Book II.

GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

Vol. XIX. December, 1841. No. 6.

Contents

Fiction, Literature and Articles

The Hawkers

Shakspeare.—No. IV

The Reefer of ’76 (concluded)

The Stolen Miniature

The Marriage of Achilles

A Chapter on Autography (continued)

Misfortunes of a Timid Gentleman

The Ideal

The Rescue at the Eleventh Hour

Review of New Books

Secret Writing

The Closing Year

Poetry

The Glad Retreat

He Woo’d Me at the Fountain

Venice

Lines

The Sweet South Wind

The Lyre Bird

Lines to a Portrait

Lines

The Choice of Hearts

Transcriber’s Notes can be found at the end of this eBook.

* * * * *

[Illustration: J. Hayter; Rawdon, Wright, Hatch & Smillie, _The Lady

Isabel_

_Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine_]

* * * * *

GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

Vol. XIX. PHILADELPHIA: DECEMBER, 1841. No. 6.

* * * * *

THE HAWKERS.

OR THE LADY ISABEL.

BY D. MAXWELL.

It was a merry day in Torbay castle. Never had a brighter sun shone on a

fair lady than that which now poured its mellow beams over the gay

hawking party assembled in the court yard,—while, as if all were

exhilarated by the unclouded sky above, shouts, jests, and sallies, sly

compliments and merry laughter saluted the ear on every hand. There was

the ringing of bridles, the champing of bits, the barking of dogs, the

shouts of serving men, the orders of the falconers, the low whispers of

gay gallants, or the half suppressed laughter of a bevy of merry young

girls, making altogether a concord of sounds, strange and yet somewhat

sweet, and not a little in unison with the old grim walls around and the

bracing character of the morning. Foremost in the group, and directly

under the massy archway of the gate, stood a rugged old falconer, who

looked as if he might have been an appanage of the castle from the time

of the conqueror, sustaining several _casts of toure_ and _leses_ of

hawks, hooded and ready for the field. To his right was the favorite

page of the mistress of the castle, holding the white palfrey of the

Lady Isabel, the only daughter of the Earl. A few dogs lay about

awaiting the setting forth of the cavalcade. In the rear the hawking

party was assembled in what seemed at first a promiscuous group, but it

would have been found on a closer examination, that the younger

cavaliers had each placed himself as near to his lady’s bridle as

possible, while the older sportsmen were drawn apart by themselves,

eagerly canvassing the chances of the day’s sport.

At length the cavalcade set forth, and leaving the castle to the right,

diverged towards the hills that skirt the neighborhood of Torbay, with

the object of gaining the little river Wyse, a small stream that runs

through that delightful vicinity, and is bordered by high overhanging

banks.

We have said that the younger gallants each sought his lady’s bridle

rein, but it might have been noticed as a little singular that perhaps

the two handsomest knights rode by themselves, keeping in the rear of

the “goodly companie,” and seemingly engaged in earnest conversation. It

might also have been noticed that the Lady Isabel rode unattended,

except by her father, and that now and then, she cast a sly and perhaps

uneasy glance back at the two cavaliers. She did this so often, that at

length it attracted their attention, and the shorter of the two

companions said to the other,

“There, Herbert, take heart, man—do you not see that my fair coz is not

indifferent to you—there, as I am a knight, she is looking back again.”

“It is but to chide you for deserting her,” said the other. “I may not

be so happy as to think she cares for me. Did you mark how chilling a

reception she gave me this morning?”

“Faith, man, and you deserved it,” answered his more mercurial

companion, “after your strange humor last evening. Do your beauties and

heiresses endure all the whim of jealous suitors without resentment?

Will you never take heart of grace, leave off this diffidence, and come

boldly out and woo my cousin in your own true and frank character? You

may depend on it she has not forgotten you since you were playmates

together, and though ten years of absence have elapsed since then, and

she has been sought and is now sought by a score of gentlemen, yet has

she not heard of your valor continually through my letters, and does she

not blush and turn pale whenever you come suddenly on her? What more

would you want? Tut, man, you are as blind in love as a bat. If you had

to charge a battery you would do it without winking an eye-lid, but here

you cannot attack a fair lady’s heart without quaking like a friar, and

being in a dozen humors a day, according as your mistress chances to

smile on you or not. Take my word for it, Isabel cares very little

whether her madcap cousin is at her bridle rein or away from it; but she

does care whether Sir Herbert Glendower is there or not, especially just

now, when her conscience is twitching her, I dare swear, for having

looked coldly on him a half hour since, and thus driven the poor knight

almost into the notion of hanging himself. But this jesting I see you do

not like—so let us push on and join the group, or we shall be suspected

of talking treason,” and with a gay laugh the mercurial young man

pricked his steed and pushed forward. His companion hesitated but an

instant and then followed.

Sir Herbert Glendower had known—as his fellow soldier said—the heiress

of Torbay castle in childhood; for his own father dying, the Earl of

Torbay had filled the place of guardian to the young orphan. At the age

of fourteen, Glendower had joined the army, but even at that early

period he had imbibed a passion for the young Isabel of which he was not

himself fully conscious, until years of watching, strife and absence had

convinced him that she was, after all, nearer to his heart than aught

beside. During a separation of ten years from Isabel, his bosom

companion had been her reckless cousin, and perhaps the conversation of

the two young soldiers had often turned on the young heiress and thus

insensibly deepened the passion felt for her by Glendower. Certain it

is, that when the young knight met her on his return to England, and saw

that she had grown up more beautiful than he had imagined her even in

his dreams, he felt his passion for her increased to such an extremity

that her love became thenceforth necessary to his very being. Yet, like

too many who love devotedly, the very depth of his passion prevented his

success, by filling him with uncalled for doubts and fears. Usually

frank and daring, he became reserved and timorous. The slightest

appearance of coldness, although unintentional, was sufficient to

overthrow all his hope. At such times he would throw himself on his

pride, and affect a reserve to Isabel, the consequence of which would be

a coldness on her part. Such had been the case on the morning in

question.

For a few minutes he mused silently, and then said to himself:

“He may be right after all; and if so, am I not a fool? I will watch

Isabel narrowly to-day, and if I see the least glimmering of hope, I

will know all. If not, or if she refuses me”—he paused and added sadly,

“why then a foreign service and a foreign grave will be mine.”

Meantime the hawkers had gained the river, and while the serving men,

with their dogs, descended into the ravine to rouse the birds from the

marshy margin of the stream, the cavalcade continued its progress along

the high banks above, in momentary expectation of the appearance of the

prey. Foremost amongst the hawkers was the father of Isabel; but the

heiress, although usually eager for the sport, appeared to-day to

partake in the pastime only as a spectator, having surrendered her

high-bred falcon to the hands of her favorite page. Isabel herself was

silent and apparently lost in thought. And as Glendower, in pursuance of

his new determination, hovered around her, he fancied he detected in her

manner a slight confirmation of her cousin’s assertion. The hopes of the

young knight beat high at the very thought. He drew his steed nearer to

that of Isabel, and would have addressed her, but at that instant the

shouts of the serving men beneath, in the margin of the river, announced

that the prey had been roused, and with a scream a huge heron, followed

by one of smaller size, rose above the bank, and stretching out their

long thin legs behind them, the quarry sailed away up into the sky.

“Isabel,” said the Earl, “you promised to give a cast at yonder

bird—quick, unhood.”

“Ay, Tremaine,” said the clear silvery voice of the maiden, assuming a

sudden animation, and turning quickly away from Glendower to her page,

“throw off my bird. You have often wished for the chance. Now, ladies

and gallants, all, we shall see rare sport unless my falcon fails me.”

The happy page, blushing, however, to find all eyes directed towards

himself, trotted out a few paces in advance of the group, and removing

the hood from the eyes of the noble bird, held the falcon on his left

wrist as he extended it over his horse’s head. The hawk shook himself

for an instant, gazed around him until he caught sight of the herons,

when he flapped his wings, and, as the page flung him off, darted away

like an arrow in pursuit.

[Illustration]

To any other person than Glendower, the turning of Isabel from him to

her page would at such a moment, have seemed trivial, but the proud and

sensitive nature of the lover instantly magnified it into a rebuke, and

drawing his rein around somewhat haughtily, he gave up his original

intention of keeping at her side, and dashed madly on, leading the

pursuit, as the cavalcade galloped off in the direction where it was

expected the quarry would fall. A gallant sight it was to see that gay

party sweeping along the banks of the stream. The caparisoned steeds,

silken scarfs, waving plumes, and proud demeanor of the nobles, knights

and pages; and the spirited palfreys, flowing robes, and brilliant

costumes of the maidens, with the trains of attendants pressing in the

rear, gave the cavalcade a gorgeousness which later days, in reviving

this courtly sport, have in vain attempted to imitate.

“No, she loves me not,” said Glendower as he galloped furiously on—“it

is folly for me to pretend to win her regard. Well—”

“Ho, sir knight of the woful countenance,” shouted the merry voice of

Isabel’s cousin as he drew up by Glendower, “you are leaving the route

altogether, and faith your conduct will attract notice if it has not

already done so. Come, man, in despair again—away with it—if you won’t

ride at Isabel’s bridle and say things such as maidens love to hear, why

e’en forget her for to-day and attend to the sport—see how her falcon

mounts into the clouds; shade your eyes—there—by St. George he has the

heron now.”

As the knight spoke, the hawk, which had been ascending above the heron

spirally, gradually narrowing the circles as it rose, suddenly stooped

from its height and shooting like a thunderbolt down on the quarry bore

it to the earth. The shout of the hawkers announced that all had seen

the stroke, and instantly spur and whip were put to every steed to reach

the spot where the quarry fell, in order, if necessary, to assist the

falcon. Glendower was among the first to lead the chase, for he felt

that his conduct was attracting attention, and he resolved during the

remainder of the day to adhere to the advice of Isabel’s cousin, let

what might take place.

“A wager that I reach the quarry first, and win a smile from Isabel for

assisting her falcon,” laughingly said the mercurial soldier, “ho! Sir

Glendower, do you close with me?”

“Even so,” said Glendower; “I will distance you a score of paces and

more, or my steed belies his former feats. Your fair cousin shall smile

on me, or rebuff me fairly, for once.”

At the word, the two cavaliers darted forwards at an increased pace; and

instantly every eye, forgetful of the quarry, was directed towards the

race. Both the knights rode splendid horses, and as the animals were now

pressed to show their greatest speed, their riders seemed borne along

the earth as if they were mounted on the enchanted steeds of fairy land.

The cavaliers behind encouraged them with shouts, while the ladies waved

their scarfs and laughed gaily. For a few minutes the horses scoured

along head and head; but, when within a few paces of where the two birds

had fallen, Glendower suddenly dashed away from his competitor and

reaching the quarry first, threw his bridle to a youthful page who had

just arrived from the margin of the stream below, and springing from the

saddle lost not a moment in assisting the falcon to overcome the tall

and powerful bird against which hitherto it had maintained a doubtful

fight.

[Illustration]

By the time Glendower had broken the legs of the hernsaw and stuck its

long bill into the ground, as was the duty of the first sportsman who

reached the quarry after it had been brought to the earth, the members

of the cavalcade began to arrive, and as the knight rose from his

stooping posture, with the prey in one hand and the falcon perched on

his wrist, the silvery voice of Isabel was heard exclaiming—

“Ah! my gay coz, and so you lost your race—a very unusual thing however

for a madcap like you; but pray what was the wager?”

“Yes!—the wager—the wager!” said a dozen merry voices.

“Fair ladies, I cry your mercy; but the wager must be a secret from you

as yet, though perhaps I will tell cousin Isabel, to raise your

curiosity;” and as he spoke, the young man bent his face to the ear of

the high-born beauty and whispered a few words, whose import none could

tell, but which brought the red blood, like a crimson sunset, into the

maiden’s cheek.

“But here is the winner,” continued the young cavalier aloud, as he

moved away to allow Glendower to approach Isabel with the prey.

The knight drew near, and, assuming as much composure as he could,

tendered Isabel the quarry, in the courtly language of the day. The

embarrassment of the maiden was by no means diminished at the address of

Glendower, and, as the knight proceeded, her demeanor appeared to infect

him with a like embarrassment, the more that every eye was directed on

the maiden and Glendower. It was, therefore, a relief to both when a

sudden shout announced that another quarry had been started, and in an

instant one of the party cast off a falcon in pursuit. This attracted

attention from Isabel and Glendower, and as the gay cavalcade dashed

away they were left almost alone. For a minute Glendower had not words

to speak, although something in the smile of the maiden emboldened him

to venture—indeed never had Isabel greeted him more encouragingly. The

maiden looked on the ground and was also silent. As usual, in such

cases, the maiden was the first to speak, and, like most of her sex, she

opened the conversation with a casual remark.

“Yon hawk is but an _eyas_,” said she, pointing to the bird which had

just been cast off, “see, he flies the prey. Ah! yonder goes Tremaine to

lure him down. And see, the bird is not such a foul kestrel after all,

for he answers to the call.”

[Illustration]

As she spoke, the same page to whom we have more than once alluded

already, was seen galloping away in the distance, waving around his head

the tasseled hood used to lure birds of the highest training, and

shouting with his voice. At the same instant another falcon was cast

off, and directly the quarry and its pursuer were lost in the clouds,

while the cavalcade, galloped away along the banks of the river,

following the direction taken by the heron, and leaving Isabel and

Glendower wholly alone.

Glendower did not for a moment reply, for a world of thoughts was in his

bosom—but over them all reigned the consciousness that Isabel appeared

to be less repellent than she had been for days. Why then should he not

avail himself of this accidental _tête à tête_, and learn all? Why

should he be longer tortured with doubt? He did not, therefore, directly

reply to the remark of Isabel, but his eyes followed the form of the

page for a while, and then he suddenly turned them full on the maiden’s

face. Her glance fell beneath his own, and a blush tinged her cheeks

with a deep roseate hue. This emotion added courage to Glendower.

“Isabel,” said he, speaking at first with a trembling voice, which

however became firmer and more impassioned as he proceeded, “perhaps

what I am about to say may offend you—but I cannot restrain the words.

I love you, deeply, ardently, with my whole soul, and whatever may be

your reply, my love will only cease with my life. Ever since we played

together in childhood I have cherished your image in my breast—peril,

absence, silence, the tumult of war, nothing has been able to drive you

from my mind—my passion has grown with my growth, and strengthened with

my strength. Since I returned, my love has only increased. I know how

far above me you are, and I have thought a dozen times you saw, and

would by coldness check, my presumption. But be my punishment even

banishment from your presence, I can no longer keep silence. My love

will find words. You turn away from me—you despise me—you sob.—Can

it?—am I?—Oh! God, is this blessing really mine?” And as the maiden,

overcome by emotion, buried her face in her hands, her lover, at length

conscious that he was beloved, knelt on the sward at her feet, and with

a sacred feeling approaching almost to reverence—for such was the love

of those days—kissed Isabel’s white hand.

A month later, and there was high revelry and feasting in the castle of

Torbay; and many were the gallant knights and ladies fair who assembled

to do honor to the nuptials of Glendower and his fair young bride.

“Ah, did I not tell you to take heart of grace?” whispered Isabel’s

mercurial cousin, unobserved in the ear of the bridegroom, “did I not

say that Isabel had not forgotten you? By the shrine of Becket you

should thank me for my advice.”

“What treason are you plotting?” asked the smiling bride, approaching.

“I am only asking Glendower if you have paid the wager he won from me at

the hawking party—your hand,” was the reply.

* * * * *

SHAKSPEARE.—No. IV.

BY THEODORE S. FAY, AUTHOR OF “NORMAN LESLIE,” “THE COUNTESS IDA,” ETC.

LADY MACBETH.

The imagination of the reader is powerfully aroused by these dark

inuendoes, and the mind, prepared by a secret undefinable state of

suspense and emotion, is doubly startled by the woman’s sudden, hushed

Lo you, _here she comes_!

It is possible that, with something of the terrors of a guilty

conscience herself, the poor waiting woman at first imagines that the

queen has been listening and caught her plotting with the doctor, for

the second exclamation shows an otherwise unaccountable surprise at her

being asleep;

This is her very guise, and, _upon my life, fast asleep_:

observe her: stand close.

_Doctor._ How came she by that light?

_Gent._ Why it stood by her. _She has a light by her

continually_: ’tis _her command_!

Observe the short sentences—as of people listening—watching—under the

pressure of a powerful motive and interest. The light—the doctor’s

surprise at seeing her carry it about with her, and the reply. “_She has

a light by her continually. ’Tis her command._”

This is a new and fearful discovery of the internal state of the

wretched woman’s mind. Here we have at once a view of her night-terrors,

the guilty phantoms which throng her bedside. It is as if a lurid gleam

had been suddenly cast upon her soul from the half-opened gates of hell

itself.

_Doct._ You see her eyes are open.

This is so remarkable a feature in a somnambulist that, even when aware

of it, we can scarcely—while looking on a countenance from which stare

two wide-gazing eyes—realize that they take no note of present objects,

but are bent only on the immaterial, supernatural world.

The gentlewoman who has so often seen her thus replies (at this moment

more cool than the doctor):

_Gent._ Ay, but their sense is shut.

_Doct._ What is it she does now? Look how she rubs her hands.

_Gent._ It is an accustomed action with her, to seem thus

washing her hands: I have known her continue this a quarter of

an hour.

_Lady._ Yet here’s a spot!

It is not possible to call up a more harrowing type of guilt than that

furnished by this bloody queen, thus haunted by the idea of what she has

done, still the ordinary processes of nature themselves are interrupted,

and she is driven to this species of insanity. It is the more striking

in _her_, from the contrast it affords with her supposed callousness of

character, and the haughty, masculine, I had almost said fiendish scorn

of all those phantoms of guilt which her more human husband saw in

advance. This is the proud and cruel mind which feared Macbeth’s _softer

nature_ could never be worked up to the commission of the deed necessary

to seat them on the throne:

yet do I fear thy nature;

It is too full of the milk of human kindness,

To catch the nearest way: Thou wouldst be great;

Art not without ambition; but without

The illness should attend it. What thou wouldst highly

Thou wouldst holily: wouldst not play false,

And yet wouldst wrongly win, etc. etc.

This is the sarcastic despiser of all that would impede her “from the

golden round.” This is the bloody tigress who with a deep, low joy,

triumphed over the unsuspecting visit of her royal guest, king, and

victim:

The raven himself is hoarse

That croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan

Under my battlements.

This is the cool, sagacious, strong-minded counsellor who urged on,

advised, and superintended with a fatal firmness the dire and

sacrilegious murder. This is she who, when her bad, weak husband shrank

from the dangerous and horrible task imposed upon him, heaped him with

contemptuous reproaches—scorching ridicule, and infidel remonstrances.

This is the haughty insulter of heaven—the self-confident derider of

things holy—(the scorner of God, the sneerer at virtue.) Where are now

her high bearing—her bitter taunts—her bold conception, her daring

courage—the strong nerve that neither earth nor heaven could shake?

Where is the hand that drugged the “possets” of the “surfeited

grooms”—that “laid the daggers ready”—that, scorning the childish fear

of a dead face, took itself the bloody weapons back to their places?

Where is the fearless tongue that hooted and laughed at the terrors of

Macbeth; and that, on returning from placing back the daggers and from

smearing the faces of the grooms, (triumphantly showing the hands

dripping with gore) sternly said—

My hands are of your colour; but I shame

To wear a heart so white!

There she stands—the same being, successful in her guilt—in the full

possession of all for which the work was

done—unpunished—undiscovered—unquestioned—disturbed by nothing but

the eye of God. Behold guilt with all that earth can give of power and

exemption—the terrified maid on one side—the watchful doctor on the

other—herself confessing, under a torture more awful than that of the

rack, the bloody secret of her soul, and the physician _taking notes_ of

what falls from her lips! Behold guilt! in its castle—surrounded by its

guards, with all the sources of earthly pleasure at its command.

_Doct._ Hark! she speaks. I will set down what comes from her,

to satisfy my remembrance the more strongly.

_Lady._ Out, damned spot! out, I say!—One, two; why, then ’tis

time to do’t. Hell is murky!—Fie, my lord, fie! a soldier, and

afraid? What need we fear who knows it, when none can call our

power to account? Yet who would have thought the old man to have

had so much blood in him?

_Doct._ Do you mark that?

