CONCLUSION.
Five years had passed since the commencement of our tale, and Clara
and I still remained at our homes in Willowdale. Life had passed
gently with us, and the friendship formed in our school-days remained
unbroken. It was sweet to recall those days; and we passed many a
pleasant hour in the renewal of old memories. Clara had heard nothing
from Philip Sidney, save once, about a year before, when a letter from
Fan Selby informed her that he had called on them. He had inquired
very particularly after Clara, and said that he intended to visit
Willowdale the following year, but where the intervening time was to
be passed she did not know. It seemed very strange to me that Clara
should not doubt his truth from his long silence, but her faith
remained unshaken.
It was the day before Christmas, and the young people of Willowdale
were assembled to finish the decorations of the church. The garlands
were hung in deep festoons along the walls, and twined around the
pillars. The pulpit and altar were adorned with wreaths tastefully
woven of branches of box mingled with the dark-green leaves and
scarlet berries of the holly, the latter gathered from trees which the
old rector had planted in his youth, and carefully preserved for this
purpose. On the walls over the entrance was the inscription, "Glory to
God in the highest, on earth peace and good-will to men," in letters
covered with box, after the model of those we had seen in our
school-days. We surveyed our work with pleasure, mingled with anxiety
to discover any improvement that might be made, for we knew that a
stranger was that night to address us. The growing infirmities of the
old rector had for a long time rendered the duties of a pastor very
fatiguing to him, and he had announced to us the Sabbath before, that
a young relative who had lately taken orders, would be with him on
Christmas Eve, and assist him until his health should be improved. The
news was unwelcome to the older members of the congregation, who had
been so long accustomed to hear instruction from their aged pastor
that the thought of seeing another stand in his place was fraught with
pain to them. He had been truly their friend, sharing their joys and
sorrows--and their hearts were linked to him as childrens' to a
parent. At the baptismal font, the marriage altar, and the last sad
rites of the departed, he had presided, and it seemed as if the voice
of a stranger must strike harshly upon their ears. But to the young
there was pleasure in the thought of change; and though they dearly
loved the old man, the charm of novelty was thrown around their dreams
of his successor. No one knew his name, though rumor whispered that he
had just returned from England, where he had spent the last year. No
wonder, then, that we looked with critic eyes upon our work, eager to
know how it must appear to one who had traveled abroad, and lingered
among the rich cathedrals of our fatherland. Clara alone seemed
indifferent, and was often rallied on her want of interest in the
young stranger, I alone read her secret, as she glanced at the gem
which sparkled upon her finger, for I knew that her thoughts were with
the past--and Philip Sidney.
Christmas Eve arrived, as bright and beautiful as the winter nights of
the North. A light snow covered the ground, and the Frost King had
encrusted it with thousands of glittering diamonds. The broad expanse
of the valley was radiant in the moonbeams, and the branches of the
willows were glittering with frosty gems. The church was brilliantly
lighted, and the blaze from its long windows left a bright reflection
upon the pure surface of the snow. The merry ringing of sleigh-bells
were heard in every direction, and numerous sleighs deposited their
fair burden at the door. There was a general gathering of the young
people from ours and the neighboring villages, to witness the services
of the evening, and brighter eyes than a city assembly could boast,
flashed in the lamp-light. The garlands were more beautiful in this
subdued light than they had been in the glare of day, and their
richness was like a magic spell of beauty to enthrall the senses of
the beholder. Clara and I were seated in one of the pews directly in
front of the altar, occasionally looking back to see the new arrivals,
and return the greetings of friends from other villages. Suddenly the
organ swelled in a rich peal of music, and the old pastor entered,
followed by the youthful stranger. There was no time to scrutinize the
features of the latter ere he knelt and concealed his face, yet there
was something in the jetty curls that rested upon his snowy surplice,
as his head laid within his folded hands that looked familiar, and
Clara involuntarily grasped my hand. As he arose and opened the
prayer-book to turn to the services of the evening, he took a
momentary survey of the congregation. That glance was enough to tell
us that the stranger was Philip Sidney. As his eye met Clara's, a
crimson flush spread over his pale face, his dark eye glowed, and his
hand trembled slightly as he turned over the leaves. It was but a
moment ere he was calm and self-possessed again, and when he commenced
reading the services his voice was clear and rich. The deepest silence
pervaded the assembly, save when the responses rose from every part of
the house. Then the organ peals, and the sweet voices of the choir
joined in the anthems, and again all was still. The charm of eloquence
is universally acknowledged, and the statesman, the warrior, and
votary of science have all wielded it as a weapon of might, but we can
never feel its irresistible power so fully as when listening to its
richness from the pulpit. The perfect wisdom of holy writ, the majesty
of thought, and purity of sentiment it inspires, will elevate the mind
of the hearer above surrounding objects, and when to this power is
added beauty of language and a musical voice, the spell is deeper.
Such was the charm that held all in silent attention while Philip
Sidney spoke. The scene was one which would tend to fix the mind on
the event it was designed to commemorate, and the sweet music of his
words might remind one of the angel's song proclaiming "Glory to God
in the highest, on earth peace and good-will to men." Richer seemed
its melody, and more beautiful his language, as he dwelt upon the love
and mercy of the Redeemer's mission, and the hope of everlasting life
it brought to the perishing. He led them back to the hour when moral
darkness enshrouded the world, and mankind were doomed to perish under
the frown of an offended God. There was but one ray to cheer the
gloom, the prophetic promise of the Messiah who should come to redeem
the world. To this they looked, and vainly dreamed that he should
appear in regal splendor, to gather his followers and form a temporal
kingdom. Far from this, the angel's song was breathed to simple
shepherds, and the star in the East pointed out a stable as the lowly
birth-place of the Son of God. He came, not to rule in splendor in the
palaces of kings, but to bring the gospel of peace to the lowliest
habitations, and fix his throne in the hearts of the meek and
humble-minded. He claimed no tribute of this world's wealth as an
offering, but the love and obedience of those whom he came to save.
Earnestly the speaker besought his hearers to yield to their Saviour
the adoration which was his due, and requite His all-excelling love
with the purest and deepest affections of their hearts. Every eye was
fixed upon the speaker, every ear intently listened to catch his
words, and tears suffused the eyes so lately beaming with gayety. At
the close of his eloquent appeal, there were few in that congregation
unmoved. The closing prayers were read, the benediction pronounced,
and the audience gradually left the house. Clara and I were the last
to leave our seats, and as we followed the crowd that had gathered in
the aisles before us she did not speak, but the hand that rested in
mine trembled like a frightened bird. Suddenly a voice behind us
whispered the name of Clara. She turned and met the gaze of Philip
Sidney. The trusting faith of years had its reward, and those so long
severed met again. Not wishing to intrude upon the joy of that moment,
I left them, and followed on with the old rector. We walked on in the
little foot-path that led to our homes; and while Clara's hand rested
upon his arm, the young clergyman told the tale of his life since
their parting.
"But how did it come," asked Clara, "that you chose the sacred
profession of the ministry?"
