Like all the fancies of a young and pure-hearted girl, they would have

been indefinite and dream-like, fading away ere their outlines were

accurately determined, like the frost-work landscapes on a window-pane.

But now there was form and coloring to all such visions. The image of

that pale intellectual being, full of genius and morbid feeling,

aspiring after immortality, yet pining over mere physical defects, was

ever present with her. She thought over all their past interviews, and

words which seemed meaningless when first uttered, now were of deep

import when repeated by the magical voice of memory. She recalled his

looks, and the glance which then only spoke a love for the beautiful in

nature, now, when reflected from the mirror of fancy, was fraught with

earnest tenderness. The consequence of such pernicious day dreaming may

be easily imagined. She persuaded herself into the belief that she was

beloved, and, at fifteen, Hester Ormesby was already the passionate, the

tender, the loving woman. Reader, do you doubt the possibility of such

rapid development of the affections? Ask any imaginative, warm-hearted,

truth-loving woman, if, amid the arcana of her past emotions, some

remnants of such a girlish passion do not yet exist.

During several years Hester was confined to Miss Templeton’s sick room,

and, though occasionally receiving visits and letters from her family,

she heard nothing of Legard, excepting that he had departed for Italy.

Perhaps the knowledge of his absence tended to reconcile her to the

close seclusion in which she now lived, and, with a degree of imprudence

perfectly natural to such a character, she treasured up every thing

which could feed her romantic passion. A book which his pencil had

marked—a plant which he had admired—a melody which he had

praised—even the color of a ribbon which he had once approved, were

objects of remembered interest to her. She delighted to think of him as

roaming through the galleries of ancient art, drinking deep draughts of

beauty from the antique fountains of classic taste, and winning, leaf by

leaf, the laurel bough which had been the object of his vain longing. Of

the future—of his return and its probable results to herself, she never

thought. Nothing is so purely unselfish as true love; it asks every

thing for its object, but nothing for itself; and she who finds

matrimonial calculations mingling with the early emotions of her heart,

may make a notable managing and useful creature, but cannot lay claim to

the character of a true, devoted, self-forgetting woman.

Hester Ormesby was just eighteen when the death of Miss Templeton

deprived her of her best friend, and made it necessary for her to return

to her childhood’s home. Her mother’s scheme had fully succeeded, and,

as a compensation for her homely appellation, she was now the mistress

of the old homestead, together with some five or six thousand dollars in

personal property. It was but a small fortune, to be sure; but Mrs.

Ormesby had managed to marry two of her daughters advantageously by

means of their extreme beauty, and concluding that Hester was quite

pretty enough for an heiress, she had been careful to quadruple the

amount of her bequest when making mention of it to those who were likely

to repeat the tale. But the poor woman found that the daughters, for

whom she was now to manœuvre, were far more difficult to manage than

those whom she had already placed so comfortably in their carriages.

Celestina Ormesby was exceedingly beautiful. Her blond hair, dazzling

complexion, clear blue eyes, and rosy mouth, together with the

expression of cherub sweetness which characterized her countenance, made

her just such a creature as a painter might select as his model of

seraphic loveliness; while her manners were perfectly bewitching from

their innocent frankness. There was a tenderness in her voice—an almost

plaintive tone—as if her heart were longing for sympathy; which,

combined with her pleading glance and sweet simplicity of demeanor, was

quite irresistible. Yet all this, except the natural gift of beauty, was

the effect of consummate art. Celestina had been a coquette from her

very childhood—deception seemed an innate idea, and from the time when

she first practiced her little arts upon the boys at dancing school, she

never looked, or said, or did any thing without calculating its full

effect. She cared less for marrying well than for securing a host of

lovers. To have refused many was her proudest boast, and she looked

forward to matrimony as the termination of a long vista of triumphs. In

vain Mrs. Ormesby argued, and scolded and entreated; Celestina trusted

in the power of her charms, and suffered several most advantageous

matches to escape, while she was enjoying the unprofitable pleasures of

admiration.

Hester was as different from her sister in character as in person, and,

if she attracted less general attention, she obtained more lasting

regard. Men of talent and character—persons of quiet domestic habits,

who had been brought up among virtuous sisters, and, therefore, knew how

to appreciate the real value of woman—such were the admirers of the

less obtrusive sister. But Hester was insensible to all their homage,

and, far from imitating Celestina’s example, sought rather to withdraw

from all their adulation. Her acquaintance with society had taught her

to distrust her long cherished dream of love, and, though the image of

Edward Legard still possessed its influence over her imagination, she

was not insensible to the fact that, in shutting out all other

affections from her heart, she should be guilty of an act of folly.

When, therefore, she was addressed by a man whose talents commanded her

respect, while his virtues won her esteem, she yielded to her mother’s

wishes, and, without actually accepting his proffered hand, contented

herself with not rejecting his suit. Many a girl is placed in precisely

similar circumstances. Many a woman accepts one who ranks _second_ in

her estimation, because he who stands _first_ is unattainable; and,

however wrong such conduct may seem in principle, it will still be

pursued so long as women are taught that the term “old maid” is one of

reproach, and that the chief end and aim of their existence is marriage.

Mr. Vernon was a widower, rather past the prime of life, remarkably

handsome in person, a great lover of literature, gifted with fine

talents, and possessed of an ample fortune. Even Hester, uncalculating

as she was, could not be insensible to the advantages of such an

alliance, and, had she never seen Legard, she would doubtless have been

quite satisfied with the calm, quiet liking which she felt for her new

lover. But in the stillness of her own bosom arose the spectre of that

first vague love—the very shadow of a shade—throwing its dark image

athwart the stream of memory. Mr. Vernon was one of those persevering

men, however, who will not be repulsed. His proposals were rather

hesitatingly declined, but he proffered them a second time. Hester

explained to him her scruples respecting the feelings with which he had

inspired her, and he answered her by disclaiming all pretensions to that

passionate and devoted love which his principles taught him to denounce

as idolatrous. A calm and tender friendship was all he asked, and that

Hester had already given. It was no wonder, therefore, that, pressed as

she was, on all sides, by advice and entreaty, while the lapse of every

day made her more and more ashamed of the real cause of her reluctance,

she at last yielded her consent to become a wife.

Overjoyed at his success, Mr. Vernon urged a speedy fulfillment of her

promise. Preparations were immediately commenced, and, as the bridegroom

was already installed in a stately mansion, nothing now was necessary

but to arrange the bridal paraphernalia. But no sooner was the affair

definitively settled, than Hester seemed to become sensible she had done

wrong. Early associations returned in their full force—her ideas of

first love, enduring through a life of estrangement, and living even

beyond the dreary changes of the grave, came back with reproachful power

to her mind. She hated herself for the facility with which she had

yielded to new impressions. The dream of her youth was so much sweeter

to her heart than the realities of the present, that she felt as if it

would be sacrilege to wed another. She became half wild with excitement,

and, at length, poured out her whole heart in a letter which she

determined to place in Mr. Vernon’s hands; hoping that he might be

induced to withdraw his suit. But Mrs. Ormesby now exerted her skill and

tact. Unwilling to lose such a son-in-law, she assailed Hester with

every weapon her ingenuity could devise. Though ignorant of the real

cause of Hester’s repugnance, she yet half suspected some secret

attachment, and, knowing the sensitive delicacy and maiden pride of the

poor girl, she was enabled to influence her in the most effective

manner. Hester was persuaded to suppress the letter—she was assured

that many women married with no more ardent attachment than actuated

her, and instances were adduced of the happy results which were sure to

proceed from a union founded on mutual esteem. Weak as a child in all

matters of mere feeling, utterly incapable of reasoning on such

subjects; and, accustomed to give up her judgment entirely to the

control of her imagination, Hester saw the approach of her bridal day

with mingled terror and remorse.

The appointed time arrived, and Hester, in a tumult of feeling which,

but for her mother’s watchfulness, would have led her even then to

confess the truth to Mr. Vernon, was attired for the ceremony. Pale and

trembling she met her lover, and as she placed a hand, cold as death, in

the warm grasp of his, she was in doubt whether her reluctance arose

from the memory of past affection, or from a simple consciousness that

her heart held treasures which did not accompany the gift of her

hand—whether she shrunk because she loved another, or only because she

did not love him. So vague, so indistinct had been her early dream,

that, even now, she could not define the limits between it and reality.

The ceremony was to be performed in church, and, placed before the

altar, with her beautiful sister at her side, as bridemaid, Hester heard

the commencement of the service. The awful requisition which demands

_truth_, even as it will be exhibited “at the last day, when the secrets

of all hearts shall be revealed,” was solemnly uttered, and the

officiating clergyman paused one moment, as if to give time for the

confession of any impediment which might exist. At that instant Hester

raised her eyes and beheld, leaning against a pillar near the altar,

with a countenance in which the wildest emotions of grief were depicted,

the long absent Edward Legard. The shock was too great—with a faint

cry, she sunk to the floor, while her head struck, with some violence,

against the rails of the altar. All was now confusion and dismay. The

unwedded bride was borne to her home, and her medical attendants

enjoined the most perfect quiet, both of mind and body. Her nervous

system had received a severe shock; and, while her physicians attributed

it to the over excitement of the moment, her family fancied they could

trace it to the deep reluctance with which she had contemplated the

marriage. For several weeks she was in imminent danger, and, even after

her convalescence, she suffered from a deep dejection which seemed to

portend the most serious injury to the mind as well as the body. One of

her first acts, when permitted to exercise her slowly returning

strength, was to write a letter to Mr. Vernon, frankly stating her

repugnance to the marriage, and entreating his forgiveness for the wound

she had inflicted upon his feelings. But Mr. Vernon was too

matter-of-fact a man to understand Hester’s character. His self-love was

wounded, and he deigned no reply to her eloquent and passionate appeal.

In little more than three months afterwards she received her letter,

enclosed in a blank cover, together with a piece of bride-cake, and the

“at home” cards of _Mr._ and _Mrs._ Vernon.

When Hester was so far recovered as to admit the family to her

apartment, she learned that Legard, who had only arrived from Europe the

day preceding her ill-omened nuptials, had been a constant visiter

during her illness. The first evening that she descended to the

drawing-room she met him, and she could but rejoice that the absence of

Celestina secured to them an uninterrupted interview. Ever ready to

deceive herself, she fancied that the warmth of his congratulations, on

her recovery, proceeded from a peculiar interest in her welfare, and, as

she gazed on the emaciated form and pallid cheek of the poor artist, she

felt all her romantic passion revive. A recurrence to their first

meeting led to one of those half-sentimental, half-tender conversations

which are always so dangerous to a susceptible heart; and when he spoke

of long-hidden sorrow, and hinted at a hopeless attachment, Hester could

not doubt that she fully understood his meaning. Maiden modesty

restrained the confession which rose to her lips, but she felt that the

time was fast approaching when both would be made happy; and, while

Legard saw in her only the sympathizing friend, she fancied he beheld

the mistress of his heart.

Two days later, when Hester returned from a short ride, she was informed

that Legard had called to bid farewell. No one but Celestina had been at

home to receive him, and, after a long interview with her, he had left

his adieus for the family, previous to his embarking for Charleston.