Here is the dream of the past scene on the night of the murder mingling

with the subsequent stings of conscience—hours and days floating

through her distempered imagination at the same moment—the cruel

purpose, the atrocious execution—the actual presence of the fatal

event, with its unrelenting determination, and guilty hope and the

trembling terrors of future remorse and fear—all together—all crowding

at once upon the mind, in those capricious fragments of reality which

unite with such terrible probability in the solemn hour of sleep. The

“damned spot” is the first—the predominant and blasting thought; the

horrible fixed phantom preying on her mind. Wash as she may, the red

trace will not out. She has continued in this “accustomed action with

her” a quarter of an hour at a time—striving and striving—rubbing and

rubbing—and dwelling upon the hour of her guilt, till the constant

contemplation of it has driven her mad. Amid all the charms, the

long-promised, dearly-prized charms of royalty—with the golden round at

length upon her brow—at all hours of the day and night—in the sunshine

and in the darkness—in solitude and at the banquet—this spot, this

“damned spot,” is there—always there—and so she is destined to go on,

vainly rubbing and rubbing, to her grave.

One, two.

She hears over again the clock telling the hour of that dreadful night.

Why, then ’tis time to do’t.

Here is the _habit_ of sin. She is committing the deed over again.

Hell is murky!

In her imagination her ghastly, staggering lord is at her side uttering

this exclamation in fear, which she repeats in scorn.

Hell is murky!—Fie, my lord, fie! a soldier, and afeard?

But as she speaks, the deed is already long done. She is still with the

trembling, spiritless, haggard partner of her crime, and seems to

address him with one of those unnatural sickly flickerings of

consolation and peace which only render more visible the surrounding

despair.

What need we fear who knows it, when none can call our power to

account.

A sad comfort at the best, but ominously significant on the lips of this

woman, at the very moment when the springs of her life are giving way

under the mere load of guilty recollection. But instantly she is

transported back again to the fatal hour. She is gazing upon the pale

face of the butchered old king, weltering in gore. She sees all things

stained, dripping, flooded—and with that kind of awful composure which

one feels often in a great crisis, she pauses to make a remark of

wonder:

Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood

in him?

These sudden transportations from place to place—from time to time—to

and fro—backward and forward—is a perfect representation of the

shifting changes, the starts and fragments of a rolling dream.

The Thane of Fife had a wife; where is she now?—What! will

these hands ne’er be clean? No more o’ that, my lord; no more o’

that;—you will mar all with this starting.

Here another awful deed of her husband flashes across her recollection.

But still rubbing, still toiling—still with a perseverance which shows

how frightfully she is under the dominion of horror at her crime, she is

striving and ever striving to efface its mark, and through all with the

perception that it is in vain. Then she is at the banquet, where

Macbeth’s phrenzy conjures up the ghost of Banquo, and half betrays

them.

The Doctor has now seen and heard enough to show him the nature of the

secret which is destroying the life of his patient, and his horror

overflows immediately in a sort of confidential communication with the

waiting woman.

Go to, go to; you have known what you should not.

_Gentlewoman._ She has spoke what she should not, I am sure of

that: Heaven knows what she has known.

_Lady._ Here’s the smell of the blood still: all the perfumes of

Arabia will not sweeten this little hand. Oh! oh! oh!

_Doctor._ What a sight is there! The heart is sorely charg’d.

_Gent._ I would not have such a heart in my bosom, for the

dignity of the whole body.

Here we have the moral of this grand mighty scene. Guilt—successful

guilt—guilt in the bosom, of a scoffer—an atheist—a blasphemer—guilt

in the strongest impersonation of earthliness—of

nerve—courage—self-confidence—power, philosophy—profound sense, and

a high order of human genius. Lady Macbeth had obviously all these. She

impresses you powerfully with a haughty superiority over every one

around her. She would do to lead an army—to defend a citadel. Her mind

is that of a Spartan dame—or a Roman matron: and the courage and

understanding she displays are such as, if rightly used, if guided by

the spirit of virtue and religion, might have elevated her to the

dignity of a great historical heroine. None can rationally hope to bear

up by philosophy and strength of intellect alone, against the

consciousness of sin, if Lady Macbeth, in those rude times, could not.

Here, then, we have successful guilt. Painted by a historian, perhaps

she might have excited the envy of the lowly. We should have seen her

surrounded by splendor and luxury. The glittering crown upon her brow—a

circle of courtiers bending around her—as she presided at state

councils or gay banquets. The historian would have shown her situation,

and we might have exclaimed, “see how guilt triumphs.” But Shakspeare

gives us a view into her heart—her secret thoughts—her midnight

dreams. If any thing could heighten the picture as he had previously

drawn it, it would be these few words, “_Here’s the smell of the blood

still._” The _smell_ of the blood! How deeply imbued is her imagination

with the ideal! The heart sickens at it. Great as has been the crime, we

are compelled to acknowledge that the poet has at a glimpse shown us the

process of a penalty as great, and, with a sweetness of art peculiar to

him and nature, has mingled, with our abhorrence which would be too

violent by itself, a certain touch of sympathy and when that beautiful

and heart-rending exclamation falls with almost the last life-drops from

her utterly subdued and crushed heart—

All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand.

Oh! oh! oh!

We pity and utter a prayer for mercy which the guilty lips of the

sufferer dare not form themselves.

The remark of the gentlewoman is as applicable to _a class_ of

characters as that of Lady Macbeth.

I would not have such a heart in my bosom for the dignity of the

whole body.

This is the voice of innocence—lowly, self-congratulating innocence.

The humble dependant of the royal household is made to feel the

immeasurable advantage a peaceful conscience affords over all the

passing and hollow gauds of the world. She sees what a mockery are rank,

wealth, power, fame—when bought by the sacrifice of that greatest of

all treasures—a quiet heart. She will go gladly, after this—that

honest lady, on her obscure path, turning to her God with a deeper

reverence and love. She will pour out her heart to him in gratitude that

she has escaped the temptations of life thus far, and humbly implored

him to watch continually over her steps, to strengthen her good

resolutions, to teach her to subdue her passions, and to lead her safely

through the pit-falls of her mortal pilgrimage.

It seems almost impossible to carry the scene farther, but the poet does

so.

The mind of the reader, stretched to a too strong tension, is relieved

by the few, broken yet calm expressions of the two watchers whose health

and hearts’ ease also afford a contrast which sets off more strikingly

the state of the wretched lady thus floating by us like a rudderless

wreck sweeping onward with a resistless current to the brink of some

vast cataract or yawning and unfathomless Maelstrom.

The doctor’s “Well, well, well,—” shows embarrassment the result of

amazement. He scarcely knows what to do. He, also, has now become the

possessor of an astounding and dangerous secret, and he might well be

supposed to hesitate as to the proper course to pursue. He does not seem

decided to acknowledge the full extent of his conviction, yet he cannot

deny that the patient is not to be cured by his medicine. He does not

seem inclined to enter upon any confidential interchanges of opinions

with the gentlewoman. He is, in all things, the man of the world—the

professional man and the courtier. The very air he breathes he may

imagine full of eyes and ears. He may be no more inclined to trust the

gentlewoman than she had been to trust him. Guilt, gloom, and danger

preside over the blood-stained castle, and envelope the principal

inmates—while suspicions, fear and silent watchfulness are hugged to

the anxious bosom of each distrustful servant. The doctor’s “Well, well,

well”—is a kind of mask to hide what is passing in his mind: and the

gentlewoman with less art, equal prudence and more piety, ventures only

upon the awe-struck prayer,

Pray God, it be, sir!

The doctor then confesses,

This disease is beyond my practice!

But instantly avoids even the appearance of _committing_ himself by the

cautious reserve—

Yet I have known those which have walked in their sleep who have

died holily in their beds.

What a picture of a tyrant’s castle. These trembling slaves dare neither

of them express an opinion or confess they have seen what they are

seeing—even to each other in the silence and solitude of the night.

The dream of the haunted lady now quickens its flow. She is back again

at the murder scene whose successful completion has gratified all her

worldly hopes and ambition, and at the same time blasted her mind and

soul.

Hear her nervous, convulsed reiteration of the minutest incident of that

too well remembered hour.

Wash your hands, put on your night-gown;

Then the dream shifts once more.

I tell you yet again, Banquo’s buried; he cannot come out of his

grave.

Then back to the night of the murder.

To bed—to bed. There’s _knocking at the gate_. Come, come,

come, come. Give me your hand, what’s done cannot be undone. To

bed, to bed, to bed.

_Exit Lady Macbeth._

And thus, as from the new commission of a frightful crime, she returns

to her bed, there to tremble—and writhe and dream—and act over again

and again the bloody drama.

_Doctor._ Will she now go to bed?

_Gent._ Directly.

Then the doctor, apparently excited out of his usual reserve, utters the

thoughts which are passing in his mind.

_Doct._ Foul whisperings are abroad: unnatural deeds

Do breed unnatural troubles: infected minds

To their deaf pillows, will discharge their secrets.

More needs she the divine, than the physician.—

And then, profoundly impressed and shocked with what he has witnessed

and discovered, he adds:

God, God, forgive us all!

This prayer, bursting involuntarily from the heart of a worldly man in

the mere exercise of his profession, is very expressive of the effect

the scene has had upon him. He immediately returns, however, to the

business which keeps him in the castle, viz: the treatment of his

patient, and he gives this sagacious advice to the gentlewoman:

supposing very properly that a conscience so desperately diseased might

attempt self-destruction.

Look after her;

Remove from her the _means of all annoyance_,

And still _keep eyes upon her_;—so, good-night:

My mind she has mated,[1] and amaz’d my sight:

I _think_, but _dare not speak_.

_Gent._ Good-night,—good doctor.

Notwithstanding these injunctions, however, she succeeds in committing

suicide. After her exit from this scene she appears no more. She could

not, indeed, again come before our eyes without injuring the impression

it has left. Her death is told in a way to harmonize with this

impression and to leave the excited imagination at leisure to fill up

the details to the last moment. Macbeth, desperate like a baited bull,

is roaring a defiance of heaven and earth, for guilt has brutalized him

perceptibly, when he is interrupted by “_a cry within, of women_.”

_Macbeth._ What is that noise?

_Seyton._ It is the cry of woman, my good lord.

_Mac._ I have almost forgot the taste of fears:

The time has been, my senses would have cool’d

To hear a night-shriek; and my fell of hair

Would at a dismal treatise rouse, and stir

As life were in’t: I have supp’d full with horrors;

Direness, familiar to my slaught’rous thoughts,

Cannot once start me.—Wherefore was that cry?

_Sey._ The queen, my lord, is _dead_.

The signification of Lady Macbeth’s sleep-walking scene is heightened by

the contrast it affords to her proud overbearing demeanor in the earlier

scenes of the play. There she is as bold as if, indeed, there were no

God to supervise human affairs. When Macbeth, his dripping hands at

length burthened with a now irreparable murder, finds himself appalled

and feels that, among the other disadvantages of the crime, he has

“murdered sleep,” “Macbeth shall sleep no more,” “The innocent sleep,”

etc., etc., his lady is scarcely able to find words for her cool

contempt of such weakness.

Why, worthy thane

You do unbend your noble strength, to think

So brain-sickly of things:—go, get some water,

And wash this filthy witness from your hand.—

Why did you bring these daggers from the place?

They must lie there. Go. Carry them; and smear

The sleepy grooms with blood.

_Mac._ I’ll go no more;

I am afraid to think on what I have done.

Look out again I dare not.

_Lady._ Infirm of purpose!

Give me the daggers:

_The sleeping and the dead are but as portions_:

’Tis the eye of _childhood_, that fears a _painted devil_.

If he does bleed I’ll gild the faces of the grooms withall

For it must seem their guilt.

Thus, braving heaven, denying God, laughing to derision the idea of

conscience, and impiously promising that the blood may be washed from

their hands with a _little water_, glorying in the butchery of the good

old king, and accumulating murder upon murder, she rushes on her fate,

and, like all who oppose the Creator and Judge of the Universe, is

dashed to pieces.

-----

[1] “My mind she has _mated_.” This expression is supposed to be taken

from chess playing. She has _confounded_ my mind.

* * * * *

THE GLAD RETREAT.

BY E. G. SQUIRES.

Beneath an elm, a green old elm,

I raised a rustic seat,

The boughs low bending o’er my head,

The green grass at my feet.

A little streamlet dancing by,

With voice so clear and sweet;

The air-spirit’s low and mournful sigh—

Oh, ’twas a glad retreat!

And often at the dewy morn,

Just when the earliest ray,

That from the chariot of the sun,

Betokened coming day—

I’d hie me to my glad retreat,

To that old elm I’d stray,

And by that rude and rustic seat,

I’d kneel me down and pray.

And at the sultry hour of noon,

I’d seek the cooling shade,

And listen to the murmuring sound

That little streamlet made.

And watched the bright birds glancing through

The branches, old and young—

And wondered as they gaily flew,

What was the song they sung.

But time has passed, those days are gone,

Ay, more, long years have fled—

And lying o’er that little brook,

A withered trunk and dead.

But memory often wanders back,

On Fancy’s pinions free—

I’ll ne’er forget the rustic seat

Beneath the old elm tree!

* * * * *

THE REEFER OF ’76.

BY THE “AUTHOR OF CRUIZING IN THE LAST WAR.”

THE CONCLUSION.

The cool breath of morning was blowing through the open casement, when I

awoke on the ensuing day, and as the wind dallied with the curtains of

my bed and kissed my fevered brow, I felt an exhiliration of spirits

which no one can fully appreciate who has not experienced the torture of

a bed of sickness.

My dreams had been pleasant during my repose, for they were of Beatrice.

Overcome by exhaustion, I had sank into a slumber almost immediately

after my faint attempt to address her; but I knew not how long I slept;

for, although it was now early morning, I had no means of telling at

what hour I had awoke the day before. No one appeared to be stirring in

the room. The mild light of an October sun lay in rich masses on the

carpet, while occasionally the brown vine leaves outside the casement,

would rustle pleasantly in the breeze. How I gazed on the patch of blue

sky discernible through that open window—how I longed to be wandering

free and uncontrolled over the rich plains and up the glowing hill-sides

that stretched away before the vision. Oh! there is nothing so glorious

to the sick man as a sunny morning. At this instant a bird whistled

outside the casement. How my blood danced at the lightsome tone! A

succession of dreamy, delicious feelings floated through my soul, and I

lay for some moments motionless, but dissolved in gratitude.

I raised myself feebly up, and faintly pushing aside the curtain, strove

to obtain a survey of my apartment. At length my thoughts reverted to my

situation. When I lost my consciousness, I was on a deserted deck—now I

was lying in a spacious apartment, in perfect security. Who could

explain this mystery? It was a rich, even luxurious room. The furniture

was of the costliest and most tasteful pattern, and the arrangement of

the different articles was made with an artist’s eye to the keeping—if

I may so speak—of the whole. A stand just in front of me held a bouquet

of fresh flowers, which, from their rarity, must have come from some

green house. On the opposite wall hung a glorious picture of the

Madonna, with her golden hair and beatified countenance, gazing down,

with that smile which Raphael has made immortal, on the infant on her

knee. A dim recollection floated through my brain that I had seen that

smile before, only the features which then accompanied it, had been like

those of Beatrice, rather than of the picture. Suddenly that angel face

I had seen in my dream, flashed on me. I knew it all now. It had been,

while gazing on this divine portrait in my delirium, that my fancy had

imagined it the face of Beatrice, smiling down upon me from the clouds.

It was evident that Beatrice had some connexion with my present

situation, for I was convinced that I had seen her the preceding day.

Where was she now?—How long had I been sick in this place?—And in what

manner was she I loved involved in my rescue, were questions that

continually forced themselves on my mind, until my still weak brain

began to be dizzy with the mystery. Putting my hands to my brow I strove

to drive away such thoughts; but they only returned with ten-fold force.

I would have risen to solve the mystery, but my strength proved

inefficient to the task, and I sank back on my pillow. A half hour must

thus have passed, when I heard a light footstep on the carpet, and in an

instant my heart was throbbing, and the blood dancing in my veins. In a

moment I should see Beatrice again. I gazed in the direction whence the

sound of the steps proceeded, and the name of her I adored was already

trembling on my lips, when a hand gathered back the curtain, and I saw,

not Beatrice, but an elderly French woman, whose dress bespoke her a

nurse. Never did a way-worn pilgrim, fancying he beheld the minaret of

the holy city in the distance, gaze on a _mirage_ with more

disappointment than I did on the countenance of my visitor. But my

curiosity soon triumphed over my disappointment. Perhaps she read my

thoughts, for a smile of equivocal meaning gradually stole into the

corners of her month as she returned my gaze. She was the first to

speak:

“Is Monsieur better?” she inquired.

“Yes,” I replied, “I am almost well—sufficiently so, at least, to feel

curiosity. In a word, how and when did I come here? Who am I to thank as

my preserver?”

“Monsieur has more questions to ask than even a Parisian _grisette_

could answer,” she replied, evasively. “Besides, his physician says he

must be kept quiet. I can only tell him for the present that he is in

France. Let him be patient and he shall soon know all. He is at any rate

among friends, and when he gets stronger he shall hear his story from

other lips than mine.”

As this was accompanied with a meaning smile that left no doubt on my

mind to whom she alluded, and as she seconded her words by drawing the

curtains together as if to retire, I was fain to be content. In addition

to this moreover, I felt that I had already exerted myself sufficiently

in conversation, for my brain was dizzy with the few words I had spoken.

So I closed my eyes, and, like one wearied out with toil, in a few

minutes was asleep.

Several days elapsed, during which I saw no one but the nurse, and now

and then a servant or two in a rich livery, who brought in the tray. To

all my inquiries I received the same answer, until at length, unbounded

as was my curiosity, I gave over the attempt, comforting myself with the

conviction that, in a day or two more, I should hear my story from the

loved lips of Beatrice herself.

At length I was able to sit up, and when the formal old physician

appeared, he announced to me with a meaning smile, that he would now

permit me to receive visitors. He added that my host and hostess were

anxious to pay their compliments in person, and had only been prevented

hitherto from doing so by my extreme weakness, and his express commands.

All this had an air of mystery about it which, however, I had not time

to unravel, for the physician had scarcely ceased speaking when the door

opened and my entertainers entered, announced by a servant in a rich

livery. I started and crimsoned to the brow, but a hasty glance assured

me that Beatrice was not there. The wonder increased,—but the physician

left me no time for thought, for, advancing on the instant, he

introduced my visitors to me formally as a Baron and Baroness de St.

Allaire. They were both somewhat in years, at least past their prime,

but their manners, apart from their former kindness to me, would have

attracted me to them at once. The Baron was a stately Frenchman, of the

school of _le grand monarque_, very formal, very dignified, but withal

kind hearted. His lady possessed one of the most benignant countenances

I ever recollect to have seen. Her smile was peculiarly sweet. Her years

sat on her lightly, and with all the propriety of her age she had all

the liveliness of youth. It was not long, therefore, before I was

perfectly at ease. The Baron expressed his satisfaction at my rapid

improvement for the better, complimented himself on his good fortune in

being my host, hoped that I found the prospect from my window pleasant,

and all this, too, with a formality, yet an affability that realized my

idea of the old French chevalier. His lady was less precise, and

consequently more winning. She conversed even gaily, and on a variety of

subjects, all, however, having a bearing on my illness. Yet, with a tact

which I could not but admire, she avoided every allusion to the means by

which I had become her guest, reminding me of a skilful advocate in a

bad cause, always hovering about but never approaching the issue. A

quarter of an hour was thus spent and I had determined to relieve my

eager curiosity by broaching the subject myself at the first pause in

the conversation, but, as if anticipating my design, the Baroness

suddenly rose, and still continuing her gay remarks, fairly complimented

herself out of the room before I had a chance to speak without violating

all etiquette by interrupting the good lady. I fancied, as she closed

the door with an “adieu, Monsieur,” that there was malice in her

provoking smile, betokening a lurking consciousness that she had

outwitted me. At first I was half disposed to feel angry, it was so

evident that my curiosity was trifled with. My patience nearly gave way

at these continued disappointments. Yet I had nothing at which I could

rationally get displeased. It was in vain for me to feel angry—my

discomfiture had been too adroitly managed—and at length I fairly burst

into a laugh at my own expense.

“You are pleased to be merry,” said a silvery voice behind me, and a low

glad laugh that rung through the chamber like fairy music, echoed my

own. I started up at once. I knew I could not be mistaken. The next

moment Beatrice was in my arms.

The rapture of that re-union I shall not attempt to portray. If my

readers have been young, and after having been separated for years from

the one they loved, have met her as their preserver, they can appreciate

my feelings. I draw a veil over the sacred emotions of that interview.

Nor will I repeat the thousand questions which were asked and answered

almost in the same breath.

It was some ten minutes before Beatrice narrated the circumstances which

had transpired since I parted with her in Charleston. Nor did she, even

when she began, give me a connected account. There were too many

questions to be asked, and too many inquiries to be answered, all

growing, it is true, out of her story, but all sadly at variance with

the course of the narration, to permit a continuous tale. At length,

however, I learned all, or nearly all, for there were a few things which

the dear girl did not tell me until long after,—and even then not

without a blush at her avowal.

