PART I.

Produced by David T. Jones, Juliet Sutherland and the

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[Illustration: inscription--Yr affectionate Brother, S H Walker]

GRAHAM'S MAGAZINE.

VOL. XXXII. PHILADELPHIA, JUNE, 1848. NO. 6.

CAPTAIN SAMUEL WALKER.

BY FAYETTE ROBINSON.

[WITH AN ENGRAVING.]

Time and opportunity make men--and high talent in any profession or

sphere of life is valueless unless called into action. This is

strikingly exemplified in the career of the person with whom we now

have to do.

Samuel Walker was born in the county of Prince George, Maryland, in

the year 1815. His family, though respectable, had neither fortune nor

influence sufficient to advance his interests; and at an early age he

was thrown on the world, dependent for success only on his own

exertions. Educated to no profession or business, the chances of his

drawing a prize in the lottery of life seemed small indeed, yet it is

probable no man of his grade in the service has, since the

commencement of the Mexican war, attracted more attention. Of the

early career of Walker we know little except that in 1840 he was one

of the party of less than twenty men selected by Col. Harney, from the

strength of the 2d Dragoons, to penetrate the great Payhaokee or

everglades of Florida. The history of this expedition is peculiar.

After the battle of Okeechobee the might of the Seminoles was broken,

and they took refuge in the chain of lakes and immense hamacs which

extend almost from Cape Florida to the Suwannee River. Divided into

small parties, they defied the pursuit of heavy columns, yet

frequently left their fastnesses to commit the most fearful

atrocities. During the winter of 1839 and 40 they had been peculiarly

bold, and had ventured even to attack, under the guns of Fort

Micanopy, a party of mounted infantry which was escorting the young

and beautiful wife of an officer of the 7th Infantry to a neighboring

post. This party, with the exception of two or three persons, was

destroyed. It became evident that no operations could lead to a good

result unless the Indians were pursued to their own retreats, and

treated as they had themselves conducted the war. Col. Harney, who was

in command of one of the departments of Florida, immediately organized

an expedition for the purpose of entering the great everglade south

of the Lake Okeechobee, in which the Seminoles were supposed to be in

much strength. The country in which he was about to act seemed to be

the realization of the poetic chaos. It was overgrown with trees of

immense size, of kinds almost unknown in other portions of the

peninsula, and grass of great highth and strength rose two or three

feet above the surface of the water, which not unfrequently had a

depth of several feet. Notwithstanding, however, that this was the

general character of the country there were often _portages_, or shoal

and dry places, over which it was necessary to carry their boats by

main force. In this kind of country the Indians had the manifest

advantage, being acquainted with sinuous pathways, which, it is said,

enabled them to thread all the intricacies of the hamac almost without

wetting the moccason. The party of Col. Harney, however, were picked

men, inured to all the hardships of Indian warfare, and after several

days of hide and seek, surprised a party of Indians, among whom was a

chief of distinction. As this identical party had more than once

surrendered and broken truce, Colonel Harney ordered all the men to be

hung summarily, and took the women with him to the nearest post as

prisoners. So important was this service that the names of all the

party were mentioned in general orders, and the enlisted men advanced

in grade. The effect on the Indians was great; large parties came in

and surrendered, and they remained almost quiet until their last

attempt was crushed by Gen. Worth in the brilliant affair of

Pilaklakaha, April 17, 1842.

Previous to this time, young Walker had been discharged from the

service, by reason of the expiration of his enlistment, and with some

funds he had amassed while in the army, proceeded at once to Texas,

then embroiled with the abrasions of the great Camanche race and the

minor tribes strewn along her northern frontier. He was one of the

party of the famous Jack Hays, when in 1844 that leader defeated,

with fifteen men armed with Colt's pistols, then novelties in the

West, a large force of Indians. In this encounter Walker was wounded

by a lance, and left by his adversary pinned to the ground. After

remaining in this position for a long time, he was rescued by his

companions when the fight was over.

The disastrous expedition commenced under the command of Gen.

Somerville, and terminated at Mier by the surrender of the whole party

to Don Pedro de Ampudia, since become a person of most unenviable

notoriety, is well known. One of the most conspicuous members of this

foray, for it scarcely deserves another name, was Walker. He

distinguished himself during the long siege the Texans maintained in

the house they had seized, until forced for want of provisions and

ammunition to surrender. With the rest he was marched to the castle of

Perote, suffering every indignity which Mexican cruelty and ingenuity

could invent. On this sad march, at Salado, Walker performed perhaps

the most brilliant exploit of his life. Wearied out by cruelty, the

Texans resolved to escape, and on this occasion Walker was the leader.

The prisoners were placed in a strong stone building, at the door of

which two sentinels were placed, while their escort bivoucked in front

of the building. Walker, at a concerted signal, threw open the door,

seized and disarmed one of the sentinels, while a gallant fellow named

Cameron, a Highlander, was equally successful with the other. The

unarmed prisoners immediately rushed through the gateway and seized

the arms of the Mexican guard. No scheme was ever more daringly

planned or more boldly executed. Within the course of a moment the two

hundred and fourteen Texans had changed places with the numerous

Mexican guard. Outside of a court-yard, in which the guard had

bivoucked, was a strong cavalry force, which the Texans charged with

the bayonet and routed, and immediately resumed their march back to

the Rio Grande.

They deserved success and liberty, but ignorant of the country, soon

became lost in the mountains, were overpowered and taken back to

Salado. They found Santa Anna there, and the Mexican President

decimated the party.

The Texans in their escape and conflicts had lost five men, and Santa

Anna demanded the decimation of the rest. A bowl was brought, and a

bean for every man was placed in it, every tenth bean being black. The

bowl was covered, and the whole party were then ordered in succession

to take out one bean. The twenty-one individuals who had chanced on

the black beans were immediately shot. This was the famous _Caravanza_

lottery, the mere mention of which is sufficient to make the bosom of

every Texan boil with indignation, and which is the origin of the

intense hatred borne by all the people of that state to Santa Anna.

This worthy has during the whole war carefully avoided the Texan

Rangers, and had he come in contact with them, they would doubtless

have exacted a fearful retribution.

Walker with the survivors of the party were taken to Perote, whence

he was lucky enough to escape, and returned to Texas, into the service

of which he was at once received.

When the Mexican war began Walker was the captain of a company of

Texan Rangers stationed on the Rio Grande, and immediately offered his

services to General Taylor, who accepted them, and stationed him

between Point Isabel and the cantonment for the purpose of keeping

open the communication. On the 28th of April he discovered that the

Mexican troops were in motion, and at once, with his small command of

twenty-five men, set out to report the fact to the general. On his way

he encountered the Mexican column, and it is not improbable that with

his small party he was in contact with one wing of the force which

subsequently fought at Palo Alto. The Texans were pursued to Point

Isabel, on which place they fell back, having lost several men, but

killed more of the enemy than their own force numbered.

In spite of the intervening force of the enemy, Walker determined to

reach General Taylor on that night, and accompanied but by six of his

men set out. After charging through a large body of Mexican lancers,

he reached Gen. Taylor on the morning of the 30th.

On the 1st of May Gen. Taylor broke up his camp, and what followed is

well known. On the 3d Walker was again employed in the perilous

service of ascertaining the condition of Fort Brown, which was then

being bombarded by all the batteries of the city of Matamoras. His

reconnoisance was one of the boldest feats performed during the war,

and though May, who had command of a hundred horse for the purpose of

covering him, presuming he must have been captured returned to Gen.

Taylor, Walker again returned on the 4th, having accomplished his duty

alone.

At Palo Alto and La Resaca Walker again distinguished himself, and was

mentioned by Gen. Taylor in the dispatch with the highest terms of

commendation. For his distinguished services, on the organization of

the Mounted Rifles, he was appointed a captain of cavalry in the

regular service.

After sharing in all the perils of the war, Walker devoted himself to

the pursuit of the Guerilleros, who infested the road from Vera Cruz

to the capital, and uniformly maintained his high reputation. In the

affair of La Hoya, Sept. 20, 1847, he acted independently, and was

perfectly successful.

In the expedition of Gen. Lane, which terminated so gallantly at

Huamantla, Walker served for the last time. The prize he had proposed

to himself was great, being nothing less than the capture of Santa

Anna. Walker on this occasion commanded the whole cavalry force, and

led the advance. His charge into the town, from the covering of

Magues, is described by old soldiers who saw it as having been

terrific. Passing completely through the town, he pursued the enemy's

retreating artillery. After the success was sure, Walker returned, and

was treacherously shot from a house on which a white flag was hanging.

Within thirty minutes he died, after a brilliant victory, in gaining

which he had been an important actor. With a force of one hundred and

ninety-five men he had beaten and routed five hundred picked lancers,

and given the tone to the events of the day.

No man was more regretted than Capt. Walker, who had enjoyed the

confidence of every officer with whom he had served. Gen. Scott and

Gen. Taylor both highly estimated his good qualities, and reposed the

greatest trust in him.

When the news of his death reached the United States, the people were

every where loud in their regrets, and he will be remembered as one of

the heroes of the Mexican war.

Captain Walker had risen by his own exertions. Brought up in a good

school, "the Light Dragoons of the U. S.," his knowledge of tactics,

acquired in Florida, was most useful to his first service as an

officer in the army of the Texan Republic. He is spoken of as having

possessed every requisite for a cavalry officer--a quick perception, a

keen eye, a strong arm, perfect control of his horse, thorough

knowledge of military combination, and the rarer and more valuable

faculty of winning the confidence of his men. Had he not been cut off

so untimely in his chosen career, he could not but have become a

distinguished general.

Captain Walker died at the age of 33, in sight almost of the famous

dungeon of Perote, where he had long been a prisoner. There was

something like retribution in the fact that more than one other Texan,

who, like himself, had been confined there, contributed to raise above

its battlements the colors of the United States.

LAMARTINE TO MADAME JORELLE.

FROM THE FRENCH.

BY VIRGINIA.

What! offer thee the tribute of my numbers?

Thou daughter of the East! whose infancy

The warring desert winds rocked to its slumbers--

Dost thou demand incense of Poesy?

Flower of Aleppo! whom the Bulbul choosing

Would wander from his worshiped rose of May,

O'er thy fair chalice her remembrance losing,

To languish 'mid thy leaves his moonlight lay!

Bear odors to the balm pure sweets exhaling?

Hang on the orange bough a riper load?

Lend fires to Syria's East at dawn unveiling?

Pave with new stars[1] the Night's all-glittering road?

No verses here!--Verse would despair of raising

Aught save an image dark and faint of thee;

But gently in yon basin's mirror gazing

Behold thyself! Embodied Poesy!

When through the kiosque's grated ogive straying,

The sea-breeze mingles with the Moka's fume,

Where softly o'er thy form the moonbeams playing

Glance on thy couch, rich from Palmyra's loom--

When on the jasmine tube thy lip half closes,

Veiled with its golden threads in bright array,

While ruffling at thy breath, fragrant with roses,

Murmur the drops within the Narquite--

When as winged perfumes rise into thy brain,

In light caressing clouds around thee wreathing

All love's and youth's lost visions throng again,

An atmosphere of dreams thy listeners breathing--

When in thy tale the Arab steed forth starting

Yields foaming to thy curb of infancy,

And that triumphant glance obliquely darting

Equals the summer-lightning of his eye--

When thy fair arm, of loveliest symmetry,

Supports the fairer brow in thought reclining,

While gleams with diamond fires thy poniard nigh

In quick reflection of the torch's shining--

Naught is there in the murmured words of feeling,

Naught in the Poet's ever dreaming brow,

Naught in pure sighs from purest bosoms stealing,

Naught redolent of Poesy as thou!

With me the age has flown when Love, life's flower,

Perfumes the heart--my warmest accents falter,

And beauty o'er my soul has lost her power--

Cold is the light I kindle on her altar!

The harp is this chilled bosom's only queen,

But how would homage from its depths have burst

In gushing minstrelsy at bright sixteen,

If _then_ these eyes had rested on thee first!

How many stanzas had thy lover given

To one sweet vaporous wreath that lately graced

Thy meditative lip, or how had striven

To stay that form by unseen artist traced!

That shadow's vague enchanting outline cast

On yonder wall, to arrest with poet's finger

Thy beauty's mystic image fading fast,

As round thy form fond moonbeams cease to linger!

[Footnote 1: The road of heaven, star-paved. PARADISE LOST]

PHANTOMS ALL.

A PHANTASY.

BY MRS. CAROLINE H. BUTLER.

It was with a feeling of regret, such as stirs one's heart at parting

with a dear friend, that I turned the last page of Irving's most

delightful visit to Abbotsford, which he has given us in language so

beautiful from its simplicity, so graphic in its details, and so

heart-deep in its sincerity, that with him we ourselves seem to be

partakers also of the hospitality and kindness of the immortal Scott.

"Every night," says Irving, "I retired with my mind filled with

delightful recollections of the day, and every morning I arose with

the certainty of new enjoyment."

And so vividly has he painted for the imagination of his happy readers

those scenes of delight, those hours of social interchange of two

great minds, that we are admitted as it were into free communion with

them. On the banks of the silvery Tweed we stroll delighted, or pause

to view the "gray waving hills," made so dear to all the lovers of

Scott and Burns, through the enchantment which romance and poetry have

thrown around them. We listen for the tinkling chime of the fairy

bells as we pass through the glen of Thomas the Rhymer, almost

expecting to see by our side, as we muse on the banks of the goblin

stream, the queen of the fairies on her "dapple gray pony." Again,

through the cloisters of Melrose Abbey we wander silently and in awe,

almost wishing that honest John Boyer would leave us awhile unmolested

even by the praises of his master the "_shirra_," whom he considers

"not a bit proud," notwithstanding he has such "_an awfu' knowledge o'

history!_" Or it may be we recline amid the purple heather and listen

to the deep tones of the great magician himself, as he delights our

ear with some quaint tradition of the olden time, while Maida, grave

and dignified as becomes the rank he holds, crouches beside his

master, disdaining to share the sports of Hamlet, Hector, "both

mongrel, puppy, whelp and hound" frolicking so wantonly on the bonny

green knowe before us!

But at length the hour of parting comes. We feel the hearty grasp, and

hear the farewell words with which Scott takes leave of his American

friend, and as with them our delusion wrought by the magic pen of

Irving vanishes, we would fain slay the enchantment--too bright to

pass away unlamented!

"The pen of a ready writer, whereunto shall it be likened?

* * * * *

Let the calm child of genius, whose name shall never die,

For that the transcript of his mind hath made his thoughts immortal--

Let these, let all, with no faint praise, with no light gratitude, confess

_The blessings poured upon the earth from the pen of a readywriter_."

Closing the volume which had so enchained my senses, my mind, from

dwelling upon the presence of Scott himself, as introduced through

the unformal courtesy of our beloved Irving, naturally turned to the

varied and wonderful productions of that master mind, and to the many

characters thereby created, seeming to hold a sacred place in our

thoughts and affections, as friends whom we had once known and loved!

I was suddenly aroused from my ruminations by a light tap on the

shoulder. Judge of my astonishment when Meg Merrillies stood before

me, clad in the same wild gipsy garb in which she had warned the Laird

of Ellangowan on Ellangowan's height! In her shriveled hand it would

seem she held the very sapling which for the last time she had plucked

from the bonny woods which had so long waved above her bit shealing,

until driven thence by the timorous and weak-minded laird. With this

she again touched me, and in a half inviting, half commanding tone

said:

"Gang wi' me, leddy, gang wi' me, and I will show ye a bonny company,

amang whilk ye'll soon speer those ye're thinking o'."

I confess it was not without some trepidation I arose to follow my

strange conductor, who, seizing my hand, rather dragged than led me

through several long dark passages, until suddenly emerging from one

still more gloomy than the others, my eyes were almost blinded with

the glare of light and splendor that flashed upon them.

"Gang in amang them a', my leddy," cried Meg, letting go my hand and

waving me toward the entrance, "and gin ye suld see bonny Harry

Bertram, tell him there is ane he kens o' will meet him the night down

by the cairn when the clock strikes the hour o' twal."

Obeying her mandate, I now found myself in a lofty and spacious

saloon. From the ceiling, which was of azure sprinkled with golden

stars, were suspended the most magnificent chandeliers, brilliant with

a thousand waxen tapers. Gorgeous and life-like tapestry adorned the

walls--massive mirrors reflected on every side the blaze of elegance,

while the furniture, patterning the fashions of the different ages

from the times of the Crusades to that of Elizabeth, was of the most

choice and beautiful materials.

But of this I took little note--other and "more attractive metal" met

my eye, for around me were kings and princes--peer and peasant--lords

and ladies--turbaned infidel and helmeted knight--the wild roving

gipsy and the wandering troubadour. In short, I found myself in the

_world_ of the immortal master of Abbotsford, and surrounded by those

to whose enchanting company I had oft been indebted for dispelling

many a weary hour of sickness and gloom--friends whom at my bidding I

could at any moment summon to my presence--friends never weary of

well-doing--friends never weighing down the heart by their unkindness,

or chilling by their neglect. My heart throbbed with a delight before

unknown; and I eagerly looked about me, recognizing on every side

those dear familiar ones with whom, for so many years, I had been

linked in love and friendship.

The first group on whom my eyes rested were our dear friends from

Tully-Veolan accompanied by the McIvors.

The beautiful, high-souled Flora was leaning on the arm of the good

old Baron Bradwardine, while the gentle Rose shrunk almost timidly

from the support of the noble but ill-fated Fergus. They were both

lovely--Flora and Rose; but while the former dazzled by her beauty and

her wit, the latter, in unpretending sweetness, stole at once into our

hearts. But not so thought Waverly. With "ear polite" he listened to

the somewhat tedious colloquy of the old baron, yet his eloquent eyes,

his heart speaking through them, were fixed upon the noble countenance

of Flora McIvor.

