you are

acquitting yourself of a painful duty. God approves it, you have nothing

to fear;” and taking her hand, they descended together the stairs that

no step had trodden since the death of the baron. They entered the

vault. Wilhelmine concentrated all her energy; she advanced, still

guided by the priest. He lifted the stone which covered the tomb, and

removed every obstacle. Wilhelmine, with averted eyes, put forth her

hand; she wished to accomplish her vow without contemplating the hideous

spectacle before her—but the ring must be grasped. She looks, and a cry

of astonishment burst from her lips. She had expected to behold remains

disfigured, and perhaps not recognizable; but she sees her husband, such

as he ever was during the happy days they passed together; his

countenance still retained its expression of goodness and tenderness. It

was still M. de Breuil, the husband so well-beloved; doubtless he

reposed, he only slept. Alas! soon he may awaken, to ask an account of

the fidelity which should have been eternal; he may speak to her in

threatening words; he may crush her with scorn, on learning the cause of

this, her first visit. Such were the thoughts that startled the young

widow, as she gazed on her husband’s form. She had not strength to bear

such a scene, and striving to support herself on her companion’s arm,

she faltered, tottered, and fell lifeless. The priest, fearing this pure

spirit had departed to rejoin that of the dead, carried the young widow

to her apartment, and informed her mother of the cause of this terrible

shock.

Wilhelmine recovered her consciousness, only to sink into the most

alarming delirium. A burning fever attacked her, and during several days

her death was momentarily expected. But at last her youth triumphed over

this crisis, she recovered her health, and at the end of two months had

regained sufficient strength to walk a few steps in her chamber. She

passed before a mirror, and accidentally glanced at its image of

herself; what was her amazement at beholding a face whiter than

alabaster itself. She tried to close her eyes, but could not cease

regarding it. It was herself, these were indeed her features, but could

illness have produced a change so sudden and mysterious? Alas! this

paleness never departed more!

Her former intentions were irrevocably arrested, she resolved not to see

Edmond again, and the prayers of her lover and her mother were equally

unavailing. She consecrated herself solely to good works, and to those

exercises of piety and benevolence which her too exclusive affection for

M. de Gaser had for a time interrupted. She lived the life of a saint,

shedding blessings around her, and endeavoring to procure for others the

happiness she could no longer obtain for herself.

Wilhelmine’s appearance continued as she had seen it the first day of

her convalescence. She had now forsaken the world, and the world

speedily forgot her; but a small number of friends ceased not to offer

her pity and consolation. While still young, she was attacked by a

disease of languor, which left no room for hope, and ere long Wilhelmine

had reached her last hour. A few moments before her death she bade a

touching farewell to all her friends, and turning to Madame de Cernan,

she said—

“My mother, relate to them the particulars of my history; tell them to

beware of making rash vows; it is a vow which has killed me!”

My aunt shed tears as she concluded this recital, and I wept bitterly

over the mournful destiny of the pale lady. After the day I learned this

mournful chronicle, I evinced as much solicitude to avoid finding myself

in the vicinity of the portrait gallery as I had hitherto displayed

anxiety to visit its attractions. I could not pass before her picture

without my heart beating quicker at the remembrance of the sorrows of

Wilhelmine. It seemed to me as if I heard her speak her last words, and

I would repeat to myself as I glided in terror before her—“O! beware of

rash vows, for it is a vow which has killed me!”

* * * * *

[Illustration: Drawn by C. H. Bodmer. Eng^{d}. by Rawdon, Wright &

Hatch. A Skin Lodge of an Assiniboin Chief. Engraved Expressly for

Graham’s Magazine.]

* * * * *

AN ASSINIBOIN LODGE.

The travels of Prince Maximilian, of Wied, in the interior of North

America, give us an interesting account of the Assiniboin tribe of

Indians in the far west.