My first inquiry was about her own fortunes, but she would not answer me

until I had told her how I came on the wreck, and she had acquainted me

with the manner of my rescue. I will give it in her own words.

“When you lost your consciousness you were, I fancy, nearer to aid than

you imagine, for a French privateer that was hovering along the coast

discovered the wreck, and making for it rescued you, almost exhausted it

is true, but still retaining life. You were insensible, and well nigh

frozen to death. But the exertions of your preservers finally restored

you to life, though not to consciousness. You fell into a raging fever

in which you raved in a constant delirium. The captain of the privateer,

having occasion to put into port the following day, brought you on

shore, and suspecting you to be an Englishman from your language,

unfeelingly consigned you to the common jail hospital, among the poorest

and most degraded of human beings. There you lay the whole of the

ensuing night, scarcely tended even by the callous nurses of those

establishments. No one knew your name; your dress was not a uniform; and

death was rapidly approaching to consign you to an unknown grave. But

Providence did not will that such should be your fate. An all-seeing eye

beheld you; an omnipotent arm interposed to save you. And the means of

your preservation were so fortuitous as to seem almost those of chance.

The confessor of the Baroness was in the habit of visiting the

prison—for we reside but a short drive from the town—and while giving

consolation to one of those miserable wretches—oh! I shudder to think

that you were once there—he heard a sick man in a neighboring ward

raving of a name,” and here the dear girl covered her face in confusion,

“which was familiar to him. Need I say it was mine? He listened, and

heard enough to satisfy him that you were acquainted with me. He made

inquiries, learned how you came there—and you can imagine the rest.”

“That I was brought here and saved from death,” said I, looking fondly

into Beatrice’s face. “But you have not told me how you came here, or

what tie exists between you and our hostess.”

“Oh! she is my cousin. I spent some years here in early childhood. But

to tell my story I must go back to when we last parted in Charleston.”

“Very well. I listen.”

“You know,” sweetly began Beatrice, “how much I feared, when you were in

Charleston, that my uncle would make himself obnoxious to the colonial

authorities, and endanger perhaps his life. You knew also, that he

seemed resolved to bring about a union betwixt his son and myself. The

necessity of obtaining my uncle’s sanction to my marriage under the

penalty of forfeiting my fortune, weighed but lightly with me, for I

knew his hostility to you to be unjust. Yet, as the representative of my

deceased parent, I wished, if possible, to win Mr. Rochester’s sanction.

His persevering determination to unite me to his son prevented all hope

of this; and it was not long after our parting that I saw he would never

consent to my becoming the bride of any one but his heir. Besides, he

grew every day more openly hostile to the colonies. Unjust as I felt he

was to me, I yet loved him as my mother’s brother, and I trembled for

his life. But death suddenly interposed and calmed my fears, only

however to awaken my grief. In the grave I buried my wrongs. I saw in

him then only my protector in a strange land—my nearest living

relative—the one with whom my sainted mother had spent her childhood.

“My uncle’s decease at once changed my fortunes. The only impediment to

my enjoyment of my father’s estate was now removed, and I was free to

bestow my hand on whomsoever I wished. My cousin renewed his offer, at a

decent interval after his father’s death, but, need I say, I courteously

yet firmly refused it. My longer stay in Charleston was now a matter of

delicacy, for I had no relatives there except the family of Mr.

Rochester, and they naturally viewed my decision with feelings more

favorable to my cousin than to myself. Under these circumstances I

availed myself of an opportunity that just then presented to sail for

this country, where my relative the Baroness, with whom I had spent some

years in childhood, resided. She had continued in correspondence with me

ever since, and had urged me in every letter to visit her, even if I

could not come and make my home with her. Little did I think that I

should meet you under the circumstances in which I did.”

I have little more to add. Of the letters which I had written to

Beatrice some miscarried, some were lost in captured ships, and a few

reached her months after they had been penned. Her answers came with

even more irregularity, for since the day we had parted in Charleston I

had received but a solitary epistle from her. Now, however, every

disappointment was amply redressed. She sat beside me with her hand in

mine, and her soft eyes looking smilingly up into my face.

“But why,” said I at length, “was so much mystery preserved respecting

your presence here? And why, after I had recognized you on my first

awaking from delirium, did you order the nurse—for you only could have

done so—to avoid all mention of your name, to conceal from me in whose

house I was?”

“That was a scheme adopted as much from the orders of the physician as

from any other motive. He feared that the least agitation would bring

back your fever, and he enjoined secresy on the nurse, as the surest way

to keep you composed.”

I would have said how much he had failed of success had I not been too

full of happiness to condemn even a formal old physician.

The period of my convalescence is one written on my inmost heart in

characters never to be obliterated. Oh! those were delicious hours. With

Beatrice beside me I would sit gazing out on the sunny landscape beneath

the window, or wander through the rich garden which surrounded the

chateau. Or perhaps she would ply her needle while I would read to her.

And then she would sing some of the old songs of her native land. And by

and by the Baroness would come in, and with her ever sunny mind join in

the conversation. Years, long eventful years, have passed since then,

and God knows too many of those I loved are now in their graves, but the

memory of that fortnight of happiness never fails to restore gladness to

my heart even in its utmost sorrow.

But I have too long forgotten the little Fire Fly. It will be

recollected that I had left Holland with the intention of joining my old

commander at Paris, and I now seized the earliest opportunity of

communicating my present situation to him by letter. A reply soon

arrived by which I learned that, although the Fire Fly had been

condemned, a brig had been chartered, and that he intended returning to

America with his officers and most of his crew in her. They had been in

the greatest anxiety respecting my fate, and had finally given me up for

lost. The letter informed me that the day of sailing had been fixed, and

that before I could return an answer the brig would have broke ground.

My old commander ended by hoping that I might soon be able to rejoin him

in the United States—although he added a gay postscript to say that he

understood there was great probability of my choosing another mistress

than glory.

Meanwhile I slowly recovered, and as every obstacle to my union with

Beatrice was now removed, I did not hesitate to press the dear girl to

name an early day for the realization of our nuptials. With a thousand

blushes she referred me to the Baron and his lady, promising in the

softest whisper, as if she feared to trust herself to speak, to abide by

their decision. Need I say how speedily I availed myself of the

permission, or how warmly I petitioned for as short a delay as possible?

At length the day was named, and though I was condemned to wait a whole

month, in the company of Beatrice it glided away almost insensibly.

The morning at length dawned. It was a bright sunny day in early winter,

and never shall I forget the cheery sound of the village bells ringing

to announce my approaching nuptials. The air was keen and frosty; not a

cloud was in the sky; the brown woods fairly glowed in the sunlight;

and, in a word, had I chosen the day a more fitting one could not have

been selected. My lady readers may expect a description of the dress of

the bride, the carriage, the feast, and a thousand other things, but as

I am no Sir Charles Grandison, I shall pass them over without comment. I

will only say that Beatrice—my own Beatrice at last—never looked

lovelier than when she descended to the room, where we were all awaiting

her, on that marriage morn. The smile, the blush, the look of unreserved

affection as her eye was raised timidly to my face and then dropped, I

shall never forget. The Baron gave her away, the nuptial vow was said,

and with a tumult of feelings I cannot describe, I pressed her to my

bosom, a wife. A tear was on her cheek, but I kissed it holily away.

We remained in France for nearly a year after our union, and even after

that prolonged stay, could hardly tear ourselves from the Baron and his

lady. But the prospect of peace daily growing stronger we availed

ourselves of the kind offer of the French monarch, and sailed for

America in one of our allies’ frigates. I never, however, served again,

for the war was in fact terminated, but thereafter I spent my life in

the bosom of my family.

As the magician after having summoned up and marshalled before him a

phantasmagoria of shadowy figures, at length perceives them fading from

his sight, and, conscious that the spell is fast departing, lays down

his rod, so we, approaching to the end of our task, find that the charm

is beginning to lose its power, and that the beings we have conjured up

are melting rapidly from our vision. Even now they seem to us only as a

dream. Yet there is one glimpse more afforded to us before the magic

curtain falls on them forever. It is that of a happy fireside and a

smiling circle around it. Nor are the principals in that domestic scene

wholly unfamiliar to us, for in the mild eyes and Madonna-like

countenance of the one, and in the well-known face and embrowned

features of the other, we recognize two of those who have figured as the

chief personages in our story. Years have not impaired the beauty of

Beatrice, for they have fallen as light on her as blossoms. But she is

not now alone in her loveliness, for at her knee is one, like and yet

unlike her, younger but not more beautiful, gayer but with scarcely less

sweetness. Need we say of whom the group is composed?

And now, reader, let me drop my disguise and come before you in my own

character as

Harry Danforth.

* * * * *

HE WOO’D ME AT THE FOUNTAIN.

BY A. M’MAKIN.

He woo’d me at the fountain,

When the moon shone bright above,

And with the murmuring of the stream,

He pledged his vows of love.

I bade him to my father hie,

The pleasing tale to tell,

Then seek again the fountain sheen,

Down in the sylvan dell.

He woo’d me in the bower,

When the songsters fill’d the grove,

And with the dove’s soft tones he sigh’d

His ardent tale of love.

I bade him seek my mother’s side,

Her blessing first to win,

Then claim me for his chosen bride,

The trelliced bower within.

He woo’d me at the festal,

Where music reigned supreme,

And ’mid the revel wild and light

He breath’d his chosen theme;

Yet all unbless’d I could not yield

To man the heart’s rich mine,

Or falsely dash the holy light

From filial duty’s shrine.

At length ’twas at the altar,

’Neath the organ’s pealing sound,

He sought again my trembling hand,

While friends were smiling round;

No more I bade him others seek,

Or waved him from my side:

With blushes mantling o’er my cheek,

_I knelt his happy bride_.

* * * * *

THE STOLEN MINIATURE.

BY MRS. R. S. NICHOLS.

“The very head and front of my offending

Hath this extent, no more.”

_Othello._

It was near midnight, on one of the beautiful summer evenings that brood

over our Western Land, as some fair spirit hovers near to Paradise—and

which can be realized only by those who have witnessed them—that one of

the numerous strangers that throng the waters of “La Belle Rivière,”

paused on its upward course before a small town which lay upon the banks

of the aforesaid stream. When the boat had effected a landing, a few

passengers, who either blind to the charms of Morpheus, or more allied

to those of sundry packs of cards, that strewed the tables of the

“social hall,” stepped upon shore to enjoy a moonlight view of the

village. Among the number, was a group of three individuals, who,

withdrawing from the rest, strolled carelessly along one of the

principal streets, until they arrived at a cross, turning down whose

short but secluded walk, several large buildings, evidently the

residences of the most wealthy portion of the inhabitants, were

situated. As they passed into this beautiful and peaceful retreat, a

slight whispering, which presently broke forth into loud and angry

words, disturbed the slumbering echoes of the night.

“I tell you, Layton, it is impossible! I will not—cannot do it!”

“Spoken like a fool, and a milksop, as you are; there is a way to stop

your whining scruples, and curse me if I’ll not show it you.”

Quick as thought, the first speaker turned, and confronting his

companion, exclaimed in a voice trembling with passion,—“Ay, there _is_

a way to rouse the sleeping devil, even in my _coward_ frame; but your

threats fall regardless on my ear, while I have this good blade to

protect me,”—and a long glittering Bowie-knife flashed beneath the soft

rays of the harvest moon.

“By Heavens! I believe you both to be mad! Put up your knife, Bradley,

and you, Layton, keep your infernal tongue within your teeth, unless you

want to have this goodly town about our ears.” This soothing speech was

spoken by the third, and hitherto silent companion; and while the

altercation is progressing in lower tones, you, my gentle reader, shall

have a Daguerreotype sketch of at least one of the party.

Bradley Spencer was the son of one of the most wealthy and aristocratic

planters in Louisiana, but maternal affection he never knew, at least

was not conscious of it, his mother having been snatched away in his

childhood, by one of the fearful epidemics peculiar to that portion of

the South. His father, a high-principled, noble-minded man, richly

endowed with the warm blood and chivalrous feelings of the Southerner,

having thus lost that which he considered as the better part of life,

gave his undivided heart to this “sole scion of his stock,” and for his

boy’s sake, no second lady darkened his halls, or cast a shadow over the

golden sunlight of the young heir’s youthful existence. Thus fondly

nurtured and cherished, every wish indulged to the utmost, the young

Bradley grew apace; but, with all his paternal prejudice, the elder

Spencer could not but note the wavering acts and vacillating mind of his

darling boy, betokening, even in youth, the indecision of the man. With

prophetic sorrow, he saw the consequences entailed on one, who, ever

willing to follow, had no projects to offer, or will of his own, to

oppose those of others. To eradicate this “crying evil,” the boy was

sent, at the age of fifteen, to college. There, at least, argued the

parent, he will learn independence of thought and expression. But how

widely was he mistaken! An universal favorite among his class-mates,

winning “golden opinions” from all, by his pliant disposition, and

suavity of manners, and being allowed an unlimited sum for his passing

expenditures, he bore the palm, and reigned any thing but a despot, over

his more firmly-minded companions. It is not our intention to follow him

through the mazes of college life, and we pass in silence over the four

succeeding years, when at the age of nineteen, he was re-called, to

receive the last blessing and injunctions of a dying father. Still true

to his erroneous system of indulgence, Mr. Spencer left his property to

the undivided control of his son, fondly imagining, that unlimited sway

would overcome the imbecile principles of youth, and teach him that

firmness of mind, and stability of purpose, so essential to manhood.

Youth is the season of luxury and enjoyment. Joy is evanescent; and

grief, in the young bosom, is but the sudden o’ercasting of a summer

sky; the cloud passes away, and the bow of promise is bent in the now

smiling heavens. Thus was it with Bradley’s grief; a few short weeks in

New Orleans did wonders; they initiated him in the mysteries and

delights of the gaming table; they did more: they introduced him to the

lowest haunts of vice and infamy, cloaked, indeed, for the decoy of this

rich windfall; but so thin and flimsy was the protecting veil of decency

and morality, that any other than Bradley Spencer’s eyes would have

pierced the wily folds, and laid bare the monsters lurking behind them.

Thus early possessed with the fatal passion of gaming, night after night

saw the infatuated youth wound deeper and deeper in the toils of his

betrayers. Mortgage after mortgage was given,—though not having a

shadow of legality about them, they were accepted as eagerly by these

human leeches, as the red gold for which they had sold their souls to

perdition. The men with whom it was Spencer’s fate to become connected,

were most of them from thirty to forty years of age; wily, unprincipled

villains, well calculated to govern the simple youth, whom they

remorselessly plundered of all at his present command, and accepted his

honor as pledge for the rest, when he should become of age. Nor were the

months tardy in their flight. At the end of two short years, his

property was formally yielded by his passive guardian, and the day that

gave him house and land, stock and slave, saw him resign it to the

fiends who had possessed him with a love of all that was degrading to

human nature, and taught him to scoff at all who were truly poor and

virtuous.

It is the same Bradley Spencer, kind reader, whose brief career we have

endeavored to trace, that we left in the little village, with his

knavish companions, who, fresh from the hiding places of loathsome vice,

were intent on drawing the young man into yet greater depths of

wickedness. But they struck upon the wrong chord—Spencer had been

culpable, most culpable, it is true, but he was to himself his worst

foe; he had not willingly injured others, but had been the dupe, in

every instance. Thus, when his brutal comrade expressed his

determination to _rob_ one of the habitations before them, and urged his

assistance, his nobler spirit that had slept so long, was aroused, and

he gave vent to his feelings in the manner we have described.

Brief was their consultation, and the arguments they held with him bade

fair to be of no avail, until the elder and more polite villain,

declared that Bradley could not now withdraw in honor, as they should

suspect he meant to betray them; that they would not require his

assistance, if he had any _foolish_ prejudice to the contrary; but he

should accompany them, as a mere looker-on. Without pausing for an

answer, he passed his arm in that of the young man’s, and followed by

Layton, they stepped into a small yard, at the gable end of one of the

mansions. There, a window had been left open by the unsuspecting

inmates, for the benefit of the air. Springing lightly in, he was

followed by the others. Groping their way by the light of a dark

lantern, which Layton pulled from the bosom of his coat—thus showing

himself perfectly _au fait_ in such proceedings—they ascended a

staircase, and pausing in a long passage, bade Bradley be watchful, and

give a low whistle upon the slightest alarm. The two less scrupulous

ruffians then pursued their way down the passage. What Spencer’s

reflections would have been, he had not leisure to ascertain, for,

fancying he heard a low breathing, like one in deep slumber, he turned

and discovered, by the light of the moon, which was streaming in a

window near, a door, the which, on applying his hand, yielded to the

impulse. Impelled by curiosity, or some more definable feeling, he

stepped softly into the room. A night-lamp was burning dimly upon a

table, near a small couch, where, in her bright and youthful loveliness,

slept a fair girl. Scarce had the breath of sixteen summers passed over

the clear brow that lay upturned in its marble whiteness, for

“Death’s twin-sister, sleep,”

weighed down the veined lids, the long dark lashes of which rested on

the faintly-tinged cheek beneath. As Spencer turned from this unexpected

vision, his glance fell on a small book, that lay open on the table.

Some light pencil-mark, that pointed to an admired passage, drew his

attention. As he bent to read, his brow crimsoned, and his frame

trembled with emotion. It was a volume of the ill-fated Shelley’s Poems,

open at “Adonais,” and as he read

“Remorse and self-contempt shall cling to thee,

Hot shame shall burn upon thy secret brow,”

a full sense of his degradation, and how he had “fallen from his high

estate,” rushed upon his stricken heart, and feelings that had slumbered

long, were now fully awakened by the thrilling lines of the mystical

poet, and the strange scene before him. As he turned quickly to leave

where his presence was a sacrilege, his attention was caught by a small

miniature, one glance at which showed him the waking likeness of the

sleeping beauty before him. Involuntarily catching it, he fled from the

room, and giving the signal agreed upon, to his companions, the next

moment saw them wending their way to the boat, which, having discharged

the freight that detained her, was soon flying upon her onward course.

Three years had passed away, since Bradley Spencer, leagued with common

thieves, accompanied them on their nefarious night expedition, in the

little village already mentioned. Bradley Spencer, _then_ the companion

of gamblers and low debauchees, was _now_ Henry Murray, the trusted head

clerk of one of the most wealthy mercantile houses in New York. From the

ever memorable night of the robbery, the wretched young man forsook his

unworthy associates. “Remorse and self-contempt” did indeed cling to

him, and despair and shame at first conquered his remaining energy. But

the spirit was present with him; it only needed to be roused into

action. He had parted with his last dollar, when he arrived in New York,

and the change of name was decided on to soothe the pride that came to

his aid after so long a time. Deprivations only rendered him stronger in

his virtuous purposes, thus proving at once the false system of

indulgence adopted by his parent.

Clement Archer, Esq., was a stern, unbending, business man. Strictly

moral in his walk before men, he required all around him to show the

same regard for the welfare of society. With a heart filled with

benevolence, though veiled with an air of sternness, he received Bradley

in his counting-house, as Henry Murray, knowing it to be a fictitious

name, for Spencer scorned to impose on his benefactor in this respect,

and though Bradley’s past history was a sealed book which his employer

never attempted to pry into, he could not help fancying some misdemeanor

had driven the young man from his home and friends. He contented

himself, therefore, by placing a strict watch upon his conduct, but

after months had passed away, indeed, years, and saw Henry the same

attentive, hard-laboring clerk he was at first, his patron took pleasure

in showing him favor, and in placing the most unlimited confidence in

him. Thus had the three years glided by. That Henry was comparatively

happy, we admit, but many an agonizing night had passed, ere he acquired

even this slight tranquility, and shall we confess it, kind reader? the

stolen miniature, the witness of his involuntary crime, was cherished as

a precious relic, for instead of serving to remind him of his errors,

and fill him with shame, it was regarded as a mute angel, that had

snatched him from ignominy and vice. And who could blame him for loving

to look upon that fair countenance, with its deep and eloquent eyes

forever speaking of the intellectual worth within? It was not so much

the beautiful form of the features, that arrested the gaze, as the

whole-soul expression that shone around them. Long would the infatuated

youth gaze on the memento of his crime, but there was little penitence

in his looks, and not one thought of sorrow for the grief the loss of it

must have given the fair original, for enclosed in the back was a braid

of dark hair, slightly silvered with grey, and beneath was engraved,

“from a fond mother to her daughter, on her sixteenth birthday.”

Bradley had carefully avoided every print which he thought would be

likely to contain the intelligence of the robbery, and as no

communication passed between himself and the perpetrators on this

subject, he was consequently ignorant of the amount abstracted, or of

the names of the sufferers.

