Chapter VII.

The guests of the preceding day were assembled in the farm house of

Philip Mullerhorn, eagerly awaiting the arrival of Adolf. Old Mullerhorn

went frequently to the door, and looked out, with anxiety, down the road

which Adolf usually took when he visited the farm.

“I fear all is not right with him,” said he. “Adolf is late in coming

this morning. He should have been here a full hour before this.”

“Peradventure,” snuffled Chriss, “the young man has fled, doubting

whether he could make good his boasts of yesterday.”

“Not so fast, my good friend,” said the voice of Adolf himself, who then

entered, bearing in his hand a valise, evidently containing articles of

weight. “We shall soon prove whose boasts shall be first accomplished.”

As he spoke, he threw the valise upon the table, before Mullerhorn, “I

am come,” said he, “Father Philip, to receive my bride.”

“Heavens!” said Barbara, earnestly regarding the countenance of Adolf,

“what has thus blanched thy brow, and changed thy visage? Thy cheek is

ghastly, and thy look unearthly! Why glares thine eye so wildly? What

hast thou done? The light of thine eye is not from heaven! Holy Virgin!

the cave! the cave!” cried she, fainting.

“Adolf, what ails thee?” asked Mullerhorn. “Thy brow is indeed pale, and

thine eye fierce and blood-shot. Thou comest from no holy work this

morning. Hadst thou the whole treasure of earth, no daughter of mine,

Adolf Westerbok, should’st thou wed, until the secret of thy conduct is

explained.”

“It is nothing,” said Adolf, stammering as he spoke, “a weariness—a

sickness—it will soon be over.”

“I fear the mark on thy brow is of no earthly malady. Remain here no

longer. Depart from us, for thy society is not for that of Christian

men.”

“I come to claim my bride!” cried Adolf, hoarsely, “and to pay the

dower. No man shall prevent me from this. Why gaze ye thus on me? Stand

back; the man who interferes in this shall rue his intrusion. Barbara,

dear Barbara, you cannot, do not thus repulse me?”

“Adolf,” said Barbara, gaining courage, and her voice before faltering,

becoming firm and steady, “depart from me. All is now explained. Thy

anxiety of last evening; thy expedition to the cave of Schwearenheim;

all is explained. Barbara Mullerhorn may have loved thee, and she did

so; but she will never consent to be the bride of a forsaken wretch like

thee.”

A sudden exclamation from Piet Albrecht attracted the attention of all

present, and aroused Adolf from the stupor into which the words of

Barbara had thrown him. The room was filled with a rich, purple light,

in which the figure of Rudenfranck, arrayed in his magical vestures, and

holding the ivory sceptre of Bructorix, appeared to the terrified

spectators. Well might they be terrified; for upon the brow of the

hunter a brilliant star gleamed brightly with a sulphurous light, and

his tall figure seemed to dilate to superhuman size.

“Why dost thou stare at me?” sneered Rudenfranck to Adolf, who gazed

upon him with a bewildered look; “why dost thou stare at me? Produce thy

treasure and claim thy bride.”

“No! no bride of hell!” shouted Mullerhorn. “I doubted this yesterday.

Away from us, Adolf Westerbok; and thou, mysterious being, whether thou

be phantom or devil, in the name of God I defy thee.”

“And see,” cried Mienckel, tearing open the valise, “what is here?”

“Old chips of iron and leather, as I live,” said Albrecht. “It is the

Evil One. Let us fly from here, else we die!”

Adolf gazed wildly at the valise, and with a loud cry of despair, seized

his rifle, and vainly endeavored to destroy himself.

“Ha! ha!” laughed Rudenfranck, “thou hast yet seven years to enjoy thy

gold. These are the treasures for which thou hast forfeited thy soul.

Miserable fool! Did’st thou think it mattered to me whether thy fate was

prosperous or not! Into the snare thou did’st enter of thine own accord,

and thou must pay the penalty. Farewell! My ends are accomplished! For

the prescribed space of my life, wealth, wisdom, and power in the

fullest are mine! That space expired, I will mock at thee in the halls

of the fiend. This sacrifice of thy soul hath ensured my success, and I

thank thee for it. Farewell, Adolf Westerbok. Fool! idiot! driveller!

Thou hast thy hire, and I triumph over the world of spirits.”

As he spoke, he waved his magic sceptre. The cloud enveloped him in its

folds, and he disappeared, with a laugh of malicious scorn.

* * * * *

Barbara Mullerhorn survived the misfortunes which had attended her early

love, and lived to marry a wealthy farmer of the neighborhood, who

proved himself every way worthy of her choice.

Piet and Agatha also entered upon the matrimonial engagement, and their

descendants may still be found among the hills.

* * * * *

For some years after, a wan, gaunt, and ragged wretch might have been

seen toiling and digging incessantly along the range of the Wolf Hills.

The fire of lunacy burned in his eye, he spoke to no one, and never

uttered language, save in his insane self-communings. The neighbors

universally shunned him, and no charitable voice soothed his misery. He

dwelt in the gloomy cave by the run, where the unholy rites of

Rudenfranck had been celebrated. His sole occupation consisted in a

continual search after hidden treasure.

Seven years had elapsed since the occurrences above narrated, were

reported to have taken place, when a hunter, pursuing his game among the

Wolf Hills, accidentally discovered the dead body of a man, shockingly

torn and mangled, at the entrance of the cavern of the recluse. It was

the corpse of Adolf Westerbok, the Silver Digger of the Wolf Hills.

NOTE.

This legendary tale, we learn, is founded upon a superstitious

tradition, still current among the backwoodsmen of Pennsylvania.

The outline of the tale is preserved as far as the nature of the

legend would permit. The cavern is yet to be seen, where the

hidden treasures are supposed to have been concealed; and the

hardy hunter of the mountains still regards it with fear, and

prefers taking a long circuit through the woods, to passing the

cavern after nightfall. The whole country, indeed, is full of

such traditions, which only require the pen of a Scott to be

perpetuated, alike for the amusement and wonder of posterity.

Let no man say that America is without legendary lore, let no

one deny that she affords materials for poetry! Every hill;

every stream; every valley; every plain has its own wild story

of border troubles, or Indian traditions. When shall _our_

minstrel arise to hallow them in undying song?—Eds.

Mt. Savage, Md. January, 1841.

* * * * *

SKATING.

“The winter has come, and the skaters are here.”

BY GEORGE LUNT.

The earth is white with gleaming snow,

The lake one sheet of silver lies,

Beneath the morning’s ruddy glow,

The steaming vapors gently rise.

Keen is the cool and frosty air,

That waves the pine trees on the hill,

And voiceless as a whispered prayer,

Breathes down the valley clear and still.

Come, ’tis an hour to stir the blood

To glowing life in every vein!

Up,—for the sport is keen and good

Across the bright and icy plain.

On each impatient foot to-day,

The ringing steel again we’ll bind,

And o’er the crystal plain away,

We’ll leave the world and care behind.

And, oh! what joy is ours to play,

In rapid, round, and swift career,

And snatch beneath the wintry day,

One moment’s rest, and hasty cheer.

Then, when the brief, sweet day is done,

And stars above begin to blink,

As home the swift lake bears us on,

Our sweethearts meet us on the brink.

Then gather’d round the cheerful blaze,

While gusts without are blowing shrill,

With laugh, and jest, and merry lays,

We pass the jocund evening still.

Around the board our feats all told,

Comes nature’s welcome hour of rest,

And slumbers never bought with gold,

Sit light on each untroubled breast.

No lagging pulse impedes our sleep,

No startling dreams our couch annoy,

But health and peace, in quiet deep,

Smile hovering round the country boy.

Then, when the morning bright and clear,

Springs gayly o’er the glistening hill,

With hardy sports we hail it near,

Or hardy labors bless it still.

Newburyport, Massachusetts, January, 1841.

* * * * *

THE SYRIAN LETTERS.

WRITTEN PROM DAMASCUS, BY SERVILIUS PRISCUS OF CONSTANTINOPLE, TO HIS

KINSMAN, CORNELIUS DRUSUS, RESIDING AT ATHENS, AND BUT NOW TRANSLATED.

Damascus.

Servilius to Cornelius—Greeting:

Your reply to my last epistle, my dear Cornelius, was the more pleasing,

because so unexpected.

The speed of its transmission shows the great measure of our obligation

to the sagacity and enterprise of Constantine. For who, until our

emperor bent to it the considerations of his active mind, ever knew of

such rapidity of communication?

In the fair lines before me, I again greet the face of a friend, and

hold cheering communion with one divided by long distance. I promised in

my last to give you some description of the curious ceremonies of those

worshippers, and I find you are urgent that I should fulfil it, since I

was so fortunate as to witness some of the hidden mysteries.

You esteem it strange that I, a foreigner, and but a few hours in

Baalbec, should have stood at once upon such good terms with Mobilius,

as to have induced him to conduct me to one of the most secret recesses

of the temple—with all the perils of exposure through my carelessness.

I have nothing to offer in answer to your surmise but conjecture.

Mobilius was certainly upon some familiar footing with the priests, and

perhaps being partly moved by the hope that the imposing magnificence of

the ceremonial would win a convert to his creed, he ventured to

introduce me. If such was his anticipation, how signally in error! how

vain to fancy that the sense can blind the judgment! that the splendor

of the cloud that curtains some yawning chasm in the mountain side, can

be mistaken for the solid pathway.

The sun had long gone down beneath the dizzy peaks of Lebanon, indeed

night had far advanced, when Lactantius, Mobilius, and myself, properly

arrayed in dark vestments, sallied toward the temple of the sun. Hurried

along at a rapid pace, for he feared we had tarried too long, we soon

came in view of the temple’s towering portico, which may still be seen

by the curious stranger, even in the absence of the moon; for

ever-burning lamps, filled, as they say, by never-failing oil, hang

beneath the architrave. Entering at the great door, we were stopped by

the porter, but recognising Mobilius, he permitted us to pass, without

farther scrutiny, though he was evidently displeased; for although I

could not clearly distinguish what he spoke, I heard him mutter angrily

in the Syrian tongue.

We did not cross the grand courts, which, like the portico, were filled

with perpetual lamps, but hastened through low corridors, vaults, and

crooked passages, which might defy the skill of man to retrace, but

Mobilius seemed well accustomed to them, so that I inferred he had acted

as a guide on more than one occasion. After endless windings, we came

into an archway, faintly lighted from without, and proceeding farther,

entered a dark room. Here we were obliged to grope our way, and were

commanded by Mobilius to tread with the utmost caution. We speedily,

however, came to a spot, from which we beheld the great floor of the

temple, through a narrow opening, artfully concealed in one of the

ornaments of the entablature. All was still.