“All on a sudden,” he says, describing their visit, “we heard some

musket-shot, which announced a very interesting scene. The whole prairie

was covered with scattered Indians, whose numerous dogs drew their

sledges with the baggage; a close body of warriors, about 250 in number,

had formed themselves in the centre, in the manner of two bodies of

infantry, and advanced in quick time toward the fort. The whole troop

commenced a song consisting of many broken, abrupt tones, like those of

the war-whoop, and resembling the song which we heard in 1814 from the

Russian soldiers. Many of these warriors had their faces painted all

over with vermillion, others quite black. In their heads they wore

feathers of eagles, or other birds of prey; some had wolf-skin caps;

others had fastened green leaves around their heads; and long wolves’

tails were hanging down to their heels, as marks of honor for enemies

they had slain.”

We continue the extract to afford our readers a description of the

manner in which the Assiniboins erect their rude dwellings. “At noon a

band of Indians had arrived, and twenty-five tents were set up near the

fort. The women, their faces painted red, soon finished this work, and

dug up with their instruments the clods of turf which lay around the

lower part of the hut. One of these huts, (see the plate in the present

number of “Graham,”) the dwelling of a chief, was distinguished from the

rest. It was painted of the color of yellow ochre, had a broad,

reddish-brown border below, and on its sides a large black bear was

painted, (something of a caricature, it must be confessed,) to the head

of which, just above the nose, a piece of red cloth, that fluttered in

the wind, was fastened; doubtless a medicine. We now saw the women

returning in all directions from the forest, panting under the weight of

large bundles of wood, which were fastened to their backs.” The scene,

brief as it is, affords a characteristic view of the life of the

children of the prairie.

* * * * *

THE AUTUMN WIND.

BY MRS. JANE C. CAMPBELL.

The Autumn wind is rushing by,

And in its wild career

It beareth on its mighty wings

The beauty of the year;

And mournfully its deep dirge rings

Upon the spirit’s ear.

How drear the sound that sweeps along

The forest and the vale,

Those solemn tones, they chill the heart,

Like plaintive funeral wail.

I’ll sit me down on these dead leaves,

And question of its tale.

“What tidings hast thou—where hast been

Since last thy voice I heard,

Since last the quivering of thy wings

The leafless branches stirred,

And frighted from its moss-clad home

Each gentle nestling bird?

“Ah, wherefore didst thou swell the storm

When good ships went to sea;

And why was bent the tall, stout mast—

The cordage rent by thee;

And why, when shattered bark went down,

Thy shout of victory?

“Oh! bring back tidings of the lost

To many an anxious ear;

Bear to the mourner, mighty wind,

The last words thou didst hear;

One token give—some simple things

From those who were so dear.

“And tell us—” “Mortal, why dost ask

These tidings of the wind—

Dost think that of the unfathomed deep

The secrets thou shall find?

As well might hope, with filmy thread,

The storm’s wild rage to bind.

“If o’er the ocean I have swept,

And lashed its waves to heaven,

While high before me on the surge

The hapless bark was driven,

And loud and fearful rose the cry

Of men from warm life riven.

“Or if I kissed the pale, calm brow

Of some fair bride of death,

And colder made the cold pure snow

Where froze her heart aneath,

And mingled with mine own low moan,

Her last faint flitting breath.

“If I have stilled the infant’s sob

Upon its mother’s breast,

While closer, closer in her arms

Her treasured one was pressed,

Until my wailing lullaby

Had hushed the babe to rest.

“I did His bidding who doth hold

In his all-powerful hand

The whirlwind that hath swept in might

O’er ocean-wave and land;

I questioned not why such things were—

Can mortal understand?

“Enough, that thou hast wept the dead,

Since last was heard my tone;

Enough, that thy poor human heart

Has sorrowed not alone;

Enough, that when thou hearest now,

I tell of treasures gone.

“There has been beauty in my path,

And I have whispered low

To rose-buds till their cheek has flushed;

Have fanned eve’s crimson glow,

And dimpled founts, where sunbeams danced,

And mingled with their flow.

“Many a shout from a merry troop

Of children at their play,

And gladsome tone of mirth and joy

Have I borne in my flight away;

And odors of heaven my wings have caught

Where the holy knelt to pray.