Hester was too much accustomed to Celestina’s vanity to pay much

attention to the significant smile with which her sister mentioned

Legard. She knew that it was no uncommon thing for the beautiful

coquette to claim, _by insinuation_, lovers who had never thought of

offering their homage; and, therefore, while she deeply regretted the

fatality which seemed to interpose obstacles between Legard and herself,

she felt no doubt as to her own possession of his heart. She believed

that his poverty and ill success had restrained the expression of his

cherished love, and she determined on his return to afford him such

opportunities of avowal as he could not mistake. But alas! for all her

anticipations. Legard reached Charleston just as the yellow fever had

commenced its frightful ravages; he was one of its first victims, and

the ship which had borne him from his native shore brought back the

tidings of his untimely death.

To the Ormesby family the poor artist was an object of such utter

insignificance that they never dreamed of attributing Hester’s sudden

relapse to the news of his melancholy fate. A long fit of illness left

her listless and inert, and giving herself up entirely to the guidance

of her romantic nature, she withdrew entirely from society. The more she

reflected upon the past, the more she was confirmed in the belief of

Legard’s attachment to her. His words, his manners, and, above all, the

wretched countenance which he wore on the day of her bridal, all

convinced her of his love; while an acute sense of his poverty and his

personal defects, together with his probable belief in Hester’s

attachment to the man to whom she had been betrothed, seemed to her

sufficient reasons for his silence and reserve. She became cold,

abstracted and indifferent to every thing. Life seemed to her one long

dream, and her days were passed in that vague reverie which is as

pernicious to the mind as the habitual opium draught to the body.

Fifteen years were passed in this aimless, useless kind of existence.

She walked amid shadows, a quiet, harmless being, mechanically

performing the common duties of life, even as a hired laborer, who toils

rather to finish the day than to complete his work. The dream of her

youth became a sort of monomania; the one subject on which her mind was

unsound and unsettled; while the epithet of “eccentric,” which is so

often used to cover a multitude of errors, was here applied to a single

weakness. That dream was destined to be rudely broken; but the strings

of her gentle heart—that delicate instrument on which fancy had so long

played a mournful melody—were destined to be broken with it.

Celestina Ormesby had married, and, with the usual fortune of a

coquette, had made the worst possible choice. Deserted by a worthless

husband, after years of ill treatment, she had returned home only to

die; and it was during the examination of her letters and papers, after

her decease, that Hester was awakened at length to know the truth. With

a natural but unpardonable vanity, Celestina had carefully preserved all

the epistles of her various lovers, and Hester, wondering at the

indiscriminate vanity which had led her sister to encourage the

addresses of some who were far beneath her in the scale of society, had

thrown by many packages, unread, when her attention was attracted by a

parcel lettered “From Edward Legard.” It was not in the nature of woman

to resist such a temptation. The letters were opened and read with the

most intense eagerness, and Hester at length learned the extent of her

own weakness. The secret of Legard’s unhappiness was revealed to her. He

was indeed the victim of a hopeless passion, but he pined not for her

who had cherished the life-long vision of his love. He had fallen a

victim to the arts of Celestina, who, in the gratification of her own

inordinate selfishness, had not scrupled to add the envenomed draught of

disappointed affection to the bitter chalice from which gifted poverty

must ever drink. He had loved her passionately and devotedly, and the

look of hopeless sorrow which, even at the foot of the altar, had

transformed the half-wedded bride into the lonely and heart-stricken

spinster, had been directed not to her, but to the fickle and beautiful

bridemaid at her side.

Hester had long suffered from an organic disease of the heart, and her

physicians had warned her that any sudden excitement, or severe shock,

whether of grief or terror, might prove fatal. The event justified their

predictions. She was found sitting at a table, strewed with letters, her

head was resting upon her arms, as if, like a wearied child, she had

been overcome with slumber, but it was the weight of a colder hand which

pressed her brow. She had received the severest of all shocks—the

illusion that had brightened her early life, and shed a pure, sweet

radiance over the loneliness of her latter days, was suddenly dispelled,

and the victim of imaginary sorrows now “slept the sleep that knows no

waking.”

* * * * *

HYMN FOR THE FUNERAL OF A CHILD.

BY JAMES ALDRICH.

Lift up our suffering hearts, O Lord!

Let grief our souls no longer bow,

Here, in this house of death, afford

Sense of thy grateful presence now.

Thou griev’st us with no ill intent,

Though missed and mourned our child must be;

This deep affliction thou hast sent

Shall closer bind our hearts to thee.

Sweet words of comfort! we have read,

Till hope sublimest faith became,

What Jesus in Judea said,

When children for his blessing came.

Yet, lost and loved! through coming years

How many sighs must uttered be,

How many silent thoughts and tears,

Our hearts will consecrate to thee.

In the cold grave, without a stain,

We place thy little form to-day,

But hope to meet thee once again,

When the long night shall pass away.

Most holy, merciful, and just!

Be our complaining hearts forgiven;

To Thee we yield our darling trust,

Receive his gentle soul in heaven.

* * * * *

MALINA GRAY.

BY ANN S. STEPHENS.

(Continued from page 214.)

CHAPTER II.

“Oh, it is pleasant for the good to die—to feel

Their last mild pulses throbbing, while the seal

Of death is placed upon the tranquil brow;

The soul in quiet looks within itself

And sees the heavens pictured faintly there.”

Those less innocent and pure minded than Phebe Gray, might have thought

lightly both of her sister’s fault and its probable punishment, but to

one brought up in the strict discipline of a Connecticut church, and

with a deep reverence for all its exactions, any thing like contempt of

them was little less than sacrilege; and to be reprimanded by the

minister, a disgrace which would have broken poor Phebe’s heart, had she

been called upon to endure it instead of her sister. When she reached

her room the gentle girl knelt down in the midst of her tears and prayed

earnestly, for in all her troubles and in all her tranquil joys, she had

a Father to whom she could plead as a little child—a Father in heaven,

though she had none on earth.

Phebe was yet kneeling, subdued and tranquilized, for prayer was the

poetry of her existence, when the door was flung suddenly open, and

Malina entered the chamber, her eyes flashing and her lips trembling

with passionate feelings.

“Never!” she exclaimed, while the tears stood on her burning cheeks,

“never, never!”

“What has happened—what have they done to you?” inquired her gentle

sister, rising from her knees; “Oh Malina, do not look so angry, I

scarcely know you with that face.”

“Angry, sister, who would not be angry, persecuted as I am, and all

because I would not sit still and be insulted in open church, because I

did not cringe in my seat and acknowledge that to hear a sermon from any

man but Minister Brown was a deadly sin; but I will never listen to him

again, never enter the old meeting-house while he preaches there—I will

take a vow here—and this moment.”

As she spoke, the excited girl snatched the pocket Bible which her

mother had replaced on the toilet, and was about to press her burning

lips upon the cover, but Phebe sprung forward, laid her small hand on

the book, and turned her pale earnest face on the excited features of

her sister.

“Malina!” she said.

There was something solemn and sweet in the tones with which this little

word was uttered—a look of awe and wonder in the large blue eyes which

Phebe Gray lifted to her sister’s face, which would have checked the

passions of a fiend—a flood of crimson rushed over Malina’s face, she

laid the Bible down, covered her eyes with both hands, and shuddered

amid her tears with a sense of the sacrilege which she had been tempted

to commit. Phebe drew her gently to the bed, and when they were seated

she placed an arm around her neck, and kissed the trembling fingers that

covered her eyes.

“Don’t cry,” she said softly, repeating her kiss, “they have been harsh,

perhaps, but it was intended for your good.”

Malina suddenly removed her hands—dashing the tears from her eyes with

the action—while her lips and cheeks began to glow again.

“Phebe,” she said, sitting upright and grasping her sister’s hand,

“Phebe, you will not believe it, but our mother has commanded me to

kneel down before the minister and ask his pardon for what I have done.”

A look of indignation, almost the first that had ever visited the sweet

features of Phebe Gray, was all the answer she could give.

“But you did not obey?” she said at last.

“Obey! sister, no, no; but I said things which made them both look

aghast. They called me audacious, and so I was—they called me an

unnatural child, and so I was—for I told my mother that she was a

tyrant to her face. I told Minister Brown that I was not audacious

enough to mock my Creator, by giving the homage which he alone should

have to a weak fellow creature; and when they would have read me a

chapter in the Bible, I told them the holy book was given as a blessing,

not to be used as a punishment, with much more—but this I fear has made

you angry with me already. Dear Phebe, don’t you turn against me with

the rest, I am wretched enough without that.”

“But what did the minister say? surely he did not wish you to humble

yourself so far?” inquired Phebe, thoughtfully.

“No, he begged my mother not to urge it, and even said that he had

perhaps acted unwisely in reprimanding me from the pulpit. But mother

still insisted. I do believe she is setting her cap at Parson Brown, and

thinks if I kneel to him he will return the compliment by kneeling to

her.” Here Malina broke off with a hysterical laugh, while a flash of

mischievous humor shone through her tears.

Phebe smiled very faintly, and kissing her sister once more, murmured,

“But there is One to whom we may kneel,” and sinking to her knees, Phebe

Gray kept Malina’s hand and would have drawn her to the same position.

“I am not fit to pray,” exclaimed the passionate girl, struggling

faintly to free her hand.

Phebe did not urge her, but scarcely were the first faint words of her

own petition breathed through the chamber, when Malina was by her side,

and when they went to rest that night the high spirited girl went to

sleep with her head nestled on her sister’s bosom, half subdued by her

pure and affectionate counsel.

Mrs. Gray had no sympathy for the faults of a warm and sensitive

disposition. She scarcely knew what an impulse was; even her anger was

systematical, and she exhibited it with a cold perseverance which only

served to irritate and mortify her daughter. Like all girls, Malina was

fond of dress, but months went by and Mrs. Gray seemed altogether

unconscious of her wants. She had kept her resolution not to enter the

old meeting-house again, and when Mrs. Gray brought home a new dress or

shawl for Phebe, Malina was quietly told that as she never went to

meeting her old dresses were quite good enough for school; indeed it is

doubtful if she would have been permitted to remain at home but for the

claim which her majority would give upon the property. Mrs. Gray was

quite too politic for violent measures, so she contented herself with

annoying negatives, and tormented her sensitive and high-tempered child

by _doing_ nothing, while she comforted her self-sanctity with a belief

that it was all meek and Christian forbearance. It was not long before

the gay, dashing Malina became one of the most shabbily dressed girls in

the village. She wore her thin straw gipsy and roses through all the

cold winter months—mended her gloves over and over again—concealed her

summer dresses beneath a cloak when she came to school, and returned the

jeers of her schoolmates with a sort of important pride which soon

silenced them. When spring came she still remained obstinate in a

determination never to visit the old meeting-house so long as Parson

Brown preached there. A few kind words from her mother might have

persuaded her, but those words were not spoken. Mrs. Gray only showed

her sense of this contumacious conduct by heaping that finery on poor

Phebe which should have been her sister’s, but which she was forbidden

even to share with her. Well, the spring came round again, and Malina

was still obstinate. She bleached her bonnet, brightened up the roses,

and altered over the old muslin dress with an ingenuity which made her

wardrobe quite respectable once more; but she was not happy in her

disobedience, the habits of her childhood could not be shaken off so

easily, and many a quiet Sabbath as she sat by her chamber window and

watched Phebe gather a handful of snowdrops in the yard, spread her

green parasol and go forth to “meeting” by her mother’s side, looking so

chaste and beautiful in her white dress and new cottage bonnet, poor

Malina would turn away with tears in her eyes and think of the old

meeting-house, with a yearning wish to sit in the family pew once more,

which made her petty chamber seem almost like a prison.