"I cannot fully trace the source of the emotions that led me to become
a worshiper at the throne of the Holiest, unless it is true that the
love of the pure and good of earth is the first pluming of the soul's
pinions for heaven. I went to church that Christmas eve, urged only by
the wish to look upon your face once more, yet, when there, the words
of the speaker won my attention. I had listened to others equally
eloquent many times before; but that night my heart seemed more
susceptible to religious impressions. I felt a deep sense of the folly
and ingratitude of my past life, and firmly resolved for the future to
live more worthily of the immortal treasure that was committed to my
charge. Prayerfully and earnestly I studied the Word of Life, and
resolved to devote myself to the ministry. I wrote to my worthy
relative, the rector of Willowdale, for his advice, and found, to my
great joy, that he was your devoted friend. He condemned my rashness
in the avowal I had made to you, and insisted that there should be no
communication between us until I had finished my studies. I consented,
on condition that he should write frequently and inform me of your
welfare. One year ago I had completed my studies, and would have
hastended to you, but my stern Mentor insisted that I should travel
abroad, as he said, to give me a better knowledge of human nature, and
test the truth of my early affection. I have passed the ordeal, and
now, after an absence of five years, returned to you unchanged in
heart."
The rest of the conversation was lost to me, as I reached my home; but
that it was satisfactory to those engaged in it I know from the fact,
that the next day I had the pleasure of congratulating Clara upon her
engagement, with the full consent of her relatives. The remainder of
the tale is quickly told. The old rector resigned his pastoral charge
to Philip Sidney, with the full approbation of his parishioners; and
it was arranged that the old rector and his wife should remain at the
parsonage with the young clergyman and his bride. Deacon Lee became
warmly attached to Philip, and felt a father's interest in the
happiness of Clara, though he sometimes chid her playfully for keeping
their early acquaintance a secret from him. As for Mrs. Lee, she was
so proud of the honor of being aunt to a minister, that she almost
forgot her dislike to prelacy. It is true she was once heard to say to
one of her gossiping acquaintances, that she would have been better
pleased if Clara had married a good Congregationalist minister, even
if he had not preached quite so flowery sermons as Philip Sidney.
One bright day in the month of May following was their wedding-day.
The bride looked beautiful in her pure white dress of muslin, with a
wreath of May-blossoms in her hair. Blessings were invoked on the
youthful pair by all, both high and low, and sincere good wishes
expressed for their future happiness. Here I will leave them, with the
wish that the affection of early years may remain through life
undimmed, and that the Christmas Garland, so linked with the history
of their loves, may be their emblem.
HEADS OF THE POETS.
BY W. GILMORE SIMMS.
I.--CHAUCER.
----Chaucer's healthy Muse,
Did wisely one sweet instrument to choose--
The native reed; which, tutored with rare skill,
Brought other Muses[1] down to aid its trill!
A cheerful song that sometimes quaintly masked
The fancy, as the affections sweetly tasked;
And won from England's proud and _foreign_[2] court,
For native England's _tongue_, a sweet report--
And sympathy--till in due time it grew
A permanent voice that proved itself the true,
And rescued the brave language of the land,
From that[3] which helped to strength the invader's hand.
Thus, with great patriot service, making clear
The way to other virtues quite as dear
In English liberty--which could grow alone,
When English speech grew pleasant to be known;
To spell the ears of princes, and to make
The peasant worthy for his poet's sake.
II.--SHAKSPEARE.
----'T were hard to say,
Upon what instrument did Shakspeare play--
Still harder what he did not! He had all
The orchestra at service, and could call
To use, still other implements, unknown,
Or only valued in his hands alone!
The Lyre, whose burning inspiration came
Still darting upward, sudden as the flame;
The murmuring wind-harp, whose melodious sighs
Seem still from hopefullest heart of love to rise,
And gladden even while grieving; the wild strain
That night-winds wake from reeds that breathe in pain,
Though breathing still in music; and that voice,
Which most he did affect--whose happy choice
Made sweet flute-accents for humanity
Out of that living heart which cannot die,
The Catholic, born of love, that still controls
While man is man, the tide in human souls.
III.--THE SAME.
----His universal song
Who sung by Avon, and with purpose strong
Compelled a voice from native oracles,
That still survive their altars by their spells--
Guarding with might each avenue to fame,
Where, trophied over all, glows Shakspeare's name!
The mighty master-hand in his we trace,
If erring often, never commonplace;
Forever frank and cheerful, even when wo
Commands the tear to speak, the sigh to flow;
Sweet without weakness, without storming, strong,
Jest not o'erstrained, nor argument too long;
Still true to reason, though intent on sport,
His wit ne'er drives his wisdom out of court;
A brooklet now, a noble stream anon,
Careering in the meadows and the sun;
A mighty ocean next, deep, far and wide,
Earth, life and Heaven, all imaged in its tide!
Oh! when the master bends him to his art,
How the mind follows, how vibrates the heart;
The mighty grief o'ercomes us as we hear,
And the soul hurries, hungering, to the ear;
The willing nature, yielding as he sings,
Unfolds her secret and bestows her wings,
Glad of that best interpreter, whose skill
Brings hosts to worship at her sacred hill!
[Footnote 1: The Italian.]
[Footnote 2: Norman.]
[Footnote 3: The French.]
IV.--SPENSER.
It was for Spenser, by his quaint device
To spiritualize the passionate, and subdue
The wild, coarse temper of the British Muse,
By meet diversion from the absolute:
To lift the fancy, and, where still the song
Proclaimed a wild humanity, to sway
Soothingly soft, and by fantastic wiles
Persuade the passions to a milder clime!
His was the song of chivalry, and wrought
For like results upon society;
Artful in high degree, with plan obscure,
That mystified to lure, and, by its spells,
Making the heart forgetful of itself
To follow out and trace its labyrinths,
In that forgetfulness made visible!
Such were the uses of his Muse; to say
How proper and how exquisite his lay,
How quaintly rich his masking--with what art
He fashioned fairy realms and paints their queen,
How purely--with how delicate a skill--
It needs not, since his song is with us still!
V.--MILTON.
The master of a single instrument,
But that the Cathedral Organ; Milton sings
With drooping spheres about him, and his eye
Fixed steadily upward, through its mortal cloud,
Seeing the glories of Eternity!
The sense of the invisible and true
Still present to his soul, and in his song;
The consciousness of duration through all time,
Of work in each condition, and of hopes
Ineffable, that well sustain through life,
Encouraging through danger and in death,
Cheering, as with a promise rich in wings!
A godlike voice that, through cathedral towers
Still rolls, prolonged in echoes, whose deep tones
Seem born of thunder, that subdued to music
Soothe when they startle most! A Prophet Bard,
With utt'rance equal to his mission of power,
And harmonies that, not unworthy heaven,
Might well lift earth to equal worthiness.
VI.--BURNS AND SCOTT.