“Earlier than I expected,” whispered Mobilius, “the ceremonies have not

yet begun.”

This leisure enabled me to examine the exquisite architecture of the

edifice.

The temple was the loftiest of all those that surrounded it, and which

had their position and style of architecture in strict reference to

this, as their great centre. The roof was of marble, and I could clearly

distinguish, by the lamps around, the delicacy and lightness of its

mouldings, pannels, and compartments. In the centre was a sun, carved in

the full glory of his rays: marshalled at equal distances, surrounded by

its sculptured edge, and sunk deeply into the marble, like a picture in

its frame, were the heads of Venus, or as this people designate her, the

“Syrian Goddess,” and also of Jupiter and other deities; and if I do not

err, I could discern, constellated like the rest, the heads of

Antoninus, and of other Roman emperors.

The marble walls were carved with niches and tabernacles disposed in two

rows, which were filled with statues, between the floor and the roof,

and supporting the latter, stood pilasters and columns of the same order

as those which sustain the architrave.

Upon the tesselated pavement in the centre of the temple was erected a

gorgeous altar, composed in part of precious metals, and of rare and

various marbles, tastefully inlaid, and yet all designed in conformity

with the strict rules of the architect. The fires upon it threw a

reddened glow upon the walls and pillars, and a representation of the

sun seemingly illumined from within, by a mildly burning light, whether

real or unsubstantial, I cannot say, hovered above the altar, resembling

the undulating brightness which the agitated waters in the vase cast

upon the tapestry, or the flickering pale reflection of the moonbeams on

the ground, as they struggle through the trembling leaves. My thoughts

now reverted to the ceremonies we had come to witness, and some

perplexing fancies, in spite of resolution, stole upon me. First, the

brief acquaintance of Mobilius; the knowledge that Lactantius was a

Christian, and his increased apparent dislike of that form of worship,

since Constantine had threatened to close the temples of his faith; and

Lactantius had expressed a hope it might be so, and the fact that there

was, unquestionably, a connection between Mobilius and some of the

priests. But again I thought could he be so base as to delude and betray

those who had reposed such confidence, and would not his fears prevent,

if he even would, because of the certainty of detection? While these

reflections were flashing through my mind, the soft mingling of many

voices swelling into the full pitch of harmony, and then sinking and

dying as if wafted away upon the wings of the wind, broke the spell, and

aroused my attention. Such clear, rich, enrapturing melody, I never

heard, even surpassing that which floated from the shores of Cyprus; and

a thrill of pain ran through my veins as it suddenly ceased, just as if

you were to dash a harp into pieces in the midst of its sweetest

outpourings.

“What means this?” I whispered, but a low murmur from Mobilius brought

me to instant silence. Directly I heard a silvery ringing voice swell

forth a chaunting note, and all the voices fell in one by one, with

sweet and heavenly accord, until the lofty temple echoed and re-echoed

with the sounds.

The great door then sprang asunder—without the jarring of a hinge—by

some imperceptible agency, revealing in magnificent array, numerous

ranks of priests, clothed in vestments of the costliest dyes, and

walking to the sound of instruments, with measured tread, in glittering

procession. Some bore many of the symbols of their faith—such as the

heifer’s head—the crescent, the golden bull—some ears of corn, others

silver torches, when ascending the altar steps, they lit them at its

fires, which threw into still brighter effulgence, the dazzling

ornaments of the priests, and all the solemn pageants. This was, as

Mobilius whispered, the splendid ceremonial which precedes the great

sacrifice. Now came a bewildering and elaborate observance of the usual

ceremonies, but so numerous and complicated, that it were tedious to

recount them, if I even could.

After a little the music was again heard, both of instruments and

voices, swelling, blending, and pouring forth the same entrancing

harmonies. The priests, in three rows, circling round the altar, sent up

a swelling chaunt, and in a moment, as it were, with the quickness of

lightning, three bright fires sprang from the different portions of the

altar-top, so brilliant, as that for many seconds, I was not able to

discern a vestige of what I had just seen. At this, Mobilius, taking us

by the hand, said, “we must depart,” and led us by a different route

from that through which we entered. At one place, in suddenly opening

the gate, at the end of a long passage, I was startled by a flood of

light, illuminating a colonnade, which seemed to lead into a

subterraneous passage, plainly connected with another temple. We shortly

reached the great door itself, and glided through the portico, seemingly

unobserved, though I doubt not it was guarded by some unseen janitor. We

now emerged into the open air, and hurried rapidly on. Upon turning to

take a parting glance at the temple, my eye was riveted in deep and

reverential admiration. The moon was at a towering height, and shone

down clear and silvery. Not a cloud spotted the heavens, nor the

bright-eyed stars, that like watch-lights, palely burnt around her. No

sound disturbed the silence of the night, except the faintly dying note

of a trumpet, as it softly echoed from some far, far distant battlement,

or the rattling of some chariot wheels in its progress homeward, from

the banquet of the wealthy Heliopolitan, which lingered for a moment on

the ear, then was lost forever.

The lights upon the temple paled away in the eternal brightness of the

queen of night, throwing the portico in bold relief, as if it were

covered with a mantle of snow, and casting its deep recesses into the

shades of midnight. Beside the temple rose a grove, bathed in a silvery

flood of light, and the tall obelisks, which being but faintly visible

among the foliage, stood like spectres, and upon steady contemplation,

appeared to stir from the place of their foundation, such is the power

of fancy.

I turned; my companions were gone. They had passed on unheeded, and I

wandered as I best could toward the mansion of Septimus.

The gorgeous streets of this great city, lined, as they were, with

marble palaces and temples, and thronged but a few hours since with the

gay, the beautiful maiden of Heliopolis, or the busy wayfarer, were now

as silent as the place of tombs. The cold beams of the pale moon shone

still undimmed and uninterrupted, save here and there by a projecting

shade or darkling grove, whose loftiest boughs closely interweaving,

reared a verdant arch, revealing now and then through the thick foliage,

the night’s illumined heaven, and its cold azure depths. So I wandered,

cheered at intervals by the soft murmur of the fountains among the

trees, whose waters sparkled in the moonbeams.

This grove was ornamented with statues, and verily, I believe, of all

the Gods in the Pantheon, among which was Mars, whose highly polished

shield shone like another moon.

Now completely lost, I found myself near one of the city gates, and

hearing an approaching footstep, I recognised a citizen, some gay

Heliopolitan, I supposed, returning from a midnight banquet.

“Can you tell me,” I enquired, “in what direction lies the house of

Septimus?”

“Oh! readily,” he answered, “I will go with you, for it stands nearly in

my path. I perceive, my friend, you are a stranger, and we dare not

break our ancient rule of friendship.” Thanking him for his kindness, we

proceeded forward, and I found him a communicative and entertaining

companion.

“Pray,” said I, “what noble edifice is that immediately before us, now

silvered by the moon?”

“That is the temple of fortune, erected many years ago, after some

signal benefit had fallen on the city, through the beneficence of the

Gods. It is the work of the lamented Epamenides, his first, his last

design,” and he appeared much affected by the reflection. He continued,

“behold the proportions.”

I no longer doubted but that my friend was some young architect,

enthusiastic in his profession, and not being able to understand his

learned phrases, endeavored to divert the conversation.

“In what you say I cordially concur, but what is fame and fortune since

but a few lustres must snatch us from their enjoyment, though they be

the highest and the brightest which the generosity and admiration of our

countrymen can award? Man toils much ere he reaps, so that if the

harvest is not scanty it is ours for the enjoyment of but a brief

space.”

“You do not draw your conclusion,” said he, “after the manner of the

model of all that is great in reason and philosophy. Were the votary to

hold such doctrines as these, he would never reach the fires, however

ardently he might fix his gaze upon them; he would never attain the

consummation of his burning wishes. But he would reason after this

manner—toil would be well were the goal worth the reaching. So mark the

inconsistency.”

Although not convinced, I was compelled, forsaking my former conjecture,

to conclude that the stranger was some eminent philosopher of

Heliopolis, so ingeniously did he argue. Though I thought it could not

be of so severe a school as some sternly avow.

Walking a little, we met a man in the agonies of a strange sickness.

Here I fancied will be afforded an opportunity of testing the truth of

my conjecture—for philosophers, especially those of the present day,

are ever ready to prescribe both for afflictions of body and of mind

precepts which they are most rarely in the habit of practising

themselves. But I was again mistaken, for, taking the sick man by the

hand, he examined his pulse, and closely scrutinised his features, upon

this abstracting a small casket, containing medicines, from his robes,

he administered a portion, and its good effects were wonderful. All

conjecture was now put to flight; for I at once decided that my new

friend was a disciple of Hippocrates.

How fruitless is all surmise, for he afterward informed me he was a

member of the forum, and held an office under the emperor. This brought

me to the widely spreading portal of Septimus—which almost seemed to

welcome me after my absence. I met Lactantius pacing to and fro the hall

with Mobilius, as if theirs had been an intimacy of months. “Ah!” said

the latter, “we were about sallying out for you—but yet knew it would

prove of no avail in such a city as this.”

“Welcome,” exclaimed Lactantius, “I was anxious on your account. How

came you to leave us?”

“I did not leave you—it was you who left me—doubtless in the heat of

controversy upon the Chaldean mysteries.”

“I understand your meaning, Servilius,” said he, smiling, “but how came

you here at all; you are not acquainted with the streets of Baalbec,

especially by moonlight?”

“Through the kindness,” I replied, “of Apicius.”

“You are fortunate,” ejaculated Mobilius, “and should deposite your

offering to-morrow in the temple of fortune, as is the custom here. He

is the first of statesmen and advocates; an accomplished orator, and a

very generous and learned citizen. If he pressed you to visit him at his

palace, you are still more fortunate.”

“And so he did,” I rejoined.

It proved as Mobilius predicted, for I did not meet a kinder or more

noble-hearted friend than this same Heliopolitan.

“As it is late,” observed Lactantius, “we will seek our couches, and

to-morrow,” archly glancing at Mobilius, “we may examine the Egyptian

mysteries.”

But I must draw to a conclusion, least I should sketch this epistle to a

tedious length. I bid you an affectionate

Farewell.

* * *

* * * * *

THE SOUL’S DESTINY.

BY MRS. M. S. B. DANA.

And oh! the soul! she saw in visions bright,

The veil withdrawn which hides the world of light,

With eye of faith she gazed in tearful joy,

And they were there! her husband and her boy!

