CHAPTER III.

Have you ever, dear reader, journeyed in the hot sun-shine, your brain

literally broiling in the heat, and the dust driving, like a

sleet-storm, into your face, filling your eyes, ears and throat with

minute particles, which irritated you almost to phrenzy—and, when

almost ready to drop down dead with fatigue, thirst and despair,

suddenly seen, upon turning an abrupt angle in the path, a fair smiling

woodland lawn stretching before you, and a cool, limpid stream of water

gushing out from among the flowers, and a whole orchard of birds singing

gaily in the branches? So, after the dusty and perplexing toils of life,

return we to Undine and her strange fortunes.

Ah, she was a guilty thing—that beautiful and fairy girl! for what

right had she to sacrifice her celestial nature, and become a mere thing

of earth for worms to feed upon, just for a few mortal kisses? True,

true—but those kisses! oh, what rapture lies hidden in the spell of

that hour when the divine soul, with its cold immaculate brightness,

yields to the warmer thrillings of terrestrial love, and melts away in

ecstasy beneath the glance of passion-lighted eyes—the pressure of warm

sweet lips! Immortals live in a bright round of perpetual purity and

lustre. No o’erwrought heaving of the breast—no momentary thrilling of

agonising bliss—no melting climax of joy, concentrating in its burning

focus a whole life of hope and aspiration—repays the weary soul for all

her watchings. Undine had drunk of the intoxicating draught till her

lips grew to the goblet.

Ah, who can blame her? Who has not tasted moments of earthly bliss so

intense that were immortality’s brightest visions spread palpably before

him, he would spurn them all?

Soon after the knight left the little island, our good old hermit, upon

going to Undine’s apartment, as was his wont, saw her not. He searched

every where—the garden, the river bank, the thicket which surrounded

his little plantation, were all examined in vain. She had fled away upon

the wings of love, and, panting with toil and exhaustion, came at last

to her knight’s castle, and ran like lightning through the court. What

saw she? Lights were glancing in every niche,—loud and boisterous

noises of merriment and gaiety echoed through the passages—and, bracing

her little heart with the strength of despair, Undine rushed wildly to

the great saloon, and saw the knight—her own beloved—him for whose

love Heaven and its joys she had lightly thrown away—leading the pretty

blue-eyed German girl to the altar. The white-robed priest was

there—and, as he completed the ceremony, he raised his unconscious

hands and blessed them in the name of the virgin. And the harp and

tambour struck up their wild music—and away fled the bride and

bride-groom with the joyous throng of revellers to the dance.

Undine was not yet _all_ a woman. Revenge, as it were the dying spark of

her immortal nature, burst brightly up in her bosom; and, rushing wildly

out into the forest, she fell upon her knees and cried vehemently for

her mother. She was at her side, and gazing wistfully and fondly upon

her, ere the echoes had ceased whispering in the woods.

“Execute me this first and only prayer, dear, dear mother!” said

Undine—“and forever I release you from the charge of your most

miserable child!”

“What would you, sweet?”

“Strike _him_ dead!—aye! but wait——” and her eyes flashed and her

whole form seemed convulsed with demoniac passion—“wait till he enfolds

her to his heart, as he has done _me_ so often—and kisses her—hell and

furies! as he has kissed _me_ so many thousand times—_then_ strike him,

mother—let him wither in her arms, like a dead viper, until they shall

both sink in base, earthly corruption together. Mother! mother! grant me

this, as you love your child!”

On went the marriage feast—and never had Rhine’s blue waters wafted

gayer notes or wilder revelry than echoed from the old baronial castle,

where our young knight was immolating the beauteous dove that had

nestled in his bosom on the altar of worldly pride and miscalled duty.

But when the feast was over, and the bride was led blushing to her

chamber, a strange thrill shot through the bosom of the knight as he was

about to follow, and he almost staggered into the room. The bride,

frightened at his convulsive motions, ran and put her naked arms about

him, and he unconsciously leaned his head upon her bosom—when suddenly

a terrific burst of thunder shook the castle to its foundation, and the

face of the knight became livid and distorted—and, even as Undine had

prayed, he withered away ghastily in his bride’s arms, and they both

fell shrieking to the earth.