----Not forgotten or denied,
Scott's trumpet-lay, and Burns's violin-song;
The one a call to arms, of action fond;
The other, still discoursing to the heart--
The lowly human heart--of loves and joys--
Such as beseem the cotter's calm fireside--
Cheerful and buoyant still amid a sadness--
Such sadness as still couples love with care!
VII.--BYRON.
----For Byron's home and fame,
It needed manhood only! Had he known
How sorrow should be borne, nor sunk in shame,
For that his destiny decreed to moan--
His Muse had been triumphant over Time
As still she is o'er Passion; still sublime--
Having subdued her soul's infirmity
To aliment; and, with herself o'ercome,
O'ercome the barriers of Eternity,
And lived through all the ages, with a sway
Complete, and unembarrassed by the doom
That makes of Nature's porcelain, common clay!
VIII.-A GROUP.
_Shelly and Wordsworth,--Tennyson, Barrett, Horne and
Browning;--Baily and Taylor;--Campbell and Moore._
----As one who had been brought,
By Fairy hands, and as a changeling left
In human cradle, the sad substitute
For a more smiling infant--Shelly sings
Vague minstrelsies that speak a foreign birth,
Among erratic tribes; yet not in vain
His moral, and the fancies in his flight
Not without profit for another race!
He left his spirit with his voice--a voice
Solely spiritual, which will long suffice
To wing the otherwise earthy of the time,
And, with the subtler leaven of the soul,
Inform the impetuous passions!
With him came
Antagonist, yet still with sympathy,
Wordsworth, the Bard of the contemplative,
A voice of purest thought in sweetest music!
--These, in themselves unlike, together linked,
Appear in unison in after days,
Making progressive still, the mental births,
That pass successively through rings of time,
Each to a several conquest; most unlike
That of its sire, yet borrowing of its strength,
Where needful, and endowing it with new,
To meet the new necessity which still
Haunts the free progress of each conquering race.
--Thus, Tennyson and Barrett, Browning, Horne,
Blend their opposing faculties, and speak
For that fresh nature, which in daily things
Beholds the immortal, and from common forms
Extorts the Eternal still! So Baily sings
In Festus; so, upon a humbler rank,
Testing the worth of social policies,
As working through a single human will,
The Muse of Taylor argues--Artevelde,
Being the man who marks a popular growth,
And notes the transit of a thought through time,
Growing as still it speeds.....
Exquisite
The ballads of Campbell, and the lays of Moore,
Appealing to our tastes, our gentler moods,
The play of the affections, or the thoughts
That come with national pride; and as we pause
In our own march, delight the sentiment!
But nothing they make for progress. They perfect
The language, and diversify its powers--
Please and beguile, and, for the forms of art,
Prove what they are, and may be. But they lift
None of our standards; help us not in growth;
Compel no prosecution of our search,
And leave us, where they found us--with the time!
HOPE ON--HOPE EVER.
BY H. CURTISS HINE, U. S. N.
Poor stricken one! whose toil can gain,
And barely gain, the coarsest fare,
From bitter thoughts and words refrain;
Yield not to dark despair!
The blackest night that e'er was born
Was followed by a radiant morn;
Heed not the world's unfeeling scorn,
Nor think life's brittle thread to sever;
Hope on--hope ever!
Hope, though your sun is hid in gloom,
And o'er your care-worn, wrinkled brow,
Grief spreads his shadow--'tis the doom
That falls on many now.
Grim Poverty, with icy hand,
May bind to earth with ruthless band
Bright gifted ones throughout the land;
But struggle still that band to sever--
Hope on--hope ever!
Sit not and pine that FORTUNE led
Another on to grasp her wreath;
The same blue sky is o'er thy head,
The same green earth beneath,
The same bright angel-eyes look down,
Each night upon the humblest clown,
That sees the king with jeweled crown;
Of these, stern fate can rob thee never--
Hope on--hope ever!
What though the proud should pass thee by,
And curl their haughty lips with scorn;
Like thee, they soon must droop and die,
For all of woman born,
Are journeying to a shadowy land,
Where each devoid of pride must stand,
By hovering wings of angels' fanned;
There sorrow can assail thee never--
Hope on--hope ever!
Then plod along with tearless eye,
Poor son of toil! and ne'er repine,
The road through barren wastes may lie,
And thorns, as oft hath mine;
But there was ONE who came to earth,
Star-heralded at hour of birth,
Humble, obscure, unknown his worth,
Whose path was thornier far. Weep never!
Hope on--hope ever!
MEXICAN JEALOUSY.
A SKETCH OF THE LATE CAMPAIGN.
BY ECOTIER.
On the 15th of September, two days after the storming of Chapultepec,
a small party of soldiers, in dark uniforms, were seen to issue from
the great gate of that castle, and, winding down the Calzada, turn
towards the City of Mexico. This occurred at 10 o'clock in the
morning. The day was very hot, and the sun, glancing vertically upon
the flinty rocks that paved the causeway, rendered the heat more
oppressive.
At the foot of the hill the party halted, taking advantage of the
shade of a huge cypress tree, to set down a litera, which four men
carried upon their shoulders. This they deposited under one of the
arches of the aqueduct in order the better to protect its occupant
from the hot rays of the sun.
The occupant of the litera was a wounded man, and the pale and
bloodless cheek, and fevered eye showed that his wound was not a
slight one. There was nothing around to denote his rank, but the camp
cloak, of dark blue, and the crimson sash, which lay upon the litera,
showed that the wounded man was an officer. The sash had evidently
been saturated with blood, which was now dried upon it, leaving parts
of it shriveled like, and of a darker shade of crimson. It had
staunched the life-blood of its wearer upon the 13th. The soldiers
stood around the litter, their bronzed faces turned upon its occupant,
apparently attentive to his requests. There was something in the
gentle care with which these rude men seemed to wait upon the young
officer, that bespoke the existence of a stronger feeling than mere
humanity. There was that admiration which the brave soldiers feel for
him who has led them in the field of battle, _at their head_. That
small group were among the first who braved the frowning muzzles of
the cannon upon the parapets of Chapultepec. The wounded officer had
led them to those parapets.
The scene around exhibited the usual indications of a recent field of
battle. There were batteries near, with dismounted cannon, broken
carriages, fragments of shells, dead horses, whose riders lay by them,
dead too, and still unburied. Parties were strolling about, busied
with this sad duty, but heaps of mangled carcases still lay above
ground, exhibiting the swollen limbs and distorted features of
decomposition. The atmosphere was heavy with the disagreeable odor,
and the wounded man, turning upon his pillow, gently commanded the
escort to proceed. Four stout soldiers again took up the litera, and
the party moved slowly along the aqueduct, toward the Garita Belen.
The little escort halted at intervals for rest and to change bearers.
The fine trees that line the great aqueduct on the Tacubaya road,
though much torn and mangled by the cannonade of the 13th, afforded a
fine shelter from the hot sun-beams. In two hours after leaving
Chapultepec, the escort entered the Garita Belen, passed up the Paseo
Nuevo, and halted in front of the Alameda.