Sweet hope of Heaven! thou art a healing balm—

If storms arise thy deep rich holy calm

Comes with a spirit influence to the breast,

And to the weary mourner whispers “rest!”

Rest—for the fondly loved, the early dead!

Rest—for the longing spirit Heavenward fled!

Rest—from a tiresome path in weakness trod!

Rest—in the bosom of the Saviour, God!

* * * * *

THE SACCHARINEOUS PHILOSOPHY.

“Her ‘prentice han’ she try’d on man, and then she made the _Lasses_ O.”

Gentle reader—art thou fond of molasses? Not only molasses in its

simple state, but in its various compounds? If thou art not I pity thee.

Thy taste relishes not that which would otherwise be a source of

inexpressible pleasure. Eatables may be divided into the two great

classes of the sweet and the sour. From the full enjoyment of at least

one-half then of the good things of life (and that the better half) art

thou deprived. Again I pity thee.

But some may say, that although not lovers of molasses or sugar, (as I

shall consider them the same in this essay,) yet they are really very

fond of many sweet things. They like a portion of the saccharine, though

not fond of the gross and clogged sweetness of molasses. Let such,

however, think not of escaping in this manner. What! like a thing in

part and not in fulness—like the rose-bud and not the open rose—like

an amiable and not a perfectly angelic being—like five dollars and not

five hundred—like middling and not good health—like imperfect and not

perfect happiness—like strawberries and cream, and not sugar or

molasses—I tell thee, man, woman, or child—Caucasian, African, or

Malay, thou art crazy, bewitched, or tasteless.

How shall I describe the delicious sensations which the saccharine

matter imparts to the outward man? Alike in fruit, and flower, and

honey-comb most gratefully apparent. And thou, ice-cream! who has so

often diffused throughout the body of this “me,” a most delicious

coolness, what wouldst thou be without that essence, whose merits I am

exalting? Insipid and unmeaning, like unto a flower without color or

fragrance.

Oh! how well can I remember the time, when, released from school, I

hastened home, and, sitting on the kitchen door-sill, enjoyed my bread

and molasses. I never felt more thankful than when, plate in hand, and a

huge slice of the wheat loaf in reserve, the preparatory pause was made

“according to the good order used among friends.” And then, also the

“switchel,” that nutritious and cooling drink, (molasses and water, with

a _little_ vinegar,) with which our revolutionary fathers quenched their

thirst, when rooting up their ditch on old Bunker. Even the horrid tales

told me in childhood by the pestered servants, of thumbs, and fingers,

and bloody streaks, the evidence of cruel treatment in the Indian isles,

turned not the edge of my keen desire.

But I shall no longer occupy paper with the advocacy of the merely

sensual claims of molasses. It has other and higher demands upon your

notice. The author of this lately perused, with pleasure, that most

important work upon “The Philosophy of Clothes,” by Thomas Carlyle. It

suggested an interesting train of thoughts upon the subject before us.

Molasses, and its kindred sweets are the well fitting garments of the

spirit of love and purity. Here then we have an unfailing index by which

to judge of the characters of our fellow men. Herein is contained the

germ of our new and spiritual philosophy.

Charles Lamb in his “Elia,” quotes and endorses the sentiment of one of

his friends: “that no man be entirely reprobate who is fond of

apple-dumplings.” This I grant to be true. He did not, however, remember

that both the apples and the dumplings contain a portion of saccharine

matter; and this accounts _partly_ for the dislike felt toward them by a

reprobate spirit. And again—who ever heard of eating apple-dumplings

without sugar or molasses? I therefore bring Charles Lamb, who, although

he did not perceive the great _principle_ coiled up in this succulent

eatable, has taken notice of the above interesting _fact_, as a witness

to the truth of my theory.

When do we find that the love of all sweet things most commonly

prevails? In youth undoubtedly. When the mind is pure, free from worldly

guile, innocent, and _lamb_-like. When the fresh and untainted spirit

drinks eagerly and deeply at the fount of truth, and its type or

representative on earth (according to Swedenborg) pure water. Then,

sugar-plumes are a delight—ginger-bread a blessing—molasses candy,

especially when rolled and pulled out into sticks, _bright_ or _dull_

yellow, according to the cleanliness of the maker’s hands, “the staff of

life.”

The child becomes a man. He grows selfish and proud. He loses his relish

for innocent enjoyments, and with it his taste for molasses. The spirit

of love becomes impregnated with impure desires, and his outward man

changes accordingly. The saccharine matter no longer suits him in its

natural state—it must be fermented, and gases added, and gases

deducted, to correspond with the altered soul. What a beautiful emblem

is this change of saccharine substance to the poisonous liquor, of the

transition state of the immortal in man. First the spirit as in

childhood, pure and gentle, like the sweet juice of the grape. Then

youth, with its noble and generous bearing, comparable to the result of

the first fermentation. Manhood comes on, and with it the fermentation

proceeds. Soon the soul is agitated with innumerable gases—and from

their bubblings, and combinations, and effervescence, it comes forth a

new creature. Well satisfied are most if they go no farther than this,

but succeed in calming the troubled elements at this second

fermentation. While some, unable to arrest their progress, plunge into

the third and woful state; from which, if they succeed in coming out,

they appear all soured, and be-vinegared, your universal fault-finders

and found-fault-with. Too many, alas! emerge not even at this third

gate, but dash recklessly into the fourth, the last and worst, and

hope-decaying state—and when dragged through it, are cast out with the

blessed feelings of childhood putrified—the flesh rotted off, and

exposing the then loathsome skeleton of the soul, the never to be

destroyed framework of an eternal nature.

How beautiful also the resemblance in another sense. Wherever you meet

the poison fire, under whatever name it may assume, whether brandy, gin,

whiskey, wine, cider, or beer, as you are confident that the innocent

sugar must have been its basis; so in whatever form you meet vice in the

human heart, you may be also assured, that there was, and perhaps is

yet, in that heart a stronger or weaker basis of God-like love.

Although the good, spiritually, is to be considered the cause of the

liking for the saccharineous, yet they are to some extent mutually

creative. The outward may appeal so strongly as even to produce the

inward. “Hang up a coat in the highway, and will it not soon find a body

to fill it?” Who has not often observed the child when requested by its

parents to swallow the bitter dose of (so called) medicine? What a

struggle between duty and disgust! What measures are then taken by the

wise parent in order that the right may conquer? How is the virtuous

appealed to and strengthened? One single lump of sugar, perhaps not

larger than a hickory nut decides the question. Duty prevails. How shall

we account for such things without adopting a similar doctrine to that

which I have thus partly illustrated?

Reader, thou wilt believe or not, as thou choosest. But before this is

dismissed as unworthy, for thy own sake, examine facts. Find among thy

acquaintances, that man, sullen, and morose, and cruel, who loves

molasses. Understand me—_loves_ molasses—not who sometimes eats it,

but who clings to it with a passionate devotion—who prefers it to the

best pie ever baked, apple, mince, peach, or cranberry,—as I do. If

thou canst find such a being—thou thinkest I’ll recant? Not I. Such a

man is an anomaly, a monster, deserves not to live—and if he knows what

a beautiful theory he is practically marring, and has the least spark of

generosity within him, is willing to die. If he wont die I care

not,—he’s only an exception, and “proves the truth of the general

rule,” as all metaphysicians will tell thee.

If it were needful I could skip from individuals to nations—could prove

the truth of my doctrines by referring to the Irish with their potatoes,

buttermilk, and whiskey—the Hindoo and his rice—the West Indian slave

with his patient endurance, the result of his frequent sucking at the

juicy cane.

But why multiply proof? Why refer to the bee with his industrious

habits, caused by living entirely upon honey—the bear with his good

nature, hugging you, even when in anger, to his bosom, how he also likes

sweet things—the humming-bird, with its love for the sweets of

flowers—the—but why instance more?

Oh! ye wise, give ear while I call your attention to this new

philosophy, which I name saccharine, and not transcendental. Parents,

guardians, physicians, nurses,—“they that have ears to hear let them

hear.”

Ella.

* * * * *

WINTER.

BY J. W. FORNEY.

The leaf hath fallen!

E’en the withered leaf; and from the trees

Hath faded Nature’s robe of living green;

While, thro’ their naked boughs the wintry breeze,

Makes mournful music o’er the vanished scene—

The funeral requiem of those blushing flowers,

That bloomed and flaunted in the sunny air,

When the coy spring-time and her laughing hours,

The graceful monarchs of the season were.

The song is hushed!

And gone those warblers for a softer clime,

Whose morning welcome, and whose evening hymn

Made the gay summer but a trysting time,

And prayerful music poured aloft to Him!

No more they usher, with their mellow song,

The bright-eyed morning beaming through the cloud—

Where erst they met, in bright melodious throng,

Now roars the tempest in its wrath aloud.

The brook is frozen!

The babbling streamlet sparkles now no more

In the full glory of the sun’s warm beam;

The ice-king’s sceptre has been wafted o’er,

And sleep is brooding on the modest stream.

There are no flowers on its frozen side—

The sun shines only with a cheerless glance:

Still is its melody; and the valley’s pride,

Is calm as Beauty in a pleasing trance.

Lancaster, Pa. January, 1841.

* * * * *

THE CONFESSIONS OF A MISER.

BY J. ROSS BROWNE.

Part I.

One who dothe hymself professe to be the teller of a hystorye,

must often be contente to doe that whych in annye other

character he would be ashamed to owne to. He must unryddle

thoughts, telle tales, spake of factes done pryrilye and not for

worldlye showe.

_A Legende of the Monasterye of Lylis._

When life ceases to afford us gratification, we not unfrequently take a

strange delight in reviewing and pondering over the misdeeds of the

past, and in anticipating the weird and desolate future. This revelling

in the consequences of our own depravity; this spirit of darkness and

recklessness; this tendency to a defiance of all moral and religious

consolation—when morality and religion no longer dwell within us—may

be termed the wreck of hope, and life, and salvation; for as the

mariner, engulphed by the tempest, faces death in boisterous revelry, so

we seek to riot in our own wickedness, and plunge into perdition,

rejoicing in the sin, and reckless of its consequences.

Even while I write, the recollection of deeds which might well cause the

blood to curdle and the flesh to crawl, thrills me with an awful and

savage delight. The open gates of hell are ready to receive me, but I

rejoice in anticipating the hour of eternal ruin!

I am a native of Italy—a Venitian by birth; a wanderer by choice.