How long this state of things might have remained is uncertain, but that

spring Minister Brown was taken ill. He had preached in that same pulpit

thirty years, and had grown old in it. It was a melancholy service which

the deacon read after announcing the state of their pastor to the

congregation, for it was the first time in many years that Minister

Brown had been absent from his people. It seemed all that solemn day as

if the angel of death were mournfully brooding over the old

meeting-house, and when the closing prayer was made, sobs deep and

audible were heard in the congregation.

Another Sabbath came and our minister grew worse. After the solemn

service was over, the deacon arose to appoint watchers for the suffering

man. It is a solemn and beautiful practice, that of “appointing

watchers” for the sick in our Connecticut churches. When the village is

collected together in one vast family, it is both an affecting and

pleasant sight to witness the young and kind-hearted rise, with blooming

cheeks and modest looks, to offer themselves as nurses for the sick.

Among the first who arose that Sabbath was Malina Gray, and her eyes

were full of tears. The deacon was looking very sad when he cast his

eyes over the congregation to mark who would rise. When he saw Malina

standing there in her simple dress, and her beautiful face shaded by her

last year’s bonnet, a moisture glistened in his eyes also, and he smiled

kindly as her name was pronounced.

Malina went home with a full heart. When she thought of the minister ill

and suffering, it smote her that she could ever have felt enmity toward

him. He was a widower and childless, so all that week she lingered by

his bed, prepared his medicines, smoothed the pillows beneath his

fevered temples, and many a time, when no one was near, would the

warm-hearted but wayward creature kneel down, cover his hand with tears,

and beseech him to forget the harsh, rude language which she had used

that night at her mother’s.

Our minister was trembling on the verge of another world, and he felt

perhaps that Malina also had something to forgive, and at such times he

would lay his thin hand on her hair, murmur thanks for all her kindness,

would beg her to forget the past, and then he would dwell on the time

when she would meet him in Heaven, and all this with a gentle sweetness

that made poor Malina’s heart ache the more that she could ever have

pained so good a man.

Still our minister grew worse, and the next Sabbath a student of

divinity from New Haven, who had just taken orders, stood in his pulpit.

It was a sorrowful day that—and as the clear solemn tones of the young

divine filled the old meeting-house, their youthfulness and their sweet

ringing melody made us feel like strangers in our house of worship. He

was a handsome man, slight and pale, with hair sweeping aside from his

white forehead like the wing of a raven, and those large sad eyes which

take their color from the soul, and are changeable from the feelings

that live there—one of those men who interest you almost painfully, you

cannot understand why. He was indeed a man to awaken the heart to

strange sympathies; but we felt without understanding this on the day

when he first preached to us, for our hearts were heavy with thoughts of

the dear old minister who lay almost within hearing on his death-bed,

and we yearned to see his calm face and gray hairs in the place of this

strange young man.

Mr. Mosier—for that was the name of our new minister—did not return to

New Haven for many weeks, and all that time he spent by the sick-bed of

our pastor. Malina Gray seldom left her post, and Phebe, the meek and

gentle Phebe, was often there to comfort and assist. Flowers, the

beautiful children of the soil, sometimes spring up brightest and

sweetest on a grave; so human affection often takes deepest root beneath

troubled shadows. Religion must have some strange and comprehensive

power, which fills the soul with affection for all things; for those who

love our heavenly Father most, cherish that love as a brave tree, around

which a thousand earthly ties are lifted like green and clinging vines

toward the blue skies. I have said Malina never left her station by the

sick-bed; her cheek grew pale with watching, her bright eye dim, but yet

she was always there, subdued to the meekness of a lamb by the dark and

solemn shadows of death that fell everywhere around her. And _he_ was

her fellow watcher, and the strange fascination of his voice, the spell

of those large eyes, tranquil, almost sad, and forever changing, settled

upon the young girl’s heart, and it was the voice of a pure and

high-souled Christian in prayer which first taught the gay and careless

girl how well she could love. And she did love, happily, blindly; every

impulse of her heart was full of gushing tenderness, and that soft

repose which thrills the soul it sleeps in, blended while it made her

happy. She was changed even in countenance; the glad healthy smile which

had been the playmate of her lips from infancy, now half fled to her

eyes. The color was not so deep upon her cheek, but it came and went

like shadows on a flower, and her whole face looked calm and yet

brighter, as if sunshine were striking up from the heart of a rose

instead of falling upon its leaves. Her voice became more low and calm,

but a richer tone was given to it, and the tread of her little feet

became more noiseless as she glided around that sick chamber. Alas,

alas, poor Malina Gray, the fountains of her young heart were troubled,

never to rest again; the destiny of her womanhood was upon her.

One Sabbath morning the congregation came to our old meeting-house in a

body, two and two; the young, the middle aged, and the old filing

solemnly from the parsonage door along the road, and over the sward

which sloped greenly down from our place of worship. Our minister came

also, but he lay upon a bier, a velvet pall swept over him, and four

pale men carried him through the door which we had seen him enter so

often. They placed him in the broad aisle which his feet had trod for

twenty years, and eyes that had scarcely known moisture for that

duration of time were wet as they fell upon the coffin. Pale young faces

looked down upon him from the galleries, old men veiled their foreheads

with hands that had so often grasped his, and women sobbed aloud in the

fullness of their grief. Prayer and solemn music, with the deep tones of

the young student, swept over that bier, and swelled through the old

building amid all these manifestations of sorrow. When the bier was

lifted again, with slow and solemn footsteps the congregation followed

their pastor for the last time, and to his grave.

There was a grave in our burial ground sunken almost level with the

earth, covered with tall grass and marked by old and moss covered

stones. It was the grave of our minister’s wife; she had died in her

youth, he never married again, and so they brought the old man, true

even to her ashes, and laid him by her side. The shadow of his grave

fell upon hers, as if it were still his duty to cherish, and the dew

that fell upon the rich grass which had sprung up from her ashes, slept

within that shadow longer each morning than in any other place.

When Malina Gray left the funeral procession she went to the parsonage

house. The ashes lay cold upon its hearth-stone, and a chill, desolate

silence reigned through the building, for the old woman who had been

housekeeper had not yet returned, and no living thing was there save a

pet robin that stood mute upon his perch, and a large gray cat which

walked slowly from room to room as if wondering at the silence that

reigned there. A chill crept over Malina as the cat came with a soft

purr and rubbed his coat against her ankle. She looked at the robin,

there was no food to his cage, and his dejected manner probably arose

from hunger. The back door opened upon an orchard, and a line of

cherry-trees, red with fruit, ranged along the stone wall. The minister

had always kept his orchard and the grass around the back door steps

neat and green, but this year a growth of plantain leaves had started up

amid the grass, and docks grew rife around the well curb, a few paces

from the stepping stones. During his illness Malina had scarcely noticed

these things, but now that the minister was dead and she had no hopes

nor fears regarding him, they struck upon her heart with painful force.

She went to the nearest tree, gathered some ripe cherries for the bird,

and carried them into the house. The poor creature was half famished,

and coming down from his perch, pecked at the ruby fruit with an

eagerness that made the young girl smile through her tears.

“Poor fellow, he wants drink,” she murmured softly, and laying the

cherries that filled her hand on a table, she took a glass and went out

to get some water. How much more effective than a thousand lectures were

the silence and the familiar objects that surrounded Malina. It seemed

as if she had learned to think and feel for the first time in that

desolated place. As she grasped the well-pole with her small hand and

saw the deep round bucket rise up from the water, with the bright drops

dashing over the moss-covered brim, she began to weep afresh, and her

hands trembled so that she could hardly balance it on the curb. How many

times had she seen the minister come from that door, rest that same

bucket on the well-curb, and slant it down to meet her lips, when she

was a little girl and had come with her mates from the close

school-room, at “play-time,” to drink at the minister’s well. How often

had he filled her apron with cherries, and allowed her to pick up the

golden apples from that orchard; now she could almost see his new grave

through the trees—and she had dared to speak unkindly, rudely to him.

Malina was athirst and she remembered the grateful coolness of the

water, but with all these memories swarming to her heart she could not

touch her lips to that moss-rimmed bucket; the waters dripping over it

seemed too pure for one who could speak as she had spoken to the dead.

That which Mrs. Gray had struggled and waited for a whole year was

accomplished in a few moments by less stern influences than human

upbraiding. Never was a girl more penitent than Malina amid the silence

of that funereal dwelling. The heart which can reproach itself needs no

other accuser, and that which cannot, will remain hardened to the

reproaches, however just, which come from another.

Malina filled her glass, and entering the house, gave the neglected

robin some drink. The grateful bird began to flutter his wings, and

plunging into the water, sent a shower of drops over his cage. Malina

was so occupied with him that she did not observe when the door-yard

gate fell to with a slight sound, and Mr. Mosier, the young clergyman,

came slowly along the footpath leading to the front door; and when she

did hear his step upon the threshold, her eyes drooped and she began to

tremble as if there had been something to apprehend in his sudden

presence.

Mr. Mosier approached the young girl, and addressed her in those calm

low tones which her heart had learned to answer too thrillingly.

“It was kind to think of the bird,” he said almost smiling upon her,

“our friend that is gone mentioned it but the day before he died; he

gave it to you, Miss Gray, and that with many grateful thanks for all

your kindness.”

Malina’s bosom heaved and she strove to conceal the tears that sprung to

her eyes, by a quick motion of the heavy lashes that veiled them.

“He has left other tokens of his regard,” continued the young divine,

kindly observing her. “A clergyman with his benevolent habits is not

likely to become rich, but this quiet old house and the savings of his

income are left behind and for you—he has no legal heirs.”

Malina lifted her large eyes to the minister’s face with a look of mute

astonishment, and it was a moment before she comprehended him.

“Oh, no, no,” she said at last, bursting into tears, “he could not, I

never deserved it. It was Phebe that he meant. It must have been Phebe.”

“You will find that I am correct,” said Mr. Mosier; “indeed I can hardly

see how it should be otherwise, for never was there so faithful or so

kind a nurse.”

Malina did not speak, but a rosy flood swelled over her neck and face,

which glowed warmly beneath the concealment of her hands. These were the

first words of commendation she had ever heard from that voice, and she

was lost in the delicious pleasure they excited. At length she removed

her tremulous hands and looked up, but instantly the silken lashes

drooped over her eyes again, and she blushed and trembled beneath his

gaze. Yet his look was tranquil and kind, only it was the tumult of her

own feelings which made the young creature ashamed to meet it, feelings

all pure and innocent, but full of timidity and misgiving.

“I must go home,” she said in confusion, moving toward the door. Mr.

Mosier extended his hand. “We have performed a painful and yet pleasant

duty together in this house,” he said; “the thanks of the departed are

already yours, may I offer mine? It may be wrong to think so, but young

and gentle women hovering near a sick bed seem to me angels of earth,

consigning the sufferer to sister angels in heaven. Good night, my dear

Miss Gray. To-morrow, by your kind mother’s invitation, I shall make my

home at your house.”

Malina started, and a look of exquisite happiness beamed over her face.

“To-morrow!” she repeated, unconscious of the rich tones which joy gave

to her voice.

“Yes, I shall stay here to-night,” he replied in the same tranquil

tones, but a little more sadly. “The solemn scene through which we have

passed unfits me for any thing but solitude. I never knew till now how

beautiful and holy are the links which bind a minister to his people. It

is sweet to think how completely our brother’s spirit was borne up to

heaven on the hearts of those who had listened to him so many years.”