It was a cold winter morning, when Mr. Archer suddenly entered his

counting-house and ordered it to be immediately closed. On Henry’s (for

so must we call him) looking up, he perceived his friend’s countenance

was clothed with grief, and the fresh crape upon his hat told that death

had been busy with his house. Bidding Henry, who was domesticated in his

family, accompany him home, he informed him he had just received letters

announcing the death of an only and well-beloved brother, and added, he

was hourly expecting the arrival of an orphan niece, now committed to

his charge. His companion asked no questions, for fear of stirring the

fountain of grief afresh. On entering the drawing-room at night, he was

presented to Miss Archer, but what was his surprise and consternation on

lifting his eyes to her face, to see the fair sleeper before him! The

face was paler than the miniature’s, and wore a more chastened and

somewhat older expression, for sorrow had indeed visited her. Both

parents had slept their last sleep, since she slumbered so unconsciously

in his presence. Stammering forth some faint apologies, Bradley left the

room and the house, and who may say what wild visions thronged his

restless couch that night!

Months glided away, and Mr. Archer beheld, with some slight misgivings,

the growing intimacy between his niece and Henry. Not but that he would

willingly have given her to his _protégé_, could the cloudy mystery

which hung over the young man have been cleared to his satisfaction. But

during the three years Henry had been with him, he had never received

letter or communication, of any kind, from friend or foe. For a young

man to stand so utterly alone, “looked strange,” to say the least of it.

Entering the room one evening, where Miss Archer and Henry were sitting,

her uncle, in a light and laughing tone, said,

“How is this, Emily? Young Dalton has been making serious complaints

concerning the obduracy of heart of an ungrateful niece of mine. What

has he done to provoke her displeasure? ‘and why won’t she wed?’”

“Nay, dear uncle, you know my heart and hand have long been pledged to

the restorer of my miniature.”

“And so my Emily stands pledged to a nameless robber! Would she like it

to reach his ear through the walls of a prison?”

“Most sincerely do I hope he is free, for he must be a gentle ruffian,

and having stolen naught but my picture, I can’t find it in my heart to

be very angry; the compliment, dear uncle, only think of the

compliment!”

“Ay, but the compliment paid to your father was a little more costly,

was it not?”

“With that I have nothing to do,” replied Emily, blushing; “but I would

willingly forgive the robber, would he restore my mother’s gift,” and

the tears sprang to her eyes, at the mention of her loss. Mr. Archer saw

her emotion, and said no more. But Bradley, how did he hear the secret?

How often was he tempted, as he heard the beautiful and enthusiastic

girl plead for him so eloquently, and regret the loss of what was so

dear to her, to throw himself on her mercy and confess all, but happily

he restrained his emotion, and soon after left the apartment.

“Now, gentlemen, while you are discussing your hot rolls and coffee, I

will read this delightful retailer of news and scandal,” exclaimed Miss

Archer, on seating herself at the breakfast table, the morning

succeeding the conversation already detailed. “Here is ‘latest foreign

news,’ ‘home affairs,’ ‘politics’ and ‘poetry;’ which will you have? Ah!

let me see; here is a mysterious affair:

‘The Governor of Louisiana offers five hundred dollars reward to

any person or persons, who will intimate any knowledge of the

residence of one Bradley Spencer, or satisfactorily prove that

the said Bradley is living. He having left New Orleans about

three years since, in company with a party of gamblers, and not

having since been heard of, it is feared by his friends that he

has fallen a victim to the machinations of the said men, as

through a confession lately made by one of the party, who was

stabbed in an affray, Spencer will be restored his property, of

which he was most nefariously deprived. Should this meet his

eye, he is earnestly requested to return and take possession of

the same.’”

As Emily read this paragraph in a clear, distinct voice, Mr. Archer

fastened his eye on the young man who sat at his table. No power on

earth could have controlled Bradley’s emotions, and after the reader

paused, Mr. Archer arose, and taking his hand, said,

“Be candid, Henry; whatever faults you have been guilty of, these last

three years have expiated——”

“You know not the half of my rash acts,” passionately interrupted the

young man; “you would both loathe and spurn me, were I to tell all; but

I _will_ perform one just act. Miss Archer,” taking the miniature from

his bosom, “here is the deity that has preserved me from sin, and before

you stands the—robber!”

Both Mr. Archer and Emily were mute with surprise and amazement at this

confession; but when they eagerly questioned him, and learned what he

had to offer in extenuation, it is needless to say he was freely

forgiven.

It is sufficient to add that Bradley recovered the major portion of his

property, and as he gazes upon the generous and forgiving girl, who is

now his bride, he invokes blessings on the being who, by the

interposition of a Divine Providence, was the means of preserving him

from the “gambler’s fate.”

* * * * *

VENICE.

“Oh! thou, that once was wedded to the sea—

Queen of the Adriatic—where are thy glories now?”

Oh Death! thy palaces are here,

Thy footsteps echo round,

And chills the heart with nameless fear

At that unearthly sound—

And Venice, at thy outer gate,

Sits widowed, bowed and desolate,

A queen, yet all discrowned,

With ashes heaped upon her head—

A mother wailing for her dead!

It was not thus in ages past

Oh! mistress of the sea,

When to the wind thy banner cast

Would rally forth the free—

It was not thus when ev’ry shore

From farthest Ind to Scylla bore

Its richest gifts for thee—

Nor thus when at Lepanti fell

The fiery hordes of Ishmaël.

Thou saw’st proconsuls on the Rhone,

The Gaul beyond the Rhine,

The Cæsar on his eastern throne,

The English Alfred’s line—

Thou saw’st the first and last crusade

And Florence in her shackles laid,

And Rome all drunk with wine,

And haughty Stamboul’s overthrow

Before the blind old Dandolo.

Thou wast when Moslems ravaged Spain,

Thou saw’st Grenada fall,—

Thou wast when France received the Dane,

When murder reigned in Gaul,—

Thou wast before the Turk was known,

When Huns were on the Roman throne,

And England yet in thrall,—

And still, as nations rose and died,

Thy Titan front the world defied!

But now thou art all desolate,

The very mock of fame,

With nothing save thy fallen state,

Thy ruins, and—a name.

And silent are thy songs of mirth,

Thy form is prostrate on the earth,

Thy brow is white with shame—

Oh God! a harlot in her woe!

Did ever grandeur fall so low?

And waving from thy palace walls

The long grass rankly grows—

Lamenting, through its dull canals,

The sluggish water flows—

And ’neath the Lion of St. Mark—

That scourge of vanished empires—hark!

The tramp of Austrian foes.

How long, Oh! Venice, o’er thy grave

Shall jeer the coward and the slave?

I stand beside the Lion’s mouth

And gaze across the sea,

The breeze is wafting from the south

No argosies to thee!

Thy hundred seers, thy fearful TEN.

Are not, and shall not be again

While God is for the free!

Yet they a deathless name shall find,

A scorn, a hissing to mankind!

Go! let her moulder where she fell—

We only weep the brave—

Her destiny befits her well,

A traitor, then a slave,—

Betraying all, herself betrayed,

And smote by parricidal blade,

She sank into her grave—

Shall nations shed a tear for her

Whose life was Freedom’s sepulchre?

ß.

* * * * *

THE MARRIAGE OF ACHILLES.

BY THE AUTHOR OF “THE BROTHERS,” “CROMWELL,” “RINGWOOD THE ROVER,” ETC.

It was a day of Truce in the fair Troad!—the festival of the great

Doric and Ionian God, sacred to either nation—it was a day of general

peace, of general rejoicing! The ninth year of the war was far advanced

toward its termination. Hector, the mighty prop of Troy, had fallen; yet

did the Grecian host still occupy their guarded camp by the dark waters

of the Hellespont; nor had the indomitable valor of the Goddess-born

prevailed to level with the dust the towers of Troy divine. For fresh

allies had buckled on their armor for the defence of Priam—Memnon, son

of the morning, like his great rival half immortal, with his dark Coptic

hosts, had rushed from the far banks of the giant Nile—ill-fated prince

and hero!—rushed, but to swell the triumphs of the invincible

Thessalian, to water with his life-blood the flowery pastures of the

land he vainly hoped to save. Penthesilea, virgin queen of the

man-defying virgins—fairest of earth’s fair daughters—had left her

boundless plains beside the cold Thermodon—had called her quivered

heroines from warring with the mountain pard, and chasing the huge urus

of the plain, to launch the unerring shaft and ply the two-edged axe

against the sevenfold shield of Salamis, against the Pelian spear. Alas!

not her did her unrivalled horsemanship, in which she set her trust—in

which she might have coped successfully with the world-famed

Bellerophontes—not her did her skill with the feathered reed avail,

against the speed of him who left the winds behind in his career, whose

might was more than human. She too lay prone before him—the dazzling

charms of her voluptuous bosom revealed to the broad sunshine, as he

tore off the jewelled cincture—tore off the scaly breastplate—the

hyacinthine tresses, soiled in the gory dust—tresses wherewith she

might have veiled her form even to the ankles, so copious was their

flow! Oh she was beautiful in death—and avenged by her beauty!—For the

fierce conqueror wept and bore her to his own pavilion, and hung

enamored for long days over those fatal charms; and pressed the cold

form to his fiery heart, and kissed with fervid lips the cold and

senseless eyelids, the mouth that answered not to his unnatural rapture.

The fate of Troy, as on the bravest of her sons, had fallen on the best

of her allies—the fiat of the destinies had long ago gone forth—the

fiat which the dwellers of Olympus, the revellers on Nectar and

Ambrosia,—which Jove himself, although he were reluctant, must obey!

The ancestral curse was on the walls of Ilium, and all who should defend

them. They fell there one by one, valiant, sometimes

victorious—Sarpedon, Cyenus fell—Memnon, Penthesilea! Yet falling they

deferred the ruin which they might not avert—so Troy still stood,

although her mightiest were down—and when the brazen cymbals of Cybele

summoned her sons to battle, they still rushed forth in throngs,

determined to the last and unsubdued; and with Deiphobus to lead—worthy

successor of their mightier hero—they battled it still bravely on the

plain, between the city and the sea.

But now it was all harmony and peace!—the spears were pitched into the

yellow sand beside the Grecian galleys, or hung, each on its owner’s

wall, within the gates of Ilium. The plain, the whole fair plain, was

crowded now—more densely crowded than it had ever showed, when in the

deadliest fight the kindred nations mingled—for now not warriors only,

but the whole population of the camp, the country and the town,

traversed its grassy surface in gay and gorgeous companies. Gray headed

men were there, counsellors and contemporaries of old Priam, eager to

look upon the field whereon such exploits had been done—matrons come

out to weep above the green graves of their sons and spouses, graves

which till then they ne’er had visited, nor decked with votive garlands,

nor watered with a tear—maidens in all the frolic mirth of their blythe

careless youth, panting to gather flowrets from the green banks of

Simois and Xanthus, Phrygian streams, to chase the gaudy butterfly, to

listen to the carol of the bird—to drink in with enchanted ears the

sylvan harmonies from which they had so long been shut within the

crowded walls of the beleaguered city.

It was a wondrous spectacle—Yea! beautiful exceedingly! Men in those

days were indeed images of the immortal—women, types of ideal

loveliness!—many a form was there of youthful warriors, such as were

models unto him who wrought from the inanimate rock of Paros, that

breathing, deathless god, the slayer of the Python—many a girlish shape

such as we worship in the poet’s dream, Psyche, or Hebe, or Europa—many

a full blown figure, ripe in the perfect luxury of womanhood, such as

enchants the eyes, intoxicates the hearts, enthrals the souls, of all

who look upon the Medicean Venus. Then the rich oriental garbs—the half

transparent robes of gauze-like Byssus, revealing _all_ the symmetry,

and _half_ the delicate hues, of the rich charms they seemed to

veil—the jewelled zones and mitres, the golden network, scarce

restraining the downward sweep of the redundant ringlets!—the priests

in stoles of purest snow, sandalled and crowned with gold!—the

sacrificers in their garbs succinct—the spotless, flower-crowned

victims!—the music—and the odors!—and the song! The wild exulting

bursts of the mad Bacchic Dithyramb!—the statelier and more solemn

chant, warbled by hundred tongues of boys and stainless virgins, in

honor of the Pure, Immaculate God—the silver-bowed—the

light-producer—the golden-haired, and yellow-sworded—the healer—the

averter—the avenger!—son of Latona and of Jove—Delian and Thymbrœan

King!—the blast of the shrill trumpets, blent with the deep, deep roll

of the Corybantian drum, loud as the deafening roar of subterranean

thunder, and the sharp clashing of the Cretan cymbal, and the shrill

rattle of the systrum! the chariots and the coursers of the

god!—chariots of polished brass, reflecting every beam of the broad

Asiatic sun till they seemed cars of living flame—coursers of symmetry

unmatched, snow-white, with full spirit-flashing eyes, and nostrils wide

distended, trampling the flowery sod as if they were proud of their

golden trappings, and conscious of the God their owner!

Far in a haunted grove, beneath the towering heights of Ida, where never

yet, during the whole nine years of deadly strife, had the red hand of

war intruded—far in a haunted grove, whither no beam of the broad

day-god pierces even from his meridian height—so densely is it set with

the eternal verdure of the laurel, high over-canopied by green immortal

palm—so closely do the amorous vines embrace both palm and laurel

weaving a vault of solid everlasting greenery—where the perpetual chant

of the nightingale is mingled only with the faint sigh of the breeze

that plays forever among the emerald alleys, and the sweet tinkling

voice of the Thymbrœan rill, cold from its icy cradle on the

cloud-curtained hill of Jove—unvisited by feet of profane visitor,

stands the secluded shrine of the Pure God—a circular vault of whitest

Parian marble, reared on twelve Doric shafts, their pedestals and bases

of bright virgin gold. Beneath the centre of the dome is placed a

circular altar of the same chaste materials, wrought with the most

superb reliefs, descriptive of the birth, the exploits, and the

histories of the great Deity—and in a niche immediately behind it—the

Deity himself—the naked limbs—all grace and youthful beauty—the swell

of the elastic muscles, the life-like, almost breathing protrusion of

the expanded chest—the swan-like curvature of the proud neck, the

scornful curl of the almost girlish lips, the wide indignant nostril,

the corded veins of the broad forehead from which the clustered locks

stream back, waved as it were by some spiritual breath prophetic, the

lightning glance of the triumphant eye shot from beneath the brows half

bended in a frown, proclaimed the Python killer—the Boy-god now in the

flush of his first triumph!— The fierceness kindled by the perilous

strife was not yet faded from the eye—yet he smiles, scornfully smiles,

at the very ease with which he has prevailed over his dragon foe!

A dim religious twilight reigned through that solemn shrine; it would

have been a solemn darkness, but for the pencils of soft emerald-colored

light, which streamed down here and there full of bright wandering

motes, among the tangled foliage—and for the pale transparent glow

soaring up from the marble altar, whereon fed by the richest spices and

the most generous wine, the sacred flame played to and fro, lambent and

imitative of the lights that stud the empyrean.

Splendid, however, as was the picture offered by the interior of the

shrine, decked with all those appliances that operate most strongly on

the mind, or at least on the imaginative portion of the mind of

man—pervading all the senses with a calm, sweet, luxurious

languor—filling the soul with strange voluptuous fantasies—half

poetry, half superstition; yet infinitely were all the splendors, all

the elegance of the spot surpassed by the transcendant majesty of those

who stood around the altar.

On the right hand and left, next to the statue of Apollo, ministered the

chief pontiffs of that solemn and mysterious deed; they were both old,

even beyond the usual old age of mortals, yet perfectly erect and

stately in their forms—their long locks were indeed of perfect silvery

whiteness, their wide expanded foreheads wrinkled with many a line and

furrow, their lips pale as ashes, their whole complexion bloodless!—yet

did their eyes beam out from the deep cavernous recesses of their

sockets with a wild and spirited brilliance that savored not a little of

the unearthly light of inspiration; and their whole air and bearing went

far to denote that their long years had nought diminished the pervading

powers of the soul, though they had wasted not a little the mere mortal

clay; but rather had given freer scope to the far-darting mind, in

limiting the operations of the coarser matter.

Their robes were white immaculate linen, and they wore chaplets of the

green bay tree on their heads, and carried sceptres in their hands of

gold, enwreathed with sprays of laurels, and bound with woollen fillets.

All motionless they stood, and silent; stirring not hand, nor foot, nor

even so much as winking an eyelid, save when they poured the fat spiced

wine from golden pateræ upon the altar, to feed the sacred flame. Behind

them were assembled the ministers, the choristers, and sacrifices of the

temple, waking at times wild harmonies from many a golden lyre, many a

silver flute; while, to fill up the pauses between the bursts of

instrumental music, soft symphonies arose from virgin lips invisible,

singing, “all glory to unshorn Apollo, and her, the sister of his soul,

the unstained goddess of the groves—queen of the silver bow!”

A little way advanced by the right hand of the altar, bowed down by many

years and many sorrows, yet still serene, and dignified, and

king-like—for he was yet a king!—aye, and in after days, when his Troy

sunk in ashes never to rise again, a king he died, right kingly—leaning

on his ivory staff stood the great offspring of Laomedon—good, hapless

Priam. His limbs, which had been framed in the gigantic mould of the old

heroic ages, still larger than the degenerate thews of his descendants,

were all relaxed and nerveless; and the great veins and sinews, which

stood out upon his shrivelled hands like a network of cordage, betokened

the vast strength which once must have dwelt in that large frame, so

sinewless and feeble now—so impotent and helpless. His golden crown was

on his lofty brow, serene and venerable in its polished baldness—a

flowing mantle of rich regal purple, lined with white lambskins, flowed

down from his shoulders and swept the marble pavement with its rich

broidered edge and bullion fringes—a tunic of white linen, gathered

about his waist by a broad belt of golden arabesques, sandals of purple

leather clasped and embossed with gold, completed his attire—while,

ministers of regal state, the god-like heralds stood behind him,

Jalthybius, and Eurybates the sage—messengers of high kings,

interpreters of gods, clad in their mystic garments, and bearing high,

advanced their sacred rods, the emblems of their office—close around

these were gathered the councillors and sages of the city, Antenor, and

Ucalegon, and wise Anchises—reverend and grave seniors, who, having

long laid by the falchion, now governed by their proved experience the

realm which they had formerly protected by their enthusiastic

valor—near these a dozen slaves—slaves of the royal palace, waited

with offerings for the altar; two snow-white lambs, two vases of rich

wine, and frankincense, and myrrh, aloes and cassia—garments of

needle-work, and garlands of rich flowers, and crowns and sceptres of

wrought gold.

Upon the other hand, facing her aged father, was one whom but to look

upon, would have excited the coldest, dullest heart to passionate,

enamored phrenzy—the young, the beautiful Polyxena, the destined bride

of the goddess-born—the bravest of the brave, the noblest of the noble,

victor of victors, unsurpassed of men, magnificent Achilles. He had

beheld her first, before her gallant brother fell, by his hand, beside

the Scæan gates, while with her aged mother, and mad Cassandra and her

train, she was engaged in mystic rites upon the plain—beheld and loved

upon the instant! A few days had elapsed—days of fierce strife between

his patriotism and his passion—and then he had demanded of his good,

gallant enemy, pledge of conciliation and of peace, the hand of his

sweet sister. Oh! demand frantically rejected; oh! pledge of peace madly

refused, and fatally! For fate it was, the damning fate of Troy, that

steeled the heart of Hector!

Achilles had all-honorably proposed peace; Hector demanded

treason—treason to Greece and the confederates, as the sole price of

young Polyxena! The reply of the indignant Greek was renewed war—and

Hector fell, and Troy quailed to its base and tottered! Then Memnon

buckled on his armor for Troy, and he too fell! Penthesilea, and she

likewise!—and now, all her chief captains down, all her allies retired,

Troy was again in her extremity, and again—peaceable and courteous as

he was fierce and valiant in the field—Achilles offered terms, peace

for Polyxena. And now his terms were heard;—for they were old heads now

to whom he made his proffers—heard and accepted. And here, in the

Thymbrœan shrine, they met to plight their faith upon the treaties—to

solemnize the marriage of Achilles.