“Do thou His bidding—question not,

Nor cower like frighted dove,

There’s a home where the storm-winds never sweep,

In the heaven of heavens above.

Thy jewels are garnered in that bright land

With their God—and God is Love.”

* * * * *

STANZAS FOR MUSIC.

In golden dreams the night goes by,

And sweet the world of sleep to me;

For, moon-like ’mid her starry sky,

My brightest dream is still of thee.

As swells the sea beneath the glance

Of moonbeams in their midnight play,

So ’neath thine eyes my bosom pants,

My heart’s deep midnight wakes in day.

A.

* * * * *

REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.

_Evangeline, a Tale of Acadie. By Henry Wordsworth Longfellow.

Boston: Wm. D. Ticknor & Co. 1 vol. 12mo._

We are glad that Professor Longfellow has, in this volume, produced a

poem which, while it indicates his capacity as a writer, is practically

a triumphant answer to various depreciating criticisms on his writings.

It has been said that his strength lay in small lyrics and didactics;

that he had not sufficient force of feeling and imagination to create a

poem. Here is a long and elaborate effort, extending to some hundred and

sixty pages, where the strictest unity of effect is combined with great

variety of character, incident, scenery, sentiment, and description. It

has been said that his love of thought, if not his imagery and ideas,

were borrowed from foreign sources, and that he rather polished than

created. Here is a poem almost entirely American, blooming with flowers,

and fragrant with odors peculiar to his own continent, and reflecting in

its beautiful verse the streams, valleys, and mountains of his native

land. It has been said that a certain foppery and effeminate elegance

characterized his fancy; and that he dared not trust himself in the

delineation of actual homely objects, where the poetic effect could not

be produced by cunning combinations of words, but must result from the

exercise of a pure and bright imagination. Here is a poem, in which

whole pages are devoted to the delineation of humble, hearty farmers and

mechanics, evincing an almost Chaucerian trust in things as opposed to

words, giving clear pictures of objects and characters, replete with a

sweet, humane humor, and producing poetry of effect by intensity and

clearness of imaginative conception. Basil, the blacksmith, and

Benedict, are as vivid and true as the delineations of Crabbe. Any

farmer or smith would instantly recognize them as genuine. Yet the poet,

by his subtil power of discerning the spirit beneath the rough external

appearance, has given them an intrinsic beauty and dignity which would

entitle them to rank with kings. He has, with a severe simplicity, fixed

his gaze steadily on the human heart and soul, and we recognize in his

delineations, humanity as well as the externals of rural life.

If Mr. Longfellow has in this poem thus practically illustrated his

possession of rare powers, for which a few critics have not given him

credit, he has also done something which, from the time of Sidney, has

been pronounced impossible by English criticism—he has written a long

narrative poem in hexameter verse, and managed it so admirably, that it

seems the best he could have chosen for his purpose. We cannot conceive

of the poem as being recast in heroics, octosyllabics, blank verse, or

the Spenserian stanza, without essential injury to its effect, and a

limitation of its range of character and description. In this Mr.

Longfellow has clearly performed “the impossible;” and it should be a

source of gratification to every American, that one of his own

countrymen has achieved what no English poet has been able to perform,

and what few have dared to attempt. The composition of a poem in

hexameter verse, which can be read with as much ease and delight as

“Gertrude of Wyoming,” we conceive to be the most original peculiarity

of this original work.