During the political disturbances under the doge, Paolo Reniers, I

obtained an office of considerable value; by which I was enabled to

enjoy a handsome annuity. For some time the French forces, commanded by

Bonaparte, had been endeavoring to take possession of Verona; and had

already made some attempts on Venice; but these eruptions were if any

thing the means of my promotion. Before the downfall of my patron, I

acquired a fortune which placed me on a footing with the patricians of

the day. Had heaven so ordained it, I might then have retired to my

villa, and in peace and seclusion enjoyed the fruits of my industry; but

the seeds of avarice were sown—I was destined to reap their harvest.

The intrigues of political life were not sufficiently disgusting to

deter me from applying for employment under the government, to the

successor of Reniers. That wary craft which had rendered me so

indispensable to this corrupt and imbecile monarch, was not overlooked

by Lugi Manini; for in a country where duplicity is the chief point, in

the education of individuals, to whom the official authority is

entrusted; and where art and cunning are so universal as to render every

man a match for his fellow, superiority of this kind is regarded with

peculiar veneration.

The satellites who swarmed about the court of Manini, were not slow in

betraying their jealousy at the preference with which he regarded me;

but where jealousy exists there is dissention; and even among my enemies

I had my partisans. The rancor of political strife rendered me fierce

and haughty; and few dared to avow their hostility in my presence.

Hardened in dissimulation, I could at once assume the gentlest tones of

friendship, or the most cutting sarcasm, and the coldest frown of

dignity. Increase of influence gradually compelled those who at first

resorted to the basest methods for my overthrow, to relinquish their

attempts, and acquiesce in my measures.

Power, however, was not my chimera. I had contracted an undying thirst

for riches. I longed to regard myself as the master of millions. The

very clink of gold was sweeter to me than the applause of an enraptured

populace. Daily—hourly—my thoughts were concentrated on the darling

object of my ambition. That cold and stern temperament, which, in my

political schemes, had been fostered by every act of diplomacy, and

every duty of my office, rendered me callous to all worldly allurements,

save the desire of personal emolument.

Constantly moving in the gaudy circles of the court, I was at once

disgusted with the prodigal splendor of every thing around me, and

incited to aspire for the most exalted degree of opulence. Those whose

power was greater than mine, I merely looked upon as instruments by

which the great object of my life was to be effected. Even Manini

himself I did not consider in any other light than as one ultimately to

be the means of my success. Deceit in the service of others had made me

too wary a courtier not to cloak my designs in professions of the most

disinterested friendship toward him who was already the tool of my

machinations.

The schemes were too well concerted to fail. A few years of untiring

zeal found the doge still nominally my patron, but in reality my minion.

Wealth had poured in upon me. No longer was the desire of riches a

chimera; no longer had I to live in feverish and dreamy suspense; no

longer was I fortune’s votary.

Though in the prime of life, I too, passionately loved the possession of

my gold, to violate in my enjoyment the strictest rules of economy. I

gambled—but that was my business. I drank—but the excitement was

necessary to sustain my vital principle.

Having adhered to my victim till he was weak and worthless, I abandoned

him for more lucrative game. I sought out the haunts of the young and

inexperienced. I became a kind of polite sharper; for though I generally

gambled for the riches of my victims, I so managed as to secure the

spoils in defiance of ill-fortune.

We all know that the peculiar vices of a man’s character increase in

extent as his evil course of life is persisted in; even when that course

is not more intrinsically depraved by continuance. It was the case with

me. I did not actually rob; I did not murder; I committed no more

heinous crime than that of swindling or gambling; and yet every day I

became a worse and worse black-hearted man.

Before this epoch in my career had drawn to a close, I became acquainted

with the daughter of a Venitian banker. She was not beautiful; she was

not accomplished; she was not amiable—but she was rich. At this time, I

too, was rich. Both fortunes united would make a brilliant coalescence.

I pressed my suit, and succeeded. The foolish girl did not discover till

too late, that I despised herself, though I adored her fortune. My

wealth was now immense; and it might be supposed that I was satisfied;

but my thirst for accumulation was only excited by what I had already

acquired. Had I been possessed of the world’s wealth, I am pursuaded I

would have wept, like Alexander, because there was nothing left to

satisfy my desires.

That fortunate tissue of events which had hitherto marked my career, was

destined to be speedily reversed. In Venice there lived at this time an

individual, who, if he had not my boldness of purpose and capacity for

scheming, was at least my equal in shrewdness and avarice. This person

was called Carlo Dolci—a nomenclature which he boasted as certain

evidence that he was descended from the great painter of that name.

Dolci met me at my accustomed resort—one of those hells with which

Venice then abounded. His appearance was peculiarly forbidding; but I

fancied I had seen too much of the world to be prejudiced by mere

outward show. We were introduced by a mutual friend. I found that my new

acquaintance was a man of some knowledge, and of polished and persuasive

manners. His characteristic trait was extreme cunning; nor did his grey,

twinkling eye and piercing glance contradict what his manners and

language bespoke.

One topic led to another. We spoke of games. Dolci with his infernal

art, flattered me out of all prudence, by declaring he had heard so much

of my skill at play that he was determined to avoid strife in such an

accomplished quarter. Fired with a desire to verify his words, I

immediately challenged him. We began with moderate stakes, and I won. We

doubled, and I still won. We continued to increase the stakes till they

amounted to an immense sum. Both were equally excited; but my good

fortune did not yet leave me. Dolci, I knew, was rich; and I was

determined to fleece him. I doubled the largest stakes we had yet

contended for. Dolci was the winner. Maddened at such an unusual

reverse, I dared him to contend—fortune against fortune! Each now

staked his entire wealth. It was to be riches or poverty to me. The

swollen veins stood out on my forehead. A cold perspiration teemed from

the brow of Carlo Dolci. His teeth were clenched; his hair wild and

matted—his eye unusually haggard. The dice were thrown. I gasped for

breath. A dimness came over my eyes. With a dreadful effort I strained

them to catch a glimpse of my fate. Merciful God! I had lost—I was a

beggar!

With a grim smile, Dolci grasped the stakes. I rushed from the hell, a

frenzied wretch. A mocking laugh was borne after me; and I knew no more.

For several days I was a raving maniac. When I recovered my reason, I

found myself stretched on a pallet in my own house. My wife stood by,

with disgust and hatred pictured in her countenance. Her first words

were those of contumely and reproach. She did not make any allowance for

my situation; she reflected not that it was the province of the female

to forgive error, and to administer consolation. I married her for her

money; that was gone, and I now was to feel all the miseries of my

choice.

The only solace to my afflictions, was a little daughter about eight

years old, but uncommonly mature both mentally and physically. She

attended me with untiring assiduity; she lifted the cup to my lips; she

soothed with her silvery tones the agony of my mind; she sang for me her

plaintive airs; she bathed my burning temples; she prayed for me—she

wept for me—she was every way the beau ideal of innocence and

affection.

“Father,” she would say, “why do you clench your hands—why do you rave

of ruin and beggary? We shall all go to work when you recover; and we

shall earn more money and be very happy.”

Alas poor Valeria! she little knew the loss I had sustained. It was not

the loss of luxury for that I never enjoyed; it was not the loss of

domestic peace—for I was a stranger to it; it was not the loss of

reputation, for I cared nothing about it; but it was the loss of

MONEY—of that which gave the only zest and pleasure to my life.

One mortification was spared us in our beggary. No splendid edifice was

to be abandoned—no luxurious equipage to be sold—no servants to be

dismissed—no fine costumes to be sacrificed—no sensitive feelings to

be wounded by a change from affluence to penury and want; our condition

remained unaltered. While blessed with riches I was too careful of them

to be guilty of extravagance. My avarice, not my prodigality, was my

ruin. I did not gamble for the pleasure of the game, but from sheer

desire to accumulate immense sums of money. I then conducted my affairs

on a grand scale. Wealth poured in on me not by degrees, but in floods.

Now, however, the time arrived when I was doomed to begin a new career

under new auspices. I had no Reniero or Manini to plunder by a few acts

of political sagacity. I had no immense states to retrieve my want of

luck with Carlo Dolci. To toil up the rugged path—to exert my humble

acquirement—to trade—to barter—to beg—were now the only means in my

power to make amends for want of prudence.

Having settled my wife and daughter in a small house, I procured, partly

on credit and partly with what little was left, a meagre stock of

jewelry, with which I sallied out as a travelling pedlar. By adopting

this course of life I sacrificed no fine feelings; I never was proud of

any thing except of my riches. I considered not that because I had

wielded an intriguing pen in the great contest between Bonaparte and

Lugi Manini, my dignity would in any degree be lessened by honest

exertions for the retrieval of my fortune.

The succeeding epoch in my career may be passed over. To detail the

vicissitudes of my wandering life—to dwell upon the manifold reverses

of fortune—to trace succinctly the gradual and disheartening manner in

which I acquired money—and to portray the eagerness—the infantile

delight with which I grasped it and hoarded it to my bosom—would be

alike futile and uninteresting.

In struggling between penury and avarice, the autumn of my life passed

away. The misery of connubial contention, I am persuaded, whitened the

hair of my head, even before my winter had blasted it with its frosts;

but heaven ordained it that my declining age should not be harassed by

the persecutions of her with whom I had never known an hour of true

happiness. She died in a fit of madness—a malady to which her

passionate and ungovernable temper had frequently subjected her. It

would be adding hypocrisy to my manifold sins to say that I regretted

this instance of divine dispensation. I still had a

companion—differently, but no less intimately dependent on me for her

support and protection. This was my daughter, who had attained her

eighteenth year.

Valeria was beautiful—extremely beautiful. I had roamed in the

Florentine and Venitian Vatican; I had studied, if not with the eye of

an artist, at least with the eye of an ardent admirer, the most

exquisite productions of Georgione, Titian, Correggio, and Veronese; I

had dwelt in ecstacy on the master-works of every school from the

Appellean and Protogenean, to the Lombard, the Bolognese, the Carraci,

and the Rasain; but I had never seen any thing either ideal or

substantial, so exquisitely symmetrical—so etherially chiselled in

every feature—so thoroughly the impersonation of angelic beauty and

sweetness, as Valeria. I speak it with a father’s pride; I may be

partial, but I believe I am sincere. The dark, luxuriant hair—the

languishing eye—the finely rounded arm—the faultless figure bespoke

Italian blood; and that too of a gentle quality; for though I claim no

distinction, I am myself of noble descent.

In Valeria, then, I saw my future fortune. I had sufficient to support

life; but I desired wealth. To sell my daughter to the best advantage

was now the sole and engrossing subject of my thoughts. I cared not

whether I gained her an honorable alliance or not; money, not titular

distinction, was the object for which I determined she should be

sacrificed.