She was indeed most exquisite in her young loveliness; words cannot tell

her loveliness. Scarce sixteen years of age, yet a mature and perfect

woman; mature in the voluptuous development of her unrivalled person;

mature in the development of her luxurious oriental nature. Tall,

slender, and erect as the graceful palm of her native plains, her figure

was yet admirably moulded; her ample sloping shoulders; her full glowing

bust, tapering downward to a waist scarcely a span in circuit, and

thence the sweeping swell of her full lower limbs down to the sylph-like

ankle and small, delicate foot, that peered out from beneath the golden

fringes of her nuptial robe, constituted, in fact, the very perfection

of ideal female symmetry. Her snow-white, swan-like neck languidly

drooping with a graceful curve, like a white lily’s stalk when the sweet

chalice is surcharged with summer dew, concealed, but could not hide the

beauty of her head and features; the clean and classic outlines of the

smooth brow, from which the auburn hair, parted in two broad, massive

braids, waved off behind the small white ears, and there was clustered

in a full bunch of ringlets, was relieved by the well marked arches of

her dark eye-brows—the eyes themselves could not be seen, for modestly

were they cast down upon the pavement; though now and then a stolen

glance toward her lover would flash out from beneath the long, long

jetty lashes, like the gleam of a war-sword leaping from its scabbard,

or the lightning from the gloom of the thunder cloud. Her cheeks were

pale as the snow on Ida—save when a rich carnation flush, emblem of

overmastering passion, would suffuse brow, and cheeks, and neck, and

bosom—aye, and the moulded curves of those smooth ivory shoulders, with

a transparent transitory glow as rich, and, oh! as evanescent as the

bright hues of sunset touching the top of some heaven-kissing hill! A

wreath of orange flowers, blended with myrtle—sacred plant of

Venus,—even then the bridal wreath—encompassed the fair temples, and

shone out resplendently from the dark tresses of the auburn hair. The

nuptial veil—a tissue as it were, of woven air, gemmed with bright

golden stars—fell off in graceful waves, and floated down her back till

it spread out in a long train upon the marble floor; her robe of the

like gauzy tissue, fastened on either shoulder by a large stud of

brilliants, covered, but veiled not the beauties of her voluptuous

bosom; below her bust, plaited in massy folds, it was confined by the

virgin zone, and thence flowed down five several tunics, each shorter

than that next below it, each fringed with golden tassels, and looped

with golden cords, down to her golden sandals. Behind her stood

Cassandra, clad in one plain, close-fitting stole of linen, with her

dark locks dishevelled, streaming in strange disorder about her rich,

majestic person; a laurel wreath set carefully upon her head, and a

large branch of the same tree in her right hand. Her full dark eye, that

gleamed so often with the intolerable lustre of prophetic phrenzy, was

now suffused with moisture, languid, abstracted, and even sad; but no

such wo-begone expression sat on the brows or on the laughing lips of

the attendant maidens, who clustered, a bright bevy of girlish forms and

lovely nymph-like faces behind the beauteous bride.

Just before the altar, facing the image of the god, scarce less

sublimely beautiful than that unrivalled marble, alone, and unadorned,

and unattended, behold the glorious bridegroom! Language may not

describe the splendor, the almost intolerable glory of his soul-fraught,

enthusiastic eye—the ardor of the warrior; the inspiration of the host,

the _œstrum_ of the prophet when he is fullest of his god, were all

combined in that spirit-flashing feature. You saw that eye, and you saw

all—the chiselled outlines of the nose, the generous expansive nostril,

the proud voluptuous lip, were all unseen, all lost, all swallowed up in

the pervading glory of that immortal eye. His form was such as _must_

have been the form of him who could outstrip the speed of the most fiery

coursers; bounding along all armed, in his full panoply of gold, beside

the four horse chariot; although the mettled chargers strained every

nerve to conquer—although Eumelus drove them. His garb was simple even

to plainness; a short and narrow tunic of bright crimson cloth, leaving

his mighty limbs exposed in their own glorious beauty, was belted round

his waist by a small cord of gold—his head was covered only by its long

silky tresses; sandals of gold were on his feet; he wore no weapons, but

a long oaken sceptre studded with knobs of gold, supported his right

hand.

Such was the glorious group which tenanted the shrine of the Thymbrœan

god on that auspicious day—such was the ceremonial of Achilles’

marriage! Yet was it passing strange that not one of the Grecian chiefs

stood by the bravest of their nation, his comrade and his friend on that

sublime occasion; it was yet stranger that not one of all her noble

brethren, not one of Priam’s fifty sons stood by their lovely sister.

Yet such had been the will of Priam; and with the noble confidence—the

proud contempt, which were a portion of his nature—confidence in his

own dauntless and unrivalled valor, contempt of any mortal peril,

Achilles had acceded to the terms.

And now the rites were finished—the sacrifice complete—the bridal

chorus chanted! The pontiffs slew two lambs; one for the royal

prince—one for the princely bridegroom—and filled two cups of wine,

and they, the sire and son, touched the dead lambs and raised the

wine-cups, and grasped each other’s hand in amity, and swore eternal

peace, eternal amity, and love! They stretched their right hands to the

god, tasted the wine, and poured the red libations over the holy

altar—praying aloud—solemn and awful prayer—“that thus _his_ blood

should flow upon the earth—_his_ own life-blood, his wife’s, his

child’s, and that of all his race—who should the first transgress that

solemn vow and treaty.”

They swore, and it was ended! The hero turned to clasp his blooming

bride—— Whence—what—was that keen twang—keen, shrill, and piercing,

which broke the hush of feeling, that followed on that awful oath sworn

between noble foes, now foes no longer? Why does Achilles start with a

convulsive shudder! He reels, he staggers, he falls head-long—and see

the arrow—fell and accursed deed—buried up to the very feather in the

right heel of the prostrate hero! There was a moment’s pause—_one_

moment’s!—and then, with the bow in his left hand, and the broad

falchion gleaming in his right, forth from among the priests—forth from

the inmost shrine—forth leaped the traitor Paris! Deiphobus, the

warrior—Helenus, the priest, followed!—all armed from head to foot,

all with their weapons bare and ready! There was one frantic cry—the

shriek of the heart-broken bride—and then no other sound except the

clash of the weapons, driven sheer through the body of the hero, against

the desecrated pavement.

“Thus Hector is avenged—thus is Troy freed”—shouted the slaughterers

of the mighty Greek; but if the shade of Hector was so appeased by a

base vengeance, yet so was Troy not freed! For not long afterward, the

flames rolled over it, that even its ruins perished, its site was lost

forever!—and if Polyxena was then snatched from her spouse, yet, when

in after days her living form was immolated on his tomb—their manes

were united, never to part again, in the Elysian fields—the Islands of

the Blessed.

* * * * *

LINES.

When all a woman’s eye is fire,

And ev’ry look the passions move,

The voice as sweet as Nature’s lyre—

What can a poor man do but love?

When all his light is in _one_ eye,

And all his heaven within _one_ breast—

Oh! blame him not, if he doth sigh

For light like this to make him blest!

Then blame him not—oh! blame him not,

For madness only is his crime,—

Oh! never will you be forgot,

While all your image is on time.

A heart like thine—an eye so bright,

Will ever all the passions move—

When gazing on those eyes of light,

What can a poor man do but love?

J. T.

* * * * *

A CHAPTER ON AUTOGRAPHY.

BY

[Illustration: signature of Edgar A. Poe]

[In this, our second “Chapter on Autography,” we conclude the article

and the year together. When we say that so complete a collection has

never been published before, we assert only that which is obvious; and

we are pleased to see that our exertions upon this head have been well

received. As we claim only the sorry merit of the compiler, we shall be

permitted to say that no Magazine paper has ever excited greater

interest than the one now concluded. To all readers it has seemed to be

welcome—but especially so to those who themselves dabble in the waters

of Helicon:—to those and their innumerable friends. The diligence

required in getting together these autographs has been a matter of no

little moment, and the expense of the whole undertaking will be at once

comprehended; but we intend the article merely as an earnest of what we

shall do next year. Our aim shall be to furnish our friends with

variety, originality, and _piquancy_, without any regard to labor or to

cost.]

[Illustration: signature of F W Thomas]

F. W. Thomas, who began his literary career, at the early age of

seventeen, by a poetical lampoon upon certain Baltimore fops, has since

more particularly distinguished himself as a novelist. His “Clinton

Bradshawe” is perhaps better known than any of his later fictions. It is

remarkable for a frank, unscrupulous portraiture of men and things, in

high life and low, and by unusual discrimination and observation in

respect to character. Since its publication he has produced “East and

West” and “Howard Pinckney,” neither of which seem to have been so

popular as his first essay; although both have merit.

“East and West,” published in 1836, was an attempt to portray the

every-day events occurring to a fallen family emigrating from the East

to the West. In it, as in “Clinton Bradshawe,” most of the characters

are drawn from life. “Howard Pinckney” was published in 1840.

Mr. Thomas was, at one period, the editor of the Cincinnati “Commercial

Advertiser.” He is also well known as a public lecturer on a variety of

topics. His conversational powers are very great. As a poet, he has also

distinguished himself. His “Emigrant” will be read with pleasure by

every person of taste.

His MS. is more like that of Mr. Benjamin than that of any other

literary person of our acquaintance. It has even more than the

occasional nervousness of Mr. B.’s, and, as in the case of the editor of

the “New World,” indicates the passionate sensibility of the man.

[Illustration: signature of T. G. Spear]

Thomas G. Spear is the author of various poetical pieces which have

appeared from time to time in our Magazines and other periodicals. His

productions have been much admired, and are distinguished for pathos,

and grace. His MS. is well shown in the signature. It is too _clerky_

for our taste.

[Illustration: signature of R Morris]

Mr. Morris ranks, we believe, as the first of our Philadelphia poets,

since the death of Willis Gaylord Clark. His compositions, like those of

his late lamented friend, are characterised by sweetness rather than

strength of versification, and by tenderness and delicacy rather than by

vigor or originality of thought. A late notice of him in the “Boston

Notion,” from the pen of Rufus W. Griswold, did his high qualities no

more than justice. As a prose writer, he is chiefly known by his

editorial contributions to the Philadelphia “Inquirer,” and by

occasional essays for the Magazines.

His chirography is usually very illegible, although at times

sufficiently distinct. It has no marked characteristics, and like that

of almost every editor in the country, has been so modified by the

circumstances of his position, as to afford no certain indication of the

mental features.

[Illustration: signature of E. Holden]

Ezra Holden has written much, not only for his paper, “The Saturday

Courier,” but for our periodicals generally, and stands high in the

public estimation, as a sound thinker, and still more particularly as a

fearless expresser of his thoughts.

His MS. (which we are constrained to say is a shockingly bad one, and

whose general features may be seen in his signature,) indicates the

frank and naïve manner of his literary style—a style which not

unfrequently flies off into whimsicalities.

[Illustration: signature of Benjn Matthias]

Mr. Matthias is principally known by his editorial conduct of the

“Saturday Chronicle” of Philadelphia, to which he has furnished much

entertaining and instructive matter. His MS. would be generally termed a

fine one, but it affords little indication of mental character.

[Illustration: signature of Geo R Graham]

Mr. Graham is known to the literary world as the editor and proprietor

of “Graham’s Magazine,” the most popular periodical in America, and also

of the “Saturday Evening Post,” of Philadelphia. For both of these

journals he has written much and well.

His MS. generally, is very bad, or at least very illegible. At times it

is sufficiently distinct, and has force and picturesqueness, speaking

plainly of the _energy_ which particularly distinguishes him as a man.

The signature above is more scratchy than usual.

[Illustration: signature of W. L Stone]

Colonel Stone, the editor of the New York “Commercial Advertiser,” is

remarkable for the great difference which exists between the apparent

public opinion respecting his abilities, and the real estimation in

which he is privately held. Through his paper, and a bustling activity

always prone to thrust itself forward, he has attained an unusual degree

of influence in New York, and, not only this, but what appears to be a

reputation for talent. But this talent we do not remember ever to have

heard assigned him by any honest man’s private opinion. We place him

among our _literati_, because he has published certain books. Perhaps

the best of these are his “Life of Brandt,” and “Life and Times of Red

Jacket.” Of the rest, his story called “Ups and Downs,” his defence of

Animal Magnetism, and his pamphlets concerning Maria Monk, are scarcely

the most absurd. His MS. is heavy and sprawling, resembling his mental

character in a species of utter unmeaningness, which lies, like the

nightmare, upon his autograph.

[Illustration: signature of Jared Sparks]

The labors of Mr. Sparks, Professor of History at Harvard, are well

known and justly appreciated. His MS. has an unusually odd appearance.

The characters are large, round, black, irregular, and

perpendicular—the signature, as above, being an excellent specimen of

his chirography in general. In all his letters now before us, the lines

are as close together as possible, giving the idea of irretrievable

confusion; still none of them are illegible upon close inspection. We

can form no guess in regard to any mental peculiarities from Mr. Sparks’

MS., which has been no doubt modified by the hurrying and intricate

nature of his researches. We might imagine such epistles as these to

have been written in extreme haste by a man exceedingly busy among great

piles of books and papers, huddled up around him like the chaotic tomes

of Magliabechi. The paper used in all our epistles is uncommonly fine.

[Illustration: signature of H. S. Legare]

The name of H. S. Legare is written without an accent on the final _e_,

yet is pronounced, as if this letter were accented,—Legray. He

contributed many articles of high merit to the “Southern Review,” and

has a wide reputation for scholarship and talent. His MS. resembles that

of Mr. Palfrey, of the North American Review, and their mental features

appear to us nearly identical. What we have said in regard to the

chirography of Mr. Palfrey will apply with equal force to that of the

present Secretary.

[Illustration: signature of R W Griswold]

Mr. Griswold has written much, but chiefly in the editorial way, whether

for the papers, or in books. He is a gentleman of fine taste and sound

judgment. His knowledge of American literature, in all its details, is

not exceeded by that of any man among us. He is not only a polished

prose writer, but a poet of no ordinary power; although, as yet, he has

not put himself much in the way of the public admiration.

His MS. is by no means a good one. It appears unformed, and vacillates

in a singular manner; so that nothing can be predicated from it, except

a certain unsteadiness of purpose.

[Illustration: signature of George Lunt]

Mr. George Lunt, of Newburyport, Massachusetts, is known as a poet of

much vigor of style and massiveness of thought. He delights in the

grand, rather than in the beautiful, and is not unfrequently turgid, but

never feeble. The traits here described, impress themselves with

remarkable distinctness upon his chirography, of which the signature

gives a perfect idea.

[Illustration: signature of Jos R Chandler]

Mr. Chandler’s reputation as the editor of one of the best daily papers

in the country, and as one of our finest _belles lettres_ scholars, is

deservedly high. He is well known through his numerous addresses,

essays, miscellaneous sketches, and prose tales. Some of these latter

evince imaginative powers of a superior order.

His MS. is not fairly shown in his signature, the latter being much more

open and bold than his general chirography. His hand-writing must be

included in the editorial category—it seems to have been ruined by

habitual hurry.

[Illustration: signature of Fitzgerald Tasistro]

Count L. Fitzgerald Tasistro has distinguished himself by many

contributions to the periodical literature of the day, and by his

editorial conduct of the “Expositor,”—a critical journal of high merit

in many respects, although somewhat given to verbiage.

His MS. is remarkable for a scratchy diminutiveness, and is by no means

legible. We are not sufficiently cognizant of his literary character, to

draw any parallel between it and his chirography. His signature is

certainly a most remarkable one.

[Illustration: signature of H. T. Tuckerman]

H. T. Tuckerman has written one or two books consisting of “Sketches of

Travel.” His “Isabel” is, perhaps, better known than any of his

productions, but was never a popular work. He is a _correct_ writer so

far as mere English is concerned, but an insufferably tedious and dull

one. He has contributed much of late days to the “Southern Literary

Messenger,” with which journal, perhaps, the legibility of his MS. has

been an important, if not the principal recommendation. His chirography

is neat and distinct, and has some grace, but no force—evincing, in a

remarkable degree, the idiosyncrasies of the writer.

[Illustration: signature of Danl Bryan]

Mr. Bryan has written some very excellent poetry, and is appreciated by

all admirers of “the good old Goldsmith school.” He is, at present,

postmaster at Alexandria, and has held the office for many years, with

all the good fortune of a Vicar of Bray.

His MS. is a free, sloping, and regular one, with more boldness than

force, and not ungraceful. He is fond of _underscoring_ his sentences; a

habit exactly parallel with the argumentative nature of some of his best

poems.

[Illustration: signature of L A Godey]

Mr. Godey is only known to the literary world as editor and publisher of

“The Lady’s Book;” but his celebrity in this regard entitles him to a

place in this collection. His MS. is remarkably distinct and graceful;

the signature affording an excellent idea of it. The man who invariably

writes so well as Mr. G. invariably does, gives evidence of a fine

taste, combined with an indefatigability which will ensure his permanent

success in the world’s affairs. No man has warmer friends or fewer

enemies.

[Illustration: signature of John S Du Solle]

Mr. Du Solle is well known, through his connection with the “Spirit of

the Times.” His prose is forcible, and often excellent in other

respects. As a poet, he is entitled to higher consideration. Some of his

Pindaric pieces are unusually good, and it maybe doubted if we have a

better _versifier_ in America.

Accustomed to the daily toil of an editor, he has contracted a habit of

writing hurriedly, and his MS. varies with the occasion. It is

impossible to deduce any inferences from it, as regards the mental

character. The signature shows rather how he can write, than how he

does.

[Illustration: signature of J S French]

Mr. French is the author of a “Life of David Crockett”, and also of a

novel called “Elkswatawa”, a denunciatory review of which in the

“Southern Messenger,” some years ago, deterred him from further literary

attempts. Should he write again, he will probably distinguish himself,

for he is unquestionably a man of talent. We need no better evidence of

this than his MS., which speaks of force, boldness, and originality. The

flourish, however, betrays a certain _floridity_ of taste.

[Illustration: signature of Theo. S. Fay]

The author of “Norman Leslie” and “The Countess Ida”, has been more

successful as an essayist about small matters, than as a novelist.

“Norman Leslie” is more familiarly remembered as “The Great Used Up”,

while “The Countess” made no definite impression whatever. Of course we

are not to expect remarkable features in Mr. Fay’s MS. It has a

wavering, finicky, and over-delicate air, without pretension to either

grace or force; and the description of the chirography would answer,

without alteration, for that of the literary character. Mr. F.

frequently employs an amanuensis, who writes a very beautiful French

hand. The one must not be confounded with the other.

[Illustration: signature of J K Mitchell]

Dr. Mitchell has published several pretty songs which have been set to

music, and become popular. He has also given to the world a volume of

poems, of which the longest was remarkable for an old-fashioned polish

and vigor of versification. His MS. is rather graceful than picturesque

or forcible—and these words apply equally well to his poetry in

general. The signature indicates the hand.

[Illustration: signature of Geo.P.Morris]

General Morris has composed many songs which have taken fast hold upon

the popular taste, and which are deservedly celebrated. He has caught

the true _tone_ for these things, and hence his popularity—a popularity

which his enemies would fain make us believe is altogether attributable

to his editorial influence. The charge is true only in a measure. The

tone of which we speak is that kind of frank, free, hearty _sentiment_

(rather than philosophy) which distinguishes Béranger, and which the

critics, for want of a better term, call _nationality_.

His MS. is a simple unornamented hand, rather rotund than angular, very

legible, forcible, and altogether in keeping with his style.

[Illustration: signature of George H Calvert]

Mr. Calvert was at one time principal editor of the “Baltimore

American,” and wrote for that journal some good paragraphs on the common

topics of the day. He has also published many translations from the

German, and one or two original poems—among others an imitation of Don

Juan called “Pelayo,” which did him no credit. He is essentially a

feeble and common-place writer of poetry, although his prose

compositions have a certain degree of merit.

His chirography indicates the “common-place” upon which we have

commented. It is a very usual, scratchy, and tapering clerk’s hand—a

hand which no man of talent ever did or could indite, unless compelled

by circumstances of more than ordinary force. The signature is far

better than the general manuscript of his epistles.

[Illustration: signature of J Evans Snodgrass]

Dr. Snodgrass was at one time the associate of Mr. Brooks in the

“Baltimore Museum”, a monthly journal published in the City of Monuments

some years since. He wrote for that Magazine, and has occasionally

written for others, articles which possessed the merit of precision of

style, and a metaphysical cast of thought. We like his prose much better

than his poetry.

His chirography is bad—stiff, sprawling and illegible, with frequent

corrections and interlineations, evincing inactivity not less than

fastidiousness. The signature betrays a meretricious love of effect.

[Illustration: signature of J N McJilton]

Mr. McJilton is better known from his contributions to the journals of

the day than from any book-publications. He has much talent, and it is

not improbable that he will hereafter distinguish himself, although as

yet he has not composed anything of length which, as a whole, can be

styled good.

His MS. is not unlike that of Dr. Snodgrass, but it is somewhat clearer

and better. We can predicate little respecting it, beyond a love of

exaggeration and _bizarrerie_.