The character of Evangeline is, perhaps, Mr. Longfellow’s most beautiful

creation. It is both conceived and sustained with wonderful force and

truth. The sweetness, purity, energy, holiness, and naturalness of the

character, as displayed in her life-long wanderings, the unforced

religious elevation which envelopes her, and through her the whole poem;

—“The hope, and the fear, and the sorrow,

All the aching of heart, the restless, unsatisfied longing,

All the dull, deep pain, and constant anguish of patience,”

which she endures from her early youth to that period when, old and worn

with constant endeavor, she presses the lifeless head of her long-sought

betrothed to her bosom, and “meekly bows her own, and murmurs, ‘Father,

I thank thee,’” all combine to consecrate her to the heart and

imagination as one of those pure conceptions of humanity, which none who

once cherishes will willingly let die. The author has well addressed the

class of readers who will appreciate the deep seriousness of his

purpose, in a few of the opening lines:

“Ye who believe in affection that hopes, and endures, and is patient;

Ye who believe in the beauty and strength of woman’s devotion;

List to the mournful tradition still sung by the pines of the forest;

List to a Tale of Love in Acadie, home of the happy.”

We cannot refrain from making a few extracts from this poem, although we

must warn our readers that they can obtain no clear idea of its merits,

and the artistical relation, of the characters to each other, and the

scenery to the characters, without reading the whole. We will guarantee

that it possesses sufficient interest to be read at one sitting.

We will first give a few lines partially indicating some of the

characters. Benedict, Evangeline’s father, is thus described:

“Stalworth and stately in form was the man of seventy winters;

Hearty and hale was he, an oak that is covered with snow-flakes;

White as the snow were his locks, and his cheeks as brown as the

oak-leaves.”

• • • • • • • •

“In-door, warm by the wide-mouth fire-place, idly the farmer

Sat in his elbow-chair, and watched how the flames and the

smoke-wreaths

Struggled together like foes in a burning city.

Faces clumsily carved in oak on the back of his arm-chair

Laughed in the flickering light, and the pewter plates on the dresser

Caught and reflected the flame, as shields of armies the sunshine.

Fragments of song the old man sang, and carols of Christmas,

Such as at home, in the olden time, his fathers before him

Sang in their Norman orchards and bright Burgundian vineyards.”

The following is a picture of the good notary:

“Bent like a laboring oar, that toils in the surf of the ocean,

Bent, but not broken, by age, was the form of the notary public;

Shocks of yellow hair, like the silken floss of the maize, hung

Over his shoulders; his forehead was high; and glasses with horn bows

Sat astride on his nose, with a look of wisdom supernal.

Father of twenty children was he, and more than a hundred

Children’s children rode on his knee, and heard his great watch tick.”

The blacksmith, the very impersonation of strength, is well delineated;

but we have only space for a few lines:

“Silenced but not convinced, when the story was ended, the blacksmith

Stood like a man who fain would speak, but findeth no language;

And all his thoughts congealed into lines on his face, as the vapors

Freeze in fantastic shapes on the window-panes in the winter.”

The following view of the little maiden on a Sunday morn, is very

beautiful:

“But a celestial brightness—a more ethereal beauty—

Shone on her face and encircled her form, when after confession,

Homeward serenely she walked with God’s benediction upon her.

When she had passed it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music.”

The descriptions of rural life in Acadie, of the scenery of the Ohio and

Mississippi rivers, of the wilds of Oregon, are replete with force,

beauty, and finely chosen details. They are all too long for short

extracts to give an adequate impression of their excellence; and

besides, the author has connected the scenery which surrounds the

heroine with her feelings on the occasion of viewing it. The description

of the burning village is grand, but we have space only for a few lines:

“Columns of shining smoke uprose, and flashes of flame were

Thrust through their folds and withdrawn, _like the quivering hands of

a martyr_.

Then as the winds seized the gleeds and the burning thatch, and,

uplifting,

Whirled them aloft through the air, at once from a hundred house-tops

Started the sheeted smoke with flashes of flame intermingled.”

The following exquisite passage, on the mocking-bird in the far west,

is, perhaps, the finest and most life-like description in the poem:

“Then from a neighboring thicket, the mocking-bird, wildest of

singers,

Swinging aloft on a willow spray that hung o’er the water,

Shook from his little throat such floods of delicious music,

That the whole air, and the woods, and the waves, seemed silent to

listen.

Plaintive at first were the tones and sad, then soaring to madness

Seemed they to follow or guide the revel of frenzied Bacchantes.