“He was indeed a good man, and we all loved him,” murmured Malina Gray.

“And such love would fill any life with sunshine; but God bless you, my

dear Miss Gray, seek repose to-night, for your strength must be

overtaxed with so much watching. I will see you in the morning, and our

departed friend’s pet shall come with me.”

Malina longed to say how happy his visit would make her home, how full

of delight she was, but some intuitive feeling checked her tongue, and

murmuring a few indistinct words she turned away in a tumult of strange

happiness.

When she reached home, Malina went directly to her chamber, took off her

bonnet, and lying down on the bed, drew the curtains and fell into a

pleasant half sleepy day dream, with her eyes fixed languidly on the

folds of snowy muslin which fell around her and on the rose branches

seen dimly through as they waved and rustled before the open sash. All

at once she started, and turning her damask cheek upon the pillow, stole

both hands up to her face as if some thought of which she was half

ashamed had crept to her heart. It was no guilty thought, but Malina

blushed when it broke upon her mind, that she might some day live in the

old parsonage which had become her property, and that he who was now

resting beneath its roof might share her home. She was dreaming on. The

tinge of gold which fell over her bed drapery as the sun sunk behind

Castle-rock had long since died away, and the chamber was filled with

the misty and pleasant gloom of a summer twilight, and yet Malina lay

dreaming on. Phebe came softly into the apartment, lifted the curtains,

and stealing her arms around the recumbent girl, laid her own pure cheek

against the rich damask of her sister’s.

“Poor Malina, you are tired out,” she murmured fondly, “but we are so

glad to get you home once more. I only came to say this—now go to sleep

again.” So Phebe kissed her cheek, let the curtains fall softly over the

bed and went away—and still Malina dreamed on.

The next morning Mr. Mosier took up his abode at Mrs. Gray’s. Our

minister had called the elders of his church around his death-bed, and

besought them to let this young man fill his place in the pulpit, so he

was to remain a few months, on trial, and then be installed as pastor in

the old meeting-house.

Our young pastor, though never gay, was at all times filled with a

degree of tranquil enjoyment that diffused itself over all things that

surrounded him—his sadness was never gloomy, and when he seemed

thoughtful, it was the quiet repose of a mind communing with its own

treasures rather than an unsocial humor. He was musical as well as

studious, and often, during those summer nights when Mrs. Gray’s family

sat in the portico, would we assemble round the door of our dwelling to

hear the notes of his flute, as they mingled in some sacred harmony with

the soft clear voice of Phebe, or with the bolder and richer tones of

her sister. At such times this music, softened by distance, and blended

with the still more remote sound of the waterfall, seemed almost

heavenly. We became well acquainted with the young minister, for though

not exclusively of his congregation, he loved to ramble about the pine

grove and the waterfall, where he was certain to find some of “us

children” at play. Like all pure hearted men, he was fond of children,

and loved to sit down in the shade and talk with us for hours together,

when he would lead us to the gate, on his way home, and sometimes walk

into the cottage for a glass of water and a few minutes’ chat with its

inmates. Sometimes Phebe Gray and her sister accompanied him in these

walks, and once or twice I remember to have seen him standing on the

ledge near the falls at sunset, with Phebe leaning on his arm, while he

seemed deeply occupied with her rather than the surrounding scenery.

Once when they were together thus, he slightly bending toward her and

speaking in a low earnest tone, while her eyes were fixed on the waters

foaming beneath their feet, Malina, who had lingered behind to help me

up the rocks—for I was often of their party—moved lightly toward them,

holding up her finger to me with a look of good natured mischief, as if

she intended to startle them with her sudden presence. I was a very

little girl and knew that Malina was doing this to amuse me, so clapping

a hand over my mouth to keep from laughing aloud, I stole on softly by

her side till the folds of my pink dress almost mingled with the white

muslin that Phebe wore. I have said that Mr. Mosier was talking low and

earnestly—he was, in truth, so earnestly that our mischievous progress

neither aroused him nor his companion. I was not aware that love could

know a language save that which breathed in my mother’s voice, but there

was something earnest and thrilling in the impassioned word which Mr.

Mosier was pouring into the ear of Phebe Gray, which checked my childish

playfulness, and made me turn wonderingly to Malina. She was standing as

I had seen her last, with her finger still held up as if to check my

mirth, but there was no look of gleeful mischief in her eyes nor a

vestige of color in her face. She stood motionless, white, and like a

thing of marble, save that her eyes were bright and filled with a look

of such agony as made my young heart sink within me. At last Phebe

spoke, and her voice was so faint and soft as she leaned gently toward

her companion, that the words were lost in the rushing sound of the

waterfall; their broken melody and the rose tinge that flooded her face

and neck, were all the tokens by which their meaning could be guessed;

but the young clergyman must have heard her more distinctly, for his

face lighted up with an expression of happiness that made his usually

quiet features brilliant almost beyond any thing human. His arm trembled

as he drew the young girl to his bosom, and with murmuring words of

tenderness pressed his lips to her forehead. Phebe neither shrunk from

his embrace nor resisted his caress, but the crimson flood swelled more

deeply over her neck, and when his arm was withdrawn from her waist, her

little hand timidly sought his and nestled itself in the clasp of his

fingers, as if it sought his protection from the very solitude which she

believed had alone witnessed her modest confession, a confession which

made her tremble and blush with a tumult of strange sensations—all pure

as the sigh of an angel, but startling to a young creature who had been

taught to think every warm impulse almost a sin against Heaven.

They stood together hand in hand, silent and happy. Malina remained

motionless, distant scarcely two paces, and yet they were so absorbed in

the delirium of their own thoughts that her presence was unnoticed. My

hand was still in hers, but the fingers which clasped mine grew cold as

ice, and when I looked anxiously into her face again, the lips which had

kissed me so often appeared hard and colorless; her forehead was

contracted as if from physical suffering, and she seemed rooted to the

stone, never to move again. A moment, and I felt that a shiver ran

through her frame down to the cold fingers that grasped mine. She turned

and moved away mechanically and noiseless as a shadow, leading me down

the rocks and gradually tightening her grasp on my hand till I could

scarcely forbear calling out from pain; but my childish heart ached so

from the intuitive sense which taught me how dreadful were the feelings

of my poor companion, that I could not complain. She moved forward

hurriedly and with rapid footsteps, which made my earnest effort to keep

up with her almost impossible. We left the rocks and crossing the

highway plunged into the pine-woods; she did not take the footpath, but

all unmindfully forced a passage through the undergrowth, crushing the

rich winter-green with her impetuous tread. A humble ground bird started

up from a tuft of brake leaves directly in her path, and took wing with

a cry of terror. Still she hurried on unconscious, without heeding the

bird who fluttered around us, uttering cry upon cry with a plaintive

melody which made the tears start to my young eyes; but her racked heart

was deaf even to that, and her foot passed so near the pretty nest which

lay in its green lawn filled with speckled eggs, that a fox-glove which

bent beneath her tread dipped its crimson cup into the nest, where it

lay to perish on the broken stem. Still she hurried me on through the

thickest undergrowth, and where the grove was cut up into knolls and

grassy hollows which even my venturous footsteps had never searched

before, all the time her cold hand tightened its grasp till my fingers

were locked as in a vice, and the pain became insupportable.

“Oh don’t, Miss Malina, you walk _so_ very fast and hurt my hand so it

almost kills me!” I exclaimed at last, looking piteously up into her

pale face. “Indeed, indeed, I can’t go any further, I am tired, see how

the bushes have torn my new frock,” I added, sobbing as much from want

of breath as from grief.

She stopped the moment I spoke, and looked at me as if surprised that I

was her companion. Not even the piteous expression of my face, with the

tears streaming down it, and the tattered state of my dress, which was

indeed sadly torn, could arouse her to a consciousness of our position;

for more than a minute she stood looking earnestly in my face, but

perfectly unconscious of what she gazed upon.

“Oh, Miss Malina, don’t look at me in that way!” I said, burying my face

in her dress and weeping still more bitterly. “Take me back to the

falls, Miss Phebe and the minister will think we are lost.”

Malina dropped my hand as I spoke, and sunk to the grass, trembling all

over and utterly strengthless; after a moment she lifted her head,

looked wildly around as if to be certain that no eye witnessed her

grief, and then she gave way to a passionate burst of sorrow, which to

my young perception seemed like madness; she wrung her hands, shrouded

her tearful face in the long curls which fell over it one moment, and

flung them back with both hands damp and disheveled the next; her lips

trembled with the broken and sorrowful words that rushed over them,

words that had no connection but were full of that passionate eloquence

which grief gives to the voice. At length she ceased to tremble and sat

motionless, bending forward with her hands locked over her face and

veiled by the drooping tresses of her hair. Now and then a sob broke

through her fingers, while tears would trickle over them and fall, one

after another, like drops of rain, over my dress, for I had crept into

her lap and with my arms about her neck was striving in my childish way

to comfort her.

“Don’t cry so,” I entreated, kissing her hands and exerting my infant

skill to put back the curls which drooped in wet and glossy volumes over

her face, “I love you very much.” She unclasped her hands, and drawing

me closer to her bosom, looked with a mild and touching sorrow into my

eyes.

“Nobody loves me,” murmured the poor, sobbing girl, shaking her head

mournfully, “nobody loves _me_.”

I could only answer with childish expressions of endearment, which made

her beautiful eyes brim with tears, and she wept on calmly and in

silence, for the passion of her grief had exhausted itself. At length

she placed me on the turf, and gathering up her hair, strove to arrange

it, but the tresses were too abundant, and had become so disordered,

that when she was compelled to grasp it in both her hands, and knot it

back from her face beneath the cottage bonnet, the plain look which it

gave to her forehead, the pallor of her face, with the dint and

sorrowful expression of those eyes, almost transformed her. She was

altogether unlike the gay and frolicsome girl who had helped me climb

the rocks but one hour before. Alas! how few moments are required to

change the destiny of a heart!

[_To be continued._

* * * * *

“L’AMOUR SANS AILES.”

BY C. F. HOFFMAN.

Love came one day to Lilla’s window

And restive round the casement flew,

She raised it just so far to hinder

His wings and all from coming through.

Love brought no perch on which to rest,

And Lilla had not one to give him;

And now the thought her soul distressed—

What should she do?—where should she leave him?

Love maddens to be thus half caught,

His struggle Lilla’s pain increases;

“He’ll fly—he’ll fly away!” she thought,

“Or beat himself and wings to pieces.

“His wings! why them I do not want,

The restless things make all this pother!”

Love tries to fly, but finds he can’t,

And nestles near her like a brother.

_Plumeless_, we call him Friendship now;

Love smiles at acting such a part—

But what cares he for lover’s vow

While thus _perdu_ near Lilla’s heart?

* * * * *

SPECULATION: OR DYSPEPSIA CURED.

BY H. T. TUCKERMAN.

When the mind’s free the body’s delicate.