"Come, good folks," cried a merry voice--and the bright, happy face of

Julia Mannering was before me--"I am sent by my honored father, the

colonel, to break up this charmed circle; and he humbly requests to be

put under the spell himself, through the enchanting voice of Miss

McIvor--one little Highland air, my dear Flora, is all he asks--but

see, with sombre Melancholy leaning on his arm, he comes to enforce

his own request."

And the gallant Colonel Mannering, supporting the fragile form of Lucy

Bertram, clad in deep mourning robes, now approached, and after

gracefully saluting the circle, solicited from Miss McIvor a song.

Waverly eagerly brought the harp of Flora from a small recess, and as

he placed it before her, whispered something in a low tone, which for

a moment crimsoned the brow of the maiden, then coldly bowing to him,

she drew the instrument toward her, and warbled a wild and spirited

Highland air, her eyes flashing, and her bosom heaving with the

exciting theme she had chosen.

"Pro-di-gious!" exclaimed a voice I thought I knew; and, sure enough,

I found the dear old Dominie Sampson close at my elbow--his large,

gray eyes rolling in ecstasy--his mouth open, and grasping in his

hands a huge folio, while Davie Gellatly, with cap and bells, stood

mincing and grimacing behind him--now rolling up the whites of his

eyes--now pulling the skirts of the unconscious pedagogue--and

finally, surmounting the wig of the Dominie with his own fool's cap,

he clapped his hands, gayly crying, "O, braw, braw Davie!"

Julia Mannering now touched the harp to a lively air, when suddenly

her voice faltered, the eloquent blood mantled her cheek, and her

little fingers trembled as they swept the harp-strings.

"Ah, ha!" thought I, "there must be a cause for all this--Brown must

be near!" and in a moment that handsome young soldier had joined the

group. Remembering the commands of Meg Merrillies, I was striving to

catch his eye, that I might do her bidding, when the gipsy herself

suddenly strode into the circle and fixing her eyes upon Brown, or

rather Bertram, she waved her long skinny arm, exclaiming,

"Tarry not here, Harry Bertram, of Ellangowan; there's a dark deed

this night to be done amid the caverns of Derncleugh, and then

The dark shall be light,

And the wrong made right,

When Bertram's right, and Bertram's might,

Shall meet on Ellangowan Height."

I now passed on and found myself in the vicinity of Old Mortality and

Monkbarns, who were deeply engaged in some antiquarian debate--too

much so to notice the shrewd smile and cunning leer which the old

Bluegown, Edie Ochiltree, now and then cast upon them.

"Hear til him," he whispered to Sir Arthur Wardour--"hear til him; the

poor mon's gone clean gyte with his saxpennies and his old penny

bodies! odd, but it gars me laugh whiles!"

Both Sir Arthur and his lovely daughter, Isabel, smiled at the

earnestness of the old man, and slipping some money into his hand, the

latter bade him come up to the castle in the morning.

At this moment radiant in _spirituelle_ beauty, glorious Die Vernon,

like another Grace Greenwood, swept past me, followed by Rashleigh,

and half a score of the Osbaldistons. She was, indeed, a lovely

creature. The dark-green riding-dress she wore fitting so perfectly

her light, elegant figure, served but to enhance the brilliancy of her

complexion, blooming with health and exercise. Her long black hair,

free from the little hat which hung carelessly upon her arm, fell

around her in beautiful profusion, and even the golden-tipped

riding-whip she held so gracefully in her little hand, seemed as a

wand to draw her worshipers around her.

Turning suddenly and finding herself so closely followed by Rashleigh,

her beautiful eyes flashed disdainfully, and linking her arm within

that of Clara Mowbray, who, with the gay party from St. Ronan's Well,

were just entering the saloon, she waved her hand to her cousin,

forbidding his nearer approach, and, with the step of a deer, she was

gone.

An oath whistled through the teeth of Rashleigh, and his dark features

contracted into a terrible frown.

"Hout, mon--dinna be fashed! Bide a bit--bide a bit! as my father, the

deacon--"

"Ah, Bailie, are you there?" cried Rashleigh, impatiently; "why I

thought you were hanging from the trees around the cave of your robber

kinsman, Rob."

Ere the worthy Nicol Jarvie could reply to this uncourteous address,

the smiling Mr. Winterblossom approached, and in the name of the

goddess, Lady Penelope Penfeather, commanded the presence of the

angered Rashleigh at the shrine of her beauty. This changed the

current of his thoughts, and with all that grace of manner and

eloquence of lip and eye, which no one knew better how to assume, he

followed to the little group of which the Lady Penelope and her rival,

Lady Binks, formed the attraction. But whatever may have been the

gallant things he was saying, they were soon ended in the bustle

consequent upon the sudden rushing in of the brave Captain McTurk,

followed by the enraged Meg Dods, with no less a weapon in her hand

than a broom-stick, with which she was striving to belabor the

shoulders of the unhappy McTurk.

"_Hegh_, sirs!" she cried, brandishing it above her head, "I'll gar ye

to know ye're not coming flisking to an honest woman's house setting

folks by the lugs. Keep to your ain whillying hottle here, ye

ne'er-do-weel, or I'll mak' windle-strae o' your banes--and what for

no?"

Happily for the gallant captain, Old Touchwood here interposed, and by

dint of coaxing and threats of joining himself to the gay company at

the Spring, the irascible Meg was finally marched off.

A deep sigh near me caused me to look around, and there, as pure and

as lovely as the water-lily drooping from its fragile stem, sat poor

Lucy Ashton. And like that beautiful flower, the lily of the wave,

seemed the love of that unhappy maid:

"Quivering to the blast

Through every nerve--yet rooted deep and fast

Midst life's dark sea."

Her eyes were cast down, and her rich veil of golden tresses sweeping

around her. At a little distance, with folded arms and bent brows,

stood the Laird of Ravenswood, yet unable to approach the

broken-hearted girl, as her proud, unfeeling mother, the stately Lady

Ashton, kept close guard over her; and it made me shudder to behold,

also, the old hag, Ailsie Gourley, crouching down by her bonny

mistress, and stroking the lily-white hand which hung so listless at

her side, mumbling the while what seemed to me must be some

incantation to the Evil One.

"Wae's me--wae's me!" exclaimed that prince of serving-men, Caleb

Balderstone, at this moment presenting himself before his master; "and

is your honor, then, not ganging hame when Mysie the puir old body's

in the dead thraw! _Hech, sirs_, but its awfu'! Ane of the big sacks

o' siller--a' gowd, ye maun ken, which them gawky chields and my ain

sell were lifting to your honor's chaumer, cam down on her head! _Eh_!

but it gars me greet--ah! wull-a-wins, we maun a' dee!"

"Ah, she is a bonny thing, but ye ken she is a wee bit daft, puir

lassie!" cried Madge Wildfire, smirking and bowing, to catch the eye

of Jeanie Deans, who, leaning on the arm of her betrothed, Reuben

Butler, stood gazing with tearful eyes upon that wreck of hope and

love exhibited in the person of the ill-fated Lucy of Lammermoor.

Bless that sweet, meek face of Jeanie Deans! Many a lovelier--many a

fairer were in that assemblage, yet not one more winning or truthful.

The honest, pure heart shone from those mild blue eyes; one might know

_she_ could make any sacrifice for those she loved, and that guided

and guarded by her own innocence and steadfast truth, neither crowns

nor sceptres could daunt her from her noble purpose.

And there, too, was Effie. Not Effie, the Lily of St. Leonards, such

as she was when gayly tending her little flock on St. Leonard's

Craigs--not Effie, the poor, wretched criminal of the Tolbooth--but

Effie, the rich and beautiful Lady Staunton, receiving with all the

ease and elegance of a high-born dame the homage of the nobles

surrounding her, of whom none shone more conspicuous than his grace

the Duke of Argyle, on whose arm she was leaning.

With the step and bearing of a queen a noble lady now approached, and

as, unattended by knight or dame, she moved gracefully through the

brilliant crowd, every eye was turned on her with admiration.

Need I say it was Rebecca, the Jewess.

A rich turban of yellow silk, looped at the side by an aigrette of

diamonds, and confining a beautiful ostrich plume, was folded over her

polished brow, from which her long, raven tresses floated in beautiful

curls around her superb neck and shoulders. A simarre of crimson silk,

studded with jewels, and gathered to her slender waist by a

magnificent girdle of fine gold, reached below the hips, where it was

met by a flowing robe of silver tissue bordered with pearls. In

queenly dignity she was about to pass from the saloon, when the noble

Richard of the Lion Heart stepped hastily forward, and respectfully

saluted her. He still wore his sable armor, and with his visor thrown

back, had for some time been negligently reclining against one of the

lofty pillars, a careless spectator of the scene around him. The

lovely Jewess paused, and with graceful ease replied to the address of

the monarch; but at that moment the voice of Ivanhoe, speaking to

Rowena, fell on her ear--and with a hurried reverence to Coeur de Lion,

she glided from the apartment.

"No, Ivanhoe," thought I, "thou hast not done wisely--beautiful as is

the fair Rowena, to whom thy troth stands plighted--thou shouldst have

won the peerless Rebecca for thy bride."

I was aroused from the revery into which I had unconsciously fallen by

a hoarse voice at my elbow repeating a _Pater Noster_, and turning

around, I beheld the jovial Friar of Copmanhurst, one hand grasping a

huge oaken cudgel, the other swiftly running over his rosary.

Mary of Avenel next appeared, and (or it may have been fancy) near her

floated the airy vision of the White Lady.

There was Sir Piercie Shafton, too, and the miller's black-eyed

daughter. The voice of the knight was low and apparently his words

were tender; for poor Mysie Happer, with cheeks like a fresh-blown

rose, and sparkling eyes, drank in with her whole soul the honeyed

accents of the Euphoist.

"Certes, O my discretion," said he, "thou shalt arise from thy

never-to-be-lamented-sufficiently-lowliness; thou shalt leave the

homely occupations of that rude boor unto whom it beseemeth thee to

give the appellation of father, and shalt attain to the-all-to-be-desired

greatness of my love, even as the resplendent sun condescends to shine

down upon the earth-crawling beetle."

I now approached a deep embrasure elevated one step above the level

of the apartment, over which magnificent hangings of crimson and gold

swept to the floor. Not for a moment could I doubt who the splendid

being might be occupying the centre of the little group on which my

eyes now rested enraptured.

The most lovely, the most unfortunate Mary of Scotland was before me,

and, as if spell-bound, I could not withdraw my gaze. How did all the

portraits my fancy had drawn fade in comparison with the actual

beauty, the indescribable loveliness of this peerless woman. How was

it possible to give to fancy any thing so exquisitely graceful and

beautiful as the breathing form before me. Ask me not to depict the

color of her eyes; ask me not to paint that wealth of splendid

hair--that complexion no artist's skill could match--that mouth so

eloquent in its repose--those lips--those teeth. As well attempt to

_paint the strain_ of delicious music which reaches our ears at

midnight, stealing over the moonlit wave; or to _color the fragrance_

of the new-blown rose, or of the lily of the vale, when first plucked

from its humble bed. For even thus did the unrivaled charms of Mary of

Scotland blend themselves indescribably with our enraptured senses.

On a low stool at the feet of Mary sat Catharine Seyton, whose fair,

round arm seemed as a snow-wreath resting amid the rich folds of her

royal mistress' black velvet robe. Yet not so deeply absorbed was she

in devotion to her lady as to prevent her now and then casting a

mischievous glance on Roland Graeme, who, with the Douglas, were also

in attendance upon their unhappy queen. Drawn up on one side was the

stately figure of the Lady of Lochleven, with a scowl on her face, and

a bitter look of hate fastened on the unfortunate Mary.

With regret I at length moved away from this enchanting presence, my

sympathies to be soon again awakened for the gentle Amy Robsart,

Countess of Leicester.

She was reclining on a sofa of sea-green velvet, seeded with pearls,

bearing in its centre the cypher of herself and lord, surmounted by a

coronet. At her feet knelt the Earl of Leicester with all the outward

semblance of a god. One little hand rested confidingly in his, the

other nestled amid the dark locks clustering over his high and

polished brow. Ah! little did she dream of guile in her noble lord!

How could she, when with such looks of love he gazed upon her--with

such words of love delighted her trembling heart.

The fawning villain, Varney, stood at a little distance behind the

unconscious Amy, even then, as it seemed to me, plotting her

destruction with the old arch hypocrite, Foster, with whom he was

holding low and earnest conversation. Tressilian--the brave, good

Tressilian--as if sworn to protect the lovely lady, leaned on his

sword at her right hand, his fine eyes bent with a look of mingled

admiration and pity on her ingenuous countenance.

"The queen! the queen!--room for the queen!" echoed around. Hastily

rising to his feet, and imprinting a slight kiss on her fair brow, the

earl left his lovely bride, and was the next moment by the side of

the haughty Elizabeth--England's maiden Queen.

"Then, earl, why didst thou leave the beds

Where roses and where lilies vie,

To seek a prim-rose, whose pale shades

Must sicken when those gauds are by?

"But Leicester (or I much am wrong)

It is not beauty lures thy vows,

Rather ambition's gilded crown

Makes thee forget thy humble spouse.

"Last night, as sad I chanced to stray,

The village death-bell smote my ear;

They winked aside, and seemed to say,

'Countess, prepare--thy end is near!'"

"Thus sore and sad that lady grieved,

In Cumnor Hall so lone and drear,

And many a heartfelt sigh she heaved,

And let fall many a bitter tear.

"And ere the dawn of day appeared

In Cumnor Hall, so lone and drear,

Full many a piercing scream was heard,

And many a cry of mortal fear.

"The death-bell thrice was heard to ring,

An aerial voice was heard to call,

And thrice the raven flapped his wing

Around the towers of Cumnor Hall."

It was pleasant to turn from a scene of such confiding love on one

part, and base hypocrisy on the other, to look upon the honest

countenance of Magnus Troil, who, with his daughters on each arm--the

stately, dark-eyed Minna, and the no less lovely Brenda--were now

approaching me. Behind followed Norna of the Fitful-head, in earnest

conversation with the Pirate Cleveland. As I looked upon her tall,

majestic person, her countenance, so stern and wild, rendered more so,

perhaps, by the singular head-dress she had assumed, and her long hair

streaming over her face and shoulders, I could no longer wonder at the

power she had obtained over the minds of the ignorant peasantry and

fishermen of Jarlshof.

"Whist! whist! Triptolemus!" quoth Mistress Barbara Yelloway, pulling

the sleeve of the Factor, "dinna be getting ower near the hellicat

witch--wha kens but she may be asking for the horn o' siller, man."

This speech had the desired effect; and the trembling Triptolemus

hastily placed the bold front of Baby between him and the object of

dread.

Here, too, was Mareshal Dalgetty--and nothing but the respect due to

so much beauty as was here assembled, I felt sure, could have

prevented the appearance of his brave charger, Gustavus, also upon the

scene. He was accompanied by Ranald of the Mist.

With her little harp poised lightly on her arm, sweet Annot Lyle

tripped by the side of the moody Allan, striving by her lively sallies

to break the thrall of the dark fit which was about to seize upon him.

Fair Alice Lee, and the brave old knight, Sir Harry, did not escape my

notice--nor Master Wildrake, or the gay monarch, Charles, still under

the disguise of Louis Kerneguy; and whose shuffling, awkward gait, and

bushy red head, caused no small mirth in the assembly, as wondering to

see one of so ungainly an appearance in such close attendance upon the

lovely Alice.

"Old Noll" had grouped around him in one corner the

"Devil-scaring-lank-legs," the "Praise-God-barebones," and the

"smell-sin-long-noses" of the day; but not finding any thing very

attractive in that godly company, I passed on to where Isabella of

Croye and the gallant Quentin Durward were holding earnest

converse--not aware, unfortunately, that the snaky eye of the Bohemian

was watching all their movements.

I quickly stepped aside as I saw the miser, Trapbois, eagerly

advancing toward the Lady of Croye, his eyes gloating over the rich

jewels which adorned her person, and his long, skinny fingers seeming

ready to tear the coveted gems from her fair neck and arms. Indeed,

but for the presence of his stern daughter, Martha, I doubted whether

he would not at least make the attempt.

"Father, come home! this is no place for you--come home!" she said, in

deep, slow tones.

"Nay, daughter, I would but offer to serve these rich nobles for a

small con-sider-ation; let me go, Martha--let me go, I say!" as

placing her powerful arm within his, she drew him reluctantly toward

the door.

Suddenly a flourish of warlike music swelled through the lofty

apartment--peal on peal reverberated around--and while I listened with

awe to notes so grand and solemn, the music as suddenly changed its

character. Now only the dulcet tones of the harp were heard, sweet as

the soft summer shower when the tinkling rain-drops merrily pelt the

flowers--strains so sweetly harmonious as seemed too heavenly for

mortal touch. And as fainter and fainter, yet still more sweet, the

ravishing melody breathed around, one by one the company glided out

silently and mournfully--the tapestried walls gradually assumed the

appearance of my own little parlor--the rich and tasteful decorations

vanished--_and where was I?_ Seated in my own comfortable

rocking-chair, reclining in the same attitude as when so suddenly

summoned forth by the gipsy carline. Truly,

"There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio.

Than are dreamt of in your philosophy."

HOMEWARD BOUND.

BY E. CURTISS HINE, U. S. N.

For weary years my feet had wandered

On many a fair but distant shore;

By Lima's crumbling walls I'd pondered

And gazed upon the Andes hoar.

The ocean's wild and restless billow,

That rears its crested head on high,

For years had been my couch and pillow,

Until its sameness pained my eye.

The playmates of my joyous childhood,

With whom I laughed the hours away,

And wandered through the tangled wildwood

Till close of sultry summer day;

My aged, gray, and feeble mother,

Whom most I longed to see again,

My sisters, and my only brother,

Were o'er the wild and faithless main.