There lived in Venice, at this time, a Neapolitan nobleman, of agreeable

and accomplished manners, and fine fortune, named Don Ferdinand Razzina,

upon whom I had long looked as the instrument by which my schemes were

to be consummated. Razzina was young and volatile. His imprudence

rendered him easily subservient to my machinations. By the most

consummate art I managed that he should get a glimpse at Valeria. This

proved sufficient stimulus to an ardent imagination, to fire him with

the most extravagant notions of her beauty. He had barely seen her as a

flitting shadow: that shadow surpassed to him in loveliness the beau

ideal of his airiest dreams. I knew too much of the human heart not to

concert my measures on the fact that mystery is the food of love; and in

a very short time Don Ferdinand was supplicating at my feet for

information concerning the fairy vision he had seen.

“Nothing,” said he, “shall be spared in remuneration for your services.

I love her. I shall never love another. My peace and happiness for ever

more depend on her. If you respect the passions common to humanity; if

you are not devoid of every feeling of sympathy; if you value your own

welfare, and my peace of mind—procure me an interview!”

Schooled in cunning, I treated the matter with indifference; I dwelt on

other themes—but finding Don Ferdinand deaf to aught, save the

engrossing object of his thoughts, I consented to introduce him, on an

enormous advance, to my daughter. He seemed much surprised at this

declaration; for he had fancied—from what cause I know not—that

Valeria was my protege, and the unfortunate pledge of some noble amour.

In a moment the truth of my schemes burst upon him. He was

young—ardent—impetuous—but he neither wanted penetration nor

humanity.

“Wretch!” he cried, with all the indignant fervor of one unaccustomed to

such unnatural cupidity—“you would sell your daughter’s honor!—you

would ruin her for your own emolument!” He paused in agitation for some

moments, during which I maintained a grim and stony smile—then

continued, “but your villainy is nothing to me. I shall not upbraid you

for what turns to my own advantage. Here is the sum. Recollect, however,

_we perfectly understand each other as to the terms_.” I answered merely

by a leering nod of the head. Razzina departed—promising to call on the

ensuing evening.

That short but active interview had laid bare the character of the noble

prodigal. He was evidently gifted with no common intellect. He had seen

little of the world; so that whatever sagacity he had was inherent. Much

good was mixed with the evil which formed his prominent traits. He was

young and passionate; but he had no small share of the milk and honey of

human kindness. His opinions respecting my course I regarded with

contempt. I had studied too deeply the mysteries of human nature to be

baulked in my designs by a beardless and soft-hearted youth. I knew that

the bait was too well administered to be rejected.

Returning to a miserable garret in which I always slept to avoid the

expense of furnishing the lower part of the house, and also to enjoy the

solitude, I flung myself on a pallet, and spread the gold on the floor.

A filthy lamp threw a sickly and flickering light on every thing around.

The wretched place was strewn with rubbish and dirt; here and there lay

a broken stool, or the remains of a chair; in the centre stood a greasy

and ricketty table, and hung up in confusion, on the walls, were

battered tin-cups—a few platters—a spoutless coffee-pot—and sundry

tattered habiliments.

I glanced around me with a smile of sinister meaning. I piled up the

gold—threw it down again—and scattered it about, and grasped it once

more with childish eagerness. Then, as if fearful of detection, I hid

it, fervently praying that the Almighty would watch over, and preserve

it.

It was now necessary that my daughter should become acquainted with part

of my designs; and I summoned her. In a moment she was at my feet.

“Valeria—” and as I addressed her, I endeavored to modulate my voice

into tones as affectionate and as soothing as possible—“Valeria, we are

very poor—God knows we are.”

“Yes; but father why speak of it now? We are as well off as most people,

and I am sure we need no luxuries.”

“My child, you know not our poverty. You see me now a decrepid and

palsied old man. I am unable to make a living; and henceforth on you I

must depend.”

“I shall cheerfully do what I am able, father.”

“I know it my child—I know it; but your utmost exertions cannot save us

from starvation, unless properly directed. Valeria, listen to me. I ask

you as a father will you obey my commands?”

“As long as they are bounded by reason and virtue, I shall. I have

always obeyed you—I am not disobedient, I sincerely believe.”

“Valeria, can you love?”

“I can. I _do_ love.”

“Ha! whom do you love?”

“I love you, my father—and—”

“Speak!”

“I love Marco da Vinci—I never intended to deny it.”

In a frenzy of rage and astonishment, I started to my feet, and stood

for some moments like one transfixed. My lips were white; my mouth

foamed; my cheek was blanched; my eye fiery and distorted; and my whole

frame convulsed with passion.

“God’s curse be on you!” I shrieked, shaking my clenched hand in the

face of the terrified girl—“God’s curse be on you, for the declaration.

_You_ _love Marco da Vinci?_ May a father’s ban fall like the flames of

perdition on you! May the heart that you so foolishly bestowed, be

blighted and withered in its bloom! May the avenging hosts gather round

you at your death-bed; and taunt you, and riot in your agony!”

“Father! Father! O, cease those horrible words! you will drive me mad!”

“No,” I replied, in a stern but more softened tone, “I shall not drive

you mad, Valeria; but I have news that will make you feel as if madness

would be a blessing. _You are sold._ Here is the money”—and I drew

forth the gold I had received from Don Ferdinand. “Yes, to-morrow you

will be the mistress of Don Ferdinand Razzina.”

“Never!—so help me God!” cried Valeria, in a voice so calm and

determined, that I feared for the success of my schemes; “death—aye, a

thousand deaths before dishonor!”

“We shall see,” I replied, with a grim smile.

“_We shall!_” said Valeria, retiring; and in tones so deep and ominous

that I shuddered. She repeated, “_we shall!_”

Hitherto I have devoted my pen almost exclusively to the narrative of my

own confessions. I must now diverge a little to introduce the reader to

a character, of whom nothing has yet been mentioned except his name.

Marco da Vinci was a young painter, of extraordinary talents, and great

mental accomplishments. He was descended from a noble house; and might

have enjoyed the height of affluence had not misfortune set her seal

upon him at an early age. Favored in an unusual degree as to his mental

and physical capacities, he received all the care and cultivation that a

fond father could bestow; and on attaining his eighteenth year few could

boast a more vigorous mind—a more profound education, or a more chaste

and amiable character. Thus far was Marco successful.

Smitten with an undying thirst for distinction, he resolved henceforth

to abandon the quiet enjoyments of leisure and affluence, and dedicated

himself altogether to the nobler calls of ambition. Alas! he knew not

that he had yielded the substantial enjoyments of life for a misnomer—a

chimera!

It was the ardent hope of Da Vinci’s father, that the youth should, at

no remote period, occupy an exalted station in the affairs of the

government; but the rancor and bitterness of political life had no

charms for the young enthusiast. Enraged and disappointed at the

unexpected determination of his son, Don Ignatius da Vinci, abjured him

in the zenith of his passion—disowned him, and left him an outcast and

a beggar.

The ambitious Marco wended his way to Venice, where his talents soon

attracted the attention of a distinguished painter. Under this

individual, Da Vinci studied with all the devotion of an enthusiast, and

an unfeigned lover of the art. A very short time was requisite to make

him a finished painter. That pruning to rule—that softening and

chastening, which can only be attained by painful and almost hopeless

perseverance in most cases, were soon mastered by the ardent disciple.

In the course of time, Marco da Vinci accumulated, by his industry,

sufficient capital to begin business on a small scale. At first he

succeeded beyond his expectations; but soon he found that novelty is the

spice of patronage, and that before him he had every probability of

sinking into oblivion, and of eking out his days in starvation. Too

proud to apply for assistance to those by whom he had been so basely

injured, he determined to submit to his fate with manliness and

fortitude, and to merit, if possible, sufficient patronage to support

him, while he should by an extraordinary effort of his pencil retrieve

his past misfortunes.

A premium had been offered by the Academy of Arts, for the best portrait

of a female that could be placed in the gallery in time for the annual

exhibition. Da Vinci resolved to take his model from nature. The fame of

Valeria’s beauty was proverbial throughout the city; and the candidate

for the palm of excellence, sought out our miserable tenement, and

implored permission to have a sitting. Too proud of the opportunity to

extend her reputation, I consented to the proposition. Fool! fool! that

I was! Why could I not see the danger of placing this young and ardent

soul in such a temptation? Da Vinci was young—handsome—and

intellectual: Valeria was innocent—amiable—and beautiful—could they

but love? Fool, I say, fool that I was!

Louisville, Kentucky, January, 1841.

* * * * *

THE FAIRY’S HOME.

Our home is far ’mid the greenwood trees,

Where the rose-bloom floats on the burden’d breeze,

Where the moon’s beams glance on the sleeping tide,

And the lily grows in its stainless pride.

There, deep in our flowery homes we dwell,

In the cavern’d shades of the fairy’s cell,

Where the sound of the wavelet’s ceaseless song,

Shall glad the ear of the fairy throng.

There calm as the blue of the “bending skies,”

Whose beauty may bless e’en fairy’s eyes;

We will pass those hours of careless glee,

Whilst the woods shall ring with our melody.

Our lamp shall be of the fire-fly’s light

That shines ’mid the gloom of the darksome night,

And led by its star-like rays we’ll roam

’Mid the scenes that grace our woodland home.

The notes of the song-bird echo there,

And are warbled again by our sisters fair;

And the tones of each pure and gentle thing,

Are voiced in the strains the fairies sing.

Away from the cares and toils of life,

No part have we in its scenes of strife,

But calm as the sleep of the tideless sea,

Our rest in our Fairy Home shall be.

S. H.

Philadelphia, January, 1841.

* * * * *

NOT LOST, BUT GONE BEFORE.

BY CHARLES WEST THOMSON.

The dead but sleep—they do not die,

They live in mem’ry’s holy cell—

The woodland green, the summer sky

Of them in gentle language tell.

Each scene that knew them daily speaks

Of all their love so fond and true,

And tears that tremble on our cheeks,

But nerve our sadness to renew.

The grief that rent our hearts when first

Death broke our early bond in twain,

Within our souls, by memory nurst,

Will oft times freshly burst again.

Yet why indulge unfading grief,

For those we loved and now deplore?

Theirs is a slumber calm and brief—

They are “not lost, but gone before.”

January, 1841.

* * * * *

NOT FOR ME! NOT FOR ME!

A popular Air in the Opera of

CATHERINE GRAY,

_AS SUNG BY MRS. WOOD_.

THE MUSIC COMPOSED BY M. W. BALFE.

Geo. W. Hewitt & Co. No. 184 Chesnut Street, Philadelphia.