The morning sun rose clear and beautiful over the old ivy crowned

castle—but there were mourning and tears beneath that venerable roof;

and when the sun slanted across the sighing forest tops at evening, they

bore the young and noble knight to his peaceful home, and laid him to

rest among the flowers of the green valley—and when all had departed

with sorrowful footsteps from the spot, and the stealthy moon came with

her bright limbs scantily clad in gauzy clouds, to meet her lover on the

hill, she looked upon the celestial form of Undine, bending in sorrow

and repentance o’er her lover’s grave—and the dew and the star-light

mingling together, dissolved her frail and beautiful outline, until it

mixed with the invisible odors that played above the flowers—and the

next day there was bubbling a bright spring at the knight’s head, the

waters of which, diverging into two graceful channels, clasped like

loving arms the form of him Undine so fatally had loved.

And now, thou beautiful spirit, farewell forever! In thy companionship

have we found solace from the weight of mortality’s burthen—and while

sympathising with thy unhappy and yet blissful fate, have learned to

feel that to preserve an immortal nature, it is necessary to forget that

we have mortal passions.

* * * * *

LINES TO A PORTRAIT.

BY A. C. AINSWORTH.

It must be life which sits upon that brow

So calm—so full of mind’s nobility:

For I do gaze with homage even now,

As if _her_ living lustre beamed on me.

There sleep the folds of her unrivalled hair—

There bloom those lips whose charm no words may speak,

And her divinest smile, which mocks at care,

Blends sweetly with the tints which clothe her cheek.

Rich rooms were lighted, and I wandered long,

Seeking a solace with the fair and bright;

But ever, as I moved amid the throng,

Thy large eyes haunted with their gentle light.

Ev’n through my fevered sleep, in wildest dreams,

Those features all seem’d over me to brood:

Alas! when midnight fails to hide those gleams,

How vainly seeks the heart a solitude!

But _she_ was there—thy _living_ counterpart:

Why gaze on _thee_, when I might look on her?

Ah, often in this world, the mourning heart

Seeks least, thro’ _fear_, the things it would prefer!

For when unto my lip there rose the jest,

And I seemed coldest, to the throng around,

Then _most_ love burned within my wearied breast,

And strongest, with its chain, my heart was bound.

As o’er Italian seas the “Vesper Hymn”

Comes gently:—so her voice in music stole;

My tongue did falter, and mine eyes grew dim;

For fainting joy was throned within my soul.

I all forget the end; how we did part;

Or if she frowned on me—or if she smiled;

I slept with her bright image in my heart,

And the fair morning found me chained—beguiled!

* * * * *

LINES.

BY J. E. DOW.

Ask not for life, ’tis vain at best,

A period fraught with bitter woe,

A gaudy fiction when ’tis blest,

A constant struggle here below;

But Death! it bears the weary home,

Where sin and sorrow cannot come.

To die in youth, to ’scape the pain

That like a shadow marks our way,

To die, aye ’tis to live again

In brighter regions far away;

Where unknown glories ceaseless roll

Their floods of pleasure o’er the soul.

We weep above the early dead,

And crown the scanty grave with flowers;

We feel affliction when we tread

Amid the churchyard’s silent bowers:

But could we hear the spirits’ song

How blithely should we move along?

Free’d from the mockery of earth,

In the Almighty’s glory drest,

How mean appears their spot of birth?

How beautiful their place of rest?

Their voices ring ’mid angel choirs,

And love in sweetness tunes their lyres.

Then ask not life, but joy to know

That sinless they in heaven shall stand;

That death is not a cruel foe

To execute a wise command.

’Tis ours to ask, ’tis God’s to give.—

We live to die—and die to live.

* * * * *

THE RESCUE AT THE ELEVENTH HOUR.

BY J. MILTON SANDERS, AUTHOR OF “THE MIAMI VALLEY,” ETC.

I have a tale thou hast not dream’d—

If sooth—its truth must others rue.

Byron.