At length the lagging days were numbered,

That bound me to a foreign shore,

And glorious hopes that long had slumbered

Again their gilded plumage wore;

Fond voices in my ear were singing

The songs I loved in boyhood's day,

As in my hammoc slowly swinging

I mused the still night-hours away.

And sylvan scenes then came before me,

The bright green fields I loved so well,

Ere SORROW threw his shadow o'er me,

The streamlet, mountain, wood and dell;

The lonely grave-yard, sad and dreary,

Which in the night I passed with dread,

Where, with their sleepless vigils weary,

The white stones watch above the dead;

Were spread like pictured chart around me,

Where Fancy turned my gazing eye,

Till slumber with his fetters bound me,

And dimmed each star in memory's sky.

Then came bright dreams--but all were routed

When morning lit the ocean blue,

And I, awaking, gayly shouted,

"My last, last night in famed PERU!"

"Farewell PERU! thy shores are fading,

As swift we plough the furrowed main,

And clouds with drooping wings are shading

The towering Andes, wood and plain.

The passing breeze, thus idly singing,

A sweeter, dearer voice hath found,

And hope within my heart is springing,

Our white-winged bark is HOMEWARD BOUND!"

* * * * *

'Twas night--at length my feet were nearing

The home from which they long had strayed;

No star was in the sky appearing,

My boyhood's scenes were wrapped in shade.

I paused beside the grave-yard dreary,

And entered through its creaking gate,

To find if yet my mother, weary

Of this cold world, had shared the fate

Of those who in their graves were sleeping,

But could not find her grass-grown bed,

Though many a stranger stone was keeping

Its patient watch above the dead.

But HERS was not among them gleaming,

And so I turned with joy away,

For many a night had I been dreaming

That there she pale and faded lay!

POOR PENN--.

A REAL REMINISCENCE.

BY OLIVER BUCKLEY.

"I knew him, Horatio; a fellow of infinite jest;--most

excellent humor."

Some years ago, ere yet I had reaped the harvest of "oats" somewhat

wildly sown, I resided in one of our principal western cities, and,

like most juveniles within sight of the threshold of their majority,

harbored a decided predilection for the stage. Not a coach and four,

as is sometimes understood by that expression, but that still more

lumbering vehicle, the theatre, which hurries down the rough road of

life a load of passengers quite as promiscuous and impatient. The odor

of the summer-fields gave me less delight than that which exhaled from

the foot-lights; and the wild forest-scenes were less enchanting than

those transitory views which honest John Leslie nightly presented to

the audience, too often "few" if not "fit." There is something, too,

in the off-hand, taking-luck-as-it-comes sort of life among actors,

which to me was especially attractive; and I was not long in making

the acquaintance of many. But the memory of one among the number

lingers with me still, with more mingled feelings of pain and pleasure

than that of any other. Poor Penn--, I will not write his name in

full, lest, should he be living, it might meet his eye and give his

good-natured heart a moment's discomfort. To him more than any other

my nature warmed, as did his to me, until we were cemented in

friendship. What pleasant rambles of summer-afternoons, after

rehearsal; what delightful nights when the play was done, what songs,

recitations and professional anecdotes were ours, no one but ourselves

can know. The character he most loved to play was Crack, in the

"Turnpike Gate." Poor Penn--! I can see him yet--"Some gentleman has

left his beer--another one will drink it!" How admirably he made that

point! But that is gone by, and he may ere this have made his last

point and final exit. After six months of the closest intimacy, I

suddenly missed my hitherto daily companion, and all inquiries at his

boarding-house and the theatre proved fruitless. For days I frequented

our old haunts, but in vain; he had vanished, leaving no trace to tell

of the course he had taken. I seemed altogether forsaken--utterly

lost--and felt as if I looked like a pump without a handle--a cart

with but one wheel--a shovel without the tongs--or the second volume

of a novel, which, because somebody has carried off the first, is of

no interest to any one. At last a week went by, and I sauntered down

to the ferry, and stepping aboard the boat suffered myself to be

conveyed to the opposite shore. On the bank stood the United States

barracks, and gathered about were groups of soldiers, looking as

listless and unwarlike as if they had just joined the "peace-league."

But their present quiet was only like that of a summer sea, which

would bear unharmed the slightest shallop that ever maiden put from

shore, but when battling tempests rise can hurl whole navies into

wreck. Suddenly catching a glimpse of a figure at a distance which

reminded me of my friend, I eagerly addressed one of the soldiers, and

pointing out the object of my curiosity, inquired who he was.

"That's our sergeant," replied the man.

"Oh!" I ejaculated in my disappointment, feeling assured that a week

would not have raised Penn--to that honor, and I sat down on the green

bank and watched the steamboats as they passed up and down between me

and the city. And as I gazed, many a sad reflection and strange

conjecture passed and re-passed along the silent current of my mind.

How alone I felt! Even the groups of soldiers standing about were but

as so many stacks of muskets. My eyes wandered listlessly from object

to object, and rested at last on a pair of boots at my side, such as

had been moving about me for the last half hour, and they, that is my

eyes, not the boots, naturally, but slowly, followed up the military

stripe on the side of the pantaloons, then took a squirrel leap to the

Uncle Sam buttons on the breast of the coat, and passed leisurely from

one to another upward, until they lit at last full in the owner's

face! That quizzical look--that Roman nose! There was no mistaking

Penn--, Sergeant Penn--, of the United States Army! My surprise may

easily be imagined. However, a few minutes explained all.

Alas! for poor humanity,

Its weakness and its vanity,

Its sorrow and insanity,

Alas!

My friend in an evil hour had been led astray--had imbibed one

"cobbler" too many for his leather; and like most men in similar

circumstances, grew profoundly patriotic, and in a glorious burst of

enthusiasm, enlisted! His fine figure, with a dash of the theatrical

air, promoted him at once to the dignity of sergeant; and never did

soldier wear his honors "thrust upon him" with a better grace than did

Poor Penn--. Whether in his sober moments he regretted the rash act, I

do not know; he was too proud to acknowledge it if he did. Taking me

by the arm, he conducted the way to the barracks, and with an air of

indescribable importance, exhibited and explained the whole internal

arrangements. On the first floor, which was paved with brick, there

was an immense fire-place, built in the very centre of the great room,

and steaming and bubbling over the fire hung a big kettle, capable of

holding at least thirty gallons. Over it, or rather beside it, stood

the soldier-cook, stirring the contents, which was bean-soup, with an

iron ladle. In the room above were long rows of bunks, stacks of

muskets, with other warlike implements and equipage. A number of men

were lounging on the berths, some reading, some boasting, and others

telling long yarns. There was one stout, moon-faced gentleman laying

on his broad back "spouting" Shakspeare. This individual, to whom I

was introduced, turned out to be Sergeant Smith, another son of

Thespis, who had left the boards for a more permanent engagement, not

with the enemy, for those were days of peace, but with that stern old

manager, Uncle Sam. Sergeant Smith was, perhaps, the most important

person in his own estimation, on the banks, not even excepting the

captain. There can be no doubt but that the stage suffered a great

loss when he left it, for, indeed, he told us so himself. In a little

while the call sounded, the roll was called, and all hands turned in

to dinner. Penn-- had provided me a seat by his side; and, for the

first time in my life, I sat down to soldier fare. There was a square

block of bread at the side of each pewter plate, a tin cup of cold

water, and very soon a ladle-full of the steaming bean-soup was dealt

round to each. It was a plain but a substantial dinner. Poor Penn--,

as he helped me to an extra ladle of soup, observed, with the most

solemn face imaginable, that the man who hadn't dined with soldiers

"didn't know beans;" an expression more apt than elegant. During the

space of three months I made weekly visits to the barracks, and was

gratified to find that my friend Penn--, in spite of his formidable

rival, Sergeant Smith, was fast rising in the confidence of the

commanding officer and the estimation of the men. Smith, too, was

judicious enough to hide any jealousy he might have felt, and like a

true soldier, imitated his superior, and treated Penn-- with marked

distinction.

Such having been the state of affairs for so long a time, my surprise

and indignation may easily be imagined, when upon calling, as usual,

to see my friend, Sergeant Smith, with a most pompous air, informed me

that he was not acquainted with the person for whom I inquired.

"Not acquainted with Penn--?" cried I, with the most unbounded

astonishment.

"No, sir," proudly replied the imperturbable sergeant, assuming the

strictest military attitude, looking like a very stiff figure-head,

seeming as if it would crack his eyelids to wink.

"Not acq--"

"No, sir," cried he, with great determination, before I could finish

the word. "Do you suppose an officer of the United States army, an

unimpeached soldier, capable of being acquainted with a _deserter?_"

"A _deserter_!" echoed I; "Penn-- a deserter!" and the truth flashed

across my brain, writing that terrible word in letters of fire, as did

the hand on the walls of Belshazzar. The next moment, by permission of

the guard, who knew me, I passed down into the long damp basement of

the barracks, where the offenders were imprisoned. At the farther end,

among a number of fellow-culprits, my eager eye soon discovered the

object of its search. He was sitting with folded arms, perched on a

carpenter's bench, and with the most wo-begone countenance imaginable,

whistling a favorite air, and beating time against the side of the

bench with his long, pendulous legs. I can hear the tune yet, "Nix my

Dolly;" and who that has ever seen "Jack Shepherd" has forgotten it?

"Hallo!" cried I, "Penn--, how is this?"

He looked at me a moment with surprise, and after exclaiming, "How are

you, my boy?" gave the bench a salutary kick, and whistled more

vigorously than ever "Nix my Dolly;" and having gone through the

stave, he turned to me and exclaimed,

"Look you, my boy, be chaste as snow, you shall not escape

calumny--and to this complexion you may come at last." Again he took

sight at the blank stone wall, whistled, and beat time.

"But, come," said I, "how did you get here?"

"Get here?" echoed he, "the easiest way in the world! Sergeant Penn--

crossed the river on a three hours' leave of absence--took a glass too

many--stayed over the time, and his friend, Sergeant Smith, feeling

anxious for Penn--'s welfare, went after him and had him arrested as a

deserter--and here he is! 'Nix my Dolly,'" etc. etc.; and he settled

again into his musical reverie.

"Well, what will be the upshot of it?" said I.

"The _down-shot_ of me, maybe!"--Nix my Doll--"at least, I shall be

shipped off with these fine fellows to the west; and if the

court-martial happen to sit on my case after dinner, I may get off

with _merely_ having my head shaved, and being drummed out!" Poor

Penn--, at the thought of this, kicked the bench furiously, and

whistled with all the vigor he could muster.

"When do you go?" asked I, eagerly.

"Next Sunday," he replied, and added, "Look here, my boy, let me bid

you good-by now, for the last time"--and he pressed my hand

warmly--"for the last time, I say, for it would unman me to see you on

that day, and Penn-- would fain be himself, proud and unshaken even in

his disgrace. There--there--go, my dear boy, let this be the last

visit of your life to the barracks. God bless you!" and after giving

his hand a hearty grasp, I turned hurriedly away, to hide my feeling.

In passing the door I gave a hasty glance back, and saw Penn-- sitting

as before, his arms folded, his heels beating the bench, but so

slowly, that their strokes seemed like the dying vibrations of a

pendulum; and the whistle was so low that it was scarcely audible.

With a heavy heart I passed away, much preferring to acknowledge the

acquaintance of a "deserter" like Poor Penn-- than to continue that of

the unimpeachable Sergeant Smith. Another week brought around the day

of my friend's departure, and I found it impossible to resist the

temptation to take a farewell look at my old companion. Accordingly I

crossed the river, and taking my station behind a large tree on the

bank of the river, so that I could see Penn--without letting him see

me, I awaited with melancholy patience the moment when the deserters

should be led out. The steamboat was puffing and groaning at the

wharf, and in a few moments the heavy door of the guard-room swung

open; there was a sudden clanking of irons, and soon I saw prisoner

after prisoner emerge, dragging long heavy chains, which were attached

to their ankles. I counted them as they came out--counted a dozen--but

yet no Penn--; counted eighteen--nineteen--but the twentieth, and

last, proved to be him. No language can describe the solemn majesty

with which he brought up the rear of that dishonored line. No chain

clanked as he stepped to tell of his disgrace; and the spectators,

instead of suspecting him as being a culprit, may easily have imagined

him to be one of the sergeants who had the rest in charge. This, to

me, was a matter of much surprise, and turning to an old soldier at my

side, I inquired,

"What does this mean, isn't Penn-- one of them?"

"Of course he is," was the reply.

"But why doesn't he wear a chain like the rest?"

"Wear a chain," said the soldier, "you don't know Penn--, Sergeant

Penn-- that was. He wear a chain! Why, bless your heart, he carries as

heavy a chain as any of them, but he's got it twisted around his leg,

under his pantaloons, clear above his knee! He's too proud to drag

it--he'd die first!"

Poor Penn--! I could have embraced him for that touch of pride; and

felt assured that whatever the penalty might be which he was doomed to

suffer, that he had "a heart for any fate!" What that fate was I have

had no means of knowing, for I have never since heard of poor Penn--.

A SONG.

BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.

Bring me the juice of the honey fruit,

The large translucent, amber-hued,

Rare grapes of southern isles, to suit

The luxury that fills my mood.

And bring me only such as grew

Where rarest maidens tent the bowers,

And only fed by rain and dew

Which first had bathed a bank of flowers.

They must have hung on spicy trees

In airs of far enchanted vales,

And all night heard the ecstasies

Of noble-throated nightingales:

So that the virtues which belong

To flowers may therein tasted be--

And that which hath been thrilled with song

May give a thrill of song to me.

For I would wake that string for thee

Which hath too long in silence hung,

And sweeter than all else should be

The song which in thy praise is sung.

THE ENCHANTED ISLE.

BY MRS. LYDIA JANE PEIRSON.

Far in the ocean of the Night

There lyeth an Enchanted Isle,

Within a veil of mellow light,

That blesseth like affection's smile.

It tingeth with a rosy hue

All objects in that country fair,

Like summer twilight, when the dew

Is trembling in the fragrant air.

And there is music evermore,

That seemeth sleeping on the breeze.

Like sound of sweet bells from the shore

Lingering along the summer seas.

And there are rivers, bowers, and groves,

And fountains fringed with blossomed weeds,

And all sweet birds that sing their loves

'Mid stately flowers or tasseled reeds.

All that is beautiful of earth,

All that is valued, all that's dear,

All that is pure of mortal birth,

Lives in immortal beauty here.

All tender buds that ever grew

For us on Hope's ephemeral tree,

All loves, all joys, that e'er we knew,

Bloom in that country gloriously.

There is no parting there, no change,

No death, no fading, no decay;

No hand is cold, no voice is strange,

No eye is dark--or turned away.

To us, who daily toil and weep,

How welcome is Night's starry smile,

When in the fairy barge of Sleep

We visit the Enchanted Isle.

All holy hearts that worship Truth,

Though bleak their daily pathway seems,

Find treasure and immortal youth

In that fair isle of happy dreams.

But, if the soul have dwelt with sin,

It landeth on that isle no more,

Though it would give its life to win

One glimpse but of the pleasant shore.

Their joys, which have been thrown away,

Or stained with guilt, can bloom no more,

And o'er the night their vessels stray

Where pale shades weep, and surges roar.

THE CONTINENTS.

BY J. BAYARD TAYLOR.

I had a vision in that solemn hour,

Last of the year sublime,

Whose wave sweeps downward, with its dying power

Rippling the shores of Time!

On the lone margin of that hoary sea

My spirit stood alone,

Watching the gleams of phantom History

Which through the darkness shone:

Then, when the bell of midnight, ghostly hands

Tolled for the dead year's doom,

I saw the spirits of Earth's ancient lands

Stand up amid the gloom!

The crowned deities, whose reign began

In the forgotten Past,

When first the glad world gave to sovereign Man

Her empires green and vast!

First queenly ASIA, from the fallen thrones

Of twice three thousand years,

Came with the wo a grieving goddess owns

Who longs for mortal tears:

The dust of ruin to her mantle clung,

And dimmed her crown of gold,

While the majestic sorrows of her tongue

From Tyre to Indus rolled:

"Mourn with me, sisters, in my realm of wo,

Whose only glory streams

From its lost childhood, like the artic glow

Which sunless Winter dreams!

In the red desert moulders Babylon,

And the wild serpent's hiss

Echoes in Petra's palaces of stone

And waste Persepolis!

Gone are the deities who ruled enshrined

In Elephanta's caves,

And Brahma's wailings fill the odorous wind

That stirs Amboyna's waves!

The ancient gods amid their temples fall,

And shapes of some near doom,

Trembling and waving on the Future's wall,

More fearful make my gloom!"

Then from her seat, amid the palms embowered

That shade the Lion-land,

Swart AFRICA in dusky aspect towered--

The fetters on her hand!

Backward she saw, from out her drear eclipse,

The mighty Theban years,

And the deep anguish of her mournful lips

Interpreted her tears.

"Wo for my children, whom your gyves have bound

Through centuries of toil;

The bitter wailings of whose bondage sound

From many a stranger-soil!

Leave me but free, though the eternal sand

Be all my kingdom now--

Though the rude splendors of barbaric land

But mock my crownless brow!"

There was a sound, like sudden trumpets blown,

A ringing, as of arms,

When EUROPE rose, a stately Amazon,

Stern in her mailed charms.

She brooded long beneath the weary bars

That chafed her soul of flame,

And like a seer, who reads the awful stars,

Her words prophetic came:

"I hear new sounds along the ancient shore,

Whose dull old monotone

Of tides, that broke on many a system hoar,

Wailed through the ages lone!

I see a gleaming, like the crimson morn

Beneath a stormy sky,

And warning throes, my bosom long has borne,

Proclaim the struggle nigh!