[Illustration: musical score]

Not for me, not for me,

Regal halls and courtly life,

Oh! more

[Illustration: musical score continued]

blest, my lot would be,

Far from ev’ry scene of strife,

From the world from all retiring,

Gladly would this heart remove,

One dear boon alone desiring

Still to be with thee I love:

Still to be with thee I love.

2

Let me seek that tranquil home,

Once I knew in happier hours,

Free to wander, free to roam,

Thro’ my own lov’d peaceful bow’rs.

Not for me the world’s false pleasures,

Not for me where splendour moves,

More than these my bosom treasures,

More than these my heart now loves,

More than these my heart now loves.

* * * * *

SPORTS AND PASTIMES.

SHOOTING.

We open this month with the first of a series of excellent papers on

Shooting, from the pen of the author of the paper on Angling, given in

our last. It contains some valuable hints to young sportsmen, on the art

of Taking Aim.

The pursuit and destruction of wild animals for security, food,

clothing, or pastime, have been among the occupations of men in all

ages, since the primeval _bruere_ overspread the earth,

And wild in woods the noble savage ran!

Before the more refined arts are introduced into any country, the chase

is a necessity, and the chief business of life. The stronger and more

noxious animals are destroyed for individual safety; the weaker for

food. It is not until civilisation and her handmaid luxury have seated

themselves, that the chase becomes a pastime. Nor does it appear when

the sportsman first sprang into existence. There is no corresponding

word in any ancient language, since that could not be called a sport

which was a necessity. It is probable that in the earliest ages of

society, the dog was the sole agent employed by the hunter. Afterward

various weapons, manual, missile, and projectile—as the club, the dart,

the arrow, were used by the hunter and fowler. Then would follow

springs, traps, nets, and all that class of devices for the capture of

beasts and birds _feræ naturæ_, comprehended in the term toils. As dogs

were employed to hunt quadrupeds, so, in process of time, hawks were

trained to bring down birds for the service of their master. The

arbalest or cross-brow, preceded the matchlock, which, however, could

scarcely be called an implement of the chase, but which, in the order of

succession, brings us down to the rifle, and original fowling-piece with

its long, heavy barrel, and flint and steel lock; and lastly, we arrive

at the double barrels and detant locks of the modern shooter.

[Illustration]

TAKING AIM.

When the dog points, or when birds rise near to the shooter, he should

immediately draw back one hammer with the right thumb; experienced

sportsmen disapprove of the practice of cocking both barrels at the same

time. They think that it ought to be a rule never to cock either barrel,

until the game be upon the wing, then that the left barrel should be

cocked and fired, and thereafter taken from the shoulder. The right

barrel should then be cocked and fired if necessary; if not discharged,

it should be put back to the half-cock, and the left re-loaded. He

should never be in haste. It is more prudent to let the bird escape than

to fire hastily. If on open ground, he should not fire until the bird is

more than twenty yards distant. He should be deliberate in bringing up

the piece to his shoulder, and in making it to bear on the object, but

the moment he has brought it to bear, the finger should act in

co-operation with the eye, the eye being kept open the while, so that

the shooter may see whether the bird falls, or feathers fall from it,

for if he does not see it distinctly at the moment of firing, there is

something defective in his system of taking aim.

The shooter, when learning, should never aim directly at the body of a

rabbit on foot, or of a bird on the wing. This precaution is scarcely

necessary when the motion of the object is slow, but by habituating

himself to it on all occasions, he will the sooner become an adept. His

mark should be the head, the legs, or a wing, if within twenty yards.

When farther off, he should make some allowance, according to the

distance and speed of the object moving. His aim should be at the head

of a bird rising or crossing—the legs of a bird flushed on an eminence

and moving downward from him—the wing of a bird flying from him in an

oblique direction. His aim should be at the head of a rabbit, in

whatever way it may be moving. The same rules apply when the object is

more than twenty paces distant from the shooter, making allowance for

the speed. Thus, for a partridge crossing, the allowance of aim before

it with a detonator, at twenty paces, will be one inch—at thirty paces

two inches—at fifty paces five inches—at fifty-five paces seven

inches. Half this allowance will be proper when the bird moves in an

oblique direction. When an object moves directly from the shooter, at

more than twenty paces distance, he should fire a little above it. When

a bird or rabbit approaches the shooter directly, he should not aim at

it until it has passed him, or has turned aside. The moment it has

altered its course the gun should be brought up, and no time should be

lost in firing.

It is not easy at all times to form a correct idea of the distance of a

bird from the gun. The nature of the situation, and the state of the

weather often deceive the eye. Thus, on a bright day birds appear to be

near, and on a dull day distant. It is much easier to estimate the

distance of a bird in small enclosures, where hedges or trees serve as

guides, than on open ground. The hedges, indeed, tend to deceive the

unpractised eye; the object is supposed to be much farther off, while on

open ground it is supposed to be nearer, than it really is. It is often

very difficult to determine whether a grouse is within range; and

sometimes the mist increases the difficulty, for then the bird is either

scarcely seen, or else magnified, by the sun’s rays gleaming through the

mist, to an unnatural size. In general, grouse are farther off than they

are supposed to be. The shooter, however, has a peculiar sight: every

bird he brings down, in good style, is at sixty yards distance. It is

amusing sometimes to hear persons talk, after they have been _watched_,

of the distances at which they have effected their shots; they ever

think the game so much farther off than it really was. The sportsman who

has not convinced himself by actual measurement, often seems to be

laboring under a species of hallucination when speaking of his

distances, and, if he bets on them, to a certainty loses. Birds killed

at fifteen paces are thought to be at twenty-five, and those at

twenty-five are estimated at thirty-five or forty, and so on to the end

of the story!

When a covey or brood rises, the shooter should fix his eye on one bird,

and shoot at that bird only. He should not be diverted from it by other

birds rising nearer to him while he is bringing up his gun, unless the

bird he first set his eye upon be decidedly out of all reasonable

distance, so as to render the chance of killing exceedingly remote. By

observing this rule, he is not only more certain of bringing down his

game, but he will more frequently kill the old birds—a desideratum, for

two reasons; first, because he will, in all probability, disperse the

covey, which being done, any sportsman may generally, without

difficulty, bag a few brace; and secondly, because the old birds make a

better show in the game-bag.

We think that all shooters, except the veriest bunglers, use a gun

properly as regards throwing the end of it upon the object aimed at, and

drawing the trigger, and that any inaccuracy of aim must be attributed

to the eye not being in the proper place when the aim is taken.

The habit of missing arises not from inability to throw the end of the

gun upon the bird, but from the eye not being directly behind the

breech, which it necessarily must be for good shooting.

If there were a sight at each end of the barrel, it would be requisite,

when taking aim, to keep shifting the gun until both sights were in a

line between the eye and the mark; that, however, with a gun not well

mounted to the eye and shoulder, would be too complex an operation, for

before it could be performed, a swift bird would be out of reach; it

follows, then, that the shooter’s attention should be directed only to

the sight at the top of the barrel; and the breech end should come up

mechanically to the proper level.

When a person is nervous, or afraid of the recoil, he naturally raises

his head, and consequently shoots above the mark; on firing, he

unconsciously throws his head back, and then seeing the bird above the

end of the gun, he fancies he shot under it, when the reverse is the

fact. We may also observe that if the shooter does not keep his head

down to the stock, he will probably draw it aside, so that his aim will

be as if taken from one of the hammers, which would, of course, throw

the charge as much on one side of the mark, as raising the head would

above it.

The main point, then, in taking aim, is _to keep the head down to the

stock, and the eye low behind the breach_. The sportsman who, from habit

or practice, can invariably bring his eye down to the same place, and

keep it steadily there, so that he may always take aim from the same

starting point, will distance all competitors.

* * * * *

REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.

_“The Antediluvians, or the World Destroyed.” A narrative poem,

in ten books. By James McHenry, M. D. Author of the “Pleasures

of Friendship,” &c. 1 vol. J. B. Lippincott & Co.: Philada._

There are two species of poetry known to mankind; that which the gods

love, and that which men abhor. The poetry of the Dr. belongs to the

latter class, though he seems lamentably ignorant of this, from the long

essay on taste which he has given to the world in the shape of a preface

to the work before us, and in which his own peculiar merits and demerits

are discussed at sufficient length. He tells us that he has long been

tormented with an itching after immortality, and that, being convinced

not only that the writing of a poem was the surest passport to it, but

that the choice of a subject was the greatest difficulty in the way of

such a work, he has spent some years of his life in selecting the

present theme. He has also the modesty to acquaint the public that his

subject is inferior to Milton’s alone, leaving us, by a parity of

reasoning, to conclude that Dr. McHenry is next in glory to the heavenly

bard. We congratulate the Dr. on his finesse. There is nothing like

connecting one’s name with that of a genius, for if the world is not

deceived by it, you persuade yourself, like Major Longbow, by a constant

repetition of your story, of its truth. You become a great man in your

own conceit, fancy that the world does injustice to your talents, and go

down to posterity, if not as the falcon’s mate, at least as

“A tom-tit twittering on an eagle’s back.”

Having thus associated himself with Milton, the Dr. proceeds to inform

us that, in the Deluge, he at length found a theme “exalted and

extensive enough for the exercise of poetic talents of the highest

order,” leaving us, a second time, to infer, what he is too modest

except to insinuate, that his own genius is unequalled. He then calls

our attention to the plot, asserting that the general “plan and scope”

of a poem are second only to its theme—that is, that diction, style,

and imagination, in short every requisite of a true poet, are but

“flimsy stuff.” The Dr. seems to know his own weak points, and when the

“galled jade winces;” but even his elaborated plot is worse than nine

men out of ten would construct. We have gleaned little from it except a

few facts, which would be strange, were they not ridiculous. There is a

description of a harem in the second book, from which we learn that

velvets, and embroidery were as much in vogue among the antediluvians as

now; an account of a siege in the eighth book, which settles the

disputed question, whether Greek fire, melted lead, and catapults, were

used then or not; and a detail of a battle in the same book, which gives

the divisions and manœuvres of the contending armies, and puts at rest

the assertions of military men, who trace our present tactics back no

farther than the invention of gunpowder. Besides this, there are two

marriages—a rescued maiden—one or more heroes, and as many heroines,

with an innumerable catalogue of minor incidents, in short, the

materials of a half a dozen bad novels, woven into a worse poem.

We are told in the outset that the “versification is not particularly

modelled after that of any preceding author,” and that our classic poets

afford no style “exactly suitable for this work,” and, consequently, we

are but little astonished when we meet with such passages as the

following:

“Subservient to the foul, malignant fiends,

The abandoned race of Cain their God forsook,

And to the infernal agents gave their hearts.