Any one who has visited the City of Mexico will recollect, that
opposite the Alameda, on its southern front, is a row of fine houses,
which continue on to the Calle San Francisco, and thence to the Great
Plaza, forming the Calles Correo, Plateros, &c. These streets are
inhabited principally by foreigners, particularly that of Plateros,
which is filled with Frenchmen. To prevent their houses from being
entered by the American soldiery upon the 14th, the windows were
filled with national flags, indicating to what nation the respective
owners of the houses belonged. There were Belgians, French, English,
Prussians, Spanish, Danes, and Austrians--in fact, every kind of flag.
Mexican flags alone were not to be seen. Where these should have been,
at times, the white flag--the banner of peace--hung through the iron
railings, or from the balcony. In front of a house that bore this
simple ensign, the escort, with the litera, had accidentally stopped.
The eye of the wounded officer rested mechanically upon the little
flag over his head, when his attention was arrested by noticing that
this consisted of a small, white lace handkerchief, handsomely
embroidered upon the corners, and evidently such as belonged to some
fair being. Though suffering from the agony of his wound, there was
something so attractive in this discovery, that the eyes of the
invalid were immediately turned upon the window, or rather grating,
from which the flag was suspended, and his countenance changed at
once, from the listless apathy of pain to an expression of eager
interest. A young girl was in the window, leaning her forehead against
the _reja_, or grating, and looking down with more of painful interest
than curiosity upon the pale face beneath her. It was the window of
the _entresol_, slightly raised above the street, and the young girl
herself was evidently of that class known to the aristocracy of Mexico
as the "leperos." She was tastefully dressed, however, in the
picturesque costume of her class and country, and her beautiful black
hair, her dark Indian eye, the half olive, half carmine tinge upon her
soft cheek, formed a countenance at once strange, and strikingly
beautiful. Her neck, bosom, and shoulders, seen over the window-stone,
were of that form which strikes you as possessing more of the oval
than the rotund, in short the model of the perfect woman.
On seeing the gaze of the wounded man so intently fixed upon her, the
young girl blushed, and drew back. The officer felt disappointed and
sorry, as one feels when the light, or a beautiful object is suddenly
removed from his sight; still, however, keeping his eyes intently
fixed upon the window, as though unable to unrivet his gaze. This
continued for some moments, when a beautiful arm was plunged through
the iron grating, holding in the most delicate little fingers a glass
of pi[~n]al.
A soldier stepped up, and taking the proffered glass, held it to the
lips of the wounded officer, who gladly drank of the cool and
refreshing beverage, without being able to thank the fair donor, who
had withdrawn her hand at parting with the glass. The glass was held
up to the window, but the hand that clutched it was coarse and large,
and evidently that of a man. A muttered curse, too, in the Spanish
language, was heard to proceed from within. This was heard but
indistinctly. The invalid gazed at the window for some minutes,
expecting the return of the beautiful apparition, then as if he had
given up all hope, he called out a "gracias-adios!" and ordered the
escort to move on. The soldiers, once more shouldering the litera,
passed up the Calle Correo, and entered the Hotel Compagnon, in the
street of Espiritu Santo.
For two months the invalid was confined to his chamber, but often,
during that time, both waking and dreaming, the face of the beautiful
Mexican girl would flit across his fevered fancy. At the end of this
time his surgeon gave him permission to ride out in an easy carriage.
He was driven to the Alameda, where he ordered the carriage to halt
under the shade of its beautiful trees, and directly in front of the
spot where he had rested on entering the city. He recognized the
little window. The white flag was not now there, and he could see
nothing of the inmates. He remained a considerable time seated in the
carriage, gazing upon the house, but no face appeared at the cold iron
grating, no smile to cheer his vigil. Tired and disappointed, he
ordered his carriage to be driven back to the hotel.
Next day he repeated the manoeuvre, and the next, and the next, with a
like success. Probably he had not chosen the proper time of day. It
was certainly not the hour when the lovely faces of the Mexican women
appear in their balconies. This reflection induced him to change the
hour, and, upon the day following, he ordered his carriage in the
evening. Just before twilight, it drew up as usual under the tall
trees of the Alameda. Imagine the delight of the young officer, at
seeing the face of the beautiful Mexican through the gratings of the
_reja_.
The stir made by the stopping of the carriage had attracted her. The
uniform of its inmate was the next object of her attention, but when
her eyes fell upon the face of the wearer, a strange expression came
over her countenance, as if she were struggling with some indistinct
recollections, and all at once that beautiful countenance was suffused
with a smile of joy. She had recognized the officer. The latter, who
had been an anxious observer of every change of expression, smiled in
return, and bowed an acknowledgment, then turning to his servant, who
was a Mexican, he told him, in Spanish, to approach the window, and
offer his thanks to the young lady for her act of kindness upon the
15th of September.
The servant delivered the message, and shortly afterward the carriage
drove off. For several evenings the same carriage might be seen
standing under the trees of the Alameda. An interesting acquaintance
had been established between the young officer and the Mexican girl.
About a week afterward, and the carriage appeared no more. The invalid
had been restored to perfect strength.
December came, and upon the 15th of this month, about half an hour
before twilight, an American officer, wrapped in a light Mexican
cloak, passed down the Calle San Francisco, and crossed into the
Alameda. Here he stopped, leaning against a tree, as though observing
the various groups of citizens, who passed in their picturesque
dresses. His eye, however, was occasionally turned upon the houses
upon the opposite side of the street, and with a glance of stealthy,
but eager inquiry. At length the well-known form of the beautiful
"lepera" appeared at the window, who, holding up her hand, adroitly
signaled the officer with her taper, fan-like fingers. The signal was
answered. She had scarcely withdrawn her hand inside the reja when a
dark, scowling face made its appearance at her side, her hand was
rudely seized, and with a scream she disappeared. The young officer
fancied he saw the bright gleaming of a stiletto within the gloomy
grating.
He rushed across the street, and in a moment stood beneath the window.
Grasping the strong iron bars, he lifted himself up so as to command a
view of the inside, which was now in perfect silence. His horror may
be imagined when, on looking into the room, he saw the young girl
stretched upon the floor, and, to all appearances, dead. A stream of
blood was running from beneath her clothes, and her dress was stained
with blood over the waist and bosom. With frantic energy the young man
clung to the bars, and endeavored to wrench them apart. It was to no
purpose, and letting go his hold, he dropped into the street. The
large gate of the house was open. Into this he rushed, and reached the
_patio_ just in time to catch a glimpse of a figure escaping along the
azotea. He rushed up the steep stone stairway, and grasping the
parapet, raised himself on the roof. The fugitive had run along a
series of platforms of different heights, composed by the azoteas of
houses, and had reached a low roof, from which he was about to leap
into an adjoining street, where he would, in all probability, have
made good his escape. He stood upon the edge of the parapet,
calculating his leap, which was still a fearful plunge. It was not
left to his choice whether to take or refuse it. A pistol flashed
behind him, and almost simultaneously with the report he fell forward
upon his head, and lay upon the pavement below, a bruised and bleeding
corpse. His pursuer approached the parapet, and looked over into the
street, as if to assure himself that his aim had been true, then
turned with a fearful foreboding, and retraced his way over the
azoteas. His fears, alas! were but too just. She was dead.