[Illustration: signature of W. D. Gallagher]

Mr. Gallagher is chiefly known as a poet. He is the author of some of

our most popular songs, and has written many long pieces of high but

unequal merit. He has the true spirit, and will rise into a just

distinction hereafter. His manuscript tallies well with our opinion. It

is a very fine one—clear, bold, decided and picturesque. The signature

above does not convey, in full force, the general character of his

chirography, which is more rotund, and more decidedly placed upon the

paper.

[Illustration: signature of Richard H Dana]

Mr. Dana ranks among our most eminent poets, and he has been the

frequent subject of comment in our Reviews. He has high qualities,

undoubtedly, but his defects are many and great.

His MS. resembles that of Mr. Gallagher very nearly, but is somewhat

more rolling, and has less boldness and decision. The literary traits of

the two gentlemen are very similar, although Mr. Dana is by far the more

polished writer, and has a scholarship which Mr. Gallagher wants.

[Illustration: signature of M McMichael]

Mr. McMichael is well known to the Philadelphia public by the number and

force of his prose compositions, but he has seldom been tempted into

book publication. As a poet, he has produced some remarkably vigorous

things. We have seldom seen a finer composition than a certain

celebrated “Monody.”

His MS., when not hurried, is graceful and flowing, without

picturesqueness. At times it is totally illegible. His chirography is

one of those which have been so strongly modified by circumstances that

it is nearly impossible to predicate any thing with certainty respecting

them.

[Illustration: signature of N C Brooks]

Mr. N. C. Brooks has acquired some reputation as a Magazine writer. His

serious prose is often very good—is always well-worded—but in his

comic attempts he fails, without appearing to be aware of his failure.

As a poet he has succeeded far better. In a work which he entitled

“Scriptural Anthology” among many inferior compositions of length, there

were several shorter pieces of great merit:—for example “Shelley’s

Obsequies” and “The Nicthanthes”. Of late days we have seen little from

his pen.

His MS. has much resemblance to that of Mr. Bryant, although altogether

it is a better hand, with much more freedom and grace. With care Mr.

Brooks can write a fine MS. just as with care he can compose a fine

poem.

[Illustration: signature of Thos H. Stockton]

The Rev. Thomas H. Stockton has written many pieces of fine poetry, and

has lately distinguished himself as the editor of the “Christian World.”

His MS. is fairly represented by his signature, and bears much

resemblance to that of Mr. N. C. Brooks, of Baltimore. Between these two

gentlemen there exists also, a remarkable similarity, not only of

thought, but of personal bearing and character. We have already spoken

of the peculiarities of Mr. B’s chirography.

[Illustration: signature of C.W. Thomson]

Mr. Thompson has written many short poems, and some of them possess

merit. They are characterized by tenderness and grace. His MS. has some

resemblance to that of Professor Longfellow, and by many persons would

be thought a finer hand. It is clear, legible and open—what is called a

rolling hand. It has too much tapering, and too much variation between

the weight of the hair strokes and the downward ones, to be forcible or

picturesque. In all those qualities which we have pointed out as

especially distinctive of Professor Longfellow’s MS. it is remarkably

deficient; and, in fact, the literary character of no two individuals

could be more radically different.

[Illustration: signature of W. E. Channing]

The Reverend W. E. Channing is at the head of our moral and didactic

writers. His reputation both at home and abroad is deservedly high, and

in regard to the matters of purity, polish and modulation of style, he

may be said to have attained the dignity of a standard and a classic. He

has, it is true, been severely criticised, even in respect to these very

points, by the Edinburg Review. The critic, however, made out his case

but lamely, and proved nothing beyond his own incompetence. To detect

occasional, or even frequent inadvertences in the way of bad grammar,

faulty construction, or mis-usage of language, is not to prove impurity

of _style_—a word which happily has a bolder signification than any

dreamed of by the Zoilus of the Review in question. Style regards, more

than anything else, the _tone_ of a composition. All the rest is not

unimportant, to be sure, but appertains to the minor morals of

literature, and can be learned by rote by the meanest simpletons in

letters—can be carried to its highest excellence by dolts who, upon the

whole, are despicable as stylists. Irving’s style is inimitable in its

grace and delicacy; yet few of our practised writers are guilty of more

frequent inadvertences of language. In what may be termed his mere

English, he is surpassed by fifty whom we could name. Mr. Tuckerman’s

English on the contrary is sufficiently pure, but a more lamentable

style than that of his “Sicily” it would be difficult to point out.

Besides those peculiarities which we have already mentioned as belonging

to Dr. Channing’s style, we must not fail to mention a certain calm,

broad deliberateness which constitutes _force_ in its highest character,

and approaches to majesty. All these traits will be found to exist

plainly in his chirography, the character of which is exemplified by the

signature, although this is somewhat larger than the general manuscript.

[Illustration: signature of L. A. Wilmer.]

Mr. Wilmer has written and published much; but he has reaped the usual

fruits of a spirit of independence, and has thus failed to make that

impression on the _popular_ mind which his talents, under other

circumstances, would have effected. But better days are in store for

him, and for all who “hold to the right way,” despising the yelpings of

the small dogs of our literature. His prose writings have all

merit—always the merit of a chastened style. But he is more favorably

known by his poetry, in which the student of the British classics will

find much for warm admiration. We have few better versifiers than Mr.

Wilmer.

His chirography plainly indicates the cautious polish and terseness of

his style, but the signature does not convey the print-like appearance

of the MS.

[Illustration: signature of J.E.Dow]

Mr. Dow is distinguished as the author of many fine sea-pieces, among

which will be remembered a series of papers called “The Log of Old

Ironsides.” His land sketches are not generally so good. He has a fine

imagination, which as yet is undisciplined, and leads him into

occasional bombast. As a poet he has done better things than as a writer

of prose.

His MS., which has been strongly modified by circumstances, gives no

indication of his true character, literary or moral.

[Illustration: signature of H Hastings Weld]

Mr. Weld is well known as the present working editor of the New York

“Tattler” and “Brother Jonathan.” His attention was accidentally

directed to literature about ten years ago, after a minority, to use his

own words, “spent at sea, in a store, in a machine shop, and in a

printing office.” He is now, we believe, about thirty-one years of age.

His deficiency of what is termed regular education would scarcely be

gleaned from his editorials, which, in general, are unusually well

written. His “Corrected Proofs” is a work which does him high credit,

and which has been extensively circulated, although “printed at odd

times by himself, when he had nothing else to do.”

His MS. resembles that of Mr. Joseph C. Neal in many respects, but is

less open and less legible. His signature is altogether much better than

his general chirography.

[Illustration: signature of Andrew McMakin]

Mr. McMakin is one of the editors of the “Philadelphia Saturday

Courier,” and has given to the world several excellent specimens of his

poetical ability. His MS. is clear and graceful; the signature affording

a very good idea of it. The general hand, in fact, is fully as good.

[Illustration: signature of M. St. Leon Loud]

Mrs. M. St. Leon Loud is one of the finest poets of this country;

possessing, we think, more of the true divine _afflatus_ than any of her

female contemporaries. She has, in especial, _imagination_ of no common

order, and unlike many of her sex whom we could mention, is not

Content to dwell in decencies forever.

While she _can_, upon occasion, compose the ordinary metrical sing-song

with all the decorous proprieties which are in fashion, she yet ventures

very frequently into a more ethereal region. We refer our readers to a

truly beautiful little poem entitled the “Dream of the Lonely Isle,” and

lately published in this Magazine.

Mrs. Loud’s MS. is exceedingly clear, neat and forcible, with just

sufficient effeminacy and no more.

[Illustration: signature of Pliny Earle.]

Dr. Pliny Earle, of Frankford, Pa., has not only distinguished himself

by several works of medical and general science, but has become well

known to the literary world, of late, by a volume of very fine poems,

the longest, but by no means the best, of which, was entitled

“Marathon.” This latter is not greatly inferior to the “Marco Bozzaris”

of Halleck; while some of the minor pieces equal any American poems.

His chirography is peculiarly neat and beautiful, giving indication of

the elaborate finish which characterises his compositions. The signature

conveys the general hand.

[Illustration: signature of Jno C McCabe]

Dr. John C. McCabe, of Richmond, Virginia, has written much and

generally well, in prose and poetry, for the periodicals of the day—for

the “Southern Literary Messenger” in especial, and other journals.

His MS. is in every respect a bad one—an ordinary clerk’s hand, meaning

nothing. It has been strongly modified, however, by circumstances which

would scarcely have permitted it to be otherwise than it is.

[Illustration: signature of Jno Tomlin]

John Tomlin, Esq., Postmaster at Jackson, Tennessee, has contributed

many excellent articles to the periodicals of the day—among others to

the “Gentleman’s” and to “Graham’s” Magazine, and to several of the

Southern and Western journals.

His chirography resembles that of Mr. Paulding in being at the same time

very _petite_, very beautiful, and very illegible. His MSS., in being

equally well written throughout, evince the indefatigability of his

disposition.

[Illustration: signature of David Hoffman]

David Hoffman, Esq., of Baltimore, has not only contributed much and

well to monthly Magazines and Reviews, but has given to the world

several valuable publications in book form. His style is terse, pungent

and otherwise excellent, although disfigured by a half comic half

serious pedantry.

His MS. has about it nothing strongly indicative of character.

[Illustration: signature of S. D. Langtree]

S. D. Langtree, has been long and favorably known to the public as

editor of the “Georgetown Metropolitan,” and, more lately, of the

“Democratic Review,” both of which journals he has conducted with

distinguished success. As a critic he has proved himself just, bold and

acute, while his prose compositions generally, evince the man of talent

and taste.

His MS. is not remarkably good, being somewhat too scratchy and

tapering. We include him, of course, in the editorial category.

[Illustration: signature of R.T. Conrad.]

Judge Conrad occupies, perhaps, the first place among our Philadelphia

_literati_. He has distinguished himself both as a prose writer and a

poet—not to speak of his high legal reputation. He has been a frequent

contributor to the periodicals of this city, and, we believe, to one at

least of the Eastern Reviews. His first production which attracted

general notice was a tragedy entitled “Conrad, King of Naples.” It was

performed at the Arch Street Theatre, and elicited applause from the

more judicious. This play was succeeded by “Jack Cade,” performed at the

Walnut Street Theatre, and lately modified and reproduced under the

title of “Aylmere.” In its new dress, this drama has been one of the

most successful ever written by an American, not only attracting crowded

houses, but extorting the good word of our best critics. In occasional

poetry Judge Conrad has also done well. His lines “On a Blind Boy

Soliciting Charity” have been highly admired, and many of his other

pieces evince ability of a high order. His political fame is scarcely a

topic for these pages, and is, moreover, too much a matter of common

observation to need comment from us.

His MS. is neat, legible, and forcible, evincing combined caution and

spirit in a very remarkable degree.

[Illustration: signature of J. Q. Adams.]

The chirography of Ex-President Adams (whose poem, “The Wants of Man,”

has, of late, attracted so much attention,) is remarkable for a certain

steadiness of purpose pervading the whole, and overcoming even the

constitutional tremulousness of the writer’s hand. Wavering in every

letter, the entire MS. has yet a firm, regular, and decisive appearance.

It is also very legible.

[Illustration: signature of P P Cooke]

P. P. Cooke, Esq., of Winchester, Va., is well known, especially in the

South, as the author of numerous excellent contributions to the

“Southern Literary Messenger.” He has written some of the finest poetry

of which America can boast. A little piece of his, entitled “Florence

Vane,” and contributed to the “Gentleman’s Magazine” of this city,

during our editorship of that journal, was remarkable for the high

ideality it evinced, and for the great delicacy and melody of its

rhythm. It was universally admired and copied, as well here as in

England. We saw it not long ago, _as original_, in “Bentley’s

Miscellany.” Mr. Cooke has, we believe, nearly ready for press, a novel

called “Maurice Werterbern,” whose success we predict with confidence.

His MS. is clear, forcible, and legible, but disfigured by some little

of that affectation which is scarcely a blemish in his literary style.

[Illustration: signature of T R Dew.]

Prof. Thomas R. Dew, of William and Mary College in Virginia, was one of

the able contributors who aided to establish the “Southern Literary

Messenger” in the days of its _débût_. His MS. is precisely in keeping

with his literary character. Both are heavy, massive, unornamented and

_diffuse_ in the extreme. His epistles seemed to have been scrawled with

the stump of a quill dipped in very thick ink, and one or two words

extend sometimes throughout a line. The signature is more compact than

the general MS.

[Illustration: signature of J. Beauchamp Jones]

Mr. J. Beauchamp Jones has been, we believe, connected for many years

past with the lighter literature of Baltimore, and at present edits the

“Baltimore Saturday Visiter,” with much judgment and general ability. He

is the author of a series of papers of high merit now in course of

publication in the “Visiter,” and entitled “Wild Western Scenes.”

His MS. is distinct, and might be termed a fine one; but is somewhat too

much in consonance with the ordinary clerk style to be either graceful

or forcible.

[Illustration: signature of Chas. J. Peterson]

Mr. Charles J. Peterson has for a long time been connected with the

periodical literature of Philadelphia, as one of the editors of

“Graham’s Magazine” and of “The Saturday Evening Post.”

His MS., when unhurried, is a very good one—clear, weighty, and

picturesque; but when carelessly written is nearly illegible, on account

of a too slight variation of form in the short letters.

[Illustration: signature of W E Burton]

Mr. Burton is better known as a comedian than as a literary man; but he

has written many short prose articles of merit, and his quondam

editorship of the “Gentleman’s Magazine” would, at all events, entitle

him to a place in this collection. He has, moreover, published one or

two books. An annual issued by Carey and Hart in 1840, consisted

entirely of prose contributions from himself, with poetical ones from

Charles West Thompson, Esq. In this work many of the tales were good.

Mr. Burton’s MS. is scratchy and petite, betokening indecision and care

or caution. The whole chirography resembles that of Mr. Tasistro very

nearly.

[Illustration: signature of Richard Henry Wilde]

Richard Henry Wilde, Esq., of Georgia, has acquired much reputation as a

poet, and especially as the author of a little piece entitled “My Life

is like the Summer Rose,” whose claim to originality has been made the

subject of repeated and reiterated attack and defence. Upon the whole it

is hardly worth quarrelling about. Far better verses are to be found in

every second newspaper we take up. Mr. Wilde has also lately published,

or is about to publish, a “Life of Tasso,” for which he has been long

collecting material.

His MS. has all the peculiar sprawling and elaborate tastelessness of

Mr. Palfrey’s, to which altogether it bears a marked resemblance. The

love of effect, however, is more perceptible in Mr. Wilde’s than even in

Mr. Palfrey’s.

[Illustration: signature of G.G. Foster]

G. G. Foster, Esq., has acquired much reputation, especially in the

South and West, by his poetical contributions to the literature of the

day. All his articles breathe the true spirit. At one period he edited a

weekly paper in Alabama; more lately the “Bulletin” at St. Louis; and,

at present, he conducts the “Pennant,” in that city, with distinguished

ability. Not long ago he issued the prospectus of a monthly magazine.

Should he succeed in getting the journal under way, there can be no

doubt of his success.

His MS. is remarkably clear and graceful; evincing a keen sense of the

beautiful. It seems, however, to be somewhat deficient in force; and his

letters are never so well written in their conclusion as in their

commencement. We have before remarked that this peculiarity in MSS. is a

sure indication of _fatigability_ of temper. Few men who write thus are

free from a certain vacillation of purpose. The signature above is

rather heavier than that from which it was copied.

[Illustration: signature of Lew Cass]

Lewis Cass, the Ex-Secretary of War, has distinguished himself as one of

the finest _belles lettres_ scholars of America. At one period he was a

very regular contributor to the “Southern Literary Messenger,” and, even

lately, he has furnished that journal with one or two very excellent

papers.

His MS. is clear, deliberate and statesmanlike; resembling that of

Edward Everett very closely. It is not often that we see a letter

written altogether by himself. He generally employs an amanuensis, whose

chirography does not differ materially from his own, but is somewhat

more regular.

[Illustration: signature of James Brooks]

James Brooks, Esq., enjoys rather a private than a public literary

reputation; but his talents are unquestionably great, and his

productions have been numerous and excellent. As the author of many of

the celebrated Jack Downing letters, and as the reputed author of the

whole of them, he would at all events be entitled to a place among our

_literati_.

His chirography is simple, clear and legible, with little grace and less

boldness. These traits are precisely those of his literary style.

[Illustration: signature of Jack Downing]

As the authorship of the Jack Downing letters is even still considered

by many a moot point, (although in fact there should be no question

about it,) and as we have already given the signature of Mr. Seba Smith,

and (just above) of Mr. Brooks, we now present our readers with a

fac-simile signature of the “_veritable Jack_” himself, written by him

individually in our own bodily presence. Here, then, is an opportunity

of comparison.

The chirography of “the veritable Jack” is a very good, honest, sensible

hand, and not very dissimilar to that of Ex-President Adams.

[Illustration: signature of J. R. Lowell.]

Mr. J. R. Lowell, of Massachusetts, is entitled, in our opinion, to at

least the second or third place among the poets of America. We say this

on account of the vigor of his _imagination_—a faculty to be first

considered in all criticism upon poetry. In this respect he surpasses,

we think, any of our writers (at least any of those who have put

themselves prominently forth as poets) with the exception of Longfellow,

and perhaps one other. His ear for rhythm, nevertheless, is imperfect,

and he is very far from possessing the artistic ability of either

Longfellow, Bryant, Halleck, Sprague or Pierpont. The reader desirous of

properly estimating the powers of Mr. Lowell will find a very beautiful

little poem from his pen in the October number of this Magazine. There

is one also (not quite so fine) in the number for last month. He will

contribute regularly.

His MS. is strongly indicative of the vigor and precision of his

poetical thought. The man who writes thus, for example, will never be

guilty of metaphorical extravagance, and there will be found _terseness_

as well as strength in all that he does.

[Illustration: signature of L. J. Cist.]

Mr. L. J. Cist, of Cincinnati, has not written much prose, and is known

especially by his poetical compositions, many of which have been very

popular, although they are at times disfigured by false metaphor, and by

a meretricious straining after effect. This latter foible makes itself

clearly apparent in his chirography, which abounds in ornamental

flourishes, not illy executed, to be sure, but in very bad taste.

[Illustration: signature of T S Arthur]

Mr. Arthur is not without a rich talent for description of scenes in low

life, but is uneducated, and too fond of mere vulgarities to please a

refined taste. He has published “The Subordinate”, and

“Insubordination”, two tales distinguished by the peculiarities above

mentioned. He has also written much for our weekly papers, and the

“Lady’s Book.”

His hand is a common-place clerk’s hand, such as we might expect him to

write. The signature is much better than the general MS.

[Illustration: signature of Jms E. Heath]

Mr. Heath is almost the only person of any literary distinction residing

in the chief city of the Old Dominion. He edited the “Southern Literary

Messenger” in the five or six first months of its existence; and, since

the secession of the writer of this article, has frequently aided in its

editorial conduct. He is the author of “Edge-Hill”, a well-written

novel, which, owing to the circumstances of its publication, did not

meet with the reception it deserved. His writings are rather polished

and graceful, than forcible or original; and these peculiarities can be

traced in his chirography.

[Illustration: signature of Thos H. Chivers]

Dr. Thomas Holley Chivers, of New York, is at the same time one of the

best and one of the worst poets in America. His productions affect one

as a wild dream—strange, incongruous, full of images of more than

arabesque monstrosity, and snatches of sweet unsustained song. Even his

worst nonsense (and some of it is horrible) has an indefinite charm of

sentiment and melody. We can never be sure that there is _any_ meaning

in his words—neither is there any meaning in many of our finest musical

airs—but the effect is very similar in both. His figures of speech are

metaphor run mad, and his grammar is often none at all. Yet there are as

fine individual passages to be found in the poems of Dr. Chivers, as in

those of any poet whatsoever.

His MS. resembles that of P. P. Cooke very nearly, and in poetical

character the two gentlemen are closely akin. Mr. Cooke is, by much, the

more _correct_; while Dr. Chivers is sometimes the more poetic. Mr. C.

always sustains himself; Dr. C. never.

[Illustration: signature of Joseph Story]

Judge Story, and his various literary and political labors, are too well

know to require comment.

His chirography is a noble one—bold, clear, massive, and deliberate,

betokening in the most unequivocal manner all the characteristics of his

intellect. The plain unornamented style of his compositions is impressed

with accuracy upon his hand-writing, the whole air of which is well

conveyed in the signature.

[Illustration: signature of J. Frost]

John Frost, Esq., Professor of Belles Lettres in the High School of

Philadelphia, and at present editor of “The Young People’s Book,” has

distinguished himself by numerous literary compositions for the

periodicals of the day, and by a great number of published works which

come under the head of the _utile_ rather than of the _dulce_—at least

in the estimation of the young. He is a gentleman of fine taste, sound

scholarship, and great general ability.