Oh! preference worse than foolish, choice insane!

Which drove celestial spirits from their charge

Of guardianship o’er human feebleness,

And left the hapless Cainites in the power

Of hellish tyrants, whom they blindly served,

Lured by the sensual pleasures amply given

In transient, poisonous recompense for guilt.”

_Page 14._

Or this:

“Here reigned the fierce Shalmazar, giant king,

_Sprung from a mixture of infernal strain_,

His sire, the power of lewdness, Belial named,

Who, amorous of an earth-born beauty, won

Astoreth, princess of Gal-Cainah’s realm,

To his unhallowed love.”

_Page 16._

What the meaning of the author is in the line above italicised, we

challenge all Christendom to discover. But even no sense at all, is

better than mere verbiage, or coarse or improbable metaphor, as thus:

“Repose at last, where it is ever found

By weary mortals, in the peaceful grave,

_In which his heir, that moralising youth,_

_The melancholy Lameth, had before_

_Laid down the o’erpowering burden of his woes._”

_Page 12._

And again:

“The _harnessed-spirits_ spreading forth their wings.”

_Page 11._

And thus:

“Then was the hour of vengeance; then the stern

_Hell-generated_ tyrant felt dismay,

And in his chariot fled—”

_Page 262._

But we must bring a still heavier charge against the Dr., that of a

total want of originality. The whole plan and conception of the

Antediluvians is copied, but “longo intervallo,” after Paradise Lost.

Had Milton never written poetry, Dr. McHenry would never have published

bombast. Yet the one is only the shadow of the other’s shade. This

imitation is perceptible, not only in various attempts to copy the

versification, but oftentimes in more glaring and less defensible

plagiarisms. Would it, for instance, be believed that the second book of

the Antediluvians begins with a passage so nearly resembling the opening

of the second book in Paradise Lost, as to make, as Dogberry has it,

“flat burglary?” Thus:

“High on a throne of royal state, which far

Outshone the wealth of Ormus and of Ind,

Or where the gorgeous east, with richest hand,

Showers on her kings barbaric, pearls and gold,

Satan exalted sat.”

_Paradise Lost, Book II._

“In royal robes, magnificently bright,

On his imperial throne of burnished gold,

And polished ivory, which sparkling shone,

With gems innumerable, of various hues,

That shed a blaze of streaming radiance round

The gorgeous hall, the haughty monarch sat.”

_Antediluvians, page 29._

And so on diluting the idea of Milton into a dozen more lines, and

shewing, at once, the grandeur of the model, and the feebleness of the

imitation. Yet Dr. McHenry calls himself a poet, and pretends to the

divine afflatus. But again:

“Such scenes of cruelty and blood,

Exhibited before appalled Heaven,

_To make the angels weep_, to look on earth!”

_Antediluvians, page 202._

“But man, frail man,

Drest in a little brief authority,

Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven,

As make the angels weep.”

_Shakspeare._

We might multiply such instances;—but enough. Has the Dr. forgotten the

celebrated verse of Virgil?

“Hos ego versiculos feci, tulit alter honores.”

The Dr. appears fond of the use of epithets, especially such ones as

“infernal, fiendish, hellish,” and other coarse adjectives. We do not

object to the use of the two former, provided they appear sparingly and

in place, but really the work before us is seasoned rather highly with

such epithets for our taste. The Dr. however, appears to be of the

Tompsonian school in literature, and not only spices strongly, but

swashes away right and left at the accredited school. We advise him,

once for all, to give up poetry, which he disgraces, for physic, which

he may adorn. God never intended him for an immortal fame. We are

satisfied that, if he should be arraigned for writing poetry, no sane

jury would ever convict him; and if, as most likely, he should plead

guilty at once, it would be as quickly disallowed, on that rule of law,

which forbids the judges to decide against the plain evidence of their

senses.

* * * * *

_“The Dream, and other Poems.” By the Hon. Mrs. Norton. Carey

and Hart, Philadelphia: 1841._

Hemans, Baillie, Landon, and loveliest of all, Norton!—what a glorious

constellation for one language. France with her gaiety: Italy with her

splendid genius: even Greece with her passionate enthusiasm, cannot

rival such a galaxy. And this glory too, belongs wholly to the present

century, for though the harp of England has often been struck by female

hands, it has heretofore only given forth a rare and fitful cadence,

instead of the rich, deep, prolonged harmony which now rolls from its

chords.

Mrs. Norton is unquestionably,—since the death of Mrs. Hemans, the

queen of English song. In many respects she resembles that gifted

poetess: in some she is strikingly dissimilar. The same pathos, the same

sweetness, the same fancy characterize both; but in all that

distinguishes the practised author, rather than the poetess, Mrs. Hemans

has the advantage of her successor. Thus, the one is sometimes faulty in

the rhythm: the other never. Mrs. Norton will now and then be betrayed

into a carelessness of diction; Mrs. Hemans was rarely, if ever, guilty

of such solecisms. Such expressions, for instance, as the “harboring”

land, the “guiding” hand, the “pausing” heart, the “haunting” shade, and

others of like character, taken at random from the volume before us,

though not strictly improper, yet, as they are plainly expletive, and

weaken, instead of strengthening a sentence, are never to be found in

the poems of Mrs. Hemans, or of any one “learned in the craft.”

But, if Mrs. Norton is less correct than Mrs. Hemans, she is, on the

other hand, more nervous, more passionate, and at times more lofty. No

one can read “The Dream” without being struck by the truth of the

remark, that Mrs. Norton is the Byron of our female poets. There are

passages in some of her poems of greater power than any passages of like

length in Mrs. Hemans’ writings, though at the same time, there are a

far greater number of inferior lines in the poetry of Mrs. Norton, than

in that of her gifted sister. In short, the one is the more equal, the

other is the more daring. One is the more skilful writer: the other

shows glimpses of a bolder genius. There is less prettiness, and not so

much sameness in Mrs. Norton as in Mrs. Hemans. The former is not yet,

perhaps, the equal of the latter, but she possesses the power to be so,

if her rich fancy and deep feeling, now scarcely known to herself,

should ever be brought so completely under her control as were the

talents of Mrs. Hemans.

If Mrs. Norton had written nothing before, this volume would have

established her claim to be the first of living poetesses; but who that

is familiar with the world of song can forget the many gems—rich, and

beautiful, and rare—with which she has spangled beforetime her starry

crown? The world has taken more care of her glory than she has herself,

and the random pieces she has poured forth so divinely at intervals, and

which hitherto she has made no effort to preserve, have found their way

into the hearts of all who can be touched by the mournful or the

beautiful, until her name is cherished alike in the humble cottage and

the princely hall. And now she has come forth in more stately guise, not

as a new author among strangers, but as one long tried and known, one

endeared to us by old association, one whose melancholy music is, as it

were, a part of our very being.

“The Dream” is the longest poem in the volume before us, but, as it

makes no pretension to be considered a story, and has really no plot, we

shall not judge it by the ordinary rule of criticism. We shall consider

it only as a string of pearls, loosely joined together by the simplest

contrivance, the idea of a dream, narrated by a daughter to her

mother,—and, judging it in this way, we give it unqualified praise.

That its merit is unequal, is, in our eyes, no objection to its

beauty,—for have not all poets skimmed the ground as well as soared to

heaven? Yes! “The Dream” is unequal, but so is Lallah Rookh, so is

Marmion, so are all the tales of Byron, and so—to ascend a step

higher—is Comus, or Hamlet, or even the Iliad.

But Mrs. Norton, like her gifted sister, possesses one quality which

distinguishes her above all other writers, in this or in any tongue—we

mean in giving utterance to, what is emphatically, _the poetry of

woman_. In this they resemble no cotemporary, unless it is Miss Landon.

Women have written poetry before, but if it had been shewn to a

stranger, he could not have told from which sex it sprung. It is not so

with the poetry of these two gifted females. Every line betrays the

woman—each verse breathes the tender, the melting, the peculiar

eloquence of the sex.

Scarcely a page, moreover, occurs in the writings of either, which does

not bear testimony to woman’s suffering and worth. Yes! while it is the

fashion to sneer at the purity of woman’s heart, and while a pack of

literary debauchees are libelling our mothers and our sisters unopposed,

from the ranks of that insulted sex have risen up defenders of its

innocence, to shame the heartless slanderers to silence. Hear in what

eloquent numbers Mrs. Norton vindicates her sex:

“Warriors and statesmen have their meed of praise,

And what they do or suffer men record;

But the long sacrifice of woman’s days

Passes without a thought—without a word;

And many a holy struggle for the sake

Of duties sternly, faithfully fulfill’d—

_For which the anxious mind must watch and wake,_

_And the strong feelings of the heart be still’d_,—

Goes by unheeded as the summer wind,

And leaves no memory and no trace behind!

Yet it may be more lofty courage dwells

In one meek heart which braves an adverse fate,

Than his, whose ardent soul indignant swells,

Warmed by the fight, or cheer’d through high debate:

The soldier dies surrounded;—_could he live_

_Alone to suffer, and alone to strive?_

Answer, ye graves, whose suicidal gloom

Shows deeper honor than a common tomb!

_Who sleep within?_

Aye! who? Not woman, we can answer for it. God bless her who has written

thus. The wretches who would rob the sex of their purity of heart, and

their uncomplaining endurance of suffering, deserve to die, uncheered by

woman’s nurture, unwept by woman’s tenderness. Such beings are not men:

they are scarcely even brutes: they are _aliquid monstri_, monsters in

part. But again:

“In many a village churchyard’s simple grave,

Where all unmarked the cypress branches wave;

In many a vault, where Death could only claim

The brief inscription of a woman’s name;

Of different ranks, and different degrees,

From daily labor to a life of ease,

(_From the rich wife, who through the weary day_

_Wept in her jewels_, grief’s unceasing prey,

To the poor soul who trudg’d o’er marsh and moor,

And with her baby begg’d from door to door,—)

Lie hearts which, ere they found that last release,

Had lost all memory of the blessing, “Peace;”

Hearts, whose long struggle through unpitied years,

None saw but Him who marks the mourner’s tears;

_The obscurely noble!_ who evaded not

The woe which he had will’d should be their lot,

But nerved themselves to bear!”

“The Dream,” as a whole, is the finest piece in the volume before us. It

abounds with glorious passages, of which we can only give two more

examples—the one, impassioned, nervous, and stirring as a trumpet—the

other sweet, and low, and musical as the rustle of an angel’s wing. Few

authors can boast such a varied power.

“Heaven give thee poverty, disease, or death,

Each varied ill that waits on human breath,

Rather than bid thee linger out thy life,

In the long toil of such unnatural strife.