Then single notes were heard, in sorrowful low lamentation,

Till, having gathered them all, he flung them abroad in derision,

As when, after a storm, a gust of wind through the tree-tops

Shakes down the rattling rain in a crystal shower on the branches.”

Here we have a view of our own city, for which we are reasonably

grateful to the poet:

“In that delightful land which is washed by the Delaware’s waters,

Guarding in sylvan shades the name of Penn the apostle,

Stands on the banks of its beautiful stream the city he founded.

There all the air is balm, and the peach is the emblem of beauty,

And the streets still re-echo the names of the trees of the forest,

As if they fain would appease the Dryads whose haunts they molested.”

Mr. Longfellow shows in this poem, together with much that is new, his

usual felicity and breadth of imagery and comparison. We cannot take

leave of his book more pleasantly than in quoting a few of his separate

excellencies of thought or language:

“And as she gazed from the window she saw serenely the moon pass

Forth from the folds of a cloud, and one star follow her footsteps,

As out of Abraham’s tent young Ishmael wandered with Hagar.”

• • • • • • • •

“Life had been long astir in the village, and clamorous labor

Knocked with its hundred hands at the golden gates of the morning.”

• • • • • • • •

“Sadly echoed her step on the stair and the chamber.

In the dead of the night she heard the whispering rain fall

Loud on the withered leaves of the sycamore tree by the window.

Keenly the lightning flashed, and the voice of the neighboring thunder

Told her that God was in heaven, and governed the world he created.”

• • • • • • • •

“Sometimes a rumor, a hearsay, an inarticulate whisper,

Came with its airy hand to point and beckon her forward.”

• • • • • • • •

“Whither my heart has gone, there follows my hand, and not elsewhere;

For when the heart goes before, like a lamp, and illumines the

pathway,

Many things are made clear, that else lie hidden in darkness.”

• • • • • • • •

“Nearer and round about her, the manifold flowers of the garden

Poured out their souls in odors, that were their prayers and

confessions

Unto the night, as it went its way, like a silent Carthusian.”

• • • • • • • •

“Bright rose the sun the next day; and all the flowers of the garden

Bathed his shining feet with their tears, and anointed his tresses

With the delicious balm that they bore in their vases of crystal.”

The pathos of Evangeline it is impossible to develop in our limited

space. The chief beauty of the poem is its unity of interest and

feeling. The reader soon comes to admire the unaccustomed movement of

the verse, and he is carried onward with its majestic sweep to the

conclusion, without any faltering of attention. We end our notice with a

portion of the concluding lines, which fitly close the sweet and

mournful story of the lovers:

“Still stands the forest primeval; but far away from its shadow,

Side by side in their nameless graves the lovers are sleeping.

Under the humble walls of the little Catholic church-yard,

In the heart of the city, they lie, unknown and unnoticed,

Daily the tides of life go ebbing and flowing beside them,

Thousands of throbbing hearts, where theirs are at rest and for ever;

Thousands of aching brains, where theirs no longer are busy;

Thousands of toiling hands, where theirs have ceased from their

labors;

Thousands of weary feet, where theirs have completed their journey.”

* * * * *

_Tam’s Fortnight Ramble, and other Poems. By Thomas Mackellar.

Phila.: Carey & Hart. 1 vol. 12mo._

The modest preface of this elegantly printed volume is enough to smooth

the wrinkled front of criticism. The writer is, we believe, an

intelligent printer, who has made verse the solace, not the occupation

of his life. It would be hard to try his volume by any severe

requisitions of criticism. It is hearty, earnest and genuine, and fairly

expresses what is in the man. The little poem entitled, “The Editor sat

in his Sanctum,” has been very popular. The principal fault of the

author is his habit of disturbing the train of serious feeling which he

often awakens, by some expressions which trail along with them ludicrous

suggestions.

* * * * *

_Appleton’s Railroad and Steamboat Companion, being a Traveler’s

Guide through New England and the Middle States. By W. Williams.