TO GUADALUPE.
BY MAYNE REID.
Adieu! oh, in the heart's recess how wildly
Echo those painful accents of despair--
And spite our promise given to bear it mildly;
We little knew how hard it was to bear
A destiny so dark: how hard to sever
Hearts linked as ours, hands joined as now I grasp thee
In trembling touch: oh! e'er we part forever,
Once more unto my heart love's victim let me clasp thee!
It is my love's last echo--lone and lonely
My heart goes forth to seek another shrine,
Where it may worship pronely, deeming only
Such images as thee to be divine--
It is the echo of the last link breaking,
For still that link held out while lingering near thee--
A secret joy although with heart-strings aching
To breathe the air you breathed--to see, to hear thee.
And this link now must break--our paths obliquing
May never meet again--oh! say not never--
For while thus speaking, still my soul is seeking
Some hope our parting may not be forever--
And like the drowning straggler on the billow,
Or he that eager watches for the day,
With throbbing brain upon a sleepless pillow--
'Tis catching at the faintest feeblest ray.
Now faint and fainter growing, from thee going,
Seems every hope more vague and undefined--
Oh! as the fiend might suffer when bestowing
A last look on the heaven he left behind:
Or as earth's first-born children when they parted
Slowly, despairingly, from Eden's bowers,
Looked back with many a sigh--though broken-hearted,
Less hopeless was their future still than ours.
If we have loved--if in our hearts too blindly
We have enthroned that element divine--
In this, at least, hath fate dealt with us kindly;
Our mutual images have found a shrine--
An altar for our mutual sacrifice:
And spite this destiny that bids us sever,
Within our hearts that fire never dies--
In mine, at least, 'twill burn and worship on forever.
Thee not upbraiding--thou has not deceived me--
For from the first I knew _thy compromise_--
No, Guadalupe--this hath never grieved me--
I won thy love--so spoke thy lips and eyes:--
The consolation of this proud possessing
Should almost change my sorrow into bliss:
I have thy heart--enough for me of blessing--
Another may take all since I am lord of this.
Why we have torn our hearts and hands asunder--
Why we have given o'er those sweet caresses--
The world without will coldly guess and wonder--
Let them guess on, what care we for their guesses!
The secret shall be ours, as ours the pain--
A secret still unheeding friendship's pleading:
What though th' unfeeling world suspect a stain,
But little fears the world a heart with anguish bleeding.
'Tis better we should never meet again--
Our love's renewing were but thy undoing:
When I am gone, time will subdue thy pain,
And thou wilt yield thee to another's wooing--
For me, I go to seek a name in story--
To find a future brighter than the past--
Yet 'midst my highest, wildest dreams of glory,
Sweet thoughts of thee will mingle to the last.
And though this widowed heart may love another--
For living without love, it soon would die--
There will be moments when it cannot smother
Thy sweet remembrance with a passing sigh.
Amidst the ashes of its dying embers
For thee there will be found one deathless thought;
Yes, dearest lady! while this heart remembers,
Believe me, thou shall never be forgot.
Once more farewell! Oh it is hard to yield thee,
To lose for life, forever, thing so fair!
How bright a destiny it were to shield thee--
Yet since I am denied the husband's care,
This grief within my breast here do I smother--
Forego _thy_ painful sacrifice to prove,
That I have been, what never can another,
The hero of thy heart, my own sweet victim love.
THE FADED ROSE.
BY G. G. FOSTER.
Torn from its stem to bloom awhile
Upon thy breast, the dazzling flower
Imbibed new radiance from thy smile--
But, ah! it faded in an hour.
So thou, from peaceful home betrayed,
In beaming beauty floated by;
But ere thy summer had decayed,
We saw thee languish, faint and die.
_Extempore. On a Broken Harp-string._
Too rude the touch--the broken cord
No more may utter music-word,
Yet lives each tone within the air,
Its trembling sighs awakened there.
So in my heart the song I sung,
When thou in rapture o'er me hung,
Still lives--yet thine is not the spell
To lure the music from its shell.
THE CHILD'S APPEAL.
AN INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION.
BY MRS. MARY G. HORSFORD.
Day dawned above a city's mart,
But not 'mid peace and prayer;
The shouts of frenzied multitudes
Were on the thrilling air.
A guiltless man to death was led,
Through crowded streets and wide,
And a fairy child, with waving curls,
Was clinging to his side.
The father's brow with pride was calm,
But trusting and serene,
The child's was like the Holy One's
In Raphael's paintings seen.
She shrank not from the heartless throng,
Nor from the scaffold high;
But now and then with beaming smile
Addressed her parent's eye.
Athwart the golden flood of morn
Was poised the wing of Death,
As 'neath the fearful guillotine
The doomed one drew his breath.
Then all of fiercest agony
The human heart can bear
Was suffered in the brief caress,
The wild, half-uttered prayer.
But she, the child, beseechingly
Upraised her eyes of blue,
And whispered, while her cheek grew pale,
"I am to go with you?"
The murmur of impatient fiends
Rung in her infant ear,
And purpose strong woke in her heart,
And spoke in accent clear;
"They tore my mother from our side
In the dark prison's cell,
Her eyes were filled with tears--she had
No time to say farewell.
"And you were all that loved me then,
But you are pale with care,
And every night a silver thread
Has mingled with your hair.
"My mother used to tell me of
A better land afar,
I've seen it through the prison bars
Where burns the evening star.
"Oh! let us find a new home there,
I will be brave and true,
You cannot leave me here alone,
Oh! let me die with you."
The gentle tones were drowned by shrill
And long protracted cries;
The father on his darling gazed,
The child looked on the skies.
Anon, far up the cloudless blue,
Unseen by mortal eye,
God's angels with two spirits passed
To purer realms on high.
The one was touched with earthly hues
And dim with earthly care,
The other, as a lily's cup
Unutterably fair.
THE OLD FARM-HOUSE.
BY MARY L. LAWSON.
I love these gray and moss-grown walls,
This ivied porch, and trelliced vine,
The lattice with its narrow pane,
A relic of the olden time;
The willow with its waving leaves,
Through which the low winds murmuring glide,
The gurgling ripple of the stream
That whispers softly at its side.
The spring-house in its shady nook,
Like lady's bower shadowed o'er--
With clustering trees--and creeping plants
That cling around the rustic door,
The rough hewn steps that lend their aid
To reach the shady cool recess,
Where humble duty spreads a scene
That hourly comfort learns to bless.
Upland the meadows lie around,
Fair smiling in the suns last beam;
Beneath yon solitary tree
The lazy cattle idly dream;
Afar the reaper's stroke descends,
While faintly on the listening ear
The teamster's careless whistle floats,
Or distant song or call I hear.