"The spirit of a hundred races mounts

To glorious life in one;

New prophet-wands unseal the hidden founts

That leap to meet the sun!

And thunder-voices, answering Freedom's prayer,

In far-off echoes fail,

As some loud trumpet, startling all the air,

Peals down an Alpine vale!"

O radiant-browed, the latest born of Time!

How waned thy sisters old

Before the splendors of thine eye sublime,

And mien, erect and bold!

Pure, as the winds of thine own forests are,

Thy brow beamed lofty cheer,

And Day's bright oriflamme, the Morning Star,

Flashed on thy lifted spear.

"I bear no weight," so rang thy jubilant tones,

"Of memories weird and vast--

No crushing heritage of iron thrones,

Bequeathed by some dead Past;

But mighty hopes, that learned to tower and soar,

From my own hills of snow--

Whose prophecies in wave and woodland roar,

When the free tempests blow!

"Like spectral lamps, that burn before a tomb,

The ancient lights expire;

I wave a torch, that floods the lessening gloom

With everlasting fire!

Crowned with my constellated stars, I stand

Beside the foaming sea,

And from the Future, with a victor's hand

Claim empire for the Free!"

JEHOIAKIM JOHNSON.

A SKETCH.

BY MARY SPENCER PEASE.

What unlucky star it was that presided over the destiny of my cousin

Jehoiakim Johnson I am not astrologer enough to divine. Certain only

am I that it could have been neither Saturn, Mercury, Mars, nor Venus;

for he was far from being either wise, witty, warlike, or beautiful.

Cowper says every one falls "just in the niche he was ordained to

fill." Cowper was mistaken in one instance, for Cousin Jehoiakim had

no niche to fall into, but went wandering about the world, (our

world,) without any thing apparently to do, or any where apparently to

stay: And just the moment you wished him safe in Botany Bay, just that

very moment was he standing before you with his--but never mind a

description of his face and person. _All_ cannot be handsome; folks

unfortunately do not make themselves--and precisely the moment you

became indifferent as to his presence, or if--a _very_ rare thing--you

wished it, that very instant he was no where to be found.

"Our world" was situated in good old New England, around and about

Boston; and we, "our folks," were of the better class of farmers, and

lived within a day's ride of the city.

Never in my life have I been happier than in that free, green country,

with the broad, bright sky above me, and the clear, heaven-wide air

around me; and bird and beast frolicking in freedom and gladness near

and about me. I loved them all, and all their various noises, even to

the unearthly scream of our bright, proud peacock. I shut my eyes and

see them still; the world of gay-plumaged birds, with their sweet,

wild songs, the little white-faced lambs, the wee, _roly-poly_ pigs,

the verdant ducks, the soft, yellow goslins, and the dignified old

cows stalking about. Well do I remember each of their kind old faces.

There was the spotted heifer, with an up-turned nose, and eyes with

corners pointing toward the stars. If ever a cow is admitted into

heaven for goodness, it will surely be Daisy. Then there was the black

Alderny, and the--but leaving beef _revenons a nos moutons_--Cousin

Jehoiakim. Still the place of all others to enjoy life, life

unconstrained by city forms, life free, free as heaven's wind, is on a

New England farm. My heart bounds within me as I look back at the dear

old homestead. Just there it lies in the bend of the time-worn road

that winds its interminable length through dark elms--the gothic

ivy-clad elms--and through black giant pines, and the bright-leaved,

sugar-giving maple, and golden fields, hedged in by ragged fences,

formed of the roots and stumps of leviathan trees.

You see that picket-gate? open it, and a path bordered on each side by

currant bushes, and gooseberry bushes, and the tall cyranga, and the

purple lilac, will lead you through an arbor of fine Isabella's and

Catawba's to the dear old homestead, now in possession of Brother Dick

and little Fanny, his better half.

I could describe every nook of that darling old house, and every thing

surrounding it, from its old-fashioned chimneys--wherein the domestic

swallows have sung their little ones to sleep each successive summer,

time out of mind--to the unseemly nail that projected its Judas-point

from one of the crosspieces of that same little gate, and which always

contrived to give a triangular tear to my flying robes every time they

fluttered through that dear little gate. Just imagine the happy

moments I spent under the great old willow by the well, darning those

same triangular rents. Still has all this nothing to do with Cousin

Jehoiakim Johnson. You have probably seen folks that were often in

your way; now, he was never any where else. Always in the way, and

always ungraceful. He was not ungraceful for lack of desire to please:

bless his kind, officious heart! Oh, no! Was there a cup of coffee to

be handed, and were there a half dozen waiters ready to hand it, he

was sure to thrust forth at least ten huge digits, and if he chanced

to get it in his grasp, wo to the coffee! and wo to the snow-white

damask table-cloth! or worse, wo to one's "best Sunday-go-to-meetin'"

silk dress. Nature uses strange materials in concocting some of her

children--most uncouth was the fabric of which she constructed

Jehoiakim Johnson.

Poor fellow! he is dead now--peace to his soul. Do you know I fancy it

lies hid in the breast of my dog Jehu--the most ungainly, the

best-natured creature alive. My baby rides his back, and pulls his

ears. I never heard him growl. Oh! he is a jewel of a dog.

Poor Cousin Jehoiakim! Among his other _plaisanteries_ he came near

losing for me a noble husband. Patience, and I will relate how it came

to pass.

Sister Anna and myself--that sister of mine, by the way, was a

complete witch; all dimples and fun, with blue eyes that darted here

and there, dancing in her head for very gladness; with a mouth on

which the bright red rose sat like a queen on her throne. Her words I

can liken to nothing but to so many little silver bells, ringing out

into the clear air in joy and sweetness. And never have I heard those

musical bells jingle one harsh or unharmonious sound. She is married

now--poor thing--and the mother of three "little curly-headed,

good-for-nothing, mischief-making monkeys."

Notwithstanding her exceeding loveliness, Cousin Jehoiakim preferred

me, and actually offered me his great broad hand, as you shall see.

She was a perfect Hebe, while my style of beauty was more of

the--though to confess the "righty-dighty" truth, as little folks say,

my beauty was of that order which took the keenest of eyes to

discover. There were a pair, however, dark, and full of soul, that

dwelt with as much delight on me as though I were Venus herself.

Oh! those were dear, darling eyes, and were in the possession of the

best, yes, the very best specimen of Nature's modeling that New

England contained; Nature wrought him from the finest of her clay,

after her divinest image, and his parents named him Edgar Elliott.

Sister Anna and myself had been making our usual Christmas visit to

Aunt Charity, or Aunt "Charty," as we used to call her, in good old

Yankee language. Aunt Charity dwelt in Boston; and was the wife of a

very excellent man, in very excellent circumstances; and the mother of

seven dear, excellent boys, of whom Cousin Jehoiakim Johnson was _not_

one.

How delightfully flew our days on this particular Christmas visit. I

felt myself in a new world. A world of brighter flowers, and brighter

sunshine; for, although I was eighteen, never until then had I been

any thing but a wild, thoughtless, giddy child. And then?--the truth

is a new star had burst upon my horoscope, bright and beautiful, that

so bewildered my eyes to look upon, I was forced to awake my heart

from its long sleep, to supply the place of eyes. Steadfast it gazed

into that bright star's heaven-lighted depths, until I recognized it

as my guiding star--my Destiny!

Oh, Love! thou angel! thou devil! thou blissful madness, thou wise

folly! Thou that comest clad in rainbow garments, with words more full

of hope than was the first arch that spanned high heaven, stouter

hearts than mine have been compelled to own thee master. Prouder

hearts than mine have listened to the witcheries of thy satin-smooth

tongue until they forgot their pride. More ice-cold ones than mine

have been consumed in the immortal fire thou buildest--the heart thine

altar, Love, thou monarch of the universe!

Every thing has an end--a consolation oftentimes--rhapsody, as well as

love, and so had that happy Christmas-time, when we were so merry,

when I first saw that master-piece of nature--my Destiny--Edgar

Elliott.

Anna and myself had been home but three weeks--three dreary years of

weeks, Anna said--when we received a letter containing the joyful

intelligence that Edgar Elliott, his aristocratic sister Jane, his

unaristocratic sister little Fanny, and Herbert Allen--a young

lieutenant, by the way, and, by the way, the red-hot flame of my

harem-scarem sister--would all four honor Dough-nut Hall, the name we

had playfully given our old homestead, with a speedy and long visit.

Joy and hope danced in our hearts when, clear and sunny, the promised

day at length had come, the snow five and a half feet deep--the

greatest depth of snow within the memory of the "oldest

inhabitant"--the mercury full ten degrees below zero. I had just

changed my dress for the fifth time, and sister Anna was offering me

this consolation, "I must say, Clara, that that is the most unbecoming

dress you have, you look like a perfect scare-crow," when the sound of

sleigh-bells coming up the avenue, sent my heart up in my throat, and

myself quicker than lightning down to the "hall-door," there to

welcome--not my darling Edgar and his proud, beautiful sister, and

Anna's Adonis lieutenant, and Brother Dick's pretty little Fanny--no,

none of these, oh, no! who but my long-visaged, good-for-nothing

cousin Jehoiakim Johnson.

"Fiddle-de-dee!" exclaimed a voice at my elbow; and my disappointed

sister skipped, with chattering teeth, back into the house.

The stage drove off, after depositing cousin Jehoiakim and a

Noah's-ark of a trunk.

"Wall, Cousin Clarry!" exclaimed he, springing toward me with one of

his own peculiar bear-like bounds. "How du you du? I guess you didn't

expect me this time, no how."

"I can't say that I did," said I; "but do come in, this air is enough

to freeze one."

"Wall, here I am again," said he, rubbing his great hands together

before the blazing hickory. "But if that _wasn't_ a tarnel cold drive;

and if this isn't a nation good fire, then I don't know. But how are

uncle and aunt, and Cousin Anna, and Dick, and little Harry?"

"All quite well. Where have you been since you left here, cousin?"

"Why I went right to Cousin Hezekiah's; but I did not stay there quite

two months, because little Prudence caught the brain fever, and I was

obliged to keep so still that it was very unpleasant. I went from

there to Cousin Ebenezer's. Wall, I stayed to Cousin Eb's four months

or so; then I went to stay a couple of months with Cousin Pildash and

Axy, (Achsa.) So this morning I came from Uncle Abimelech's. I only

stayed there a few weeks, because--But, Cousin Clarry, du look! if

there isn't a sleigh-load of folks coming."

I _did_ look, and saw coming through the great open gate, and up the

avenue, a sleigh, all covered with gold and brown, glittering in the

sun's setting rays. I saw the long, white manes of the ponies, and the

heavy plumes of my beautiful friend, Jane, streaming far in the wind;

and then I saw little Fanny's bright, happy face, and the fierce

moustache of Anna's lieutenant; and then I saw a pair of dark, earnest

eyes, full of devotion, gazing into mine as though at the shrine of

their soul's ideal. Never shall I forget the look they wore, so

inexpressibly full of affection was it.

What a pity stars should set. What a pity that eyes, once overflowing

with the light of wildest, truest love, should grow cold and dim. A

pity, too, that love cannot always be love--that it should find its

grave so often in hate, or indifference, or in sober friendship. Still

that it does not always, let us bless Love, and think that the fault

lies in us, and not in Love, that we are grown so like the clay of

which our bodies are made, that Love, the spirit, cannot find an

abiding-place within us; and, as years come over us, we are content

more and more to harden our hearts, and bask, like butterflies, in the

external sunshine of this beautiful world, until the world within--the

world of thought and feeling--is a weary one, gladdened only with a

few flowers of transcendent sweetness and brightness--rewards of merit

from this work-day, lesson-learning earth.

Meantime were those warm eyes looking love upon me; and meantime, from

out a world of buffalo-robes and furs, were our merry friends

emerging; and then a fervent pressure of a soft, warm hand sent the

bright blood burning to my very temples. Then came numerous other

shakes of the hand, and question sounded upon question, and laugh

pealed upon laugh; a gayer, merrier, madder party never met together.

Sister Anna, and Brother Dick's little love of a Fanny, were a host of

mirth in themselves. The accession of so many merry faces seemed to

act on the uncouth spirits of my Cousin Jehoiakim like so much

exhilarating gas; for scarcely were we housed, when he suddenly caught

me up in his windmill arms, and twirling me around as though I had

been a feather, exclaimed, "Bless us! Cousin Clarry, I have scarcely

had a chance to say how du you du, and to tell you how glad I am to be

here once more. Arn't you tickled to death to see me?"

Indignant and breathless, I sprang from him, saying, "Really, Cousin

Jehoiakim, I should be much more delighted to see you if you would be

kind enough to manifest a less rude way of expressing your joy."

"Oh! beg pardon, Cousin Clarry. I forgot you had grown up into a young

woman; another word for touch-me-not--ha! ha! ha! I guess you are all

dressed up, tu; you look like a daisy, anyhow."

With that he threw himself back in a perfect roar of ha! ha's! and he!

he's! My eyes glanced around to see the effect produced on my friends

by my _gauche_ cousin. The great blue eyes of the aristocratic Jane

opened themselves wider and more wide, while the merry black ones of

little Fanny seemed to enjoy the sport. The lieutenant's moustache

curled itself a little more decidedly, as he surveyed Jehoiakim

Johnson; looking upon him, probably, as on some savage monster. I

thought I perceived a darker shade in Edgar's eyes. It soon passed

over, and we all became quiet and chatty. The twilight deepened around

us, meantime, and the shadows formed by the blazing hearth grew more

and more opaque, and more and more fitful, lengthening themselves over

carpet, chairs, and sofas, to the very farthest corner of the room,

darting all manner of fantastic forms upon Sister Anna and her

handsome lieutenant, as they sat over by the window, in earnest

conversation. Yes, Sister Anna, for once wert thou earnest. Upon our

group on the sofa, before the hearth, fell also those strange

fire-light shadows. Sweet little Fanny! how like a little fairy didst

thou look in that flickering fire-light; thy graceful form, half

reclining, thrown carelessly on the sofa; thy long, curling hair

flowing in dark clouds over thy snow-white dress, and nearly hiding

thy happy, child-like face, and bright eyes, that glanced out on

Brother Dick, who, entranced, was devoutly bending over thee, gazing

on thy sunny face--what he could see of it. Sweet little Fanny! And

thy proud, beautiful sister, Jane--sitting beside me, and near thee;

well did that gleaming light reveal her noble outline of face and form

contrasting so finely with thine. Nor did those wayward shadows spare

our dear mother, but daguerreotyped all manner of merry-andrews on her

sober satin dress, as she sat over on a lounge, quietly talking with

my dear, sweet Edgar, who employed his leisure moments in throwing

sundry loving glances over at me. Nor did these weird shadows spare

our Cousin Jehoiakim Johnson in the great old-fashioned arm-chair,

where he had flung himself, seemingly wrapped in meditation most

profound. They frolicked over his broad, square shoulders like the

Liliputs upon Gulliver, dancing all sorts of fantastic dances, pulling

at his ears, and tweaking his substantial nose, when a snore of most

immense magnitude broke on our quiet ears. Then another and another,

each louder than the last. Ah! Cousin Jehoiakim, most profound was thy

meditation.

Now I am not going to weary your patience by telling you how just then

our "help" entered, one bearing a tray-full of tall sperm candles,

another an immense waiter, crowned with the thick-gilt, untarnished

china, that had been handed down in our family by four successive

generations--we had begged our dear mother to let the tea, the tea

only, be handed around as it was done in Boston; she in an evil hour

consenting. Nor how Cousin Jehoiakim, aroused from his meditation by

the glare of light, starting up, cast his eyes upon Mercy, the stout

serving maiden, and bearer of that same precious porcelain--for which

my dear mother's reverence was as great, every whit, as that of

Charles Lamb's for old China; and how the next moment the waiter was

in the hands of my six feet seven and a-half cousin, with "Du let me

help you, young woman!" and how the next instant the six feet seven

and a-half formed a horizontal line with the floor, instead of a

perpendicular one; and how the glittering fragments of gold and white

glistened from under every chair, and from the hearth, and out from

among the ashes, like unto so many evil eyes glaring upon him for his

stupidity and carelessness; and how little Fanny unwound from one foot

of the prostrate six feet seven and a-half several yards of snow-white

muslin--the innocent cause of the disaster; and how, light as a bird,

she sprung, merrily laughing, from the room, with the fluttering

fragments of her cobweb dress gathered in an impromptu drapery around

her graceful little form.

No; I will not fatigue you with the history of that unlucky adventure;

nor how, but a short time after, when we had taken tea from less

costly China, and had fallen into a witty, merry uttering of each

other's thoughts, we were interrupted by screams the most--but never

mind what kind, seeing I have said you shall not be fatigued with a

description of what was nothing but an immense kettle of boiling lard

flowing quietly and river-like over the long length of the before so

spotless kitchen floor, with many a cluster of dough-nut islands

interspersed, by way of relieving the said river of monotony. Our dear

mother was famed for miles around for the profusion and superiority of

her dough-nuts, hence our soubriquet--"Dough-nut Hall." And, seeing

that Mercy was only scalded half to death, the guilty culprit, who

insisted that the kettle was "too heavy for a woman to lift," escaping

unhurt, that is bodily--his remorse of conscience being truly

pitiable. No; none of all this, with long, ugly sentences, shall you

have; no, nor a detail of his many daily, hourly, and almost momently,

misadventures; how once, when we were sitting in Miss Elliott's room,

in he bolted with, "Bless my soul! what a lot of industrious

women-folk! 'How doth the busy bee;'" that new and elegant little poem

was, word for word, recited. Little Fanny he found making a bead purse

for Brother Dick, and examining her box with every conceivable shade

of bead duly assorted, and separated from each other by innumerable

partitions. No matter what he said about them, only the beads were

spilled, and the purse could not be finished; and then were Miss

Jane's delicate brushes passed through his wondering red hair before a

saving hand could arrest them; then was Miss Jane's beautiful inlaid

dressing-box broken irreparably; and then--but I will tell you what I

will relate you--all about our sleigh-ride and country ball. Yes! that

you must know; not because it is worth telling, but because I should

like you to hear it--all about how I nearly lost my darling. But to

commence.