His chirography denotes his mental idiosyncrasy with great precision.

Its careful neatness, legibility and finish, are but a part of that turn

of mind which leads him so frequently into compilation. The signature

here given is more diminutive than usual.

[Illustration: signature of James F. Otis.]

Mr. J. F. Otis is well known as a writer for the Magazines; and has, at

various times, been connected with many of the leading newspapers of the

day—especially with those in New York and Washington. His prose and

poetry are equally good; but he writes too much and too hurriedly to

write invariably well. His taste is fine, and his judgment in literary

matters is to be depended upon at all times when not interfered with by

his personal antipathies or predilections.

His chirography is exceedingly illegible and, like his style, has every

possible fault except that of the common-place.

[Illustration: signature of J. N. Reynolds]

Mr. Reynolds occupied at one time a distinguished position in the eye of

the public, on account of his great and laudable exertions to get up the

American South Polar expedition, from a personal participation in which

he was most shamefully excluded. He has written much and well. Among

other works, the public are indebted to him for a graphic account of the

noted voyage of the frigate Potomac to Madagascar.

His MS. is an ordinary clerk’s hand, giving no indication of character.

[Illustration: signature of William Cutter]

Mr. William Cutter, a young merchant of Portland, Maine, although not

very generally known as a poet beyond his immediate neighborhood, (or at

least out of the Eastern States) has given to the world numerous

compositions which prove him to be possessed of the true fire. He is,

moreover, a fine scholar, and a prose writer of distinguished merit.

His chirography is very similar to that of Count Tasistro, and the two

gentlemen resemble each other very peculiarly in their literary

character.

[Illustration: signature of David Paul Brown]

David Paul Brown, Esq., is scarcely more distinguished in his legal

capacity than by his literary compositions. As a dramatic writer he has

met with much success. His “Sertorius” has been particularly well

received both upon the stage and in the closet. His fugitive

productions, both in prose and verse, have also been numerous,

diversified, and excellent.

His chirography has no doubt been strongly modified by the circumstances

of his position. No one can expect a lawyer in full practice to give in

his MS. any true indication of his intellect or character.

[Illustration: signature of E. C. Stedman]

Mrs. E. Clementine Stedman has lately attracted much attention by the

delicacy and grace of her poetical compositions, as well as by the

piquancy and spirit of her prose. For some months past we have been

proud to rank her among the best of the contributors to “Graham’s

Magazine.”

Her chirography differs as materially from that of her sex in general as

does her literary manner from the usual namby-pamby of our

blue-stockings. It is, indeed, a beautiful MS., very closely resembling

that of Professor Longfellow, but somewhat more diminutive, and far more

full of grace.

[Illustration: signature of John G Whittier]

J. Greenleaf Whittier, is placed by his particular admirers in the very

front rank of American poets. We are not disposed, however, to agree

with their decision in every respect. Mr. Whittier is a fine versifier,

so far as strength is regarded independently of modulation. His

subjects, too, are usually chosen with the view of affording scope to a

certain _vivida vis_ of expression which seems to be his forte; but in

taste, and especially in _imagination_, which Coleridge has justly

styled the _soul_ of all poetry, he is even remarkably deficient. His

themes are _never_ to our liking.

His chirography is an ordinary clerk’s hand, affording little indication

of character.

[Illustration: signature of Ann S Stephens]

Mrs. Ann S. Stephens was at one period the editor of the “Portland

Magazine,” a periodical of which we have not heard for some time, and

which, we presume, has been discontinued. More lately her name has been

placed upon the title page of “The Lady’s Companion” of New York, as one

of the conductors of that journal—to which she has contributed many

articles of merit and popularity. She has also written much and well,

for various other periodicals, and will, hereafter, enrich this magazine

with her compositions, and act as one of its editors.

Her MS. is a very excellent one, and differs from that of her sex in

general, by an air of more than usual force and freedom.

* * * * *

THE SWEET SOUTH WIND.

BY LYDIA JANE PIERSON.

Hark, ’tis the sweet south wind!

How soft its dewy fingers touch the keys

Which thrill such melting music through the mind,

Even the green leaves of the forest trees.

There is a witchery

In the soft music, like the voice of love;

Now gushing o’er the soul deliciously,

Then sighing a rich cadence through the grove.

It seemeth to mine ear

The rustling of some holy creature’s wing,

Sent from some passionless and sinless sphere,

Unction of peace unto the soul to bring.

My temples feel its pow’r,

Cooling and soothing every throbbing vein;

My spirit lifts its weary wings once more,

And bursts the strong clasps of care’s sordid chain,

And floats all calm and free,

Blent with the music of the bending wood,

Fill’d with the light of immortality,

Even the presence of the Living God.

Nature is full of Him,

And every willing spirit feels his pow’r;

Even as this south wind fills the forest dim,

And bends with its rich weight each lowly flow’r.

Oh, may death come to me

On the soft breath of such a night as this;

To lift the thin veil of mortality,

And let me bathe at once in perfect bliss.

* * * * *

MISFORTUNES OF A TIMID GENTLEMAN.

BY J. ROSS BROWNE.

[Continued from Page 123.[2]]

Book II.

Being now somewhat advanced in life, I can look back on the past with

that degree of calmness and self-complacency so delightful to age. I

cannot think, with Miss Landon, that a person regards the follies of his

youth with more severity himself than others regard them. Indeed I feel

disposed to believe that those very follies form the chief charm of our

early days; and, as for myself, I can hardly regret that I was not born

a Nestor. So much by way of preface to my Second Book.

The reader who has been kind enough to follow me thus far in the history

of my youth, will recollect that I introduced him to a social circle at

Mrs. Melville’s, one evening in the early part of summer.

Mr. Martagon, the gentleman with the large shoulders, was seated in an

arm-chair, admirably adapted to his proportions. Mr. Pratt was looking

unutterable things at Miss Azile, who, on the present occasion, was

exceedingly unmerciful on love-stricken swains. Miss Emily Melville was

warbling a soft enchanting air, which she accompanied with the guitar;

and Mr. Desmond was wrapt in pleasing thoughts, the consequence thereof.

Mr. Martagon being an ancient admirer of Miss Virginia Melville,

enlisted her attention by a very judicious discourse on the evils of

matrimony; which, of course, induced me to be very busily engaged at

nothing particular.

When the music had ceased, the conversation gradually became general.

Poetry was discussed—fiction voted a great evil—superstition allowed

to be a universal failing—and Sir Walter Scott pronounced the king of

ghost-makers; which latter allusion led to a very edifying description

of the person and character of a certain ghost seen by each individual

present.

Mr. Martagon, who had seen an unusual and pleasing variety of ghosts,

recollected an uncommonly peculiar one which appeared to him during a

twilight ramble in the woods.

This reminded Mr. Pratt of an extraordinary vision which he had once

witnessed in the form of a hog; which prompted Mr. Desmond to relate an

amusing anecdote of his experience in things supernatural.

Various ghost-stories were related by the company, till, by one of those

unaccountable changes which so frequently occur in a lively circle, the

conversation turned to love and courtship. This was a subject upon which

I was very sensitive.

Miss Azile, the satirical young lady, was of opinion that all such

things are highly ridiculous, and much to be regretted; in which opinion

the fair portion of the company generally coincided. The reader who has

read the anecdote of the Persian over whose head a sword was suspended

by a thread, can imagine my anxiety to ascertain the opinion of the

person in whom I was most interested. I did not long remain in

suspense—“She considered it unnatural and improper for a young lady to

love;” which assertion was accompanied by a very significant look at

myself. The philosophy of indifference had ever been my most difficult

study. I could not persuade myself that I was prepared for

disappointment; and, in fact, my hopes were too sanguine to allow for

many thoughts of a gloomy character. All was over now, however; and as I

hurried away as miserable as Jacques, I thought there was a very pretty

end to my day-dreams and night-visions. Byron’s reproach occurred to me

with all its bitterness—

“Once I beheld a splendid dream—

A visionary scene of bliss;

Truth, wherefore did thy hated beam

Awake me to a world like this?”

Thus ended my first misfortunes, which, being the most serious, I have

dwelt upon at some length. I now turn with a lighter heart to my

subsequent career. To avoid all such affairs in future, I resolved to

visit Texas, where, I was informed, women were uncommonly scarce. This

great inducement balanced all the disadvantages of climate and warfare.

I never wished to look upon a bright eye or a dimpled cheek again.

Texas, therefore, was my destination.

A few months calmed the turbulence of my mind; and I believed I was now

forever qualified to withstand the charms of woman, and exempt from the

troubles of the heart. Experience had taught me that everything is not

gold which glitters. I had also learned to doubt the lauded constancy of

the opposite sex, in that tender passion to which I was so susceptible.

Indeed I had good reason to believe that caprice and fickleness of heart

were their ruling traits; and I fully determined to avoid, in future,

building my hopes of happiness on such baseless foundations. So far I

acted with prudence; and I felt very well satisfied with my embryo

philosophy. During my tour, however, an incident occurred that greatly

altered my opinions on this subject. It effected a wonderful change,

too, in my estimation of woman’s constancy.

I had stopped to spend a few days in the city of T——. There was

nothing about this place, but its picturesque situation, worthy of a

traveller’s attention. I soon became satiated with the beauties of the

surrounding scenery; and as the accommodations of the hotel were very

limited, I determined to pursue my journey by the first means of

conveyance. To my chagrin I learned that several days would elapse

before I could find a stage for my place of destination. What to do with

myself in the meantime, I could scarcely divine. Society had lost its

charm; public amusements had become nauseous and uninteresting; and I

was heartily tired of rambling about, without a congenial friend to

commune with, or admire what I admired. In this dilemma I chanced to

find, on ransacking my apartment, a neatly bound novel—the “Pilgrims of

the Rhine.” I had read this beautiful romance, with great delight, some

years previously; but I discovered, on opening the present volume, that

there were criticisms and observations on the margin, which offered some

room for studying the mind and character of one of its readers; and I

was induced to peruse it again. The pencilings were in the delicate hand

of a female. Passages, which, for their beauty of diction and refined

sentiment, I recollected having greatly admired, were carefully marked;

and in many instances they elicited acute observations, and eloquent

eulogies from the fair reader. As I progressed, I became as much

interested in these comments, as I had formerly been in the work itself.

They evinced at once a highly cultivated imagination—a depth and

tenderness of feeling—and a visionary turn of mind, extremely

captivating to a young reader. That sympathy, which the author of

Hyperion so eloquently remarks is requisite for the appreciation of

genius, seemed characteristic of the fair unknown. The gradual

development of her history, as gleaned from these scattered thoughts and

opinions, and the general tenor of her mind, interested me far more than

I was disposed to admit, even to myself. That I may not be deemed

unnaturally visionary, or sentimental, I shall quote a few passages,

which, though taken at random, may serve to show the source from which I

drew my deductions. The delicate hand of the commentator had slightly

touched the following:

“Her youth was filled with hope, and many colored dreams; she loved, and

the hues of morning slept upon the yet disenchanted earth. The heavens

to her were not as the common sky; the wave had its peculiar music to

her ear, and the rustling leaves a pleasantness that none, whose heart

is not bathed in the love and sense of beauty, could discern.”

From the remarks that were attached to this, I pictured the sympathising

reader, who so feelingly dwelt upon it, as one, beautiful like Gertrude,

and constituted to love with the same fervency and devotion. She was

evidently young—her thoughts were tender—her sentiments lively and

refined. That she was beautiful, my fancy did not permit me to doubt.

The next passage left rather a disagreeable impression:

“I look upon the world, and see all that is fair and good; I look upon

_you_, and see all that I can venerate and adore.”

She doubtless intended this quotation for one she loved. I began to

experience all the pangs of jealousy; for well convinced that she was

beautiful, young, and gifted, I did not conceive it improbable that I

might have a rival, whose precedence in her affections could not but

materially affect my chances of success, should I ever be fortunate

enough to find her. As soon as I became sufficiently calm, I pursued my

task. The concluding pages were evidently stained with tears. This

greatly excited my curiosity; but I fancied her grief was attributable

to the recollection of some misfortune conjured up by an allusion to the

grave:

“The chords of thought, vibrating to the subtlest emotions, may be

changed by a single incident, or in a single hour; a sound of sacred

music, a green and quiet burial place, may convert the form of death

into the aspect of an angel. And, therefore, wisely, and with a

beautiful love, did the Greeks strip the grave of its unreal gloom;

wisely did they body forth the great principle of rest, and by solemn

and lovely images—unconscious of the northern madness that made a

spectre of repose!”

Here was all I could require. Her lover had died in all the promise of

genius and beauty. His death was simply and solemnly commemorated by a

quiet burial in some sylvan solitude. The allusion, in the passage

quoted, had revived all the poignancy of his loss, and her tears were

evidences of the purity and sincerity of her affection. Although there

now appeared no rival to fear, I was aware that love survives death; but

as I never had much confidence in woman’s constancy, this did not alarm

me.

Forgetting my past experience and my vows of celibacy, I devoted myself

immediately to this new chimera. On the title page of the book, which

had caused such wild fantasies, I perceived the initials—“E. S. C——.”

On examining the page more minutely, I found written in various places,

“Emma,” which I knew must be the name for one of the initials. All

further search proved vain; and I resolved to examine the “traveller’s

register” in hope of procuring more exact information. About a month

back, were written in a bold, free hand, the names of Col. Robert St.

Clair and Sister—at least the surname of Miss St. Clair, and the name

in full of her military brother. My next care was to find out their

destination. With surprise and gratification, I perceived that it was

precisely where I was journeying myself. My plan for an introduction was

quickly made up. I would call on Miss St. Clair and restore her the lost

book. My remarks on her criticisms would of course be flattering; and

she could not avoid entering into a conversation. Common politeness

would induce her to ask me to call again. Thus clear seemed the road to

happiness! Let me now pursue it.

Nothing of interest occurred on my journey to P——. Immediately after

my arrival I made inquiries for Colonel St. Clair. There was little

difficulty in finding his residence. The purport of my mission induced

me to devote more than usual care to my toilet; and as I knocked at the

polished and brass-mounted door of Colonel St. Clair’s house, the

reflection therefrom satisfied me that I was a very passable personage.

I was ushered into the drawing-room. “The Colonel was not at home; but

the white lady would be down directly”—so the servant informed me,

grinning admiration from ear to ear. Who the “white lady” was, I could

not imagine; but her appearance dissipated all suspicion that it might

be Miss St. Clair herself. She was apparently a lady of forty, much worn

and faded by the cares of life. Her countenance was emaciated and

melancholy; but her eyes were still bright and expressive; and her

features were not uninteresting. She might once have been beautiful. Her

form, though somewhat ghastly, was still symmetrical; and her quiet

address and dignified manners proved that she had moved in the best

society. After a few preliminary remarks, I entered on the subject which

was nearest my heart:

“You will pardon my curiosity, madam, when I tell you I have a

particular reason for inquiring if there is a young lady in this house,

who is very fond of reading? I am uncertain about her name, but I shall

give you a brief description, which will enable you to judge whether I

am right in my conjectures respecting her identity. She is, I presume,

about eighteen; and in rather a delicate state of health, I should

imagine, though I will not be certain as to that. She has lately lost a

friend, dearer to her than life, and I am led to believe his death

occasions her the most poignant grief. I will not say she was betrothed

to him. It is not, however, improbable that she was. I have no very

exact recollection of her features; but I can give you an idea of her

mental traits. She is highly imaginative; and takes great delight in

elegant works of fiction. Her taste is remarkably good; and I believe

she has written a great deal—probably contributed to the periodicals of

the day. On so slight an acquaintance, madam, I feel a delicacy in

declaring my motives for the minuteness of my inquiries; but you cannot

avoid perceiving that I feel singularly interested in the history and

identity of the young lady to whom I allude.”

“Really, sir,” she replied, with a lurking smile, “I can scarcely divine

what you are seeking for. However, I am only sorry you have mistaken the

place. There is no young lady here, such as you describe. In fact I am

the only female belonging to the house; and I can hardly conceive how

you were misled.”

“Then,” I observed with a fallen countenance, “_you_ are Miss Emma St.

Clair?”

“That is my name, sir.”

It was evident, now, that I had been laboring under a very serious

mistake. My situation was really embarrassing. It was not at all

unlikely that the elderly spinster would consider me out of my senses,

if I openly avowed the error my imagination had caused me to make. I

therefore feigned as creditable a story as the existing circumstances

would permit; and in conclusion, asked Miss St. Clair if she had lost a

volume containing Bulwer’s romance of the Rhine, during her sojourn at

T——?

“I believe,” she replied, blushing slightly, “my carelessness caused me

to mislay a copy of that work. I regret the loss, not for its value, but

simply because there were some pencillings in it which I did not wish to

be perused.”

I then produced the book, and confessed having read it and the comments

with great delight. This led to a general discussion on the subject of

fictitious literature, in which I discovered Miss St. Clair was deeply

versed; nor did the discernment and susceptibility evinced in her random

pencillings, mislead me as to the character of her mind. The result of

my visit was an invitation to call again. I did not neglect the

opportunity thus afforded, of cultivating the acquaintance of the

accomplished spinster.

In due time I learned many circumstances of her early history. At the

age of eighteen, she had plighted her faith to a young officer in the

navy. Before arrangements could be effected for their marriage, he was

compelled to depart on an expedition to the South Seas. For nearly two

years, Emma St. Clair received occasional letters—all evincing

unchangeable love in her betrothed. After this period he ceased to

correspond. The agony of separation was enhanced by doubts as to his

fate. In a state of mind bordering on distraction, she passed many a

weary year. Time at length soothed her sorrow; but her love was the

true—unchangeable love of woman, and the wounds of a bleeding heart

were never closed. Various offers of marriage were rejected—she could

never love again.

This affecting little sketch brought tears to the eyes of the narrator.

She proved to me, in her melancholy history, that the female heart is

not fickle when it truly loves, and that the constancy of woman “passeth

all understanding.”

No alternative was now left me, but to continue my travels. Having taken

a place in the stage for W——, I set out on my journey, consoling

myself with the reflection that I was destined to be miserable all the

days of my life. My attention, however, was diverted from this gloomy

presentiment, by a young lady of seventeen, who was returning from a

boarding-school in the city, to her parental domicil at W——, and who

unfortunately chanced to be the only passenger beside myself. Taking the

liberty of a fellow traveller, I addressed her with becoming gallantry.

“You are travelling to W——?” I said.

“Yes, sir,” she blushingly replied.

“Have you ever been there?”

“Yes—my parents reside in W——.”

“Indeed!—you have been on a visit, then, to P——?”

“No sir—I have been to school; and I am going home to spend the

vacation. Pa would have come for me, but he could not spare time.”

“Oh,” said I, “you will not be unprotected. Fortunately I am going to

W—— myself.”

“But Pa says I mustn’t talk to strangers.”

“Ah, your Pa is—an old gentleman! My name is Weston—Harry Weston, so I

hope I am no longer a stranger.”

“Indeed—I don’t know sir; I never heard of you before.”

This was very candid, and very discreet. I remained silent; and my fair

companion seemed to be deeply engaged in perusing a little work which

she drew from her reticule.

“What may that be?” I at length ventured to inquire, although I was

pretty well convinced it was the ‘Young lady’s Amaranth,’ or a Pocket

Lacon, containing ‘Good Advice in small Parcels.’

“This book, sir?”

“Yes.”

“A hymn-book, I think—that is, it _is_ a hymn-book, which Mrs.

Wriggleton told me to read on the way.”

“Mrs. Wriggleton is a very accomplished lady,” I observed. By the by, I

had never heard of her before.

“You know her then!” cried my fair young traveller.

“Yes—I am slightly acquainted.”

“Well,—I _think_ I heard her mention your name!”

“Very probably. Yours is Miss Fanny Cullobe.”

“No. Mine is Corinna Wilton.”

As the reader may presume, I had never heard of either names;

nevertheless, I did not like to appear ignorant. In Miss Corinna, I

discovered a transient acquaintance, to whom I had been introduced at a

ball; which reminded Miss Corinna that she had an indistinct

recollection of my features. Not aware that I had made a vow to remain

invincible forever more, she laid siege to my heart during the greater

part of the journey. We soon became quite familiar. I perceived that my

fair acquaintance was quite sprightly and talkative; and did not venture

to remind her of her Pa’s injunction. Eventually she handed me her

hymn-book, with the following passage marked for my perusal:—

“Thine, wholly thine alone, I am,

Be thou alone my constant flame!”

Fancying this was a piece of premeditated coquetry, I laughed, and

acknowledged the compliment. My Dulcinea, however, encouraged by the

reception of her first advance, next pointed out, with an almost

irresistible smile, the verse commencing—

“Pleasure, and wealth, and praise, no more

Shall lead my captive soul astray;”

which somewhat alarmed me; but I read on—

“My fond pursuits I all give o’er

Thee, only thee resolved to obey;

My own in all things to resign,

And know no other will but thine.”