And leaning on a broken stile,
With woods behind and fields before,
I watch the bee who homeward wends
With laden wing--his labors o'er;
The happy birds are warbling round,
Or nestle in the rustling trees--
'Mid which the blue sky glimmers down,
When parted by the passing breeze.
And slowly winding up the road
The wane has reached the old barn-floor,
Where plenty's hand has firmly heaped
The golden grain in richest store.
This 'mid the dream-land of my thoughts
With smiling lip I own is real,
Yet fancy's fairest visions blend
With all I see, and all I feel.
Then tell me not of worldly pride
And wild ambition's hopes of fame,
Or brilliant halls of wealth and pride,
Where genius sighs to win a name;
Give _me_ this farm-house quaint and old,
These fields of grain, the birds and flowers,
With calm contentment, peace and health,
And memories of my earlier hours.
"'TIS HOME WHERE THE HEART IS."
_WORDS BY MISS L. M. BROWN_.
MUSIC COMPOSED BY KARL W. PETERSILIE,
_Professor of Music at the Edgeworth Seminary, N. C._
Presented by George Willig, No. 171 Chesnut Street, Philad'a.
[Copyright secured.]
_Expressivo_
[Illustration: music]
I've wander'd in climes, where the wild chamois
_Con spirito_.
strays, Have gain'd the wild height, Where the fierce
lightning plays, Seen glory and
_crescendo_
greatness in power and might, And honor and splendor
sink in darkness of night, I've sought 'mid the crowd,
pure pleasure, but pain, As the
_dolce_.
_Con Anima._
bee, that sips sweets, the poison too drained;
Ah! 'twas all delusive, for sorrows would come,
Oh, 'tis home where the heart is, where the heart is 'tis home.
SECOND VERSE.
I've courted the breath of a balm southern clime,
Where sweetest of flow'rs, soft tendrils entwine;
Have listed the song bird's notes borne on the air,
That wakens and wafts the rich odors elsewhere;
As tones on the ear so the dream of the past,
Softly plays round the heart-green isle of the waste;
Yes! 'twas all a life-dream, and still 'tis not gone,
Oh, 'tis home where the heart is, where the heart is 'tis home.
THIRD VERSE.
I've cross'd the blue sea, I've sought out a home
In the land of the free, freedom beckon'd me come;
And friends of the stranger have sooth'd the sad heart,
With kindness and sympathy, sweet balm for the smart;
The light of the soul, doth play round it still,
Like the perfume the urn, in which roses distil;
Thoughts of affection forbid me to roam,
Oh, 'tis home where the heart is, where the heart is 'tis home.
REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.
_Hawkstone: A Tale of and for England in 184-. New
York: Standford & Swords. 2 vols. 12mo._
We were attracted to this novel by seeing the words "fifth edition" on
its title page. After reading it, it is easy to account for its
popularity. It is at once a most exciting romance and a defence of an
unpopular religious body. The author (said to be Professor Sewall,)
belongs to the Oxford School of Episcopalians, or to adopt his own
view of the matter, to the one Catholic church. The object of the
novel is to present the ideas of Church and State held by that class
of religionists who are vulgarly called Puseyites. This is done partly
in the representation of character and narration of incident, which
constitute the romance of the book, and partly by long theological
conversations which occur between a few of the characters. The
interest of the work never flags, and it is among the few religious
novels which are not positive bores to all classes of readers. In
respect to its theology, it gives the most distinct view of the
doctrines of the High Church party of Oxford which we have seen. The
author is as decisive and bitter in his condemnation of Romanism as of
dissent. He considers that the peculiar doctrines and claims which
distinguish the Roman Catholic church from the Church of England are
_novelties_, unknown to the true church of the apostles and the
fathers. He has no mercy for the Romanists, and but little for the
young men of his own school who favor the Papacy. Those who are
accustomed to associate Puseyism with a set of sentimentalists, who
mourn the Reformation, wish for the return of the good old times of
the feudal ages, and give Rome their hearts and Canterbury only their
pockets, will find that such doctrines and practices find no favor in
the present volumes. The greatest rascal in the novel is a piece of
incarnate malignity named Pearce--a Jesuit, whom the author represents
as carrying out the principles of Romanism to their logical results in
practice.
But if the reader will find his common notions of Puseyism
revolutionized by the present novel, he will be a little startled at
its real doctrines and intentions. The author has the most supreme and
avowed contempt for liberal ideas in Church and State; and for every
good-natured axiom about toleration and representative government he
spurns from his path as a novelty and paradox. There is nothing
dominant in England which he does not oppose. The Whig party he deems
the avowed enemies of loyalty, order and religion. The Conservatives,
with Sir Robert Peel and the Duke of Wellington at their head, he
conceives destitute of principle, and the destroyers of the British
empire. There is not a concession made to liberal ideas within the
present century which he does not think wicked and foolish. The
manufacturing system and free trade, indeed the whole doctrines of the
political economists in the lump, he looks upon alternately with
horror and disdain. He seems to consider the State and Church as an
organized body for the education of the people, whose duty is
obedience, arid who have no right to think for themselves in religion
or politics, for they would be pretty sure to think wrong. All
benevolent societies, in which persons of different religious views
combine for a common object, he considers as productive of evil, and
as an assumption of powers rightly belonging to the church. Indeed, in
his system, it is wrong for any popular association to presume to
meddle with ignorance and crime, unless they do it under the sanction
and control of the church. He considers it the duty of a church
minister to excommunicate every man in his parish who is _guilty_ of
schism--that is, who has the wickedness to be a papist or dissenter.
But it is useless to proceed in the enumeration of our author's
dogmatisms. If the reader desires to know them, let him conceive the
exact opposite of every liberal principle in politics, political
economy and theology, which at present obtains in the world, and he
will have the system of "Hawkstone."
A good deal of the zest of the novel comes from the throng of
paradoxes in which the author wantons. He has a complete system of
thought to kill out all the mind of the English people, and render
them the mere slaves of a hierarchy, and all for the most benevolent
of purposes. In his theory he overlooks the peculiar constitution and
character of the English people, and also all the monstrous abuses to
which his system would inevitably lead, in his desire to see a
practical establishment of the most obnoxious and high-toned claims of
his church. He is evidently half way between an idealist and a
sentimentalist, with hardly an atom of practical sagacity or knowledge
of affairs. The cool dogmatism with which he condemns the great
statesmen of his country, is particularly offensive as coming from a
man utterly ignorant of the difficulties which a statesman has to
encounter. It is curious also to see how extremes meet; this theory of
absoluteism "fraternizes" with that of socialism. A person reading, in
the second volume, the account of Villiers' dealings with his
tenantry, and his new regulations regarding manufactures, would almost
think that Louis Blanc had graduated at Oxford, and left out in his
French schemes the agency of the church, from a regard to the
prejudices of his countrymen.
With all its peculiarities and heresies, however, the novel will well
reward the attention of readers of all classes. It is exceedingly well
written, and contains many scenes of uncommon power, pathos and
beauty. With these advantages it may also claim the honor of being the
most inimitable specimen of theological impudence and pretension which
the present age has witnessed.