_Lear._

The romantic traveler who enters Italy at Leghorn, cannot but feel

disappointed. No antiquated repose broods, like a dream, over the scene;

no architectural wonders arrest the eye. The quays present the same

bustle and motley groups observable in every commercial town; and were

it not for the galley slaves, whose fetters clank in the thoroughfares,

and the admirable bronze group, by Pietro Tacco, around the statue of

Ferdinand I., it would be difficult to point out any distinctive feature

amid the commonplace associations of the spot. To a stranger’s eye,

however, the principal street affords many objects of diversion. The

variety of costume and physiognomy is striking in a place where pilgrims

and merchants, Turks and Jews, burly friars and delicate invalids are

promiscuously clustered; and one cannot long gaze from an adjacent

balcony, without discovering some novel specimen of humanity. A more

secluded and melancholy resort is the English burying-ground, where

hours may be mused away in perusing the inscriptions that commemorate

the death of those who breathed their last far from country and home.

The cemeteries devoted to foreign sepulture, near some of the Italian

cities, are quite impressive in their isolated beauty. There, in the

language of a distant country, we read of the young artist suddenly cut

off at the dawn of his career, and placed away with a fair monument to

guard his memory, by his sorrowful associates, who long since have

joined their distant kindred. Another stone marks the crushed hopes of

children who brought their dying mother to this clime in the vain

expectation to see her revive. Names, too, not unknown to fame, grace

these snowy tablets—the last and affecting memorials of departed

genius. Monte Nero is an agreeable retreat in the vicinity where the

Italians make their _villeggiatura_, and the foreigners ride in the

summer evenings, to inhale the cheering breeze from the sea. Leghorn was

formerly subject to Genoa, and remained a comparatively unimportant

place until Cosmo I. exchanged for it the Episcopal town of Sarzana. I

had quite exhausted the few objects of interest around me, and my

outward resources were reduced to hearing Madame Ungher in Lucrezia

Borgia in the evening, and dining in the afternoon in the pleasant

garden of a popular restaurant; when, one day as I was walking along a

crowded street, my attention was arrested by a singular figure ensconced

in the doorway of a fashionable inn. It was a lank, sharp-featured man,

clad in linsey-woolsey, with a white felt hat on his head and an

enormous twisted stick in his hand. He was looking about him with a

shrewd gaze in which inquisitiveness and contempt were strangely

mingled. The moment I came opposite to him, he drew a very large silver

watch from his fob, and, after inspecting it for a moment with an

impatient air, exclaimed,

“I say, stranger, what time do they dine in these parts?”

“At this house the dinner hour is about five.”

“Five! why I’m half starved and its only twelve. I can’t stand it later

than two. I say, I guess you’re from the States?”

“Yes.”

“Maybe you came here to be cured of dyspeps_y_?”

“Not exactly.”

“Well, I’m glad of it, for it’s a plaguy waste of money. I just arrived

from New Orleans, and there was a man on board who made the trip all on

account of dyspeps_y_. I as good as told him he was a fool for his

pains. I know a thing or two, I guess. You see that stick? Well, with

that stick I’ve killed six alligators. There’s only one thing that’s a

certain cure for dyspeps_y_.

“And what’s that?”

For a moment the stranger made no reply, but twisted his stick and gave

a wily glance from his keen, gray eyes, with the air of a man who can

keep his own counsel.

“You want to know what will cure dyspeps_y_?”

“Yes.”

“Well then—_Speculation!_”

After this announcement the huge stick was planted very sturdily, and

the spectral figure drawn up to its utmost tension, as if challenging

contradiction. Apparently satisfied with my tacit acceptance of the

proposition, the man of alligators grew more complacent.

“I’ll tell you how I found out the secret. I was a schoolmaster in the

State of Maine, and it was as much as I could do to make both ends meet.

What with flogging the boys, leading the choir Sundays, living in a

leaky school-house and drinking hard cider, I grew as thin as a rail,

and had to call in a traveling doctor. After he had looked into me and

my case; ‘Mister,’ says he, ‘there’s only one thing for you to do, you

must speculate.’ I had a kind of notion what he meant, for all winter

the folks had been talking about the eastern land speculation; so, says

I, ‘Doctor, I haven’t got a cent to begin with.’ ‘So much the better,’

says he, ‘a man who has money is a fool to speculate; you’ve got nothing

to lose, so begin right away.’ I sold my things all but one suit of

clothes, and a neighbor gave me a lift in his wagon as far as Bangor. I

took lodgings at the crack hotel, and by keeping my ears open at the

table and in the bar-room, soon had all the slang of speculation by

heart, and, having the gift of the gab, by the third day out-talked all

the boarders about ‘lots,’ ‘water privileges,’ ‘sites’ and ‘deeds.’ One

morning I found an old gentleman sitting in the parlor, looking very

glum. ‘Ah,’ says I, ‘great bargain that of Jones, two hundred acres,

including the main street as far as the railroad depot—that is, where

they’re to be when Jonesville’s built.’ ‘Some people have all the luck,’

says the old gentleman. ‘There isn’t a better tract than mine in all

Maine, but I can’t get an offer.’ ‘It’s because you don’t talk it up,’

says I. ‘Well,’ says he, ‘you seem to understand the business. Here’s my

bond, all you can get over three thousand dollars you may have.’ I set

right to work, got the editors to mention the thing as a rare chance,

whispered about in all corners that the land had been surveyed for a

manufacturing town, and had a splendid map drawn, with a colored border,

six meeting-houses, a lyceum, blocks of stores, hay-scales, a state

prison and a rural cemetery—with Gerrytown in large letters at the

bottom, and then hung it up in the hall. Before the week was out, I sold

the land for cash to a company for twenty thousand dollars, gave the old

gentleman his three thousand, and have been speculating ever since. I

own two thirds of a granite quarry in New Hampshire, half of a coal mine

in Pennsylvania, and a prairie in Illinois, besides lots of bank stock,

half of a canal and a whole India rubber factory. I’ve been in New

Orleans, buying cotton, and came here to see about the silk business,

and mean to dip into the marble line a little. I’ve never had the

dyspeps_y_ since I began to speculate. It exercises all the organs and

keeps a man going like a steamboat.”

Just then a bell was heard from within, and the stranger, thinking it

the signal for dinner, precipitately withdrew.

* * * * *

THE SHEPHERD AND THE BROOK.

IMITATED FROM THE GERMAN OF GOETHE.

BY WILLIAM FALCONER.

The Shepherd.

Whither speed you, brooklet fair,

Fringed with willows green,

Blue-gleaming clear as summer air,

Your rival banks between;

Singing to the listening trees

An endless melody,

Kissed by every amorous breeze?

Come tarry and reply.

The Brook.

I haste to turn the mill-wheel gay,

That glads the summer morn;

The mill must clatter night and day,

To grind the miller’s corn.

The Shepherd.

I envy you your joyous life—

With courage rare you race,

To meet the miller’s bonnie wife,

And glass her morning face.

The Brook.

Yes! when Aurora lights the scene

With charms, as fresh she laves

Her sunny hair and brow serene

In my dew-treasured waves,

To me her beauty she confides,

I smile her blush to greet,

And when her form my lymph divides,

It thrills with passionate heat.

The Shepherd.

If thus your gelid waters glow,

With love’s pervading flame,

To echo, murmuring as they flow,

Her soft and winning name;

How must my throbbing bosom burn,

Warmed by life’s fitful fever,

Still doomed, where’er my steps I turn,

To love her more than ever.

The Brook.

On the mill-wheel, with blustering toil,

I burst in pearly shower,

But when I view her bloomy smile,

Fresh at the matin hour,

A polished mirror, gleaming sweet,

I tremble into calm,

To woo, in love, her gentle feet,

My azure to embalm.

The Shepherd.

Are you, too, love-sick, leafy brook?

Yet why?—on you she smiles,

And pays you, with a grateful look,

Your pleasant summer toils;

She sports upon your crystal breast,

Pure as your mountain source—

Fond brook, do not her charms arrest

Your shady downward course?

The Brook.

Alas! ’tis with a world of pain,

I murmuring glide away,

A thousand turns I make, in vain,

’Neath many a birchen-spray;

But through the meadows I must glide—

Ah! were it in my power,

A blue-lake swan, loved by her side,

I’d spread, nor quit her bower.

The Shepherd.

Companion of my luckless love,

Farewell! But may, ere long,

Thy plaint, which saddens now the grove,

Be turned to merry song;

Flow on, my vows, and sigh declare,

Paint—paint in colors warm—

The bliss her shepherd hopes to share,

Where birds the greenwood charm.

* * * * *

HARRY CAVENDISH.

BY THE AUTHOR OF “CRUISING IN THE LAST WAR,” “THE REEFER OF ’76,” ETC.

THE OPEN BOAT.

How shall I describe the horrors of that seemingly endless night. Borne

onward at the mercy of the waves—possessing just sufficient control

over the boat to keep her head in the proper direction—now losing sight

altogether of our consort, and now hanging on the top of the wave while

she lay directly under us, we passed the moments in a succession of

hopes and fears which no human pen can adequately describe. As the night

advanced our sufferings increased. The men, worn out with fatigue, were

kept at their oars only by the consciousness that even a moment’s

respite might be our destruction. With difficulty we maintained even the

slightest communication with our fellow sufferers in the other boat,

and, as the hours wore away, communication became almost impossible. It

was only at intervals that we caught sight of our companions through the

gloom, or heard their loud huzzas in answer to our shouts. And no one,

except he who has been in a like situation, can tell how our sense of

loneliness was relieved when we saw these glimpses of our consort, or

caught the welcome sound of other voices than our own across that

fathomless abyss.

At length a gigantic wave rolled up between us and the launch, and, when

we rose from the trough of the sea, I fancied I heard beneath us a wild,

prolonged cry of human agony. At the sound, my blood curdled in my

veins, and I strove to pierce the obscurity ahead, hoping almost against

hope that our companions yet survived, and that I might catch a glimpse

of the launch; but my straining eyes scanned the prospect in vain, for

the thick darkness shut out every thing from my vision, except when the

ghastly foam whitened along the waves beside me. For an instant I tried

to believe that what I heard had sprung from a disordered fancy, but the

eager, yet horror-struck faces of my shipmates beside me soon convinced

me that I was not the only one who had heard that cry. We looked at each

other for a moment, as men may be supposed to look who have seen a

visitant from the tomb, and then, with one common impulse, we joined in

a halloo that rose wildly to windward, swept down on us, rose again, and

finally died away to leeward in melancholy notes. No answering cry met

our ears. Again and again we united in a shout—again and again the roar

of the wind and wash of the waves was our only reply. Suddenly a flash

of lightning blazed around us, and, taking advantage of the momentary

light thus shed on the prospect, I gazed once more across the waste of

waters. We hung, at the moment, on the topmost height of a mountain

wave, while beneath yawned a black abyss, along whose sides the foam was

rolling in volumes, while the ghastly crests of each mimic billow and

the pitchy darkness of the depths below were lit up with the awful glare

of the lightning, presenting to the imagination a scene that reminded me

of the lake of fire into which Milton’s apostate spirits fell. Just at

the lowest point of the vortex a boat was seen, bottom upwards, while,

in close proximity to it, one or two human forms were struggling in the

sea; but all in vain; for at every despairing stroke they were borne

further and further from the few frail planks which now were to them

their world. Oh! never will that sight fade from my memory. A cry of

horror broke simultaneously from all who beheld the scene, and long

after it had vanished from our eyes, we heard the first despairing

shriek of our drowning messmates, we saw the last look of agony ere they

sank forever. To save them was beyond our power. As we were whirled down

into the abyss we leaned over the gun-wale to catch, if possible, a sign

of the vicinity of any of the sufferers, but our efforts were in vain,

and, after watching and listening for more than an hour, we desisted in

despair. As the storm gradually passed away, and the stars broke out on

high, diffusing a shadowy light around us, we gazed again across the

waste for some token of our lost messmates, but our scrutiny was in

vain. The tale of their death, save as it is rehearsed in these hurried

pages, will never be told until the judgment day.