It was one of those lovely autumnal days of which we all often dream,

and so fondly wish to enjoy, when lying upon the bed of sickness; such a

day as we love to dwell upon in imagination, when we are closely housed

and sitting by a sparkling fire during the long freezing winter nights.

Well, it was such a day as this that my friend Ned K—— and I started

through the rich country which lies north of Dayton. The sun was just

rising, glorious and unobscured by cloud or mist, his early rays dancing

gaily upon the parti-colored foliage, like millions of those little

bright elfins which people the glowing imagination of the oriental

improvisitore.

Feeling the influence of the early morning air upon our spirits, we

pricked forward our steeds; and as the noble animals danced over the

earth, our hearts leaped to our lips, and we gave forth their joyousness

in the glowing language which the poets numbered before us.

We gazed up into the deep blue vault of heaven above us; we saw the moon

sailing along in cloudless majesty, and the stars peeping through their

lingering drapery of darkness, and we raised our voices, and in gladness

and lightness of heart, we shouted aloud. And the birds—those ceaseless

lutes of the summer morning air—warbled a response.

We soon became short of breath; our lungs had expanded too freely, and

our blood was too fiery after its slow and even circulation during the

lethargy of the late night—our spirits boiled over, and like everything

which boils over, they soon sank into a contrasting calmness, and we

discovered that we were riding side and side with all of the sedateness

of a Quaker preacher when he arrived in sight of the meeting house.

“How far does your old uncle reside from here?” I asked anxiously of my

friend Ned.

“Be patient, my good fellow, and we will soon get there.”

“I wish we were there now, I am so anxious to see the old hero. You say

he was an active participator in some of the principal incidents of our

revolution?”

“He was, and that old musket which I showed you yesterday, accompanied

him in many of his adventures. From the first bloodshed at Lexington

till the final capture at Yorktown, did that hero bare his breast to the

storm of the revolution. His blood has bathed the soil of many a

battle-field, and innumerable are the hair-breadth perils which he has

passed through. You are partial to these tales of perils, L——, and you

shall now be gratified to your heart’s content.”

My heart leaped with joy, and I began already to calculate the time and

expense which it would require to write a volume of his adventures; and

what edification it would be to the devourers of omnivorous literature.

“Is he a great talker?” I immediately asked, for, but a short time

previous I had made several trips to see pioneers solely for the purpose

of committing to paper their adventures; and others, after much trouble

I had reached their domicils, I found as uncommunicative as a Saracenic

mute.

“He loves to talk, and nothing pleases him more than to have such

patient and willing listeners as you are; with you he will talk from

morning till night.”

I rubbed my hands with delight; the volume which had danced before my

imagination for a few minutes past, now swelled in size from an octavo

to a folio; and my impatience to see the hero, almost became

insupportable.

“There is one failing which my old uncle has,” continued my friend, “and

that is, he possesses a very exuberant imagination.”

“So much the better,” I exclaimed, “then his recitation will not

continue on that dead level, which gives such prolixity to a narrative;

now and then a flight of the imagination adds a marvellous spice to such

things; a single narration, you know, only draws the picture and shades

it—it is left for imagination to paint it.”

“But you do not precisely understand me; I mean that my uncle—who is

getting old now, you know—is in the habit, if allowed to commence in

that way, to dwell for hours together upon the most marvellous

adventures, which he draws solely from imagination, and confounds with

his real ones; but leave this to me, and I will set him on the right

track; by the way, there is one incident connected with his very mutable

life which I must prevail upon him to relate; I call his imagined

adventures yarns—so let us ride forward, for yonder is the house.”

We dashed down the long lane—lined on each side with towering poplar

trees, whose pointed tops reached far above the surrounding trees—and

we soon stood at the door of the old soldier’s house.

We dismounted, and giving our horses to an attendant, we entered the

house, and the first person that we saw was the old veteran himself. He

hurried towards us—by aid of a stout cane—and bade us welcome.

Truly was the old man’s appearance equal to my ideal of him; his

form—though somewhat bent with age—had once, I could easily perceive,

been tall and sinewy; and his limbs still retained a degree of that

muscular power, which had so repeatedly contributed to bring him safe

from _melées_, where weaker men had perished. The old man’s hair was

white as the snow, and accumulating years had continued to thin it, till

only two small locks were left.