Rumors were afloat of this said ball, the countriest kind of a country

ball, to take place in Squire Brown's barn, the largest, best built

barn for miles around. Our city friends entered into the spirit

exactly, and determined on going. "Cousin Jehoiakim? Oh, he need know

nothing about it," said Sister Anna; "or we can easily deceive him as

to the day, without telling him very much of a lie." Ah! Sister Anna.

The important day arrived. In one great bandbox reposed various

satins, laces, and ribbons too numerous to mention; the owners thereof

were standing cloaked, hooded, and muffed, ready to start. The

distance was ten miles. We had cast lots for the sleighs, and had

agreed on exclusiveness, though not exactly the exclusiveness that

Sister Anna wickedly proposed, viz., that each brother should take his

respective sisters in due decorum. The new "cutter" of my brother's

was drawn by himself; and he had already started with his little Fanny

by his side. The proud, beautiful Jane--I really believe I had

forgotten to mention that, while Cousin Jehoiakim was upsetting

chairs, and spilling pitchers of water, and breaking glasses, and

treading on people's toes, and the cat's tail, a distant cousin of

ours arrived--rather a guess cousin than Cousin Jehoiakim; tall as

the last named, to be sure, but bearing about the same resemblance to

him as a vigorous, graceful young willow does to an overgrown mullen

stalk. This new cousin--by cognomen Clarence Spencer--the family name

our own, by the way--proud and beautiful as the haughty Jane

herself--had seen fit to fall most gracefully in love with her. These

two, therefore, were just started on their way to the ball, in

Clarence's own incomparable turn-out. Lieutenant Allen had drawn the

Elliott's beautiful gold and brown sleigh. He was holding the

impatient ponies, and Sister Anna was arranging the cushions when

Cousin Jehoiakim hove in sight. Sister Anna sprung like a doe to the

front seat, threw the heavy buffalo-robes about, making them and the

great bandbox fill up the back seat, and seating herself by the

lieutenant--all this quicker than lightning--and giving the ponies a

touch of the whip, on they dashed to the imminent peril of their necks

as well as her own. A saucy toss of the head was all she vouchsafed

me. All, then, were on their way save Edgar and myself, who were

expecting a quiet, loving talk in the comfortable old-fashioned

"pung," with a gig top, that papa used in his frequent drives to

Boston.

"Wall, now, Cousin Clarry, I reckon you thought I didn't snuff what

was going on."

Poor fellow! he looked _so_ good-natured, truly my heart smote me.

"There is another cutter in the barn, cousin," replied I, "and you can

take your pick of the horses."

"You are very kind, Cousin Clarry, but there ain't no occasion of

calling any more of the poor dumb critters out into the cold. I guess

you can make room for me; I will ride on top until we catch up to some

of the two-seated sleighs."

Time was too precious to waste in words, and as Cousin Jehoiakim good

naturedly persisted that he should be very comfortable on the top, on

the top he seated himself. I saw that Edgar did not like the

arrangement, but he was too polite, or too proud to interfere. "Let us

overtake the others," said he. A bright smile passed over his face. I

saw he meditated some mischief. I knew it could not be very

mischievous mischief, for a kinder, nobler heart never beat more

warmly in any human breast. Forward dashed the horses, throwing the

white, sparkling snow before and around them into the bright sunshine.

Faster and faster sped the spirited horses, until we passed,

first--yes, it was no illusion, his lips were actually pressing her

little rosy mouth. Then, Lieutenant Allen, you are not the first man

that has done the like; it is a way they all have, ever since Adam

gave Mother Eve her first love-kiss. What man would not part with some

years of his life for the privilege of pressing to his own a pretty

little soft mouth?

Ah, Sister Anna! the question was actually popped; and on that

memorable day of the ball, thy giddy heart was actually caged. We came

so noiselessly and swift through the soft snow that we actually took

thee by surprise. Thy blushes were beautiful; but on we sped, and our

next tableaux presented Cousin Clarence gazing most intensely and

earnestly into the great deep-blue eyes of the beautiful Jane

Elliott, as though he were pouring forth a question from his soul to

hers. Her delicate hand lay in his, and her stately, graceful head

inclined gently toward him. They were so earnestly occupied, he in

talking, and she in listening, that they did not see us until we had

passed them; and after we passed them we were not long in overtaking

Dick and his little Fanny. Bless the lovers! Her curly-headed little

head started, quick as lightning, from its warm resting place, though

not so quick but that my practiced eye saw it take leave of Brother

Dick's manly shoulder. Her fun-loving spirit could not resist the

ludicrous appearance of Cousin Jehoiakim, perched upon the top of our

pung like some immense bird of prey. Brother Dick joined in her

pealing, merry laughter, and the old woods rang again. The stump of a

tree grew at the road-side, near an immense snow-bank. Edgar, as

though he had been on the look-out for such a fine opportunity,

speedily and dexterously ran one runner of our pung over the stump,

and over went the pung. By a skillful movement he righted it

instantly. The friendly side preserved me from the snow; but Cousin

Jehoiakim--alas! for gravity on a gig-top. In this deep bank of snow,

his heels high in air, stood my inverted cousin. As soon as I could

speak from convulsive laughter, I implored Edgar to go back to my

cousin's assistance.

"As you please," said he. Now you must know that I was the only one

that treated Cousin Jehoiakim kindly. Sister Anna and Brother Dick

made a complete butt of him; the rest did not treat him at all, except

to an occasional shrug of the shoulder from Anna's lieutenant, or a

gay laugh from little Fanny. And, forsooth, because I was civil to

him, and talked to him, and excused his awkwardness, why Edgar saw

fit, in his wisdom, to be jealous of him. Was there ever any thing

more absurd? Yes, since time out of mind have men, the wisest and the

best of them, been just so absurd; and unto all eternity will they,

the wisest and best of them, be just so absurd again.

By the time we had reached again the spot, the others had come up, and

were engaged in disentombing the imbedded unfortunate.

"That was a cold bed, any how," said he, shaking himself from head to

foot like a huge Newfoundland dog, and smiling upon us with his

imperturbable good-nature; "but why, in the name of all that is good,

did you not help a feller out sooner? If it had been feathers instead

of snow, I should surely have been suffocated."

"Thank your stars for your safe deliverance," said the laughing Fanny.

"What were you thinking of, cousin?" said Anna, in a choking voice.

"I could think of nothing but the ten commandments; and I wondered

what sinful iniquity my grandfather had been guilty of, that I should

be visited in such an awful manner for his transgressions. But where

on earth is my hat? I have looked in the hole, and all about for it."

"Look on your neck, Hoiky; you are wearing it for a stock," said my

brother.

"By gracious! so I am."

I brushed the snow from his shoulders and hair, and assisted his long

neck from its cumbrous stock, and pinning on the crown-piece, the hat

was quite wearable again.

"Mr. Johnson will ride much more comfortably in one of the

double-seated sleighs," said Edgar.

"Most certainly, Mr. Elliott," replied Cousin Jehoiakim, "you know I

begged you to let me out the first sleigh we met. I reckon you _did_

let me out to some purpose at last. By jimminy! but that was a cool

dip. Wall, Cousin Anny, what do you say to my riding along with you,

though I had a leetle rather sit alongside of Clarry, yet if you've no

objections I havn't none."

So now was my turn to pay back my sister by as provoking a toss of the

head as she gave me. Our ride the rest of the way was pleasant.

Edgar's eyes grew warm and loving. Among the other interesting things

we talked of, Edgar poured into my greedy ears the wonders and beauty

of the almost new doctrine of the transcendentalists. He described the

home he was going to give me, and called me his little wife, and

said--but dear me, I am not going to tell you all he said. His

passionate words and the love in his soul-full eyes lay deep in my

heart as we stopped before Squire Brown's.

Then came the dressing, and then it was we found that Cousin Jehoiakim

had contrived to crush the great bandbox on the seat beside him. The

beautiful lace dress Miss Elliott was to have worn over a satin was

torn and spoiled, also Anna's and my wreaths, also things too numerous

to mention. When we told of the disaster, Brother Dick said that Anna

and I looked much prettier in our own uncovered hair than with an

artificial flower-garden upon our heads--that the elegant white satin

of Miss Jane needed no lace to make it more beautiful--adding, in an

undertone, that he would give more to see a woman dressed in the

simple white muslin his little Fanny wore than for all the laces and

satins that could be bought.

When we entered the ball-room we found Cousin Jehoiakim already

dancing with a red-haired young lady, in a blue gauze dress. Seeing

us, and wishing to astonish us, he attempted a quadruple pigeon-wing,

which unfortunately entangled his great feet in the blue gauze dress,

and ended in his own subversion and the dismemberment of the thin

gauze. The young lady was obliged to retire for the night, while

Cousin Jehoiakim slowly picked himself up. He was so much abashed I

had to console him by asking him to dance with me. I really pitied the

poor fellow, he could get no one but me to dance with him, still he

tried so hard to make himself agreeable, and was so determinedly

good-natured that it was not his fault that he could not be a second

Apollo.

I was Edgar's partner for a reel.

"You seem to take very great interest in the well-doing of that odious

cousin of yours," said he.

"Poor fellow! why should I not?" replied I.

"Because he is awkward and disagreeable," said he, half laughing at

his own reason.

"He is as the Lord made him," replied I, in a tone of affected

humility.

"But the Lord did not make you to dance with him and lavish so much

attention upon him; you will oblige me very much, Clara, by not

dancing any more with him and making yourself so ridiculous."

Now there was not very much in those words to take offence at, and I

should, like a submissive woman that was about to be a wife, have

promised obedience, but, unfortunately, being a daughter of Eve I

inherited somewhat of her pride and vanity. In a different tone of

voice Edgar might have said even those words without offending either

pride or vanity, but his voice was cold, and his eyes were colder, and

I, driving my heart away from my lips and eyes, replied--"I trust Mr.

Elliott does not flatter himself he has _yet_ the entire control of my

actions."

"Just as you please."

The reel was finished, and he was off. I repented as soon as the words

passed my lips--the first angry words I had spoken to him. But then,

thought I, sitting down on a bench by myself, why is he so foolishly

provoking and unreasonably jealous of my poor cousin. He to be so

unkind, he who had ever been the noblest and most loving of sons, the

kindest and truest of brothers. For a moment my heart misgave me at

the thought of becoming his for life, it was only a moment. I saw

through the dim vista of years a vision of peace and love.

Cousin Jehoiakim came and sat down beside me. "Ah! Cousin Clarry,"

said he, abruptly taking my hand and holding it, "you are good and

kind to me, how happy I shall be when you are my own little wife, when

the time comes to give you my hand as I already have my heart."

Cousin Jehoiakim sentimental! I looked up--Edgar's cold blue eyes were

fastened upon me. I hastily drew my hand from my cousin, and sprung

toward the glooming Edgar.

"Is it not near time to go, dear Edgar?" exclaimed I, grasping his

hand in my own.

"Mr. Johnson can see you home. I have engaged to go with a friend of

mine back to Boston."

"Edgar!"--but he was gone.

You may depend I did _not_ ride home with _Mr. Johnson_, but begged a

seat with my sister, leaving my cousin the "pung" with the gig-top all

to himself. Whether he encountered any more stumps or pit-falls I

cannot say. He and the pung came safely home, as did the rest of us.

"Mother," exclaimed I, "I do wish you would contrive some means to get

rid of my odious Cousin Jehoiakim, he is the torment of my life."

"Mamma," chimed in Anna, while a smile twinkled in the corner of her

eye, "Cousin Jehoiakim has ruined my beautiful French wreath, and has

broken my Chinese pagoda, and my exquisite Chinese mandarins, and

soiled my Book of Beauty, and has broken my new set of chess-men that

Uncle Eb. brought from the East Indies, and has--dear mother, can you

not think of some means of sending him to Uncle Abiram's, or to

Halifax?"

"Yes, mother," said Brother Dick, with a laugh, "Hoiky has been here

mischiefizing long enough; do invent some means of packing him off. We

have been victimized long enough. He has broken every fishing-rod I

have, and has lost my hooks, and he has lamed my beautiful pony Caesar,

and ruined my gun, and yesterday, in shooting game, he shot my dog

Neptune, that I have been offered fifty dollars for, and would not

have taken one hundred."

"Wife," said our dear papa, coming into the room, "it is of no use, I

can be patient no longer, you _must_ devise some method of letting

Nephew Jehoiakim understand we do not wish his presence any longer.

Poor fellow! I would not for the world be unkind to him. I will give

him an annual stipend that will support him liberally during his life,

willingly, gladly, but I cannot have him here any longer. He is

utterly incorrigible."

"What has he done now?" asked our dear mamma.

"He left the bars down that led into my largest, best field of wheat,

and half the cattle in the country have been devouring it. They have

ruined at least a couple of hundred dollars worth. The money is not

what I care so much for, but it was the best wheat-field for miles

around, and I had a pride in having it yield more than any field of my

neighbors. I have borne with him day after day, hoping he might do

better. Poor fellow! he is sorry enough always for his mistakes. The

other day he left the garden-gate open, and the cows got in and eat

all my cabbages and other vegetables; then he leaves the barn-door

open, and the hogs go in and the calves come out."

"We will see," said our dear mamma.

The next morning at the breakfast-table said our dear mother--

"You will have a delightful day to ride in, dear nephew."

Cousin Jehoiakim opened wide his eyes, inquiringly.

"Richard, my son, I hope you did not forget to tell Mr. Grimes to let

the stage stop here this morning. It will be very inconvenient for

your cousin to be obliged to stay another day. I packed your trunk

this morning early, dear nephew, just after you left your room,

knowing how you disliked the trouble."

Still wider opened my cousin's eyes.

"Harry, my son," said mamma to my little brother, "those cakes and

dough-nuts are for your cousin to take with him for his lunch."

"Mayn't I have a piece of pie then?"

"Go and get what you want of Mercy, my dear. I put some runs of yarn

in your trunk, dear nephew, you may give them with my love to sister

Abigal, and tell her the wool is from white Kitty. She will remember

the sheep. Give my love to brother Abiram with this letter."

Still wider opened Cousin Jehoiakim's eyes.

"You will find also in your trunk a dozen and a half of new linen

shirts that I have taken the liberty of putting there instead of your

old ones."

"Thank you, dear aunt, you are very kind. I really am very sorry to

leave you all. I have enjoyed myself very much here; but Aunt Abigail

will feel hurt if I do not pay her a visit. I shall come again as soon

as I can, so do not cry your eyes out, Cousin Clarry."

The stage came and Cousin Jehoiakim went.

And the way I lured back my flown bird would make quite an interesting

sentimental little story of itself. Bless his bright eyes! they are

shining on me now, full of mischief at this sketch I am giving you,

beloved reader. But _didn't_ we have a nice wedding time? There was

Anna and her brave lieutenant, Brother Dick and his bright little

Fanny, the beautiful, majestic Jane, and my beautiful, majestic Cousin

Clarence, and my darling, good Edgar, and, dear reader, your very

humble servant.

CORIOLANUS.

BY HENRY B. HIRST.

How many legends have been told or sung

Since Rome--the nursling of the wolf--arose,

Lean, gaunt and grim, and lapped the bubbling blood

Of fallen and dying foes.

How many lyrics, which, like trumpets heard

At dawn, when, clad in steel, the long array

Of marshaled armies glittering in the sun

Stretch, like the skies, away.

But none so golden, chivalric and holy

As that of thine, Coriolanus--none

In the imperial purple of old days

But pale before its sun.

True, thou wast proud, and deemed the people base,

Prone to idolatry of those who sought

Their April smiles--who fawned to win their votes,

Nor dreamed them dearly bought.

Thou, who hadst stood where death reigned like a king,

First in Corioli--thy wounds in front--

Preferring neigh of steed and clash of arms,

The battle's deadly brunt,

To silken ease, and mirth, and song, and dance,

And festal follies in Etruscan halls--

Bacchantic revels, when the sun went down,

Beyond the city walls,

Couldst well gaze on the mass with eagle eye,

Demanding as a right their voice, and blush

To bare thy scars, while thy patrician scorn

Made cheek and forehead flush.

The base cabals--the hate which drove thee forth

A wanderer, ennobled thee: thy fame

Looked lightning on the curs that dared abuse,

But lacked the power to shame.

Prouder thy spirit in that trying hour

Than theirs who stung thee: well might'st thou go forth

Undaunted, for thy fame was not of Rome,

But, rather, of the earth.

Yet it was hard to leave thy wife and babe--

Virgilia and thy little one--hard to break

The bonds that held thee to them: Rome grew dear--

Most dear for their sweet sake.

But as their forms waxed dim, thy festering heart

Looked from thine eyes; thy swelling nostrils told

The inward struggle, and thy heaving chest

A human ocean rolled.

Kneeling upon the ground, thy sinister arm

Adjuring heaven, thy soul broke forth in tones

Of thunder; but thy agony in that hour

Pale Rome repaid with groans.

Coldly, with stately step and placid brow--

A lull--the herald of the approaching storm--

Thou went'st thy way toward Antium--trod its streets

Without the thought of harm.

Humble was thy approach, but thou went'st forth

A Mars of the time--thy snorting steed arrayed

And glistering with gold, while at thy heels

A thousand clarions brayed.

Rome from her seven hills looked down with fear,

Appalled and breathless, while her people stood

Like men awoke from sleep, amazed, aghast--

With agues in their blood.

Like an avenging angel with the sword

Of wrath unsheathed, careering toward thy home

Through flame and blood, thou rod'st: thy coming shook

The hundred gates of Rome.