Not a little astonished, I looked up in the countenance of the besieger.

She was pretty, and sprightly too; but now all mirth had fled, and I

fancied a bright tear glittered in her eye. At all events she seemed a

good deal agitated. I scarcely knew what to say. I was becoming

incredibly nervous. At this moment, fate for once befriended me. We were

in W——. The stage had stopped; and I stepped out to aid Corinna in a

similar process. As I took her hand, I perceived that she trembled. The

spirit of mischief induced me to ask her how she had enjoyed her

journey.

She answered—“I shall never forget it!”

“Why?” I very innocently asked.

There was an embarrassing pause. She looked at me, and sighed, and I

repeated the question.

“How can I forget it,” she replied, “when it has caused me to meet one

whom I shall never forget?”

This alarmed me considerably; but I could only look sentimental, and

give her a parting squeeze. Before our final farewell, however, she gave

me an invitation to pay her a visit, which I had not the firmness to

resist.

During my rambles round the village for the next few days, I learned

that the Wiltons were a highly respectable family of great wealth, and

that Corinna was an heiress, who had never made her appearance in the

matrimonial market. Though I had not the least intention of taking

advantage of my conquest, I considered myself bound in common

politeness, to pay her the promised visit. After some little attention

to my toilet, I set out for the residence of Mr. Wilton. This personage

had formerly been an officer in the Navy; and I was not surprised to

find that he was precisely such a bluff, hale-looking old gentleman, as

my fancy led me to picture him.

“Sir,” said he, when Corinna had formally introduced me, “I consider you

a great young rascal!”

Thunderstruck at such a reception, I answered—“May I ask, what induces

you to form such an opinion of me?”

“Damme!” cried the old gentleman, “but you _are_ an impudent dog!

Haven’t you stolen my daughter’s heart, without leave or license? But I

forgive you, sir, for I was just such a young scoundrel at your age.

Didn’t I run away with your mother, Corinna, before I was eighteen? Ah,”

continued the ex-officer, “that was a rare adventure! It was, you

scapegrace!—what are you gaping at?”

“Nothing,” I replied.

“You are an impudent dog, as I said before; but I’ll be square with you.

Corinna, you say he is of good family, and all that sort of flummery?”

“Oh, Pa!”

“Don’t _Pa_ me!—you are dead in love with him!”

“Indeed, Papa—”

“Hush! you hussey—don’t I know human nature? See here, younker, you can

take her; and it’s a d—d sight too good a bargain for you!”

“Really, sir,” I stammered, “she mistook my attentions. My sentiments

are entirely—”

“Sentiments, fudge!—none of this palaver! You want to make me believe

you’re the pink of modesty; but I’ve studied human nature. Here she is

with a fortune you’ll not find every day, and I know you love her—so no

more of your sentimental nonsense, but prepare to get spliced to-morrow.

I go in for doing things off-hand, as the skipper of the Long-Tom used

to say, when—”

“My dear, sir,” I interrupted; “this is altogether a misunderstanding.

It is utterly impossible for me to marry your daughter!”

“See here!” cried the venerable gentleman, in a great rage—“I told you

before that I wanted no more fandangling. Be off, sir! and let me see

that your rigging be in order, by to-morrow!—I’ve studied human nature,

sir!”

From the little experience I had in that line myself, I perceived that

argument or remonstrance would not avail; so I bowed myself very

politely out, resolved to leave W——, as soon as possible.

I could not think, however, of leaving Corinna to the desolation of

unrequited love, without a word of excuse or consolation. The result of

“mature consideration” on the subject was the following note:

B——’s Hotel, Tuesday Night,

_My dear Friend_:—Never till now did I really believe such

misery as I experience, could be mine. Truly I am the most

unhappy being on the face of the earth! Without the slightest

design on my part, it appears that I have won your

affections—at a time too, when it is utterly impossible I can

requite them. Your father’s precipitancy prevented an

explanation that might have saved you the mortification of a

written avowal respecting my sentiments; but I assure you,

however desirous I am that you should be as happy as you desire

to be, I cannot love you. The contemplated union can never be.

Truly grateful for your good opinion of me, and for the honor of

the intended alliance,

I remain, if you permit me,

Ever sincerely your friend,

Henry Weston.

To Miss Corinna Wilton.

At four o’clock in the morning, I was in the stage, on my way to the

nearest seaport town. I had made up my mind to embark for Europe. The

packet ship A—— was ready to start, and awaited only a fair wind. I

engaged a passage for Bordeaux; and the delay being transient, I was

soon beyond the reach of Captain Wilton, and the wiles of Corinna.

But alas! what hope is there for the unfortunate? I discovered to my

sorrow that new troubles awaited me. As I sat one evening on the

bulwark, brooding over my past career, a female voice of exquisite

pathos, accompanied by the guitar delicately and tastefully touched,

ascended from the ladies’ cabin. I fancied there was something heavenly

in the soft, melancholy strain that was wafted from the lips of the

songstress. The words were beautiful and touching, and entirely in

unison with my feelings. Under any circumstances, the performance would

not have appeared commonplace; but at a moment like this, sounds which

alone were the soul and essence of poetry, borne to my ear so softly, so

unexpectedly, entranced my senses, till I voluntarily exclaimed—

“Can any mortal mixture of earth’s mould

Breathe such divine, enchanting ravishment?

Sure something holy lodges in that breast

That with these raptures moves the vocal air!”

Not a breath ruffled the calm, swelling ocean. The rays of a departing

sun gilded every object around me, with a mellow lustre. A scene of such

expanse and grandeur completed the effect which the music had wrought

upon me; and I was overpowered with the tenderest emotions. Visions of

Home and its happy associations, came upon me in rapid succession. But

these “thick-coming fantasies” were verging me towards the melting mood.

To hide my weakness, I entered into a sociable dialogue with one of my

fellow passengers.

“Yes—a very delightful voice,” he observed in answer to an observation

of mine.

“Is she ill?—I have not seen her at the dining table,” said I; for I

felt more than ordinary interest in her.

“Delicate, I presume, she prefers the solitude of her cabin.”

“Ah, yes: her voice indicates a pensive disposition.”

“Just hers, exactly, sir.”

“Then you are acquainted with her?” I observed.

“I ought to be,” said my travelling acquaintance.

“Is she young?”

“Yes—about nineteen.”

“And pretty?”

“Beautiful, _I_ think.”

Now I really began to imagine I was deeply in love. This unknown

songstress had created strange sensations in me. I had some thoughts of

asking an introduction; but my acquaintance was almost too slight with

my new friend. After a moment’s thought, I observed—

“I should like to know her.”

“Would you? I shall introduce you, sir, with pleasure,” was the generous

reply.

“In fact,” I whispered, drawing my quondam acquaintance aside, “to tell

you the truth, I am very much in love with her!”

“The devil you are!” cried he, with a hearty laugh.

“Yes—I fancy she is a most fascinating woman.”

“Ah, you may say that,” replied Mr. Templeton, whose name I discovered

on the corner of his pocket handkerchief.

“Shall we go down now?” said I, for I was very anxious to see her.

“Just as you please;” and we were soon in the presence of the fair

unknown. She was quite as beautiful as I expected. Mr. Templeton having

learned my name, presented me with due ceremony—“Mr. Weston, I’ll

introduce you to my wife. Mrs. Templeton, allow me to introduce to you

Mr. Weston.”

I was thunderstruck! Mr. Templeton enjoyed a hearty laugh at my

confusion; but I was too cruelly disappointed to join in it. Making the

best apology in my power, I hurried upon deck to conceal my chagrin. It

is needless to add that during the rest of the voyage I kept aloof from

all company—especially that of the fascinating Mrs. Templeton.

I shall not dwell upon my tour through Europe. I spent the winter in

France; and proceeded thence through Spain to Italy. Nearly a year was

devoted to this part of my continental ramble. After my visit to Italy I

embarked for England, whence I proceeded to the highlands of Scotland. I

spent an adventurous season here; and set sail for America. Three years

of my early life thus glided away. On my journey home, I passed through

W——. Captain Wilton, I learned, had died about a year previously, of

an apoplectic stroke. Corinna had married a country merchant, a month

after my departure. Her fortune was only nominal; the Captain having

deeply involved himself in debt; but she made amends to her disappointed

spouse by presenting him, a few months after their marriage, with a fine

pair of twins. So much for the charms of lucre!

My old friend Desmond informed me of various changes which had taken

place during my absence. I shall only allude to one or two, in which the

reader may feel an interest.

Mr. Martagon, the poet, won the heart of a Southern lady, rich,

accomplished and beautiful. The natural result was marriage; although,

in extenuation, he wrote a poem, in the style of Ovid, showing that such

a course was necessary at a certain period of life.

Miss Emily Melville became a nun; and enjoyed thenceforth the quiet

charms of a life of peace and devotion.

“——Waking as in sleep,

She seemed but now a lovely dream;

A star that trembled o’er the deep,

Then turned from earth its tender beam.”

My early flame, Miss Virginia Melville, at length found one whose

talents she admired—whose virtues and personal gifts won her affection.

She discovered that love, with all its follies, is neither unnatural or

improper; and in yielding her hand to the possessor of her heart, found

that the greatest source of happiness, in this life, is the pure and

sacred affection of two devoted souls.

And now, kind reader, a word more and we are done. Impressed with the

belief that a faint heart never would procure me a wife, I managed to

get rid of my timidity as age progressed; and popped the question at

various times. But, alas! some objected that my hair was getting

gray—others that my complexion was too dark—and one cruel little

beauty told me I looked better as a bachelor, than I would as a husband.

So here I am, verging to a very uncertain age, with every prospect of a

life of single blessedness. I can only say to those of my fair readers,

who are opposed to bachelorship, that I am not in fault; and that it is

in their power to remedy the evil by addressing me a word of hope.

To all who have found anything amusing or interesting in these memoirs

thus far, I beg leave to remark that when I am snugly settled, enjoying

the sweets of matrimony, I shall present them with the third and last

book, of the Misfortunes of a Timid Gentleman.

-----

[2] See September Number.

* * * * *

THE LYRE BIRD.

BY N. C. BROOKS.

The _Menura Superba_, a species of the Bird of Paradise, is also

called the Lyre Bird, from the perfect resemblance of the tail

to an ancient lyre. Its powers of song are very great. It

commences singing in the morning, and gradually ascends some

eminence as it sings.—_Shaw’s Zoology._

Bird of the forest, thy form is fair

As a summer cloud on the evening air,

And the golden plumage upon thee lies

In tintings rich as a rainbow’s dyes;

Yet fairer wert thou when thy form, at first

From the hands of God like a sunbeam burst,

When the velvet shades of the forest glooms

Were lit with the light of thy golden plumes,

And angel eyes as they passed were turned

To the place where thy plumy glory burned.

But Sin, that with curse upon all hath lain,

Has dimmed thy gloss with many a stain;

And the summer’s heat, and the winter’s storm

Have blighted and blasted thy early form.

Bird of the forest, thy song is sweet

As breezes that summer wavelets greet,

And thy liquid notes melt into one,

Like hearts of lovers in unison.

Yet sweeter far were thy tones that broke

The spell of silence when Eden woke,

And angel forms on their plumes delayed,

To list to thy notes ’mid the garden shade;

And, ceasing to sweep their chords of fire,

In wonder gazed on thy mimic lyre.

Since the eve when the stilly grove was stirred

By the voice of God in the garden heard,

And the cherubs waved the fiery sword

At Eden’s gate ’gainst its banished lord—

Since the brow of the guilty Earth was bent

’Neath the sentence of sin’s dread punishment,

A spell of woe on thy heart has lain,

Sorrow has saddened thy dulcet strain;

And the grief of the exile that pines alone

Is heard in the breathing of every tone.

Still pour thy song; and still mount higher

With the day-god. Bird of the plumy lyre!

And know as thou pourest thy saddened strain,

That the meek heart is purified by pain,

And at length will rest on a palmy shore,

Where grief and suffering are no more.

In that sweet land from all sorrow free,

There’s a place of bliss, lone bird, for thee;

With the beasts of the field and the birds of the shade,

Immortal as first when God had made.

There shall the strains of thy music flow

In a ceaseless stream, without note of woe;

And the gloss of thy pinions forever play

In the glorious beams of eternal day.

* * * * *

THE IDEAL.

GERMAN LITERATURE, AND A LOVE STORY.

BY C. G. FOSTER.

I perceive with regret that it has of late become fashionable among the

critics and mediocre authors, on both sides of the water, to decry

German literature. Having rifled the gems—and bright and precious are

they—the casket is now to be kicked aside as useless lumber. Even

Blackwood—so long an oracle almost of the literary world—even Kit

North himself, than whom a better man or truer poet never existed—has

turned cynic and snarler in his old age, and after having marched side

by side with Scott, Göethe, Byron, Coleridge, Schiller, Schlegel, and

Shelley, through the brightest era of literature that has dawned and

blazed upon the world since Johnson, has at last sunk to the level of a

literary parvenu, and laughs at German literature! _He_ should not have

done it! I tell you, Christopher, that the inspiration of a century was

concentrated in a few mighty brains, which, within the last century,

have returned to dust. For another hundred years to come, human

intellect will seldom rise above the mere practical concerns of

life—railroads, manufactures, and machinery. Practical science and

natural philosophy will progress; but not that sublime and immediate

gift of God, the embodying of the Ideal Perfect. The old world is

exhausted. Greece, and her mouldering monuments of classic beauty—Rome,

and her magnificent mementos of the shadowy past—Spain with her high

romance, and Asia with her gorgeous grandeur—who will venture again to

explore? Chateaubriand, Byron, De Stäel, Moore, Rogers—are not such

names barriers to frighten all aspirants? No—not till America—the new

world—becomes rich and settles herself down in quiet grandeur—not till

her thousand mountains, her mighty lakes, her stupendous cataracts, and

her boundless prairies, become invested with the magic of intellectual

association—not until history begins to lose itself in dreamy and

indistinct fable, to cast a vague interest over every charmed spot—will

the bright-winged Ideal rouse from her sleeping nest. She shrinks from

every thing practical, palpable, and common-place, as the rainbow loses

its hues as it approaches the earth.

Let us then cherish and protect the thoughts and aspirations which these

mighty minds have bequeathed us. Never did I think to find Wilson

depreciating German literature. He is old, and should almost fear that

posterity will retort upon him! A remnant of the old worshippers of the

Ideal yet remain, haunting the ploughed fields of modern improvement,

like the scattered and timid deer which are sometimes seen bounding

along the margin of civilization. Like the White Lady of Avenel, they

are year by year fading away—the golden zone which binds their misty

drapery is becoming smaller and smaller—the clack of the useful mill,

or the clashing of machinery, drowns their voices at their favorite

fountains; and they are forced to shut up the beautiful visions which

haunt their breasts, in the deep sources of emotion which glow and

bubble in silence.

The source of our most exquisite happiness is the cause of our keenest

sufferings. The constant and feverish search after perfection soon

disgusts the seeker. Expecting every thing for which the heart panteth,

we rush onward from disappointment to despair. Hope’s false mirror is

reversed; and pleasure appears as much diminished as it was before

enlarged.

He who is blest with an organization in which Ideality holds a

conspicuous place, will be sure to form a complete system of

metaphysics, graduated upon its impulses. If he be permitted to inhale

the odor of the German Ideology, or of Platonism in its sublime beauty,

he will thence be satisfied; and will yield up his own dreamings to the

more powerful enchantments which the beautiful dead have thrown around

him—for Ideality is the least conceited of the feelings. It is only

proud of its _capacity to enjoy_.

It was my fortune to be born and educated on the banks of the Hudson,

where the noble river makes a long sweep westward, affording now an

excellent landing for steamboats; but which, when I first snuffed up the

free mountain air, resounded to nought but the wild warbling of the

merry birds, or the occasional halloo of the far-off husbandman, as he

urged his reluctant plough through the rich soil. There is now a

nail-factory on the very spot where I used to stand, watching the

glorious sunrise as its golden light filtered through the trees which

crowned the eastern hill, and lit up the joyous brook which danced at my

feet—while I _felt_ that the broad and whirling river at my back, was

leaping and quivering in the gleam. Each tiny grot and harbor which my

young imagination erst peopled with denizens from the land of dreams,

now resounds to the uncouth “clink of hammers,” or the sacrilegious

wheezing of a steam-engine! When I last visited my native village—’tis

ten years ago—to seek once more the remembered haunts of childhood, I

found a railroad dépôt on the very spot where the church in which I was

christened once stood, and a cotton factory on my former bathing-ground

by the margin of my dear old lake.

Vexed and disappointed, I flung myself along an old heap of logs which

had escaped the demon of improvement, and were still in their old

position, crumbling quietly and decently to dust. Here I lay until the

sun clambered awkwardly down the western sky, and the shadows of evening

came out from their hiding places to meet the bat and owl, and hold

their nightly revels in the moonshine. Gradually I sunk into a new and

pleasing state of existence. I had been reading “Undine,” a literary gem

of so pure and perfect a form and structure, that the only wonder is how

it should have been created by the mere spontaneous working of the

imperfect human brain. It is now ten years since I read it—nor have I

presumed to look into a modern “translation,” of which I have heard—and

yet you shall see how well I remember it.

Undine is the favorite child of a water-goddess, and like all fairies

with whom I was ever acquainted, holds her ethereal attributes only at

the expense of her natural affections, and becomes mortal at the touch

of man. Well—her mother being an exception of a fairy woman, has no

small degree of _curiosity_ in her composition, and places this darling

daughter of hers under the protection of an old anchorite who lived in a

beautiful green island, all alone, as he thought; but he was mistaken,

as you shall see: for this very island was the most frequent haunt of

the fairies, gnomes, salamanders, and other such grave and respectable

people—a sort of coffee-house, in fact, where they met nightly to talk

over the politics of Elfinland, criticise the Queen’s last head-dress,

laugh at Puck’s latest epigram, toss off their bumper of “mountain dew,”

and stagger soberly to bed under the violet.

And so, in this wild, fragrant solitude—unknown to vulgar eyes and

therefore unsoiled and untrampled upon—grew up this flower in all the

luxuriant beauty of mortality, softened and spiritualized by her yet

immortal nature. And, as the grape is most luscious and tempting the

very moment ere it is tainted by the sun’s unhallowed kisses, and drops,

a disgusting thing, from the green and immortal vine, so she grew ripe

with loveliness and so intense in beauty, that, Narcissus like, she fell

enamored of her own sweet image, as it was reflected in the pure spring

sacred to the innate Ideal which bubbled within her own bosom. The old

hermit marked anxiously and tenderly the growth of his young charge: and

when, in the evening time—when the rose’s bosom swelled and panted

beneath the night wind’s passionate embrace—she came and kissed his

brow and nestled her beautiful curly head in his bosom, the old man was

wild with joy, and his heart beat again as it did in youth, like the

sleeping tide awakened to convulsions by the gentle moon.

But anon a brave and beautiful knight—whose ancestral castle still

frowns above the Rhine, parting reluctantly, like a decaying beauty, one

by one, year after year, with its fair proportions—came dashing through

the foam to our dainty islet. He had been hunting in the forest; and a

terrible storm coming up—no doubt set on foot by the mischievous

fairies, who, like all other supernatural beings, are accused of

frequently overturning the economy of a whole world to advance some

particular whim of their own—he rode wildly through the intricate

labyrinths of the woods for some hours to no purpose, and at length gave

up the reins to his noble steed, who bore him wherever he would: and,

landing on our beautiful island, the knight saw the twinkle of the

anchorite’s torch, which he had lighted to tell his rosary at the

midnight hour. The stranger was kindly welcomed, and the hermit’s homely

fare cheerfully set before him.

And now, out peeped Undine—the little rogue—from her fairy slumbers,

with her night-dress scarce hanging about her beautiful shoulders, and

her large eyes dazzling and sinking into shade like the opal. Such

visions may have broken upon Guido’s dreams, ere yet his hand had been

trained by art to grasp the impalpable lightning of his mind, and chain

it to the canvas. In vain the old man pleaded and expostulated—nay once

in an angry tone _commanded_ her to go back instantly. I wish you could

have seen her then. It was like the uncoiling of a beautiful snake,

disturbed in its playfulness by the rash intruder’s foot. With eye-balls

darting fire—throat swelling and falling with beautiful rage—and every

movement indicating the contortions of a fiend, who had in vain

endeavored to disguise himself in the robes of spiritual beauty—she

rudely pushed the old man aside, sprung lightly into the room, and

stood, in an attitude of wild and timid repose, directly in front of the

stranger knight.