With sparkling eyes and animated features, the veteran grasped our

hands, and gave us a true soldier’s welcome; and then leading us to a

small room, he introduced us to his sister—a venerable and corpulent

matron of fifty—and then to what was still more pleasurable, a smoking

breakfast.

After partaking of as luxuriant a _déjeuner_ as ever caused an epicure’s

eyes to dance, we wandered around the farm—the old soldier limping

along with us—and after bestowing the necessary eulogiums upon the fine

appearance of his Berkshire pigs, his imported stallion, and his Durham

cattle, we returned to the house; and then partaking of a glass of cider

wine, (which excellent fluid needs but a high price to become as regal

as champaigne) we got the old man seated.

“This young friend of mine,” began my cautious companion, “is

passionately fond of revolutionary tales, and as he is now engaged in

writing sketches embodying all the adventures of the revolution,” here

Ned gave me a meaning look, “he wishes to hear a few of your adventures;

couldn’t you gratify him, uncle?”

The veteran propped his rheumatic leg upon a chair, and laid aside his

cane.

“Ha! he wishes to hear tales of the wars, does he? Well, then, ’spose I

tell him about the death of poor old Joshua Brews——”

“Oh, no, uncle! I think something less melancholy will please him.”

“I don’t like melancholy tales,” I said.

“Then, ’spose I tell him about the fight that Ben Bunker and me had——”

“That I _know_ wouldn’t please him,” and Ned quickly whispered in my ear

“a _yarn_.”

“Ah, I have it now; tell him about ‘The Rescue at the Eleventh Hour.’”

“I hate to tell that; my blood freezes whenever I think of it.”

“’Tis surprising,” thought I, “how compatible it is for old men to

delight in lies.”

“Which of the tales mentioned would you rather hear; we will leave the

decision to you, won’t we, uncle?”

“Certainly, my son; but recollect that the fight which Ben Bunker and me

had _is mighty_ entertaining.”

“I have no doubt of it, sir; still, as I have taken a fancy to ‘The

Rescue at the Eleventh Hour,’ you would oblige me by relating that.”

The old veteran bowed, swallowed a glass of wine, and commenced the

tale.

“The days of which I now speak, my son, were pregnant with perils. When

we retired to our beds at night, we knew not what the morning might

bring forth. We might hear of the death of a father, mother, or sister,

by the ruthless hand of a British forager, or equally sanguine tory. Or

else our ears would be greeted with the wail of some outcast, who had

travelled all night to flee the ravagers of his property. Every hour was

pregnant with news, either in favor or against the interests of our

country. The British, at the time of which I speak, were overrunning the

land, devastating the fairest farms, and murdering or making captive

their inhabitants.

“I was then young—but twenty years had passed over my head, and, of

course, I possessed all the sanguine nature of youth: added to which, my

soul was kindled to anger by the horrid accounts which reached us daily

of British brutality. My father, who had fought in the old French and

Indians wars, had taught me to despise oppression, but to worship

freedom.

“Early impressions seldom fade from the mind, but become more vivid with

the increase of our years, and so had the sentiments which my father had

taught me.

“The next farm to that of my father’s, belonged to Charles Worthington,

who had but one child, a daughter, about three years younger than I was.

Even yet, after a lapse of fifty years, the blood bounds through my

veins, and my heart heaves with an unusual emotion, as I think of that

fair girl. Ah, she was surpassing fair, but yet her beauty was rivalled

by her goodness of heart and her amiability. With a skin of the fairest

white, deep blue eyes, forehead high and expansive, and features

altogether classical, she was one whom any one could love; and, excuse

me, my son, for indulging in reflections which may be of no interest to

you, but these pictures, when they do arise in the memory, are still

intensely vivid, while their being so long ago enacted, gives each small

incident an interest with me, which to you may appear unworthy of a

single thought.

“Lucy Worthington and I met, and we _loved_, and it was that deep love

which casts its hue over all our future actions. It was the first

love—when those whirlwind passions of the mind are first awakened to

activity, and, like the sun rising over the landscape, throws its hues

upon every object, and tinges them of its own peculiar color.