New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 12mo._

We allude to this book, not so much because it is the best and most

complete traveler’s guide ever published in the United States, as for

the information it contains respecting the cost and fares of railroads,

and the sketches of every town and village they pass through. It is not

until we see them all set down together in one book, that we appreciate

the money expended, and the obstacles overcome in building them, and the

vast impetus they have given to the productive energies of the country,

and to civilization.

* * * * *

_Washington and the Generals of the American Revolution. With

Sixteen Portraits on Steel, from Original Pictures.

Philadelphia: Carey & Hart. 2 vols. 12mo._

These volumes contain upward of ninety biographies, varying in extent,

according to the importance of the subjects and the means of obtaining

accurate information regarding them. As a whole they are interesting,

well written, and reliable. A book on so important a subject cannot fail

of success.

The best biography in the volume is that of Washington. From the small

space in which the events are crowded, the writer had not an opportunity

to do justice to his artistical powers, but the view taken of

Washington’s mind is the truest and most original we have ever seen.

Every American who has been accustomed to consider the Father of his

Country, and one of the leaders of his race, as being a man of great

virtues but of moderate talents—a view which seems to obtain among the

warmest eulogists of Washington—should read the searching and profound

remarks with which the writer precedes his narrative. There is one slip

of the pen, however, which it may be as well to note. After showing that

Washington possessed the most eminent qualities of mind and feeling, he

says, toward the end, that Hamilton’s “talents took the form of genius,

which Washington’s did not.” The writer should have recollected that he

had been describing a high though not obvious genius throughout his

eloquent and profound statement; and that he was using the term genius,

not in its primal, but in one of its secondary applications.

* * * * *

_Scenes in the Lives of the Patriarchs and Prophets._

Two years ago Messrs. Lindsay & Blackiston issued a beautiful volume,

under the title of “_Scenes in the Life of the Saviour_,” and last year

succeeded it with “_Scenes in the Lives of the Apostles_.” The last of

these works, was prepared under the supervision of the Rev. H. Hastings

Weld, a gentleman whose name is familiar to our readers, and who

possesses all the qualifications to fit him for the editorship of works

of this character. The volumes referred to met with great favor in the

literary world; and they are now followed by a third, prepared under the

same auspices, entitled, “_Scenes in the Lives of the Patriarchs and

Prophets_.” We do but simple justice when we declare that it has seldom

fallen to our lot to notice a book which possesses so many and such

varied attractions. Mr. Weld has gathered from the best writers the most

beautiful of their works, in illustration of his theme, and prepared for

the reader a rich literary repast. We are assured that the volume before

us will, like those which preceded it, come acceptably before the

public, and be a favorite offering during the approaching holyday

season.

* * * * *

_Oregon Missions and Travels over the Rocky Mountains in

1845-6._

Mr. W. J. Cunningham has laid upon our table a handsome volume, bearing

this title, published by Mr. Dunigan, of New York. It is from the pen of

Father P. J. De Smet, of the Society of Jesus, and embodies an

interesting view of the manners and customs, traditions, superstitions,

&c., of the Indian tribes of the Rocky Mountains, as gathered by the

Reverend Father during an extended missionary tour amongst them. The

book will be read with interest, and numerous lithographic illustrations

of the text add to the attractiveness of its pages.

* * * * *

_The Mirror of Life_ is the title of a magnificent volume which Messrs.

Lindsay & Blackiston have published, the matter of which is entirely

original. It is ornamented with a number of plates, beautifully and

expressly prepared by American artists, and the letter-press is really

superb. Mrs. L. C. Tuthill, who edits the work, has acquitted herself

admirably, and has gathered together many choice literary gems.

* * * * *

_The Crater, or Vulcan’s Peak, by J. Fenimore Cooper, Author of

“Miles Wallingford,” “The Pathfinder” &c._

Mr. Cooper is so great a favorite with the American public that any

thing coming from his pen will be sought for with avidity. We do not

regard “The Crater” as one of the best of his works, but coming from

almost any other living writer it would be regarded as extraordinary.