She, who abused, beseeched thee, but in vain--

Humbled herself before thee; yet thy hate

Was unappeased; and, like one stricken dumb,

Rome gazed upon her fate.

But when Volumnia came--thy mother--she

Who bore thee 'neath her heart, and, at her side

The one who, in thy softer hours, with love

Thy trembling lip called bride,

Leading thy child--thy boy--the old hours came

Like south wind over thee; thy icy soul

Dissolved in tears; thy hard--thy iron heart

Acknowledged love's control,

And Rome was saved--Rome, who had wronged, was free!

--Thou lost!--O, never from the depths of Time

Came sweeter record of the power of love

Than this, in my poor rhyme.

Never was story fuller of the strength

Of love o'er hate: undimmed by age, it breathes

A perfume, and a crown around thy brow,

Coriolanus, wreathes!

LENNARD.

A TALE OF MARION'S MEN.

BY MRS. MARY G. HORSFORD.

--"Mightier far

Than strength of nerve or sinew, or the sway

Of magic potent over sun or star

Is Love, though oft to agony distrest,

And though his favorite seat be feeble woman's breast."

I.

Night o'er the Santee! up the sky

The pale moon went with misty eye;

And in the west a brooding cloud--

Departed day's wind-lifted shroud--

Waved slowly in the depths of blue,

While now and then a world looked through

The broken edge, as from above

Steals down a seraph's glance of love,

Through sorrow's cloud and mortal air,

On breaking hearts or tearful prayer.

II.

Within the recess of the wood

That on the river's margin stood,

Encamped beneath the shade

Of solemn pine and cypress tree,

And tulip soaring high and free,

A patriot band had made

Their pillows of the moss and leaves,

Through which the moaning south-wind grieves

When day forsakes the glade.

And all save one slept hushed as night

Beneath the starry Infinite--

That one a boy in years,

Whose daring arm and flashing eye,

When death and danger hovered nigh,

Belied the trembling fears

And shrinking dread that seemed to speak,

From quivering lip and pallid cheek

At sight of war's array;

The first the fearful strife to bide,

Forever at his captain's side,

Was Lennard in the fray;

Yet strange to tell, though oft beside

That captain's form he dared to bide

The cannon's fiery blast,

His hand no human blood had shed,

Beneath his steel no foe had bled,

When in the battle cast.

So said his comrades tried and cold,

Who marveled that a heart so bold,

Should beat in pitying breast.

And now beside the smouldering fire,

He marked its flickering flames expire,

And watched his leader's rest.

III.

That leader--in the civil strife

Then waged for Liberty and Life,

No braver spirit stood,

Between his country and the chain,

Mistaken tyranny would fain

Have cast o'er lake and wood;

And though in manhood's early morn,

Young Huon led through strife and scorn

A trusty troop and free,

Who left their homes his lot to share,

For Freedom sworn to live and dare,

Or die--at Fate's decree;

And from the covert solitude

Of dark morass and thicket rude

Guerilla warfare waged,

On Tory band, unwary foe,

And struck full many a dauntless blow,

While hate and conflict raged.

IV.

One hour from midnight and the sleep

That wrapped the stalwart frame so deep,

Was woke by guard and sign;

The forest sounded with the tramp

Of rushing steeds, until the camp

Was reached by foremost line

Of the brigade of fearless men,

Who rode through wood, and brake, and fen,

As speeds the red deer to his glen.

No gorgeous suit of war array,

No uniform of red or gray

In that rude band were seen;

The ploughman's dress, but coarse and plain,

And marred by toil with many a stain,

Betrayed no gilded sheen;

Their only badge the white cockade,

No dagger's point or glittering blade

Was worn with martial pride,

But sabre hilt and rifle true,

Oftimes of dark, ensanguined hue,

Were ever at the side.

They hailed their comrades in the fight,

With blazing fires illumed the night,

And waged with jest and smile,

As toward the lurid torches' light

Rode up their chief the while.

No pert gallant or Conrad he,

With gay plume waving haughtily;

Nor donned he aught his troopers o'er,

Save that the leathern cap he wore

In front a silver crescent bore,

Inscribed with "Death or Liberty."

Of stature low, the piercing eye,

And forehead broad, and full, and high,

And lined with lofty thought;

Were all that marked from his compeers,

The man who through long, gloomy years

With tireless vigor wrought,

Nerved by defeat for loftier aim,

To build his country's Hope and Fame,

And win for her a seat divine

Beneath bright Freedom's hallowed shrine;

And few, though rashly brave, would dare,

To start the Swamp Fox[2] from his lair.

Or in his fastness wild and dun,

Cope with the rebel Marion.

[Footnote 2: _Swamp Fox_ was the cognomen bestowed on Marion

by the British.]

V.

Soon Huon by the river's tide

Sought out his brave commander's side,

And listened with respectful air,

To learn what new emprise to share,

What lurking foe to shun or brave.

Short was their conference and grave,

Ere Huon bade a trooper call

His page, young Lennard, to his aid;

And passing 'neath the cedar tall,

And giant oaks' far spreading shade,

The boy with graceful step and light,

Stood quickly in his captain's sight,

And Marion thus, in kindly tone,

Spoke with a frankness all his own.

"'T is said, my boy, thy heart is brave,

Thy courage sure, and caution grave;

This night, then, we will task thy power.

Seek, ere the closing of the hour,

The village inn that stands below,

Embowered within the coppice glade,

And learn the bearings of the foe--

Their force in camp, and field, and shade;

But ere the silver moon again

O'er Carolina's hills shall wane,

Meet us beside the deep lagoon

Beyond, that knows no scorching noon."

VI.

Anon, far down the silent wood,

Undaunted by its solitude,

Sped Lennard on his way;

Until beneath a blasted pine,

Beyond the forest gray,

That tall, and bald, and hoary white,

Gleamed through the dusky veil of night,

As through Life's mist on human sight

Gleams vital truth divine,

He paused, and from a whistle clear,

Drew notes that thrilled the valley near.

VII.

Within the rebel camp, meanwhile,

No slumbers winning smiles beguile,

From care to dreams away;

The troop who view with fearless heart

The coming strife and battle's mart;

And thus with blithesome song, though rude,

Awake the echoes of the wood:

Though dark the night,

And fierce the fight,

We fear no living foe;

The swamp our home,

The sky our dome,

Our bed the turf below;

We hail the strife,

And prize not life,

Unblessed by Freedom's smile;

And Age and Youth,

To patriot Truth,

Pledge hopefully the while.

Our Country's name

Must sink in shame,

Or sound in triumph free;

Then, brothers, on!

For Marion,

Our homes and liberty.

VIII.

'T was morning--from the golden sky

Night fled before day's burning eye,

As flies the minister of sin

From souls that kneel to God, to win

Courage to meet the tempter's wile,

And strength upon the strife to smile.

Scarce had the cloudless sun betrayed,

The flowers that bloomed in meadows low,

Ere toward a thickly shaded glade,

An armed horseman traveled slow;

And paused beside a gushing spring,

Whose gentle murmurs thrilled the air,

As thrills an angel's unseen wing

The distant blue when mounting there.

The dark trees hung above its wave,

A tapestry of green,

And arching o'er the waters, gave

A softness to the sheen

Of mellow light that darted through

The dewy leaves of richest hue;

While round the huge trunks many a vine,

Had bade its graceful tendrils twine;

The blossoming grape and jessamine pale,

Loading with sweets the summer gale.

Not long with hasty step he trod

The narrow path and flowery sod,

Ere gently o'er the sere leaves' bed

A maiden passed with faltering tread.

IX.

Oh! light was the step of the blooming girl,

And glossy the hue of the raven curl,

And joyous the glance of the dark eye's play,

When the pride of the village was Morna Grey.

But ruthless war to her dwelling came,

Her brothers slept on the field of fame,

Her father's blood on his hearth was shed;

And the desolate orphan in anguish fled

To the cottage of one who her childhood nursed,

And who soothed the spirit that grief had cursed;

And now in the depths of that speaking eye

There slumbered a sadness still and high,

But veiled with a clear and mellow light,

Like the softened glow of a moonlit night;

And the rose on her cheek that came and went,

Like the hues of the West when day is spent,

Told how the chords of the heart below,

Quivered and shrunk at the breath of wo.

But why did a presage of coming ill,

With a fiercer pang her bosom thrill,

And pale her cheek to a deadlier hue,

As she sought the spring where the jessamine grew?

She had come to meet for a moment there,

Ere he sought the field in the strife to share,

One who her father had blessed in death,

As she pledged her faith with faltering breath;

And Huon with joyous smile and gay,

Welcomed the presence of Morna Grey.

X.

But the words they spoke were short and few--

A soldier must be to his duty true;

And ere a half hour had hastened by,

She watched his steed as it hurried nigh,

O'er the verdant plain to the cedars tall,

Where his men were waiting their leader's call.

As she dashed the drops that dimmed her sight,

From the dark-fringed lids where they trembled bright,

A rustling was heard in the brushwood near,

And a crone, whose wild and fantastic gear

Betrayed the erring of mind within,

Stood in her presence with mocking grin.

"Said I not sorrows in dark array,

Crowded the future of Morna Grey?

Why from the cheek do the roses fly?

Where is the light of the flashing eye?

Where has the rounded lips, ruby red,

Gone, since we parted beside the dead?

The white owl entered the casement high,

O'er the brow of the dying I saw it fly;

Presager of death! I hailed its wing,

She scorned the omen but felt the sting

Of bitter grief, when another day

Bore her angel Mother from earth away.

I warned her, when on the coming blast

I saw the phantom-like shades flit past;

She smiled on my words as idle play,

But wept when her sire, in the midnight fray,

Felled to the dust by the Tory's blade,

Died in the home where his bones are laid;

When the cold drops stood on the forehead fair,

And the curdling blood on the thin, gray hair.

But the dead in silence forgotten sleep;

She is weaving on earth a vision deep,

Of joyous hopes that must fade and die,

Like the bow that smiles when the tempests fly,

In vain the strength of her youth is shed,

In a path where she trembles and fears to tread;

In vain--in vain would the fragile form,

Brave the hot breath of the cannon's storm;

The bullet speeds on its mission free--

A broken heart and a grave I see."

"Though dark my way, I fear it not;

Speed, woman, to thy sheltered cot,

Lest thou, with no protector nigh,

Should catch some hostile wanderer's eye.

My trust is in that mighty Power,

Who rules the battle's wildest hour;

And woman's love is like the flower

That bloometh not in sunny bower;

But when the dark and solemn night,

Has gathered round with storm and blight,

Unfolds its petals bright and rare,

And sheds its fragrance on the air;

And if it dare and peril all,

Asks only to preserve or fall,

His bleeding land requires his arm--

God will protect the brave from harm."

"Behold!" and Morna turned to gaze

Upon the huge tree, dark and lone,

The withered finger of the crone

Marked out, and glancing in the rays

Of morn, beheld a serpent coil

Its glossy length, with easy toil,

Up the brown trunk, till close it hung

Above the wild bird's nest and young;

While round and round, with scream of dread,

The frighted bird in anguish fled;

And vainly sought to drive the foe

From his dark aim again below.

XI.

Moments there are when Reason's control,

Yieldeth to Fancy in heart and soul;

When the spirit views with prescient eye,

The common light and shaded sky,

An omen finds in the falling leaf,

And symbols in all things of joy or grief.

And this was one, for on that failing strife

Had Morna cast her dearest hope in life.

Must she behold with power as vain to shield,

Earth's only blessing from her presence torn?

Was there a fiercer pang for her revealed

In that short conflict than she yet had known?

Her dark eyes grew more wildly bright,

And gleamed with an intenser light,

As closer drew the venomed fang,

And shrill the lone bird's accents rang.

But, hark! a shot--a rustling fall--

Approaching steps--a sportman's call--

The parent bird is in the dust;

And o'er the path that homeward led,

With fleeting step fair Morna fled,

And breathed a prayer of thanks and trust.

Though sweet to live, more blest to die,

For those that strong affections tie

Has fettered to the clinging heart,

With links not Death can wholly part.

XII.

The day wore on, and down the West,

The sun had rolled in his unrest;

While gorgeous clouds of gold and red,

Reflected back the splendor fled;

And twilight--pensive nun, to pray,

In silence drew her veil of gray.

The last bright gleam was waxing pale,

And low night winds began their wail,

When near a ruined house, that stood

Within a grove of tulip wood,

Young Lennard paused and gazed awhile,

With clouded brow and saddened smile,

On trampled flowers, and shrubs, and vine,

Torn from the pillar it would twine

With verdant bloom, and casting round

Its scarlet blossoms on the ground.

A waste of weeds the garden lay,

And grass grew in the carriage way;

Cold desolation, like a pall,

Had spread its mantle over all;

Yet not the creeping touch of Time,

Had wrecked that dwelling in its prime.

The fierce and unrelenting wrath

Of human war had crossed that path,

And left its trace on all things near,

Save the blue sky above our sphere.

Anon, with hurried step and free,

He crossed the ruined balcony,

And passing by the fallen door,

Stood on the dark hall's oaken floor.

Lighting the pine-torch that he bore,

He watched its lurid beams explore

The gloomy precincts, and passed on,

As one who knew each winding well,

To a low room that lay beyond,

And echoed to the south wind's knell.

Upon the threshold crushed and lone,

By rude marauder's hand o'erthrown,

The holy volume lay;

He raised it from its station there,

And smoothed the crumpled leaves with care,

Then sadly turned away

To gaze upon a portrait near,

Whose thoughtful eyes, so calm and clear,

And chastened look and lofty mien,

And forehead noble and serene,

Told of a spirit touched by time

Only to soften and sublime;

Of woman's earnest faith and love

Surmounting earth to soar above.

XIII.

With quivering lip the boy gazed long;

Unheeded and unmarked a throng

Might there have met, so fixed his soul

On Memory's unfolding scroll.

He knew not that the hours crept by,

And sullen grew the deepening night;

Again he met his mother's eye,

As erst in joyous days and bright,

And heard the accents clear and mild,

Now hushed in death, breathe o'er her child

A fervent blessing and a prayer;

Again his father's silver hair

Gleamed on his sight, although the tomb

Had closed him in its rayless gloom.

XIV.

His leathern cap aside was flung,

And o'er his brow the dark locks hung

In wild confusion, as he stood

Amid that haunted solitude,

Raising the blazing torch to throw

Upon the pictured face its glow.

In him a careless eye might see

A semblance of that face in life;

With more of fire and energy

To brave the storm and strife;

With more of earthly hope to claim,

And less of Heaven--yet still the same.

XV.

But suddenly the mystic spell

That bound him to the Past was rent;

The vivid lightning, forked and red,

Flashed through the broken casement, blent

With the loud thunder's awful roar,

Prolonged and echoing o'er and o'er.

The warring of the world without

Offended not the struggling heart;

Roused from the apathy of thought

He sought the casement with a start,

And watched the raging storm sweep by

With kindling cheek and flashing eye.

XVI.

On! on! it came with fiery breath,

Instinct with rage and winged with death,

As downward swept, ere Time begun

His swift and varied race to run,

Through realms chaotic and sublime,

With wing of light and forehead pale,

Immortal in remorse and crime,

Thrilling the Infinite with wail,

The apostate troops from lands of light

To darkness, shame and withering blight.

On! on! it came, and in its path

The tall trees bent beneath its wrath,

And fell with hollow, crashing sound,

Torn and uprooted, to the ground.

Still nearer grew the lightning flash,

And heavier broke the thunder crash;

And as, with almost blinded gaze,

Watched Lennard the electric blaze,

He saw through rain and densest night

A thin, pale line of waving light

Speed to a lofty oak, whose head

Sunk powerless to its parent bed.

XVII.

The hours passed on--the storm had spent

The fury to its madness lent,

And wild and sullen clouds on high

In broken masses swept the sky,

As Lennard left the ruined hall,

And, bounding o'er the garden wall,

Walked swiftly o'er the lonely plain,

Till 'neath the blasted pine again

He paused, and blew the whistle low;

Soon from a clump of firs below

An aged servant slowly led

A saddled steed: the pale moon shed

Its fitful gleam as Lennard sprung

Light to his seat, then fearless flung

The bridle loose, and spurring, soon

Drew up beside a deep lagoon,

Whose stagnant waters 'neath the moon

Glimmered through bush and hanging vine,

And cypress bald and ragged pine.

Concealed within the spectral gloom,

Of wide morass and forest tomb,

His comrades there he found;

By many a devious winding led,

Where the pale fire-flies' torches shed

A fitful gleam around,

He paused at length where Huon stood,

Amid his faithful band, though rude,

And thus his errand told:

"Where bends the Santee in the plain

Has Tarleton's troop encamped again,

With careless movement bold;

One half his men will march to-night

To join the troop on Charleston height,

The guard will be both dull and light;

A few short hours, with speed and care,

Must lead us to the station there."

XVIII.

His mission o'er, with thoughtful look,

The boy sought out a shaded nook,

Apart from all--yet near

The opening where the men had laid

Their rations on the mossy glade,

Beside the swamp-marsh drear.

Silent was he, reserved and shy,

Seldom raising cap or eye;

Not many days since first his hand

Had joined him to that patriot band;

Yet none more truly did fulfill,

The duties of his arm required,

Though slight withal, and often still

When the loud signal-gun was fired,

The herald of the coming fight,

His cheek would pale like flowers at night

Beneath the autumn's chilling blight;

None knew his residence or name,

Save that of Lennard, which he told

The morn when to the camp he came,

And begged that he might be enrolled

In Huon's corps, to serve with those

Who bled to heal their country's woes;

Of late his arm had bolder grown

When in the rout and skirmish thrown,

And stronger, too, and Huon loved

The slender boy who at his side

Stood nobly when o'er War's red tide

The fiery death-shot moved.

XIX.