“For months Lucy and I were almost inseparable companions—we consumed

the greater part of our days wandering in the fields and woods,

gathering flowers and listening to each other’s words; and my greatest

ambition was to please her, my only thoughts to elicit a smile of love

from her bright eye. Thus passed away the days till the destroyer came.

“It was a bright morning in summer. The sun had just risen, and I was

gazing upon its early rays, as they threw the shadows of the dancing

foliage through the window upon the opposite wall; when I heard a

distant crack of a gun, which was immediately followed by another, then

another, and then others, in such quick succession that I could not

count them.

“Suspecting that all was not right at our neighbor’s house, I sprang out

of bed, hurriedly drew on my clothes, and, without speaking to any of

our family, hastened over to Worthington’s. Before I reached the house I

saw a blue smoke hanging over it; but not a human being was to be met;

all was as lonely as a city of the dead. I leaped the fence and hurried

to the house, and, oh! what a scene was suddenly presented to my sight!

The father, the mother, and their only child, were stretched on the

floor and weltering in their blood. The parents were dead, but the

daughter—although evidently dying—still retained her speech and

consciousness.

“Language would convey but a very faint impression of the agony which

tortured my breast. I threw myself by her body and groaned aloud. It was

the first misery which I had ever experienced, and it came upon me as

the long accumulating avalanche upon the family of the mountaineer, and

I was suddenly and unexpectedly overwhelmed with misery; and in the

poignancy of the moment I cried like a child. But that poor

girl—although gradually dying—whispered hope into my ear, and pointing

to heaven, she bade me gaze there, where we would, ere long, meet to be

separated no more. And for the first time in my life, did I direct my

thoughts to the footstool of the everlasting throne, and addressed a

prayer to its King for the gentle soul which was about to be placed in

his hands.

“‘Charles,’ she exclaimed faintly, as she observed my agony, ‘I am

dying: let all this pass, for I forgive those who committed the deed, as

I hope to be forgiven myself in heaven. Do not seek to retaliate upon

those deluded soldiers, who know nothing but to obey the behests of

their king; why this useless grief? You see that I do not weep, although

the pale face of my poor old mother lies at my side,’ and she placed her

pale hand upon the rigid face of her parent, and, despite her efforts to

prevent it, a tear forced itself from under her eyelid, and rolled down

her cheek, as she gazed upon those dear features, now calmed in death.

“‘Charles, I am going—I forgive—forgive—’ and thus she expired. I

threw myself on her body and groaned aloud, but in a moment a thought

flashed through my mind, and immediately I was as calm as a statue. I

arose and then sinking on one knee, I swore a solemn oath, and I prayed

that the Dispenser of life might grant me mine together with health,

till I should have fulfilled that oath, and so long as life lasted, I

vowed to devote all my energies and means to its consummation; and then,

with a pale face but a calm brow, I hastened home. Knowing that those

who had committed this diabolical deed, would travel rapidly for fear of

that just retribution which they knew would follow them, I hurriedly

seized my rifle, and taking with me but a few bullets, I rapidly

followed the tracks of the murderers. I ran at my greatest speed during

the whole of that day. Their tracks led me into the depths of a thinly

settled country, but the soil being loose, I could trace the deep

impressions of their horses’ feet with the greatest ease. At dark I had

not overtaken them, but with all the indefatigableness of one seeking

revenge for a deadly and vital injury, I now groped my way over a rocky

country, often stooping to examine whether I was still on their tracks.

Finally the country became so rocky that I entirely lost all traces of

my victims, and with a brain burning from disappointed revenge, I

prepared to pass the night under a ledge of rocks which protruded in the

road.

“I had heard the name of the leader of this party, and although I could

not seek reparation at the present, yet I prepared to lie down with a

stern determination to follow him to the four corners of the earth

before I would forego the revenge I had in store for him. With a heart

aching with grief and disappointment, I prepared to throw myself upon my

flinty bed, when, casting my sight to the left, I observed a lurid hue

dwelling upon the tops of some tall trees below me, and plainly

indicating that a fire was burning beneath them. This fire might have

been kindled by the very person whom I sought. I immediately shouldered

my rifle, and, in my eagerness to reach the spot, nearly ran over the

brow of a high precipice, down which had I fallen, I would have been

dashed to atoms against the rocks below. Avoiding the impending danger

by deviating to the right, I reached the level country, where travelling

was comparatively easy, and started at a rapid gait for the distant

light.