To wander through the world unreconciled,

Heart-weary as a spirit-broken child,

_And think it were an hour of bliss like heaven,_

_If thou couldst_ DIE—_forgiving and forgiven_,—

Or with a feverish hope of anguish born,

(Nerving thy mind to feel indignant scorn

Of all the cruel foes that twixt ye stand,

Holding thy heart-strings with a reckless hand,)

Steal to his presence, now unseen so long,

And claim _his_ mercy who hath dealt the wrong!

Into the aching depths of thy poor heart,

Dive, as it were, even to the roots of pain,

And wrench up thoughts that tear thy soul apart,

And burn like fire through thy bewildered brain.

Clothe them in passionate words of wild appeal,

To teach thy fellow creatures how to feel,—

Pray, weep, exhaust thyself in maddening tears,—

Recall the hopes, the influences of years,—

Kneel, dash thyself upon the senseless ground,

Writhe as the worm writhes with dividing wound,—

Invoke the Heaven that knows thy sorrow’s truth,

By all the softening memories of youth—

By every hope that cheered thine early day—

By every tear that washes wrath away—

By every old remembrance long gone by—

By every pang that makes thee yearn to die;

And learn at length how deep and stern a blow

Man’s hand can strike, and yet no pity show!”

What force! what passion! Never has Mrs. Hemans written thus,—few

indeed have done so except Byron.

We must pass “The Dream” with a single other quotation. It is on the

evening hour, and is sweet as a moonlit landscape, or a child’s dream of

heaven.

“_That_ hour, once sacred to God’s presence, still

Keeps itself calmer from the touch of ill,

The holiest hour of earth. _Then_ toil doth cease,

Then from the yoke, the oxen find release—

Then man rests, pausing from his many cares,

_And the world teems with children’s sunset prayers!_

Then innocent things seek out their natural rest,

The babe sinks slumbering on its mother’s breast,

The birds beneath their leafy covering creep,

Yea, even the flowers fold up their buds in sleep;

And angels, floating by on radiant wings,

Hear the low sounds the breeze of evening brings,

Catch the sweet incense as it floats along,

The infant’s prayer, the mother’s cradle-song,

And bear the holy gifts to worlds afar,

As things too sacred for this fallen star.”

There is, in reading these poems, an abiding sense of the desolation

that has fallen on the heart of the writer, a desolation which only adds

to the mournful music of her lyre, like the approach of death, is

fabled, to give music to the swan. We have studiously avoided,

heretofore, touching upon this subject, as we would not, by awakening

pity, blind the judgment of the public, but we cannot avoid the remark,

that every page of this volume bears evidence that the heart of the

authoress, like that of Rachel, will not be comforted. The arrow has

entered deep into her soul. Like Mrs. Hemans, unfortunate in her

domestic life—for the miscreant who would still believe her guilty is

an insult to humanity—she “seeks, as the stricken deer, to weep in

silence and loneliness.” Hers is a hard lot; deserted by the one who has

sworn to love her, and maligned by the unfeeling world, she has not even

the consolation of weeping with her children, and finding some relief in

their caresses for her broken heart. Hear her once more—we have almost

wept as we read—hear her, when gazing in the twilight at the pictures

of her absent children.

“Where are ye? Are ye playing

By the stranger’s blazing hearth;

Forgetting, in your gladness,

Your old home’s former mirth?

_Are ye dancing? Are ye singing?_

_Are ye full of childish glee?_

_Or do your light hearts sadden_

_With the memory of me?_

Round whom, oh! gentle darlings,

Do your young arms fondly twine,

Does she press you to _her_ bosom

Who hath taken you from mine?

_Oh! boys, the twilight hour_

_Such a heavy time hath grown_,—

It recalls with such deep anguish

All I used to call my own,—

That the harshest word that ever

Was spoken to me there,

Would be trivial—would be _welcome_—

In this depth of my despair!

Yet no! Despair shall sink not.

While life and love remain,—

Tho’ the weary struggle haunt me,

And my prayer be made in vain:

Tho’ at times my spirit fail me

And the bitter tear-drops fall,

_Tho’ my lot be hard and lonely,_

_Yet I hope—I hope thro’ all._”

And then, with what a burst of eloquence, she carries out the idea!

“By the living smile which greeted

The lonely one of Nain,

When her long last watch was over,

And her hope seemed wild and vain;

By all the tender mercy

God hath shown to human grief,

When fate or man’s perverseness

Denied and barr’d relief,—

By the hopeless woe which taught me

To look to him alone,

From the vain appeals for justice,

And wild efforts of my own,—

By thy light—thou unseen future,

And thy tears—thou bitter past,

_I will hope—tho’ all forsake me_,

_In His mercy to the last!_”

Twilight.

But we must close this article. There are many exquisite shorter pieces

in the volume, besides The Dream and Twilight. The Creole Girl; The

Child of Earth; I cannot Love Thee; The Visionary Portrait; The Banner

of the Covenanters; Weep not for him that Dieth; and several of the

Sonnets may be instanced as among the finest. Let us, in conclusion,

commend the poems of Mrs. Norton to our fair countrywomen as those of a

mind of a high order. Less egotism, a more extended scope of feeling,

and greater attention to the rules of her art, will place her foremost

among the female poets of England.

* * * * *

_“Bancroft’s History of the United Slates.” Vol. 3._

The first two volumes of this history have now been some years before

the public, and criticism has long since given them its _fiat_. The

characteristics of Mr. Bancroft are a rigid scrutiny of facts, a general

impartiality, and a style, usually nervous, but sometimes savoring of

transcendental obscurity. The style of the second volume, however, is an

improvement on that of the first, and the volume before us surpasses, in

our opinion, either of the former two. There is a philosophy in Bancroft

which other historians might well emulate. No man has traced so clearly

the causes of the American Revolution. It was the stern, hard,

independence of the Pilgrims, handed down to their posterity, and united

with the gallant and chivalric freedom of the South, which brought about

the greatest revolution of modern times.

The pictures which Mr. Bancroft draws in pursuing the thread of his

narrative, are often highly graphic. The early adventures of Soto and

others; the colony of Raleigh at Roanoke; the landing of the Pilgrims;

the Indian wars of New England, are all described with force if not with

beauty. The gradual dissemination of the Democratic principle is also

faithfully depicted; and it is clearly shown that the Puritans, the

Swedes, and the Quakers, alike formed pure democracies in their

settlements. In short, the history is something more than a mere

chronicle: it is a continuous essay on the philosophy of the American

Revolution.

The third volume brings the subject down to the period of the old French

war, an epoch which may be considered at the threshold of the struggle

for independence. Here, for the present, he drops the curtain. A fitter

point, for such a pause could not have been chosen. Behind, is the long

succession of trials, and dangers, through which the infant colonies had

just passed: before is the wild, shadowy future, soon to become vivid

with its startling panorama. Such a reflection might well fill the mind

of the historian with a kind of solemn awe; and it is while such

feelings overpower his readers, that he introduces Washington, the

future hero of the scene.

The work is beautifully printed, in a style highly creditable to the

American press.

We leave Mr. Bancroft with the hope that his historic labors will be

pursued with redoubled zeal, satisfied that in him America possesses a

philosophic annalist of the highest order.

* * * * *

_“Bryant’s American Poets.” 1 vol. Harper & Brothers._

This work does credit to the editor, although he has admitted some, and

left out others, of our poetical writers, whom we think he ought not so

to have treated. However, a compilation like this can never be made to

suit all. The true question is, who can do better?

* * * * *

_“Travels to the City of the Caliphs.” By Lieutenant Wellsted. 2

vols. Lea & Blanchard._

This is a light, entertaining work. The adventures of the hero (Lieut.

Ormsby) are highly pleasing; and he evinces a laudable desire to fall in

love, as well for his own as for the convenience of the reader. On the

whole, the book is well written, and quite amusing.

* * * * *

FASHIONS FOR FEBRUARY, 1841.

CARRIAGE DRESS.

Fig. 1.—Robe of one of the new figured silks; the skirt trimmed with

two _bias_ flounces; half-high _corsage_, and bishop’s sleeve. Cambric

_collerette-fichû_, trimmed with Valenciennes lace. Violet satin

_mantelet_, lined with _gros de Naples_, and bordered with a broad band

of violet velvet; it is of the scarf form, but made long and ample, and

with a small pointed hood. Green satin _chapeau_, a round brim,

something deeper than they are in general; the interior is trimmed on

each side with a half wreath of blush-roses; the exterior with bands and

knots of green ribbon, and a white and green shaded _marabout_ plume.

EVENING DRESS.

Fig. 2.—Lemon-colored satin robe, trimmed with a deep flounce of

antique point lace, surmounted by roses placed singly at regular

distances above the flounce; low tight _corsage_ and sleeve, both

trimmed with point. Head-dress of hair, disposed in thick masses of

ringlets at the sides, and a low open bow behind; it is decorated with

flowers, and a gold cross, _Châle bournouss_ of white cashmere, lined

with white satin, and bordered with a band of black and plaid velvet.

Fig. 3.—India muslin robe; the skirt is trimmed with a closely plaited

_volan_, which encircles the bottom of the border, mounts in the drapery

style on one side, and is terminated by a _nœud_ of muslin, similarly

finished at the ends; a _chef d’or_ head the _volan_. _Corsage en gerbe_

and short full sleeve, both ornamented with _chefs d’or_. The head dress

gives a front view of the one just described. Opera cloak of brown _rep_

velvet, lined with blue satin: it is made shorter than the dress, of

moderate width, and trimmed with three blue satin _rouleaus_, each

placed at some distance from the other, and a light embroidery

surmounting the upper one. A small hood, and a very deep lappel complete

the ornaments.

OPERA DRESS.

Fig. 4.—_Douilette_ of white cashmere, wadded, and lined with pink

_gros de Naples_; the lining quilted in a lozenge pattern; the _corsage_

is made tight to the shape, and half-high. Demi-large sleeve; the front

of the skirt is finished on each side by fancy silk trimming. _Mantelet_

of a large size, and of the same materials, bordered with a rich white

and pink _chenille_ fringe. Black velvet _chapeau à la Louis XIII_,

trimmed with white and pink feathers.

[Illustration: FASHIONS FOR FEBRUARY 1841 FOR GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.]

* * * * *

Transcriber’s Notes:

Table of Contents has been added for reader convenience. Archaic

spellings and hyphenation have been retained. Obvious punctuation and

typesetting errors have been corrected without note.

[End of _Graham’s Magazine, Vol. XVIII, No. 2, February 1841_, George R.

Graham, Editor]