'Twas midnight, as with silent tread,

Like one who bears the coffined dead,

His valiant troopers Marion led

Through long and dark defile;

And on they marched till morning light

With streaks of crimson touched the night;

Then, unannounced by trumpet-clang,

Fell on the slumb'ring foe;

Swift to his post each warrior sprang,

Above, around, below;

And soon in close and eager strife,

As o'er the tomb meet Death and Life,

The hostile forces stood;

The sabre flashed in day's bright eye,

The whizzing shot, death-winged, swept by,

The turf grew red with blood;

And where the charge was hottest made,

Where boldest fell the flashing blade,

Was Huon foremost there;

And ever near his daring hand

The youngest, gentlest of his band,

Stood Lennard on that day;

Fierce raged the conflict o'er the dead,

Until, o'erpowered, the vanquished fled;

Yet ere they left the fray

One aimed the bloody lance he bore

At Huon's heart--a moment more,

And Lennard fell, his life-blood o'er

The green turf welling fast;

The blade that sought his leader's breast

His hand aside had cast;

Swift to his aid his comrades prest;

The death-hue on his forehead lay

As Huon flung both sword and lance

With quivering lip away,

And met in Lennard's dying glance

The smile of Morna Grey.

XX.

Beside the Santee's murmuring wave,

They made the early dead a grave;

And sometimes on its borders green

The passing traveler has seen

A spot where pale wild roses blow

The lofty oaks and firs below--

The turf is verdant with the spray--

There sleeps the dust of Morna Grey.

And Huon?--Still his daring arm

Was lifted in his country's aid,

Though life had lost its sunniest charm,

And o'er the future hung a shade;

And time would fail me now to tell

Of all the deeds his valor wrought,

How, when Fort Moultrie's color fell,

He mounted 'mid the flames and shot

The merlon height, and fixed on high

The starry banner 'mid the sky.

Nor how he died--the nobly slain,

In bearing from the battle-plain

The flag intrusted to his care.

But deeds like these were common then

As life, and light, and air;

Brave deeds that shall forever round

Our nation's annals cling;

Perchance some louder harp shall sound,

Some bolder spirit sing.

For me--the first pale star on high

Herald's the night with beaming eye,

And down the west has rolled the sun--

My song is o'er--my task is done.

NOTE.

During the Revolution, a young girl plighted to an

officer of Marion's corps, followed him without being

discovered to the camp, where, dressed in male attire,

and unknown to him, she enrolled in the service. A few

days after, during a fierce conflict that occurred, she

stood by his side in the thickest of the fight, and in

turning away a lance aimed at his heart received it in

her own, and fell bleeding at his feet. She was buried

on the banks of the Santee. He was afterward

distinguished in the service at Fort Moultrie, and at

Savannah, where he received his death-wound in carrying

off the flag which was intrusted to him.

THE POLE'S FAREWELL.

BY WM. H. C. HOSMER.

Warsaw, farewell! Alone that word

Fame's dark eclipse recalls;

The voice of wail alone is heard

Within her ruined walls--

Her pavement rings beneath the tread

Of bondsmen by their master led.

Hope kindles on my native shore

No more her beacon fires--

The Northern Bear is trampling o'er

The dust of fallen sires,

And signal ever to destroy

Hath been his growl of savage joy.

Oh! for one hour of glory gone--

An arm of might to hurl

The Czar, in thunder, from his throne,

And Freedom's flag unfurl;

Then welcome, like a bride, the grave,

Unbranded by the name of slave!

Our snowy Eagle[3] screams no more

Defiance high and loud;

The wing is broken that could soar

Through battle's smoky cloud,

And wounded by a coward's spear,

His perch is now lost Poland's bier.

Once happy was the hall of Home,

Now Desolation's lair--

Blood stains its hearth, and I must roam

A pilgrim of despair,

Leaving, when heart and brain grow cold,

My weary bones in foreign mould.

[Footnote 3: The Ensign of Poland is a White Eagle.]

THE FORTUNES OF A SOUTHERN FAMILY.

A TALE FOUNDED ON FACT.

BY A NEW CONTRIBUTOR.

PART I.

"Oh! it is pleasant for the good to die--to feel

Their last wild pulses throbbing, while the seal

Of death is placed upon the tragic brow;

The soul in quiet looks within itself,

And sees the heavens faintly pictured there."

Now, would that I could wield as magic a pencil as did Benjamin West,

that mighty paint-king, how quickly would glow upon canvas one of the

most beautiful and magnificent landscapes that ever entranced the eye

of a scenery-loving traveler--a landscape upon which you might gaze

enraptured every day for years, as I have done, and yet never tire nor

grow less fond of beholding it. I would paint for your especial

gratification, a living, a breathing picture of my old homestead,

endeared by so many joy-fraught hours, and the surrounding scenery,

through which I roved until I knew its every nook and corner as well

as my dog-leaved spelling-book, by the venerable Dilworth. But, as it

is, dear reader, I must be content to offer you a rude "_pen and ink

sketch_," excavated from the ruins of my childhood recollections of as

exquisitely beautiful and picturesque a spot as ever riveted the human

gaze.

Imagine, for a moment, that we are standing upon a ledge of moss-grown

rocks, projecting from a red hill-side, and whose verge beetles over a

foaming river, which swirls and rages amongst the uplifting crags,

flashing with diamonds in its rush and impetuosity, and then, placid

and almost waveless, creeping on through the gnarled old forest with a

faint murmur, seeming like a huge serpent of silver asleep in the

gushing sunshine.

We are leaning against a rugged mass of the gray ledge--your head is

resting upon your right hand, and you are gazing intently down at the

circle and whirl of the romping waters. Only a few yards above, a cool

spring gushes up, quick and bright, dimpling and laughing in the

arrowy sunshine, then flashing and foaming over the dark rocks, and

twisting in and out among the bare roots of the majestic oak that

cools us with its shadows, falls in a golden shower to the mossy basin

at your feet, and leaping over the steep precipice, mingles in foam

with the seething river below. We are turned toward the west, and as

you raise your eyes to a level with the horizon, one of the most

stupendous views of the Blue Mountains that ever caused man to stop in

breathless awe, now presents itself to your astonished gaze. Mountain

towers behind mountain, and peak behind peak in wild sublimity, like

giant waves heaved along the blue sky, almost seeming as if they were

the ramparts of the world. Their sloping sides are dark with forests,

save here and there, where the axe has penetrated their recesses, and

blocked out spaces which, having been touched with the magic of the

plough, now smile with fertility. And yonder, a little to your right,

lifting his narrow pinnance above all the rest, stands time-honored

Currahee, with his red cap on--for thus we are accustomed to designate

the barren soil which crowns his lofty summit.

Now, for a moment, permit me to call your attention farther up the

river. Did you ever see a more entrancing and exquisitely beautiful

cascade, steeped as it is in the softness, and glowing with the

brightness of a cloudless spring morning? See how the wreathes of foam

come bounding along, like a pack of ravenous wolves chasing each

other, and stop suddenly in their mad career, for an instant

equipoising upon the very brink, as if they had shrunk back and feared

to take the awful leap, then, pushed on by the rush of the waters

behind, descend like a shower of diamonds, and come whirling and

dashing through the narrow gorge at our feet. And is not that deep

basin at the base of the falls glorious? What an angry aspect its

surface puts on, plunging and surging like a mass of living snow,

while the flashing sunlight is perpetually endeavoring to paint a

rainbow in the ever-mounting spray, and yet never quite succeeds. And

those massive rocks, too, piling themselves up so quaintly on either

side of the falls, just where they take the final plunge--are they not

magnificent? How verdant and mossy, and superb in their ruggedness!

Oh! if we were only upon one of those ledges--that one that seems

ready to bow itself into the foaming torrent; if we only stood there,

by that wide-spreading, gnarled old oak, twisting its dark roots in

and out amongst the deep crevices like a knot of huge serpents, what a

glorious prospect would burst upon your sight! There are _so_ many

entrancing scenes about my birth-place, but, among them all, none as

magnificent as the one you behold from that mossy ledge. But the

bridge--did you look at the old bridge? See where it stands festooned

with shadows. That is a dear spot to me, for with it are associated

some of the most treasured recollections of my boyhood. One end of

this time-worn fabric opens into a sandy lane, with broad, green

margins on both sides next the zig-zag fences, where I have so often

gathered a bunch of flowers for my instructress, as I passed through

it on my way to the school-house; the other is embowered by a clump of

oak and beech trees, which, together with a few hemlocks and

chestnuts, out-skirt a superb grove of evergreens, in the midst of

which towers the little white cottage of Farmer Daniels. There was

always a dream-like stillness about the old bridge that pleased me;

and I have spent whole hours in peeping through the crevices of those

time-worn and trampled planks, at the dark, deep waters creeping and

dimpling beneath the massive and sodden arches with a low gurgle,

receiving a sheet of silver sheen as they stole away into the rich

sunshine; and, in gazing over the rude balustrade where the gaudy

butterflies flitted around, or rested by the river's brink, opening

and shutting their unruffled fans; or in flinging pebbles into the

placid waters, and then watching the widening circles as they swept

down with the current. But there is yet another thing about the old

bridge for which I have cherished memories; that venerable buttonwood

tree, gnarled and twisted into the quaintest and most comical

deformity, that looms up from that high bank at the end of the lane.

That bough which projects so far over the rippling surface, making a

horizontal bend, like that of a man's arm, and then shooting up

several yards at an obtuse angle, terminating in a mass of luxuriant

foliage, was my favorite seat, when fishing, through many a long

summer.

Now, look still farther down the river. Follow the grass-fringed banks

in their graceful curve around yonder dark, gray promontory, until

your eye rests upon a long ridge of snowy foam, where a stream of

considerable magnitude mingles its waters with those of the river.

Glancing a little way up this stream, a huge old mill presents itself

to view, blackened with exposure, and grown picturesque by the lapse

of years. Here and there the green moss adorns its roof, and slumbers

along the walls with a quaint richness, especially where the heavy

water-wheel, revolving in a sea of foam, keeps it shadowy and moist. A

short distance above stands the pond--a broad, beautiful expanse of

water, glittering like a sheet of untarnished silver; and, in a shady

nook, close by the dam, where the large weeping-willow sways its long,

drooping branches to and fro wearily, floats a little boat, endeared

by many a fond remembrance.

Turn once more, and mark how the river, increased in size by the

addition of the mill-stream, having swept around Castle-Hill, (so

named from its rugged front and frowning aspect,) comes resplendently

into view again, glowing like a sheet of burnished white, in strange

and singular contrast with the many and dense shadows which always

fringe its banks like heaps of black drapery. See where it takes a

sudden bend, flowing back toward the falls, and then curving

gracefully to the west, dividing against a jutting rock, and sweeping

around it and the adjacent woodland, forming an island about a mile in

circumference. That large white building, which crowns the summit of

that gentle declivity on the nearest side of the island, with a neat

porch in front, half embowered by vines and fruit trees--that is my

birth-place. There never was a spot at once so tranquil and

picturesque as that where stands my dear old homestead. Is it not a

beautiful mansion-house? How sequestered and deliciously cool? The

slope down to the river's brink is covered with a wilderness of

shrubbery; while to the right of the garden-fence spreads a

magnificent grove of white pines, once making a famous play-ground for

us children. Down yonder, in that old field waving with long grass,

beyond the grove, is a patch of splendid blackberry bushes; and near

that old ivy-bound oak on the bank, leaning so gracefully over the

placid waters, as if to greet his image reflected in its vast mirror,

is a fine place to hunt summer grapes. At the building, that little

right-hand window with a shutter, around which are trailed pea-vines

and purple morning-glories, and just above the roof of the porch,

opens into a small chamber--my sleeping-room. At night you can behold

a most magnificent prospect from that little window. It looks directly

down upon the river, which, when there is a full moon and cloudless

sky, seems like one broad belt of molten silver, weaving its way in

and out among the gnarled old trees, at intervals, sparkling through

openings in the thrifty foliage with exceeding beauty; and again,

entangled in the black shadows flung upon it by the beetling crags

above. Then all is so silent, too, save the snowy water-fall sending

up its eternal anthem to the skies, yet coming to your ears with such

a pleasant sound that you never tire in listening. Sometimes the sky

is full of golden stars, and then the scene is so beautiful--oh! so

very beautiful! Many a time have I stolen from my bed, far away in the

night, while all the rest were in deep repose, to gaze upon the soft

moonlight flashing over the meadows until they looked like acres of

green velvet, and gathering upon the dark foliage until it almost

seemed as if it were sprinkled with umber dust, or to gaze at the deep

blue cerulean, studded with innumerable burning orbs.

There is another object to which I must direct your particular

attention, since it assumes an important place in the relation of my

story. Trace the road from where it leaves the east end of the bridge

with an abrupt curve, sweeping around that magnificent grove of

evergreens, passes the old mill, and turning to the east again for a

short distance, threads its way along a grassy lane, and you arrive

before a neat, commodious frame building, prettily white-washed in

front, and hedged in by a rustic fence, with a little gate opening

next the road. This was the dwelling of our schoolmistress, the

remembrance of whom will ever be an oasis upon the deserts of

memory--for to her I owe some of the most pleasurable moments of my

boyhood existence. A more Christian-like spirit, a soul fraught with

greater or intenser sympathies, and a mind less selfish in its

manifestations, or imbued with more genial influences than hers, never

existed within the compass of human being. As a teacher, she was firm,

yet mild; as a neighbor, kind and obliging--in a word, her whole

demeanor was such that the heart unconsciously awakened to

affectionate regard. The dwelling of our schoolmistress was originally

built, at her request, by a benevolent farmer, with the understanding

between them that some future day should witness a transfer of

ownership, and contains but three apartments--a large room, which, in

the words of the old song, serves for "parlor, for kitchen, and hall,"

and two small chambers, but all as neat as hands can make them. Its

white front, and massive stone chimnies, were completely embowered by

a clump of superb maples, whose heavy branches twining their dark

foliage, form a delightful arbor over the very entrance, from the

first bursting forth of the tiny buds into perfect life and beauty,

until autumn comes with its garment of mourning, and the sere and

yellow leaves slowly forsake the limbs which have been their

birth-place. A thicket of damask and white roses, lilac trees, and

clusters of pale-blue clematis, with a wealth of other flowers,

luxuriate beneath, where they receive just enough of the warm and rich

sunshine that flashed through the woven shades upon them in the

morning, and of the scented dew-drops which the wind shakes from the

leaves above at nightfall, to make them the most beautiful flower-plot

in all the neighborhood. At the back, a low shed, extending the whole

length of the house, one corner projecting further than the rest, and

covering a cool spring that gushes up, quick and bright, with a sweet

impetuosity, and goes dancing merrily across the green meadow, bright

and glorious in the sunlight, but sullen in the shade. The scenery

around, too, is magnificent. Here spreads a vast and unbroken forest,

whose mighty solitudes once echoed to the whar-whoop of the savage,

and looked upon his horrid rites beneath a midnight moon, or scowling

sky; and, in the dim distance loom the granite-based mountains, like

giant pillars to the vault of heaven, from whose tempest-beaten

summits fifty centuries have looked down, unnoted and unknown.

Our schoolmistress was a widow, the Widow White, as she was usually

designated. A woman of middle-age at the commencement of my story, she

had devoted many years to securing a decent competence for her

declining years, and for her only child such an education as would

prepare him for an honorable station in society. Early wedded to a

young clergyman of promising expectations, she was left a widow

shortly after the birth of a son, and only a few days after her

husband had assumed his duties as pastor of the little flock amidst

which she had scarcely taken her abode. Thus left alone at the very

period when most she needed a protector, she began her course with the

unfaltering energy which ever characterized her undertakings. Yielding

to conscientious scruples, she refused the assistance kindly offered

by the surrounding community, and having chosen a vocation,

assiduously applied herself to the accomplishment of her cherished

purpose. Ere long, she had heaped together an amount of money

sufficiently large to purchase the comfortable homestead I have

pointed out.

There it is that the opening scene of my story commences. The sun was

setting leisurely behind the western mountains in a mass of lurid

clouds, and drowsy twilight had already begun to blur the fine scenery

in the east, when Widow White sat down to her evening repast. A fire

of hickory reflected a ruddy glare upon the hearth, before which

reclined innocent pussy, with eyes half-closed, gazing intently at the

flames as they crept slowly around the logs, and uniting, darted

suddenly up the wide-mouthed chimney. The pine floor and splint chairs

were scoured with scrupulous exactness; a small, oblong looking-glass,

crowned with shrubs of evergreen, rested upon the high mantle-piece;

the two windows were adorned with curtains of coarse, but milk-white

linen, and, in one corner, stood a quaint bedstead of curled maple,

covered with a counterpane of old-fashioned dimity, which lay upon it

like a sheet of snow. In the centre of the room was placed a small

table, covered with a cloth of freshly ironed linen, which fairly

rivaled the ermine in whiteness, upon which sat a garniture of glossy

porcelain. A plate of venison and nut-brown sausages, surrounded by

pearly and yellow eggs, sent up its savory odors to tempt the palate,

while a pitcher of rye-coffee, on which the heavy cream was mounting

like a foam, stood at its side; and, near by, a loaf of warm

wheat-bread, a saucer of wild-honey, and another of golden

butter--these constituting the wholesome repast of which Widow White

was partaking.

"Heaven be praised for a comfortable house and bountiful meal!" she

piously ejaculated, rising from her seat with the expression of

gratitude warm from her heart. "If we always have as good, we shall

never have cause to complain."

Although no apparent attention was paid them, these words were

evidently intended for her son, a tall, premature-looking youth,

between the ages of fourteen and fifteen, who had entered the room

only a few moments before, and now stood leaning against the

mantle-piece, beating the devil's tatoo upon the wall, and, from time

to time, whistling snatches of a popular air. His strongly marked

features, though handsome, were bold and repulsive, the upper lip

curling with half a sneer--but it was merely the soul imaged in the

countenance, for, lad as he was, the spirit had quaffed many a deep

draught of sinfulness, while mildew and iciness had crept down and

sullied the purity of his heart, whose stern monitor-angel,

conscience, still vainly strove to awaken rich melody from the chords

which had once vibrated to its slightest touch.