“The country—now so thickly settled—was almost a wilderness, and still

abounded with wild and savage animals, which—as I was aware—seek their

prey by night. I observed the strictest caution, lest some lurking

panther should pounce upon me; and then, being necessitated to shoot it,

I would alarm my enemies. By the greatest exertion, I avoided one of

these animals, and in the course of several hours, I approached the

fire. The country was studded thickly with giant oaks, whose matted

branches and thick foliage cast a deep gloom beneath them; but from this

contrast the fire appeared more brilliant, and shot far out into the

surrounding darkness, a gleam of brightness.

“I neared the fire unobserved, but what were my sensations upon

perceiving arrayed around it the very persons I sought. For the first

time since morning, I felt a degree of hope swell my breast, as I gazed

upon the murderers of all I loved.

“Ten horses were hobbled close by me, and scenting me if they did not

see me, they snorted and gazed in the direction where I was hid, but

their masters were so busily engaged in conversing and boasting over

their day’s exploits, that they heard not these never-failing omens,

that danger was nigh.

“The spirit of revenge grew strong in me as I beheld those whom I had

labored all day to see; and that wish which troubled me now was, that I

had not brought along with me a party sufficiently formidable to have

taken them all prisoners, and thus revenge would be gratified by

piece-meal. I was not long in deciding what to do. Observing the officer

who commanded the party sitting among the rest, I singled him out as the

first victim to be offered upon the altar of my vengeance. I cautiously

cocked my gun, and taking a deliberate aim at his breast, I pulled the

trigger—but the sparks missed the pan, and the gun did not go off. The

men heard the noise, and several saw the sparks fly, and in a moment

every man was on his feet, and gazing intently at the spot where I

stood; but in a second of time I had re-cocked my gun, and taking

another aim, I fired. The officer sprang up, screamed, and fell upon his

face. With curses, several of the soldiers rushed forward towards the

spot where I lay, but with superior woodsmanship I evaded them and fled

into the depths of the woods, and taking a circuitous route, I came to

the fire again at the other side. Every man had left in pursuit of me

but two, who were busily stripping off the coat of the officer. I again

fired and one of the soldiers fell. With a yell and a fearful oath, I

was met as I turned to flee, by one of the soldiers who had been

pursuing me.

“I drew a knife, the soldier drew his bayonet, and we engaged in a

desperate encounter. Knowing that the noise we made would soon guide

others to the spot, and that I would assuredly be captured, I commenced

a retrograde movement for the purpose of effecting my escape, when I was

clinched by an iron hand from behind, and the person missing at the same

time a firm foot-hold, he fell to the earth, bearing me with him.

“Oh, how I struggled! how fearfully I wielded my knife! but it was not

that I feared dying—what was life to me then? It was that I feared

being foiled in my revenge, and with this fear uppermost in my mind, I

hurled my knife about me with giant energy; with the maddened and

thoughtless desperation of the panther, when she struggles for her

screaming young, did I battle for my revenge; but now they rushed up

upon every side—they threw themselves upon me—they bore me again to

the earth, but this time senseless, and when I became conscious, I was

lying on my back, and bound hands and feet.

“The soldier whom I had shot, died a few moments after receiving his

wound; but the officer still survived, although mortally wounded—the

ball having broke, in its course, the sternum and ribs, and passed

directly through his lungs.

“The soldiers soon gathered around the spot where I lay—their eyes

gleaming hate, and their rough features expressing all the atrocity of

their nature.

“‘Accursed Yankee!’ exclaimed one, ‘would to God you were possessed of

nine lives, that we might glut our hatred of you, by depriving you of

each by inches,’ and the monster ground his teeth, and kicked me with

such force as to nearly deprive me of breath.