Morning at length dawned. Insensibly the first cold streaks of day crept

along the eastern horizon, gradually diffusing a gray twilight over the

vast solitude of waters around, and filling the mind with a sensation of

utter loneliness, which, though I had experienced it partially before,

never affected me with such indescribable power as now. As far as the

eye could stretch there was nothing to break the vast monotony of the

horizon. The first glance across the deep destroyed the hope which so

many had secretly entertained, that morning would discover some sail in

sight, and, though no unmanly lamentations were uttered, the dejected

look with which each shipmate turned to his fellow was more eloquent

than words. All knew that we were out of the usual route of ships

crossing the Atlantic, and that our chances of rescue were consequently

lessened. We were, moreover, nearly a thousand miles from land, with but

scanty provisions, and those damaged. Our boat was frail, and one far

stronger had already been submerged—what, then, would probably, nay!

must be our fate. It was easy to see that these thoughts were passing

through the minds of all, and that a feeling akin to despair was

gathering around every heart.

“Cheer up, my hearties!” at length said Bill Seaton, a favorite topman,

looking round on his companions, “it’s always darkest just before day,

and if we don’t meet a sail now we must look all the sharper for one

to-morrow. Never say die while you hear the wind overhead, or see the

waves frolicking around you. Twenty years have I sailed, in one craft or

another, and often been in as bad scrapes as this—so it’s hard to make

me think we’re going to Davy Jones’ locker this time. Cheer up, cheer

up, braves, and I’ll give you ‘Bold Hawthorne,’” and, with the words, he

broke out into a song, whose words acted like an inspiration on the

crew, and in a moment the air rung with the ballad, chorused forth by a

dozen stentorian voices. And thus, alternating between hope and despair,

we spent the day. But, unlike the others, my situation forbade me to

betray my real sentiments, and I was forced to maintain an appearance of

elation which illy agreed with my feelings.

Meanwhile the day wore on, and as the sun mounted toward the zenith, his

vertical rays pouring down on our unprotected heads, became almost

insupportable. The gale had long since sunk into a light breeze, and the

mountainous waves were rapidly subsiding into that long measured swell

which characterizes the deep when not unusually agitated. Over the wide

surface of the dark azure sea, however, might be seen ten thousand

crests of foam, one minute crisping into existence, and the next

disappearing on the declining surge; and, as the hour approached high

noon, each of these momentary sheets of spray glistened in the sunbeams

like frosted silver. Overhead the dark, deep sky glowed as in a furnace,

while around us the sea was as molten brass. Parched for thirst, yet not

daring to exceed the allowance of water on which we had

determined—burning in the intense heat, without the possibility of

obtaining shelter—worn out in body and depressed in spirits, it

required all my exertions, backed by one or two of the most sanguine of

the crew, to keep the men from utter despair, nor was it until evening

again drew on, and the intolerable heat of a tropical day had given way

to the comparative coolness of twilight, that the general despondency

gave way. Then again the hopes of the men revived, only, however, to be

once more cast down when darkness closed over the scene, with the

certainty we should obtain no relief until the ensuing day.

Why need I recount the sufferings of that second night, which was only

less dreadful than the preceding one because the stars afforded us some

comparative light, sufficing only, however, to keep us on the watch for

a strange sail, without allowing us to hope for success in our watch,

unless by almost a miracle? Why should I narrate the alternation of hope

and fear on the ensuing day, which did not differ from this one, save in

the fiercer heat of noon day, and the more utter exhaustion of the men?

What boots it to recount the six long days and nights, each one like its

predecessor, only that each one grew more and more intolerable, until at

length, parched and worn out, like the Israelites of old, we cried out

at night, “Would God it were morning,” and in the morning, “Would God it

were evening.” And thus, week after week passed, until our provisions

and water were exhausted, and yet no relief arrived, but day after day

we floated helplessly on that boiling ocean, or were chilled by the icy

and unwholesome dews of night. Hunger and thirst, and heat—fever and

despair contended together for the mastery, and we were the victims.

Often before I had read of men who were thus exposed, coming at length

to such a pitch of madness and despair, that they groveled in the bottom

of the boat, and cried out for death; but never had I thought such

things could be credible. Now, how fearfully were my doubts removed! I

saw lion-hearted men weeping like infants—I beheld those whose strength

was as that of a giant, subdued and powerless—I heard men who, in other

circumstances, would have clung tenaciously to life, now sullenly

awaiting their fate, or crying out, in their agony, for death to put a

period to their sufferings. No pen, however graphic—no imagination,

however vivid, can do justice to the fearful horrors of our situation.

Every morning dawned with the same hope of a sail in sight, and every

night gathered around us with the same despairing consciousness that our

hope was in vain.

There was one of my crew, a pale, delicate lad, whom I shall never

forget. He was the only son of a widow, and had entered the navy, though

against her will, to earn an honorable subsistence for her. Though he

had been among us but a short time, he had already distinguished himself

by his address and bravery, while his frank demeanor had made him a

universal favorite. Since the loss of the Dart he had borne up against

our privations with a heroism that had astonished me. When the rest were

sad he was cheerful; and no suffering, however great, could wring from

him a complaint. But on the twentieth day—after having tasted no food

for forty-eight hours—the mortal tenement proved too weak for his

nobler soul. He was already dreadfully emaciated, and for some days I

had been surprised at his powers of endurance. But now he could hold out

no longer, and was forced to confess that he was ill. I felt his

pulse—he was in a high fever. Delirium soon seized him, and throughout

all that day and night he was deprived of reason. His ravings would have

melted the heart of a Nero. He seemed conscious of his approaching end,

and dwelt constantly, in terms of the most heart-rending agony, on his

widowed mother—so soon to be deprived of her only solace and support.

Oh! the terrible eloquence of his words. Now he alluded in the most

touching accents to his father’s death—now he recounted the struggles

in his mother’s heart when he proposed going to sea—and now he dwelt on

her grief when she should hear of his untimely end, or watch month after

month, and year after year, in the vain hope of again pressing him to

her bosom. There were stern men there listening to his plaintive

lamentations, who had perhaps never shed a tear before, but the

fountains of whose souls were now loosened, and who wept as only a man

can weep. There were sufferers beside him, whose own anguish almost

racked their hearts to pieces, yet who turned aside from it to sorrow

over him. And as hour after hour passed away, and he waxed weaker and

weaker, one feeble shipmate after another volunteered to hold his aching

head, for all thought of the lone widow, far, far away, who was even now

perhaps making some little present for the boy whom she should never see

again.

It was the evening of the day after his attack, and he lay with his head

on my lap, when the sufferer, after an unusually deep sleep of more than

an hour, woke up, and faintly opening his eyes lifted them to me. It was

a moment before he could recognize me, but then a grateful smile stole

over his wan face. I saw at a glance that the fever had passed away, and

I knew enough of the dying hour to know that this return of reason

foreboded a speedy dissolution. He made an attempt to raise his hand to

his face, but weakness prevented him. Knowing his wishes, I took my

handkerchief and wiped the dampness from his brow. Again that sweet

smile played on the face of the boy, and it seemed as if thenceforth the

expression of his countenance had in it something not of earth. The

hardy seamen saw it too, and leaned forward to look at him.

“Thank you, Mr. Cavendish, thank you,” he said faintly, “I hope I

haven’t troubled you—I feel better now—almost well enough to sit up.”

“No—no, my poor boy,” I said, though my emotion almost choked me, “lie

still—I can easily hold you. You have slept well?”

“Oh! I have had such a sweet sleep, and it was full of happy dreams,

though before that it seemed as if I was standing at my father’s dying

bed, or saw my mother weeping as she wept the night I came away. And

then,” and a melancholy shadow passed across his face as he spoke, “I

thought that she cried more bitterly than ever, as if her very heart

were breaking for some one who was dead—and it appears, too, as if I

was that one,” he said, with child-like simplicity. Then for a moment he

mused sadly, but suddenly said—“Do you think I am dying, sir?”

The suddenness of the question startled me, and when I saw those large,

clear eyes fixed on me, I was more embarrassed than ever.

“I hope not,” I said brokenly. He shook his head, and again that

melancholy shadow passed across his face, and he answered in a tone of

grief that brought the tears into other eyes than mine,

“I feel I am. Oh! my poor mother—my poor, poor widowed mother, who will

care for you when I am gone?”

“I will,” I said with emotion; “if God spares me to reach the land, I

will seek her out, and tell her all about you—what a noble fellow you

were—”

“And—and,” and here a blush shot over his pale face, “will you see that

she never wants—will you?” he continued eagerly.

“I will,” said I, “rest easy on that point, my dear, noble boy.”

“Aye! and while there’s a shot in the locker for Bill Seaton she shall

never want,” said the topman, pressing in his own horny hand the more

delicate one of the boy.

“God bless you!” murmured the lad faintly, and he closed his eyes. For a

moment there was silence, the hot tears falling on his face as I leaned

over him. At length he looked up; a smile of joy was on his countenance,

and his lips moved. I put my ear to them and listened.

“Mother—father—I die happy, for we shall meet in heaven,” were the

words that fell in broken murmurs from his lips, and then he sunk back

on my lap and was dead. The sun, at the instant, was just sinking behind

the distant seaboard. Ah! little did his mother, as she gazed on the

declining luminary from her humble cottage window, think that that sun

beheld the dying hour of her boy. Little did she think, as she knelt

that night in prayer for him, that she was praying for one whose silent

corpse rocked far away on the fathomless sea. Let us hope that when, in

her sleep, she dreamed of hearing his loved voice once more, his spirit

was hovering over her, whispering comfort in her ear. Thank God that we

can believe the dead thus revisit earth, and become ministering angels

to the sorrowing who are left behind!

Another sun went and came, and even the stoutest of hearts began to give

way. For twenty-three days had we drifted on the pathless deep, and in

all that time not a sail had appeared—nothing had met our sight but the

brazen sky above and the unbroken deep below. During the greater portion

of that period we had lain motionless on the glittering sea, for a

succession of calms had prevailed, keeping us idly rocking on the long,

monotonous swell. When the sun of the twenty-fourth day rose, vast and

red, there was not one of us whose strength was more than that of an

infant; and though, at the first intimation of dawn, we gazed around the

horizon as we were wont, there was little of hope in our dim and glazing

eyes. Suddenly, however, the topman’s look became animated, and the

color went and came into his face, betokening his agitation. Following

the direction of his eyes, I saw a small, white speck far off on the

horizon. I felt the blood rushing to the ends of my fingers, while a

dizziness came over my sight. I controlled my emotion, however, with an

effort. At the same instant the doubts of the topman appeared to give

way, and waving his hand around his head, he shouted,

“A sail!—a sail!”

“Whereaway?” eagerly asked a dozen feeble voices, while others of the

crew who were too far gone to speak, turned their fading eyes in the

direction in which all were now looking.

“Just under yonder fleecy cloud.”

“I can’t see it,” said one, “surely there is a mistake.”

“No—we are in the trough of the sea—wait till we rise—there!”

“I see it—I see it—huzza!” shouted several.