The invention of Mr. Cooper seems to be inexhaustible; age cannot stale

nor custom wither his infinite variety; and we have in “The Crater,” and

especially in the scenes descriptive of the working of the “Old

Rancocus” among the breakers, evidence that the genius which has won the

admiration of all civilized communities, still holds its wand with an

unrelaxed grasp, and possesses spells powerful as at the first. His

sea-stories surpass those of Smollet even in power and verisimilitude,

while they bear no taint of his grossness. The best of these, the ocean

tale, “Rose Budd,” now in the course of publication in this Magazine,

has been pronounced, by all who have read it, one of the most

fascinating and valuable contributions to American literature.

* * * * *

_The Arabian Nights._

A beautiful and cheap edition of this universal favorite among the

young, has been issued, and a copy has been laid upon our desk by

Messrs. Zieber & Co. To speak of the work would be supererogatory, but

we may remark that all which typographical skill and enterprise could do

to add attraction to it, has been done by the publishers.

* * * * *

_The Christiad._

A volume of poems on various subjects, of which the principal one is

entitled The Christiad, has been published by the author, _William

Alexander, Esq., A. M._ The work is brought out in handsome style, and a

cursory examination induces us to believe that it contains many passages

of merit.

* * * * *

DESCRIPTION OF THE FASHION PLATE.

Toilette de Ville.—Dress of violet colored satin, _à la Reine_; skirt

plain; corsage high, _à la Puritan_; hat of shaded yellow satin, and

ornamented with a shaded feather, or with shaded garnets velvet; sleeves

large, slit half way up the arm, and falling back upon the sides.

Toilette de Bal.—Dress of white muslin; skirt ornamented with three

rows of embroidery, in festoons, or scollops, with large spaces, and

surmounted right and left by a bouquet, composed of three daisies, with

foliage. The same trimming of embroidery and flowers on the corsage,

which is very low, with the point somewhat rounded, and without sleeves.

The head-dress, in perfect keeping with the toilette, is composed of a

(_franche_) crown of daisies, those of the front part of the head very

small, and those of the sides and back much larger.

* * * * *

The sketch by Fanny Forester published in our last was sent originally

to the publisher of Graham’s Magazine, and was set up from the

manuscript for our last number. We mention this to correct a

misapprehension of the newspaper press, and to relieve the author from

any imputation. The fault was our own, in leaving the article so long

unpublished.

* * * * *

[Illustration:

LE FOLLET

Boulevart S^{t}. Martin, 61.

_Chapeaux de M^{me}._ Baudry, _r. Richlieu, 87—Robes de M^{me}._ Mercier,

_r. N^{ve}. des Petits Champs, 82;_

_Fleurs et plumes de_ Chagot—_Pardessus et fourrures du_ Cardinal, _boul.

Poissonnière, 41;_

_Mouchoir de_ L. Chapron & Dubois, _r. de la Paix, 7—Gants de_ Aveline,

_r. de la Paix, 18 et 20;_

_Passementeries de_ Richenet Bayard, _r. S^{t}. Denis, 400, et r. de la

Paix, 24._

Graham’s Magazine.]

* * * * *

Transcriber’s Notes:

Table of Contents has been added for reader convenience. Archaic

spellings and hyphenation have been retained. Obvious typesetting and

punctuation errors have been corrected without note. Other errors have

been corrected as noted below. For illustrations, some caption text may

be missing or incomplete due to condition of the originals available for

preparation of the eBook.

page 295, _perfume_ I might loose. ==> _perfume_ I might lose.

page 297, he replied. “Her’s ==> he replied. “Hers

page 315, for the childrens’ ==> for the children’s

page 322, in each others ==> in each other’s

page 328, days they past ==> days they passed

page 328, long wolve’s tails ==> long wolves’ tails

page 331, life in Arcadie, of ==> life in Acadie, of

[End of Graham’s Magazine, Vol. XXXI, No. 6, December 1847]