_The Planetary and Stellar Worlds: A Popular Exposition
of the Great Discoveries and Theories of Modern
Astronomy. In a Series of Ten Lectures. By O. M.
Mitchell, A. M. New York: Baker & Scribner. 1 vol.
12mo._
Mr. Mitchell is not only an accomplished astronomer, in every respect
qualified to be the interpreter of the mysteries of his science to the
popular mind, but, if we may judge from the style of his book, is a
fine, frank, warm-hearted, enthusiastic man. On every page he gives
evidence of really loving his pursuit. By a certain sensitiveness of
imagination, and quickness of sensibility, every thing he contemplates
becomes alive in his mind, and an object in which he takes a personal
interest. This gives wonderful distinctness to his exposition of
natural laws, and his delineation of the characters and pursuits of
men of science. His Copernicus, Kepler, Gallileo and Newton are not
dry enumerations of qualities, but vivid portraits of persons. He
seems in close intellectual fellowship with them as individuals, and
converses of them in the style of a friend, whose accurate knowledge
is equalled by his intense affection. So it is with his detail of the
discovery of a new law, or fact in science. His mind "lives along the
line" of observation and reasoning which ended in its detection, and
he reproduces the hopes, fears, doubts, and high enthusiasm of every
person connected with the discovery. His delineation of Kepler is
especially genial and striking. By following this method he infuses
his own enthusiasm into the reader, bears him willingly along through
the most abstruse processes of science, and at the end leaves him
without fatigue, and ready for a new start.
In the treatment of scientific discoveries, by minds like Mr.
Mitchell's, we ever notice an unconscious personification of Nature,
as a cunning holder of secrets which only the master-mind can wrest
from her after a patient siege. The style of our author glows in the
recital of the exploits of his band of astronomers, as that of a
Frenchman does in the narration of Napoleon's campaigns. This is the
great charm of his book, and will make it extensively popular, for by
it he can attract any reader capable of being interested in a tale of
personal adventure, ending in a great achievement. We can hardly bring
to mind a popular lecturer or writer on science, who has this power to
the extent which Mr. Mitchell possesses it. He himself has it by
virtue of the mingled simplicity and intensity of his nature.
One of the most striking lectures in Mr. Mitchell's volume is that on
the discoveries of the primitive ages, in which he represents the
processes of the primitive observer, with his unarmed eye, in
unfolding some of the laws of the heavens; and he indicates with great
beauty what would be his point of departure, and what would be the
limit of his discoveries. This lecture is a fine prose poem. There is
a passage in the introductory lecture which grandly represents the
continual watch which man keeps on the heavens, and the slow, silent
and sure acquisitions of new truths, from age to age. "The sentinel on
the watchtower is relieved from duty, but another takes his place, and
the vigil is unbroken. No--the astronomer never dies. He commences his
investigations on the hill-tops of Eden--he studies the stars through
the long centuries of antedeluvian life. The deluge sweeps from the
earth its inhabitants, their cities and their mountains--but when the
storm is hushed, and the heavens shine forth in beauty, from the
summit of Mount Arrarat the astronomer resumes his endless vigils. In
Babylon he keeps his watch, and among the Egyptian priests he inspires
a thirst for the sacred mysteries of the stars. The plains of
Shinar--the temples of India--the pyramids of Egypt, are equally his
watching places. When science fled to Greece, his home was in the
schools of her philosophers: and when darkness covered the earth for a
thousand years, he pursues his never-ending task from amidst the
burning deserts of Arabia. When science dawned on Europe, the
astronomer was there--toiling with Copernicus--watching with
Tycho--suffering with Gallileo--triumphing with Kepler."
We trust that this volume will have an extensive circulation. It will
not only convey a great deal of knowledge to the general reader, but
will also inspire a love for the science of which it treats.
_Harold, the last of the Saxon Kings. By Sir Edward
Bulwer Lytton, Bart. New York: Harper & Brothers._
This is Bulwer's most successful attempt at writing an historical
novel, but with all its merits, it is still rather an attempt than a
performance. Considered as a history of the Norman invasion, it
contains many more facts than can be found in Thierry, at least in
that portion of his work devoted to Harold and William. Bulwer seems
to have obtained his knowledge at the original sources, and the novel
is certainly creditable to his scholarship. But he has not managed
his materials in an imaginative way, and fact and fiction are tied
rather than fused together. The consequence is that the work is not
homogeneous. At times it appears like history, but after the mind of
the reader has settled down to a historical mood, the impression is
broken by a violent intrusion of fable, or an introduction of modern
sentiment and thought. It has therefore neither the interest of
Thierry's exquisite narrative of the same events, nor the interest
which might have been derived from a complete amalgamation of the
materials into a consistent work of imagination. Considered also as a
reproduction of ancient men and manners it is strikingly defective.
With many fine strokes of the pencil, where the author confines
himself to the literal fact, his portraits, as a whole, are
overcharged with _Bulwerism_. His imagination is not a mirror. It can
reflect nothing without vitiating it. He does not possess the power of
passing a character through his mind and preserving its individuality.
It goes in as Harold, or Duke William, or Lafranc, but it comes out as
Sir E. Bulwer Lytton, Bart.
The novel contains much of that seductive sentiment, half romantic,
half misanthropic, which is the characteristic of Bulwer's works, and
it is expressed with his usual beauty and brilliancy of style. Here
and there we perceive allusions to his own domestic affairs, which
none but Lady Bulwer can fully appreciate. Every reader of the novel
must be struck with its attempt at the moral tone. Edith, the heroine,
is the bride of Harold's soul, and Platonism appears in all its
splendor of self-denial and noble sentiments in a Saxon thane and his
maiden. History pronounces this lady to be his mistress, and it
certainly is a great stretch of the reader's charity to be compelled
to view her in the capacity of saint. Not only, however, in the loves
of Harold and Edith, but all over the novel, there is a constant
intrusion of ethical reflections, which will doubtless much edify all
young ladies of a tender age. These would be well enough if they
appeared to have any base in solid moral principle, but they are
somewhat offensive as the mere sentimentality of conscience and
religion, introduced for the purposes of fine writing. Suspicion,
also, always attaches to the morality which exhibits itself on
rhetorical stilts, and the refinement which is always proclaiming
itself refined. Since the time of Joseph Surface there has been a
great decline in the market price of noble sentiments.
_The History of England, from the Invasion of Julius
Cæsar to the Reign of Victoria. By Mrs. Markham. A New
Edition. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 12mo._
This is a new and revised edition of a work which has long been used
in the education of boys and girls. Its information is, of course,
milk for babes. We think that books of this class should be prepared
by persons very different from Mrs. Markham. She, good lady, was the
wife of an English clergyman by the name of Penrose, and she wrote
English history as such a person might be supposed to write it. With
every intention to be honest, her book has many facts and opinions
which boys and girls will have to take more time to unlearn than they
spent in learning, unless they intend to be children their whole
lives.