“‘Depraved and blood-thirsty rebel!’ thundered another, ‘what fiend from

hell tempted you to this diabolical act?’

“‘The same fiend which tempted you to murder my family,’ I answered.

“Immediately the man’s gaze of hatred began to soften in its expression,

and my keen eyes detected a slight emotion dwelling, for an instant,

upon his features, as he turned to the first speaker and muttered:

“‘I told you not to commit that murderous deed; still you would persist,

and now you see how speedily retribution has winged its flight to you.

By heaven, this man has served you justly, and ought not to perish for

it.’

“‘No power save that of heaven can prevent his dying this day,’ muttered

the other through his clenched teeth.

“‘Beware how you speak to me, sir,’ said the other; the man made an

inclination of the head, and walked off.

“The young man—for he appeared to be no older than myself—again cast

his glance upon me, and what a change was there in the expression of his

eyes! It was like the mother’s glance when her sleeping infant lies upon

her lap; or the father’s, as he looks for the last time upon his

condemned son, who was the hope and the pride of his declining years.

“‘What age are you?’ he kindly asked.

“‘Had you not murdered all I held dear on earth, I would next autumn be

twenty years old; as it is, I never expect to be older than nineteen

years and nine months.’

“‘So young, and yet so determined and brave! It must not be; they shall

not deprive you of life, when you might make such a powerful auxiliary

to our cause. Listen to me, young stranger. Would you be willing to

repudiate all your rebel prejudices and join the cause of your king, if

you could obtain your freedom?’

“Life is sweet, and who would not at that age dissemble a little and

play the hypocrite for such a precious boon? I pretended to undergo a

great internal emotion, and spoke long of the glory and righteousness of

our cause; but my policy at last made me a proselyte to his arguments,

and I yielded to his proposal; and the young man left me. My eyes sought

him constantly after that, and several times I discovered him in earnest

conversation with the wounded officer. Towards noon the young man

obtained an opportunity to speak with me.

“‘I have been trying,’ said he, ‘to prevail upon our officer to release

you upon the conditions which I proposed this morning, but he

obstinately refuses, and persists in making you the victim of his

revenge; but be of good cheer. I think he cannot last long, his

countenance momentarily changes, and when he dies I will free you at all

hazards,’ and with these words he left me.

“An hour had not passed away when the young man’s suspicions were

fulfilled. The officer was seized with the most violent paroxysm; his

features worked fearfully, and it required several men to hold down his

writhing limbs. Strange as it may appear to the tender-hearted, there

was one who gazed upon that man’s terrible throes with feelings

partaking of pleasure, although the sufferer was my fellow mortal. Under

any other circumstances, I would have stood by that man’s side with

tearful eyes, but the cause of my present stoicism is evident. The

officer soon expired, and immediately after his burial I was set at

liberty; and soon afterwards signed my name to an instrument binding me

a liege subject and soldier of his Majesty King George.

“What a change was there now in the conduct of these soldiers towards

me! Instead of the brutal language and fearful threats which they had

hurled at me, they were now declared friends and ready to share with me

their last morsel. We ate together, we drank each other’s health, and we

slept upon the same blanket.

“The deeds which I had perpetrated, and which had deprived two of their

number of life, were apparently forgotten, for they looked upon me now

as a formidable addition to their party.

“Many an expression which dwells upon the risible faculties, belies the

secret thoughts of the breast, and it was so with the glad expression

which mantled my features as I travelled along with them, externally

appearing joyful, but heavy and sad within.

“I did not neglect the oath which I had made; I had not forgotten the

pale serene features of one whom I had ever worshipped, as they lay in

the calmness of death; but whenever I closed my eyes those mild and

fading eyes were before me, with their love and holy resignation vividly

expressed, and their glow rapidly fading.

“‘The time will soon arrive,’ I thought as I looked upon my reckless

comrades, ‘when you will all be stiffened in death, pale monuments of

the revenge of one whom you have so vitally injured—thoughtless fools!

do you imagine that I am but as a brute which perishes, that I can so

soon forget the misery which you have caused me?’ And in the secret

chambers of my breast there was a wild orgie of passions, in

anticipation of the rich feast which my revenge would soon enjoy.