"David," again spoke Widow White in a subdued tone of voice, raising

her eyes to the face of her son, "for the last few days I have been

thinking deeply of the past--thinking what a mighty change fourteen

short, rapid years have wrought in every thing around me. You were a

babe in the cradle then, and the grave of your father was fresh in the

lonely church-yard. The sky of my life was black with the storms of

adversity, and I was very unhappy, for it almost seemed as if the day

which had departed from it never would dawn again. But amidst all this

gloominess and desolation, one star beamed with a constant and steady

radiance, and that star was yourself. I loved you as my life, and

many, many a time, as I rocked you to repose, have I pictured out a

bright and glorious future for you, while my mind thrilled with the

pleasure of its own creations. But a blight has come upon it all. I

loved you _too_ well--too well for either mine or your own good.

Yielding to the fondness of a mother's love, I indulged almost your

every wish, until now, turbulent and self-willed, you spurn my best

and holiest affections as a mockery, and I find, almost too late, that

I have greatly erred. I speak this in no spirit of unkindness, David.

I feel it to be my duty as a Christian--my duty as a mother, to talk

with you as I am now doing. God knows bow fearful was the struggle

within my mind before I could bring myself to the determination I

have. But I am resolved now; the scales have fallen from my eyes, and

I can plainly see both your danger and my own. You are trembling upon

the very brink of destruction, and I would ever feel as if there were

a curse upon my soul, were I to see it all, and yet not endeavor to

save you. I have come to an unshaken determination. There must be a

reformation."

"Another sermon, I suppose. It is bad enough to hear one every Sunday,

but one every day is intolerable _and_ insufferable," insolently broke

in the lad, and he kicked the cat across the room, and began to

whistle snatches of a lively air.

The widow turned with a deep sigh to the window, while a gleam of

sharp agony shot across her face, and then seeming not to heed the

interruption, she continued:

"Yesterday I was in the village, and saw Mr. Warwick, the saddler. I

have made arrangements with him for your becoming an apprentice to the

trade, and to-morrow you are to go there. It is the best thing I can

do for you, David, and the fullness of a mother's heart alone prompted

it. If you conduct yourself properly, you may still become an

honorable man, and occupy an honorable station in society; but if you

persist in your vicious habits, God only knows where you will end."

Here she paused for a moment, and then added: "To-night I am going

away for some hours. Mrs. Williams is very sick, perhaps dying, and

has sent for me. I may not return until quite late, but, in the

morning before you go, we can talk this subject over fully."

There was such an earnestness and depth of feeling in his mother's

remarks, that David White felt but little inclined to reply the second

time, but the dark thoughts and evil feelings rankled deeply in his

heart, though no tongue gave them utterance.

Widow White gazed intently into the fire for several minutes after she

had ceased speaking, and then taking her bonnet from the bed, advanced

to the door, but stopped a moment on its threshold, and turning to her

son, said, "Should you become drowsy before I return, carefully cover

up the fire ere retiring to bed." She closed it after her, and David

was alone.

He stood still until the last echo of his mother's footsteps died away

in the distance, and then crept stealthily to the front window, where,

seeing her passing the gate into the lane, he broke out into a low

laugh, and returned again to the fire-place.

"So, I must be a saddler, must I? Ahem! Well! it takes two to play at

that, so we'll see who makes high, low, Jack, and the game this deal.

Hurst was about right when he said things would come to a compass

afore long. Guess they have, but who cares? I reckon I know which side

my bread is buttered!"

Here David White again crossed over to the window, and looked out. His

mother was far away in the lane, and just turning the last pannel of

the garden fence, where the road branched off, and led by the old

mill. Withdrawing from the window, he took a small hand-saw file, and

a rudely fashioned key from his pocket, passed over to the bed, and

lifting the foot-valance, drew out a large and strong oaken chest;

then glancing hurriedly around the room to be sure that no one was

present, he applied the key to the lock. It did not quite fit, but,

after carefully filing and applying it for some time, the bolt turned

in its socket, and the chest stood open before him. In rummaging the

till, he at length discovered the object of his search, a purse of

silver coin, the accumulated gains of months, and placed there by his

mother only a few days previous. This was not her usual depository for

money, but, in the present instance, it had been laid aside until the

absent minister of the village should return, into whose hands she was

accustomed to deliver her spare funds for safe keeping. Laying the

purse by his side, he locked the chest, and having arranged every

thing as nearly as possible as he found it, retired through an

opposite door into his chamber.

"Twenty dollars and a shilling, I think they said," muttered he to

himself. "A good round sum for one evening's work. I wonder if I

hadn't better take mother's fashion, and praise Heaven for it?"

Having entered his chamber, he sat down to count his newly-acquired

treasure, and finding the amount as large as he expected, carefully

deposited it, with the exception of a few dollars, in a leathern belt

around his person. Then assuming his shot-pouch, and flinging his

rifle to his shoulder, he stooped down, and taking a small bundle,

wrapped in a silk handkerchief, from his trunk, retired from the

house, slamming the door violently after him, and walked rapidly on,

until he reached the summit of an eminence near the old moss-grown

mill, which was the last place from which he could see the home he was

leaving, perhaps forever. Here he stopped for a few moments, leaned

his rifle and bundle against a large, long-limbed, butter-nut, and sat

down upon a decaying log at its foot, to gaze, for the last time, upon

the old mansion which had been his home from earliest remembrance.

It has been said that there are times when the stoniest hearts are

softened; when the sternest natures are made mild, and when the most

abandoned are like little children. That moment had now come for David

White. It was strange, passing strange. He had committed crime upon

crime, yet scarcely felt a moment's remorse; for years he had acted

toward his mother as if his whole soul were naught but selfishness;

but when he came to leave that mother, that old homestead, and all the

bright and beautiful objects around it, a softness breathed over his

iron-nature, and the fount of tears sent up its gushing libations. I

have often thought that such feelings must be akin to those

mysterious, indefinable, and gloomy forebodings--those dim and

indescribable fears and shrinkings within self, that sometimes come

over our spirits like a creeping, icy thrill--in the midst of a giddy

round of pleasure, or, as we stand by the grave's brink to see our

friends entombed, and yet which no earthly or human cause is able to

explain.

He was beholding everything for the last time, and he looked around

him as the dying man upon his nearest friends, when he feels the cold

hand of death pressed heavily upon his brow, and the silver chords of

his spirit's harp gathering to their utmost tension, and snapping, one

by one, like reeds before the blast. There was the home which had

sheltered him in his helplessness, glowing in a shower of soft

moonlight, and seeming more beautiful than he ever saw it before.

There the only true love this wide world of cold and bitter

heartlessness can know, beamed on his infant eyes; and there he had

spent the only happy moments in all his boyhood existence. In that

little room he had first learned to pray, and there, first forgotten

the duty. There his mother had watched over him night after night,

when he had a burning fever, and the grave had half-opened its

terrible portals for his entrance. And now he was going to abandon

that mother who had loved and cherished him so fondly--leave her all

alone, a joyless, childless widow, and for what cause? He choked down

the emotion that rose to his mind, and turned hurriedly in another

direction. Not more than twenty paces from him, a stream went dancing

and bubbling across the road like a track of liquid silver--the stream

that was fed by the cool spring at home; and he remembered how he had

gazed in transport, many years agone, at the bright-hued insects

floating in the meek, golden-colored sunshine, now sinking their

velvet feet into the moist sand upon the water's brink, and sipping

tiny draughts; or, resting upon the edges of the blue and crimson

flowers that looked up like gems from the verdant grass, opening and

shutting their unruffled fans, woven of gold and sunlight. He turned

away from the scene sick at heart, but still another object presented

itself to view, awakening old memories. A little farther on yonder in

the green meadow, through which murmured the mill-stream, and by the

drooping-willow whose long branches rippled in the current, was a deep

place, in the midst of which loomed up a dark-gray rock, like a lone

sentinel to the rapid waters, and the scene made his heart bound

again. There he had angled for trout for many a summer, and looked

down delighted into the music-breathing waters, watching the silver

and mottled fishes as they went trooping swiftly past, like guests to

a fairy wedding. The tears gushed into his eyes as old recollections

came thronging to his mind, and he faltered in his determination. He

turned, and took one step toward home, but vicious impulses triumphed,

and the rainbow that had begun to arch his heart faded in darkness. He

disappeared down the slope toward the old bridge, and David White was

ruined forever.

Meanwhile Widow White had almost reached her destination. A few steps

farther on rose a little white-washed cottage, with sloping roof, and

two large china-trees embowering it in front. As she arrived at the

small trellis-work gate, a light met her eye, faintly twinkling

through the dark foliage of an intervening bough, and reflecting a

ruddy glare upon the side-walk that lay entombed in shadow. She opened

the gate, followed the narrow foot-path leading to the front door, and

found herself in a dark entry, with a few rays of light shimmering

through the key-hole of a door immediately before her. As she put her

hand to the latch, a stifled sob broke upon her ear, and noiselessly

opening the door, she glided into the apartment. It was indeed the

chamber of death. On a little table by the fire-place, amidst a number

of glasses and vials, burned a solitary candle over a long and

lengthening wick, shedding a dim radiance throughout the room. By the

side of an old-fashioned bedstead, hung with snow-white valance, knelt

the old gray-headed minister, and his low voice, broken and

thrillingly solemn, went up in earnest prayer for a departing soul.

Upon the bed itself, propped up with pillows, lay the invalid. Three

days ago the flush of health had mantled her cheek, and brightened in

her eye, and now, how ghastly and changed she was! The sunken and

mist-covered eye; the pallid cheek; the hueless lips, and painful

breath, too truly testified that the dark angel Azrael was watching by

the couch-side. At the head of the bed sat the daughter, a little girl

apparently five years of age, with her head bent upon her knees, and

her hands clasped beneath her face, weeping bitterly. The supplicating

accents of the gray-haired minister ceased, and he arose from his

kneeling posture, his eyes streaming with tears, and clasping in both

of his the thin white hand that rested upon the snowy counterpane,

leaned gently over, and placed his lips close to the ear of the dying

woman.

"My dear Mrs. Williams," said he kindly, "we all feel that you are

rapidly sinking; do you die happy? Do you feel that there is a Jesus

in heaven, through whose mediation you will be saved?"

There was a rustling of the bed-clothes, a faint murmur, and the

sufferer languidly turned her eyes upon the speaker. A dimness was in

those sunken orbs; a clamminess upon her wan brow, and her breast

heaved wildly beneath the linen that lay in snowy waves across it. But

she did not appear to have heard the inquiry of the minister.

"The Widow White--has she not come yet? It is getting late--quite

late," feebly spoke the sufferer.

Until then Widow White had stood unnoticed in the dark shadow,

unwilling to interrupt; but, hearing this inquiry, she glided to the

bedside.

"Yes, Mrs. Williams, I have come," and she laid her hand upon the dewy

brow of her she had named, and tenderly smoothed back the long hair

that lay loosely upon it.

A gleam of satisfaction shot across the wan countenance of the

sufferer as these words fell upon her ear. A light, almost

preternatural, stole to her eyes, until they sparkled as the diamond,

and she lifted her head upon her hand, and strove to speak. But the

effort was too great for her debilitated condition--a weakness came

over her, and she sunk back exhausted to her pillow. Ere long,

however, she recovered sufficient strength to speak, and turning

toward Widow White, clasped her hand affectionately.

"I feel that my life is fast ebbing away," she began in a subdued and

thrilling voice. "A few short hours will pass by, and this body will

be a soulless mass. But I do not fear to die; for me, death has no

terror, nor the grave a victory. I am standing upon its very brink,

and look down into its blackness without an emotion save that of

pleasure. This is a vain and heartless world! I have found it so,

again and again, and the grave is the only place where I can find rest

from its temptations and persecutions, and I feel glad that the time

is almost here, when rest, both for body and soul, will be attained.

But there is one thing that troubles me. My husband slumbers beneath

the heavy sod in the village grave-yard; I am standing upon the very

brink of eternity; I have no relatives living on this side of the

Atlantic, and when I am gone, what is to become of my poor friendless,

motherless child? I know there is One above who has promised to take

care of the orphan, but still, it would give me a pleasure to know,

that when my mouldering body reposes in 'that bourne whence no

traveler returns,' that the light of a pleasant home would shed its

radiance on her girlish years. I fear to trust her to the world. I

fear its buffetings--I fear its bitterness--I fear its selfishness!--I

have keenly felt them all, and they bowed my strength of spirit almost

to the dust!--they sullied my purity of purpose, and my love of God!

Three years ago I took up my abode in this community. Life was in its

spring-time of joyousness. Pleasure opened her thousand portals, and

nature breathed in beauty. Then a stern blight came upon it all! The

gloom of death shadowed my dwelling, and soon the cold and rigid form

of my beloved partner was carried out, and laid in the narrow bier

where the 'dust returns to dust as it was.' The feeling of desolation

entered my heart; I sorrowed in tears, and life almost became a

weariness. Then you, Widow White, came to me in my distress, like a

ministering angel; advised me, prayed with me, and led me on, until a

light broke in upon my soul, and a new life spread out its million

paths to happiness. From that moment I loved you as my own mother in

heaven. And now I have a request to make--the request of a dying

woman--will you grant it?" and she grasped the arm of the listener

with a wild eagerness, and looked into her eyes, as if she saw down

into the very soul, and read her every thought.

"Mrs. Williams," began Widow White in reply, in a tone of voice

thrillingly solemn, her eyes dimmed with tears, and her whole frame

trembling with emotion, "Mrs. Williams, you know how endeared you are

to me--that I love you as if you were my own daughter, and that if I

could comply with any thing that would give you pleasure in a dying

moment, I would most willingly do so."

"Thank God!--thank God!" exclaimed she fervently, clasping her hands

as if in prayer. "I have prayed for this, again and again, and now it

has come to pass--when the grave closes over my mouldering remains, my

child will have a home and a mother still! Widow White, cherish her as

your own. Educate her for heaven, and if we mortals, after death, are

sent as ministering angels to the living, then will I be your guardian

spirit. Our kind minister, into whose hands I have committed them,

will inform you of my little worldly concerns after I am gone, for my

strength is fast failing me, and I feel that I have little time left

for words. Mary, dear, come to my bedside. A little nearer for I am

quite weak and exhausted. I am dying, Mary. I am going far away--away

to heaven. In a short time, my body will be cold and motionless, and

then I cannot hear you, or speak to you any more. Then you will have

no mother; she will be dead. In a few days I will be laid in the cold

and dark ground, and you will never see me again in this world. When I

am dead, this lady will be your mother. She will take care of you, and

be kind to you, just as I am; and you must obey her, and try not to be

naughty. If bad feelings come into your mind, think of your dead

mother, and how she talked to you and advised you when she was dying.

If you do what is right, God will love you, and bless you, and take

care of you, and when death comes, you will go to live with Jesus,

where there is nothing but happiness; but if you are wicked, God will

hate you, and when you die, you will go down to hell, where all the

bad people dwell, and where there is nothing but misery and anguish.

Now kiss me, for I am too weak to talk to you any longer," and the

dying woman drew the child to herself, and imprinted a lingering,

burning kiss upon her forehead.

She sunk back exhausted to the pillow, and her breath came in painful

gasps from her parted lips, while her hands moved about spasmodically

on the white counterpane--the excitement of the last hour had been too

much for her weakened condition. She lay thus for several moments, and

then suddenly started from her recumbent position, and sat upright in

the bed. A glorious lustre broke through the mist that whelmed her

eyes, and a faint color sprung to her pallid cheek. She clasped her

daughter in her arms with an hysterical sob; looked wildly into her

face; pressed a burning, quivering kiss upon her forehead, and then

her lips gave forth fragments of speech, broken, but beautiful. But

this did not last long; a weakness came over her almost preternatural

strength; she loosened the embrace that circled her child; the color

fled her cheek, the brightness her eye; the death-rattle rung out

shrilly upon the air, and she fell back motionless to the bed. They

looked upon her countenance--a single glance was sufficient--it was

cold, calm, passionless--the seal of the grave was upon it.

* * * * *

The gloom of death had shadowed that cottage for two days, and now it

was desolate indeed. The stealthy tread of those who came to gaze upon

the dead and prepare its burial, no longer broke the solemn hush that

brooded over the dwelling. The departed was in truth the

departed--they had borne her over the threshold of her home, and laid

her remains in the narrow house where all must one day repose--a plain

head-board alone marking the grave in which slumbered what was once

Eliza Williams. Like others, she had died sincerely mourned by

many--like others, futurity would leave no memorial to tell that she

had ever existed. Decay, and rude hands, and careless feet, after the

lapse of years, would mar her last resting-place, as many in the

grave-yard had already been marred, but the form below could never

know nor feel the injury--she slept, and would sleep, as sleep the

dead, until the trump of Gabriel awakens and clothes the dry bones in

the habiliments of another world.

And now they were alone--the mother and her adopted daughter, making

preparations for a final departure from that desolate old homestead.

The ashes lay cold upon the hearth-stone, and a gloomy loneliness

reigned throughout the whole building, flinging a pall over the

feelings of Widow White. A chill crept over her as the large gray cat

came purring to her side, and rubbed his soft coat against her ankle;

and tears sprung to her eyes when she saw the countenance of the

little child wearing such a sad and mournful expression, and she vowed

in her heart that no blight should come over her youthful prospects,

if it were in her power to prevent it.

Ere long, the necessary preparations were completed, and the two bade

a final adieu to the lonely dwelling, and passed slowly along the road

toward the mansion of Widow White.