There is, however, a story in the volume regarding the Duke of
Marlborough, which we think few of our readers have seen. The duke's
command of his temper was almost miraculous. Once, at a council of
war, Prince Eugene advised that an attack on the enemy should be made
the next day. As his advice was plainly judicious, he was much
exasperated at the refusal of the duke's consent, and immediately
called him a coward and challenged him. Marlborough cooly declined
the challenge, and the enraged prince left the council. Early the
following morning he was awoke by the duke, who desired him instantly
to rise, as he was preparing to make the attack, and added, "I could
not tell you of my determination last night, because there was a
person present who I knew was in the enemy's interest, and would
betray us. I have no doubt we shall conquer, and when the battle is
over I will be ready to accept your challenge." The prince, seeing the
superior sagacity of Marlborough, and ashamed of his own intemperance,
overwhelmed the duke with apologies, and the friendship of the two
generals was more strongly cemented than ever. The anecdote is of
doubtful origin, but it is an admirable illustration both of the
character of Marlborough and Eugene.
_Letters from Italy: and The Alps and the Rhine. By J.
T. Headley. New and Revised Edition. New York: Baker &
Scribner. 1 vol. 12mo._
We believe that these were Mr. Headley's first productions, and were
originally published in Wiley & Putnam's Library. The present edition
has a preface, devoted to the consideration of the new aspect Italy
has assumed since the book was written, and a very judicious
flagellation is given to that arch traitor and renegade, Charles
Albert, King of Sardinia, whom events have transformed from a
trickster and tyrant into a patriot leader. We agree with Mr. Headley
in thinking that the Italians are more likely to be endangered than
benefitted by his position at the head of their armies.
"The Alps and the Rhine" is, in our opinion, Mr. Headley's most
agreeable work. The descriptions of scenery are singularly vivid and
distinct, and are given in a style of much energy and richness. The
chapters on Suwarrow's Passage of the Glarus, Macdonald's Pass of the
Splugen, and the Battle of Waterloo, are admirably done. That on
Macdonald is especially interesting. Those who doubt Mr. Headley's
talents will please read this short extract: "The ominous sound grew
louder every moment, and suddenly the fierce Alpine blast swept in a
cloud of snow over the mountain, and howled like an unchained demon,
through the gorge below. In an instant all was blindness and confusion
and uncertainty. The very heavens were blotted out, and the frightened
column stood and listened to the raving tempest that made the pine
trees above it sway and groan, as if lifted from their rock-rooted
places. But suddenly a still more alarming sound was heard--'An
avalanche! an avalanche!' shrieked the guides, and the next moment _an
awful white form came leaping down the mountain_, and striking the
column that was struggling along the path, passed strait through it
into the gulf below, carrying thirty dragoons and their horses with it
in its wild plunge."
_Principles of Zoology. Touching the Structure,
Development, Distribution and Natural Arrangement of
the Races of Animals, Living and Extinct. Part I.
Comparative Physiology. By Louis Agassiz and Augustus
A. Gould Boston: Gould, Kendall & Lincoln. 1 vol.
12mo._
The name of Professor Agassiz, the greatest of living naturalists, on
the title page of this volume, is of itself a guarantee of its
excellence. The work is intended for schools and colleges, and is
admirably fitted for its purpose, but its value is not confined to the
young. The general reader, who desires exact and reliable knowledge of
the subject, and at the same time is unable to obtain the larger works
of Professor Agassiz, will find in this little volume an invaluable
companion. It has all the necessary plates and illustrations to
enable the reader fully to comprehend its matter. The diagram of the
crust of the earth, as related to zoology, is a most ingenious
contrivance to present, at one view, the distribution of the principal
types of animals, and the order of their successive appearance in the
layers of the earth's crust. The publishers have issued the work in a
style of great neatness and elegance.
_The Writings of Cassius Marcellus Clay, including
Speeches and Addresses. Edited with a Preface and
Memoir by Horace Greely, New York: Harper & Brothers._
This is a large and beautiful octavo, and is embellished with an
admirable likeness of Mr. Clay. The people of this country are so well
acquainted with the peculiarities of Cassius M. Clay's manner, that we
will not pause to characterize it; and his views upon public subjects
are so partisan that we leave their discussion to the politicians of
the country. The eminent abilities of Mr. Greely are displayed in the
execution of the duties of editor; and the memoir which introduces the
work does full justice to the subject.
_The Odd Fellows' Amulet, or the Principles of Odd
Fellowship Defined; the Objections to the Order
Answered, and its Advantages Maintained. By Rev. D. W.
Bristol. Auburn: Derby, Miller & Co._
This is a beautiful little volume, admirably illustrated. It is well
written; will be read with interest by the general reader, and should
be in the possession of every member of the great and beneficent order
which it advocates and vindicates.
_The Baronet's Daughters, and Harry Monk._
Mrs. Grey, who is recognized as one of the most accomplished female
novelists of the present day, has recently given to the public another
interesting volume, bearing the above title. There are two stories,
both of which are marked by the ability which characterizes the whole
of Mrs. Grey's works, and are well calculated to make a sultry
afternoon pass agreeably away. The American publisher is Mr. T. B.
Peterson, who furnishes a neat and uniform edition of Mrs. Grey's
novels.
TO OUR READERS.
The Proprietors of "Graham's Magazine," desirous of maintaining for it
the high reputation it has secured in the estimation of the people of
the United States, are determined to spare no pains to increase its
value, and make it universally regarded as the best literary
publication in the country. To this end they have placed in the hands
of several of our best engravers a series of plates, which will be
truly remarkable for their superiority in design and execution. As
usual, the pens of the best American writers will be employed in
giving grace and excellence to its pages, and in addition to articles
which have been secured from new contributors of acknowledged ability,
they have the pleasure of announcing that an engagement has been
effected with J. BAYARD TAYLOR, Esq., whose writings are so
extensively known and admired, by which his valuable assistance will
be secured in the editorial department of this Magazine exclusively.
This arrangement will, we are assured, be hailed with pleasure by the
host of friends which the Magazine possesses throughout the Union, as
an earnest that no efforts will be omitted to show the sense the
proprietors entertain of past favors, by rendering their work still
more attractive and deserving of patronage for the future.
Transcriber's Note:
Certain irregularities in spelling and grammar have been left as in
the original. Small errors in punctuation have been corrected without
comment.
1. page 122--added apostrophe to word 'wont' in phrase '..he wont be
my hero...'
2. page 123--corrected typo 'will' to 'well' in phrase 'They are all
very will for rich people.'
3. page 125--corrected error in text 'almost wondering at first what
Angile meant.' to 'almost wondering at first what Augusta meant.'
4. page 130--corrected typo 'spedily' to 'speedily' in phrase '...fit
a mast to it, which was spedily done.'
5. page 143--corrected typo 'brightnesss' to 'brightness' in phrase
'...the beauty and brightnesss of that sweet...'
6. page 153--corrected typo 'stong' to 'strong' in phrase '...or some
stong emotion...'
7. the notation [~n] has been used to designate an n with a tilde above it