A sudden animation seemed to pervade all. Some rose to their feet and

clasping each other in their arms, wept deliriously—some cast

themselves on their knees and returned thanks to God—while some gazed

vacantly from one face to another, every now and then breaking out into

hysterical laughter. For a time it seemed as if all had forgotten that

the strange sail was still far away, and that she might never approach

near enough to be hailed. But these thoughts finally found their way

into the hearts of the most sanguine, and gradually the exhilaration of

sudden hope gave way to despair, or the even more dreadful uncertainty

of suspense. Hour after hour, with flushed cheeks and eager eyes, the

sufferers watched the course of that strange sail, and when at length

her topsails began to lift, and her approach was no longer doubtful, a

faint huzza rose up from their overcharged hearts, and once more they

exhibited the wild delirious joy which had characterized the first

discovery of the stranger.

The approaching sail was apparently a merchant ship of the largest

class, and the number of her look-outs seemed to intimate that she was

armed. She was coming down toward us in gallant style, her canvass

bellying out in the breeze, and the foam rolling in cataracts under her

bows. Once we thought that she was about to alter her course—her head

turned partially around and one or two of her sails shook in the

wind—but, after a moment’s anxious suspense, we saw her resume her

course, her head pointing nearly toward us. For some time we watched her

in silence, eagerly awaiting the moment when she should perceive our lug

sail. But we were doomed to be disappointed. Minute after minute passed

by, after we had assured ourselves that we were nigh enough to be seen,

and yet the stranger appeared unconscious of our vicinity. She was now

nearly abreast of us, running free before the wind, just out of hail.

Our hearts throbbed with intense anxiety. But though several minutes

more had passed, and she was directly on our beam, her look-outs still

continued gazing listlessly around, evidently ignorant that we were

near.

“She will pass us,” exclaimed Seaton, the topman, “how can they avoid

seeing our sail?”

“We must try to hail them,” I said, “or we are lost.”

“Ay—ay, it is our only chance,” said the topman, and a grim smile

passed over his face as he looked around on his emaciated shipmates, and

added bitterly, “though it’s little likely that such skeletons as we can

make ourselves heard to that distance.”

“We will try,” said I, and raising my hand to time the cry, I hailed the

ship. The sound rose feebly on the air and died waveringly away. But no

symptoms of its being heard were perceptible on board the stranger.

“Again,” I said, “once more!”

A second time the cry rose up from our boat, but this time with more

volume than before. Still no look-out moved, and the ship kept on her

course.

“A third time, my lads,” I said, “we are lost if they hear us

not—ahoy!”

“Hilloo!” came floating down toward us, and a topman turned his face

directly toward us, leaning his ear over the yard to listen.

“Aboy!—a-hoy!—Ho-ho-o-oy!” we shouted, joining our voices in a last

desperate effort.

“Hilloo—boat ahoy!” were the glad sounds that met our ears in return,

and a dozen hands were extended to point out our location. At the

instant, the ship gallantly swung around, and bore down directly toward

us.

“They see us—praise the Lord—they see us—we are saved!” were the

exclamations of the crew as they burst into hysteric tears, and fell on

their knees in thanksgiving, again enacting the scene of delirious joy

which had characterized the first discovery of the strange sail.

On came the welcome ship—on like a sea-bird on the wing! Scores of

curious faces were seen peering over her sides as she approached, while

from top and cross-trees a dozen look-outs gazed eagerly toward us. The

sun was shining merrily on the waves, which sparkled in his beams like

silver; while the murmur of the wind over the deep came pleasantly to

our ears. Oh! how different did every thing appear to us now from what

it had appeared when hope was banished from our hearts. And when, weak

and trembling, we were raised to the deck of the stranger, did not our

hearts run over with gratitude to God? Let the tears that even our

rescuers shed proclaim.

“Water—give us water, for God’s sake,” was the cry of my men as they

struggled to the deck.

“Only a drop now—more you shall have directly,” answered the surgeon,

as he stood between the half frenzied men and the water can.

With difficulty the ravenous appetites of the crew were restrained, for

to have suffered the men to eat in large quantities after so long an

abstinence would have ensured their speedy deaths. The sick were hurried

to cots, while the captain insisted that I should share a portion of his

own cabin.

It was many days before we were sufficiently recovered to mingle with

our rescuers, and during our sickness we were treated with a kindness

which was never forgot.

The strange sail was a privateersman, sailing under the American flag.

We continued with her about two months, when she found it necessary to

run into port. As we were nearly opposite Block Island, it was

determined to stand in for Newport, where accordingly we landed, after

an absence of nearly a year.

Here I found that we had been given up for lost. A bucket, with the name

of the Dart painted on it, having been picked up at sea, from which it

was concluded that all on board the vessel had perished. This belief had

now become general in consequence of the lapse of time since we had been

heard from. I was greeted, therefore, as one restored from the dead.

* * * * *

“WRITE TO ME, LOVE,”

A BALLAD.

THE POETRY BY MISS PARDOE, THE MUSIC BY DAVID LEE.

Selected for Graham’s Magazine by J. G. Osbourn.

[Illustration: musical score]

Write to me, love,

When thou art far away,

Write every thought which glances o’er thy mind,—

Write to me, love,

And let thy fond words say,

All that may spirit unto Spirit bind!

Write to me, love,

Write to me;

Write to me, love,

Write to me!

Write to me, love,

And let each glowing line

Teem with the vows we have so often ta’en.

Write to me, love,

And when the treasure’s mine,

Resume thy task, and write to me again.

Write to me, love,

Write to me;

Write to me, love,

Write to me!

* * * * *

REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.

_History of Charles VIII., King of France. By Count Philip de

Segur, Lieutenant-General, Peer of France, Member of the French

Academy, Author of “Napoleon’s Russian Campaign,” etc.

Translated by Richard R. Montgomery. Two volumes, duodecimo.

Philadelphia, Herman Hooker._

This work in its original language has been very popular, and some

critics have deemed it the best of Segur’s productions. It is a history

of France while that country was in the transition state between

feudalism and centralism, and is written in the picturesque style of the

old chroniclers.

Louis XI., the father of Charles, died in 1483. He had wielded the

sceptre with strong hands, and given an extraordinary impulse to public

affairs. It was therefore necessary that the government should be

administered by an experienced person during the minority of the young

king. There was a deep and pervading dissatisfaction in the country,

especially among the nobles, who had been repressed by Louis, and were

now anxious to reclaim their lost privileges. Anne of Beaujeu, the

eldest daughter of the deceased monarch, and wife of the lord of Bourbon

Beaujeu, had been selected by her father for the regency. She was not

more than twenty-two years old, but at that early age was shrewd,

resolute and dignified—the wisest and most beautiful woman of the

realm. Her first act was the convocation of the Estates General at

Tours, an event long celebrated on account of the ability and

independence manifested by the deputies in their debates. She afterward

undertook and accomplished the conquest of Bretagne—the great measure

for which the regency was distinguished,—and finally, having maintained

her position amid innumerable dangers, adding from year to year to her

own and the national glory, resigned the government to Charles. A new

policy was from that time pursued. The young king was ignorant and

capricious, guided by his own mad impulses, or the wishes of intriguing

courtiers, to whom he had given the places before occupied by gravest

and wisest counsellors; and his reign, disastrous to France, prepared

the way for the most important changes in European politics. A false

notion of honor and the ambition of two favorites made him undertake the

conquest of Naples. He succeeded, but instead of endeavoring to secure

the permanent possession of that kingdom, gave himself up to a

thoughtless voluptuousness, until a confederacy was formed which

expelled him from Italy. After re-entering his own dominions his conduct

and policy continued to be nerveless and vacillating. He seemed to

regard the Neapolitan expedition as of slight importance, speaking of it

as a series of passages at arms, a royal adventure which had resulted

somewhat unfortunately; and never dreamed that the foolishly commenced

and insanely conducted enterprise had destroyed the balance of power in

Italy, taught the states of Europe to view with jealousy each other’s

motions, and opened the way for the cultivation of those sciences and

arts which civilized society and made men feel that they had other

pursuits and pastimes than war. A short time before the close of his

life a change came over his character; hitherto Cæsar had been his hero,

and Charlemagne his model, but from the death of his third son, in

infancy, he was ambitious to imitate St. Louis, and occupied himself

with reforms in religion, legislation, and the administration of

justice. How long he would have continued in his new career, but for his

sudden death, cannot be known. He died in consequence of an injury,

received in his magnificent château d’Amboise, in the year 1498.

Many eminent men flourished in France during this reign, among whom were

the brave and intriguing Dunois; Philip de Comines, the celebrated

historian and minister; La Tremouille, a principal actor in the

Neapolitan expedition; Savonarola, the prophet priest of Florence; and

others of less distinction.

The work of Segur is not alone interesting as a history of important

political transactions; it contains numerous passages of a romantic

description, characteristic of the age and its institutions, and written

in a highly dramatic and picturesque style. The translation we doubt not

is rigidly correct; but had Mr. Montgomery been less studious to render

his original literally, his version would have flowed somewhat more

smoothly, without losing any of its freshness or animation.

* * * * *

_The Book of the Navy; comprising a general History of the

American Marine, and Particular Accounts of all the most

celebrated Naval Battles, from the Declaration of Independence

to the present time; compiled from the best authorities, by John

Frost, A. M., etc. One volume, octavo. New York, D. Appleton &

Co. Philadelphia, Herman Hooker._

Mr. Frost has succeeded in his attempt to present the leading incidents

in the history of our national marine in an attractive form. The Book of

the Navy is one of those “books for the people” which awaken only

patriotism, pride and emulation. The Appendix, containing selections of

naval lyrical pieces and anecdotes, seems to have been prepared with

less care than the historical part of the work. The best American naval

songs are Edwin C. Holland’s “Pillar of Glory” and the “Old Ironsides”

of Oliver W. Holmes, neither of which appears in Mr. Frost’s collection,

while it embraces some which have no allusion to the navy, and others

too worthless in a literary point of view to deserve preservation. The

volume is very elegantly printed, and is embellished with several

portraits on steel, and other engravings from designs by Croome.

* * * * *

_Family Secrets, or Hints to those who would make Home Happy. By

Mrs. Ellis. Two volumes, duodecimo. Philadelphia, Lea &

Blanchard._

This work is composed of a series of tales, each illustrating a

principle or enforcing a moral. The first volume contains, Dangers of

Dining Out, Confessions of a Madman, Somerville Hall, The Rising Tide,

and The Favorite Child; the second, First Impressions, and The

Minister’s Family. The characters are usually well-drawn, and the

interest of some of the stories is deep and well sustained.

* * * * *

_The Life of Jean Paul Frederic Richter, Compiled from various

Sources, together with his Autobiography. Translated from the

German. Two volumes, duodecimo. Boston, Little & Brown._

The name of Jean Paul has become so familiar to American and English

readers, that this work will doubtless supply a great desideratum with

many ardent admirers of German literature. Our ideas of Jean Paul do not

coincide with those of most critics. We have great respect for his

genius, the purity of his thoughts, the extreme delicacy of his

sentiments, and his almost universal learning; but we think his style

forced and unnatural, and the amount of his wit, sarcasm, humor and

hyperbolical refinement, altogether disproportionate to the “littleness”

of his subjects. He is the most poetic of prose writers, and his

autobiography furnishes many happy illustrations of this assertion. In

our opinion, however, he indulges far too much in _didacticism_, a style

which we dislike equally in poetry or prose, and which is seldom chosen

by men of great intellect. He is a _feminine_ writer, and much which in

his works appears and is applauded as poetry, is in truth only high

wrought feminine delicacy. He is accordingly much read and admired by

women. But we doubt whether in all his productions there is a well drawn

character of a _man_. When we look upon his heroes we cannot but

remember Hotspur—

“I would rather be a cat and cry mew

Than one of those self same ballad mongers.”

The writings of Jean Paul have had a pernicious influence on the minds

of the youth of Germany, who are naturally inclined to sojourn in the

regions of fancy; but it is a proof of returning reason that among the

numerous republications of the works of German authors his have not gone

through very large editions.

Schiller and Goethe disliked the muse of Jean Paul; the former because

she had not warmth, and the latter because as an artist he was shocked

with her morbid taste. Jean Paul was much mortified at the coldness of

this Corephæus of German literature, and in giving an account of his

visit to Weimer, says—

“On the second day I threw away my foolish prejudices in favor

of great authors. They are like other people. Here every one

knows that they are like the earth, that looks from a distance,

from heaven, like a shining moon, but, when the foot is upon it,

is found to be _boue de Paris_ (Paris mud.) An opinion

concerning Herder, Wieland, and Goethe is as much contested as

any other. Who would believe that the great watch towers of our

literature avoid and dislike each other? I will never again bend

myself anxiously before any great man, only before the

_virtuous_.”

This sentiment is unworthy the mind of Jean Paul. The best relations

existed between Schiller and Goethe through life. Each of them was great

enough in his sphere to fear no rival. The jealousies which Jean Paul

refers to were those of some women in “the society” of Weimer, but the

men whom they maligned were both immeasurably beyond their reach.

Gervinus, in his “History of German Literature,” the most national work

lately published, assigns to Jean Paul rather a low rank among the poets

of his country. There is much thought and meditation in his works, but

that divine spark which kindles enthusiasm and inspires men to sublime

action is not in them. Even his female portraits are not drawn after

Nature, and his Linda, in “Titan”—perhaps the best of his novels—is,

after all the praise it has received, but a transparent shadow.

This memoir contains Jean Paul’s autobiography, reaching to his

thirteenth year; a connected narrative of his life, compiled and

translated from the best sources, and copious extracts from his

correspondence. The translation is generally correct and elegant, but

many errors occur in the proper names, especially by the transpositions

of the _i_ and _e_. We have seen mentioned, as the compiler and

translator, Miss Lee of Boston, a lady of taste and learning, to whom

the public have before been indebted for several pleasing and

instructive publications.

* * * * *

_Remains of the Rev. Joshua Wells Downing, A. M. With a brief

Memoir. Edited by Elijah H. Downing, A. M. One volume,

duodecimo. New York, J. Lane and P. P. Sandford: 1842._

We have read the sermons, sketches of sermons, and letters in this

volume with considerable attention, and regret finding in them so little

to praise. Mr. Downing died when but twenty-six years old, in Boston. He

was a pious, earnest and efficient minister of the Methodist Episcopal

Church, and, had he lived to a mature age, we doubt not, would have been

one of the most useful clergymen of his denomination. But, however

excellent his qualities as a man or as a preacher, his printed

discourses bear too few of the marks of genius or learning to secure for

him a high reputation as a writer. They are not distinguished for

graceful expression, vigor, or originality. The fraternal partiality of

the editor deserves not to be censured, but the common practice of

printing sermons, “called so,” as Bishop Andrews well remarks, “by a

_charitable construction_,” and other “remains,” not originally designed

for the press and unworthy of publication, is an evil which can be

remedied only by honest critical judgments.

* * * * *

_Elements of Chemistry, Including the most recent Discoveries

and Applications of the Science to Medicine and Pharmacy, and to

the Arts. By Robert Kane, M. D., M. R. T. A., &c. An American

Edition, with Additions and Corrections, and arranged for the

use of the Universities, Colleges, Academies and Medical Schools

of the United States. By John William Draper, M. D. New York,

Harper & Brothers._

Chemistry, more than any other science, is progressive. In the work

before us Mr. Kane has exhibited with great ability its advancement,

general extent, and present condition. There is no lack of elementary

works on the subject, but we know of none which enter into it so fully

or are so clear and comprehensive as this. Dr. Kane ranks among the

first philosophical inquirers of the day, and is probably unequaled as a

chemist. The American editor is likewise well known for his profound

knowledge of this science. In looking through the work we have been

particularly pleased with its practical character—the explanations it

contains of the various processes by which chemistry has been made to

contribute to the progress of the arts, which enhance its value to the

medical practitioner and the manufacturer.

* * * * *

_Lives of the Queens of England, from the Norman Conquest: With

Anecdotes of their Courts. Now first published from Official

Records and other Authentic Documents, Private as well as

Public. By Agnes Strickland. Second Series. Three volumes,

duodecimo. Philadelphia, Lea & Blanchard._

The new series of Miss Strickland’s Lives of the Queens of England

contains memoirs of Elizabeth of York, Katharine of Aragon, Anne Boleyn,

Jane Seymour, Anne of Cleves, Katharine Howard, Catherine Parr, and Mary

“the Catholic.” The work improves as it advances and the materials for

history accessible to the authoress become more abundant. Some of the

memoirs in the second series are exceedingly interesting. The volumes

deserve a place in every lady’s library.

* * * * *

_Uncas and Miantonimoh; A Historical Discourse delivered at

Norwalk, (Con.) on the fourth day of July, 1842, on the occasion

of the erection of a Monument to the Memory of Uncas, the White

Man’s Friend, and first Chief of the Mohegans. By W. L. Stone.

New York: Dayton & Newman._

This is an interesting and valuable contribution to our historical

writings. Uncas, “the white man’s friend,” was the king of a powerful

tribe of Indians occupying a large part of the territory now called

Connecticut, when it was colonized by the English Pilgrims, in 1635. His

ashes rest in the “royal burying-ground” near Norwich; and, above them,

in 1833, when General Jackson was on a visit to that city, the corner

stone of a monument was laid, with imposing ceremonies. The granite

obelisk, with the simple inscription, Uncas, was finished on the fourth

of July, 1842, and on that day Mr. Stone delivered the address which,

with its appendix and notes, composes the volume before us.

* * * * *

_Principalities and Powers in Heavenly Places. By Charlotte

Elizabeth. One volume, duodecimo. New York, John S. Taylor._

“Charlotte Elizabeth” is the wife, we believe, of a London clergyman.

Excepting Hannah More, no woman has written so much or so well on

religious subjects. In the work before us she treats with her usual

ability of the holy angels and of evil spirits, their existence,

character, power, and destiny.

* * * * *

_The Smuggler’s Son, and Other Tales and Sketches. By A. W. M.

One volume, duodecimo. Philadelphia, Herman Hooker._

This volume contains several interesting prose pieces, mingled with

lyrics, smoothly versified, and poetical in ideas and expression.

* * * * *

_A History of the State of Vermont: In Three Parts. I. Natural

History. II. Civil History. III. Gazetteer. By Rev. Zadok

Thompson, M. A. With a new Map of the State, and Two Hundred

Engravings. Burlington, Chauncey Goodrich. Philadelphia, Herman

Hooker._

This is the title of a large and closely printed octavo just issued from

the press. It embraces much curious and valuable information, some of

which is from original sources. The work, however, is badly arranged and

carelessly written. The different parts, having but little connection

with each other, should have been published separately.

* * * * *

_A Kiss for a Blow. By Henry C. Wright. One volume, 18mo.

Published at 31 North Fifth Street, Philadelphia._

_Emma, or the Lost Found. One volume, 18mo. New York, Dayton &

Newman: Philadelphia, Hogan & Thompson._

_The Great Secret, or How to be Happy. One volume, 18mo. New

York, Dayton & Newman: Philadelphia, Hogan & Thompson._

These are short stories, for children and youth, written with simplicity

and in a genial and loving spirit, and in every way superior to the

books of the class written before the last few years.

* * * * *

_A Collection of the Promises of Scripture, under their proper

heads, representing the Blessings promised, the Duties to which

Promises are made, with an Appendix and Introduction, by Samuel

Clarke, D. D. One volume, 32mo. New York, D. Appleton & Co.

Philadelphia, Herman Hooker._

This little work is well known to Christians, and to others its title

will convey an accurate idea of its character. The present edition is

doubtless the most beautiful that has been published.

* * * * *

EDITOR’S TABLE.

We have, in manuscript, a biographical sketch of the late Commodore

Perry, from the pen of Mr. Cooper, which it was our intention to publish

in December, but, it proving too long for a single number, we shall

carry it over to the next year, that its parts may appear in the same

volume. In this sketch Mr. Cooper has gone into the critical details

concerning the battle of Lake Erie, which were not thought proper to be

introduced into his great naval work, as they belong to biography rather

than to history. Mr. Cooper, we learn, has delayed publishing his answer

to the Lectures of Burgess, the Biography of Mackenzie, and his account

of the late arbitration in New York, in order not to anticipate the

appearance of the biographical sketch, which, while it is critical

rather than controversial, will necessarily cover much of the same

ground. We understand that the “Answers” will immediately follow the

appearance of the article in our magazine.

The naval story entitled “Harry Cavendish,” will be brought to a close

in our next number, and we shall not hereafter commence the publication

of any article which may not be completed in two or three months.

A new edition of the works of Jonathan Edwards will be published within

a few weeks, by Jonathan Leavitt and John F. Trow, of New York, in four

very large octavo volumes. Edwards was the greatest metaphysician of the

eighteenth century—and his name, first and highest in our literary

history, can never be spoken but with pride by an American. The only

copies of his writings for sale in this country for several years have

been from the English press.

Mr. Cooper’s new romance, “Wing and Wing, or Le Feu Follet,” will be

published about the fifteenth of this month, by Lea & Blanchard, and we

are pleased to learn that it is to be sold at one third the price of his

former novels—that is, for fifty cents per copy. We are confident the

publishers will find in nearly all cases—international copyright or no

copyright—that the greatest profits accrue from small prices and

consequent large circulation.

“The Life and Adventures of John Eugene Leitensdorfer, formerly a

Colonel in the Austrian Service, and Adjutant and Inspector-General in

the United States’ Army under General Eaton, in the Tripolitan War,” is

the title of a work soon to appear in St. Louis, where the veteran hero

and biographer resides. Few persons in any period have passed through

more romantic scenes than Colonel Leitensdorfer, and his memoirs cannot

fail to be deeply interesting.

A new prose romance, entitled “Idomen, or the Vale of Yumuri,” by Mrs.

Brooks, better known by her poetical name, _Maria del Occidente_, will

soon be published by Colman, of New York. We have had the pleasure of

reading the work in manuscript. It will sustain the reputation of the

authoress as the “most passionate and most imaginative of all

poetesses.”

* * * * *

[Illustration: Three ladies and a gentleman dressed in latest fashions.]

* * * * *

Transcriber’s Notes:

Table of Contents has been added for reader convenience. Archaic

spellings and hyphenation have been retained. Obvious punctuation and

typesetting errors have been corrected without note. Other errors have

been corrected as noted below.

page 275, mute upon her perch, ==> mute upon his perch,

[End of _Graham’s Magazine, Vol. XXI, No. 5, November 1842_, George R.

Graham, Editor]