“The next morning we started over a mountainous country, committing

several depredations on the way. With the rest I fired several valuable

barns, for all of which I afterwards remunerated their owners. This

depraved spirit upon my part gave great joy to my companions, and when

we reached a section of the royal army under command of Cornwallis, I

received a smile of approbation from the general, as reward for my

loyalty.

“Now the wishes of my heart were about to be gratified. I was dispatched

on a secret service, in company with several of the murderers of Lucy

Worthington, and now I determined to put into execution that revenge,

whose flame could no longer lie smothered in my breast.

“About sunset we arrived in a deep gorge—the bed of many a mountain

torrent—where we prepared for our night’s lodging. At midnight I

cautiously arose; the fire had died away to embers, and every thing

around was wrapped in gloom. The deep and regular breathing of the

sleepers promised me an uninterrupted opportunity for the execution of

my purpose. I seized a pistol; the principal murderer lay locked in

total unconsciousness of his fate. I cautiously drew near him, and

placed the muzzle of the pistol against his temple, and even then the

poor wretch smiled! Perhaps at that moment he was wandering in his dream

to the home of his parents, and beheld the smiles of a glad mother, and

felt upon his lips the warm kiss of a welcoming sister; or, perhaps, he

imagined that he held in his arms the fragile form of some loved one,

and smiled as he gazed upon the glow of her welcoming eye, and felt the

sealing kiss of her love. Is it not happier to leave the world under

these bright illusions than when the mind is awake, and cold judgment

already calculating the chances of an immortal and happy future?

“I pulled the trigger; the loud explosion started every man to his feet,

but with a yell of the wildest joy I cleared the spot, and soon was

buried among the tangled bushes, which grew plentifully around.

“Now the deep-mouthed bay of a blood-hound, which we had brought with

us, reverberated among the old rocks in the gorge, and soon I heard the

voices of those who were following the animal, close by my lurking

place. At once I comprehended my danger—that the dog was on my track,

and with my teeth clenched, with desperate determination I rushed from

my place of concealment, closely followed by the excited and enraged

animal. In a few moments the dog reached me, and springing, seized me by

the coat collar. I grasped him by the throat, and with all the nervous

energy of one in my circumstance, I throttled him; but the furious

animal—as if he was aware of the importance of his grip—retained his

firm hold, despite my powerful efforts to free myself.

“The soldiers rushed up, and with many a fearful oath and rude blow,

they forced my hands behind my body and securely bound them in that

position; and then with furious cries of exultation they dragged me back

to camp.

“In the morning I was unanimously condemned to be shot, but in all the

plenitude of their mercy, they granted me two hours to make my peace

with heaven.

“Now I was left alone with but my own thoughts for company. I was

condemned and must die in two hours—but two short hours had I left, to

take my leave of this world, and prepare for a voyage, I knew not

where—to leave this world which had ever been before but a garden of

roses. Then the dreadful truth at once flashed on my mind! to leave all,

my father, mother, sisters, friends, and all those who had ever met me

with a smile; whose roughest words were blessings, whose prayers were

ever my own. Ah, how hard it is to die when the bright clouds of youth

cluster around our horizon; when the mind is yet young and free from the

diseases which the experiences of a rude world engender! When the

physical faculties are all active, and most capable of contributing to

our enjoyment; and when death appears but a monster to the young mind

whose riper faculties teach us to hope for a glorious future.

“It is hard indeed, and the rapid approach of my last moments only

enhanced my agony. The time drew nigh and I saw no hope of succor; and

it was _now_ that the dreadful thought intruded itself, that there was

no longer hope—that I _must_ die, and before many minutes more be but a

pale bleeding corpse. My heart ached, my feelings grew insupportable,

and I groaned aloud in the bitterest agony. Ah! the horrors of that

moment! All the most poignant sufferings of a life time, if converged in

one breast, could not have tortured more.

“While in this state of horror, I chanced to look towards the top of the

rocks which lined the gorge, and with surprise I beheld the same young

man who had previously saved my life. He caught my glance, and with his

hand motioned me to silence, and then instantly disappeared. What could

this mean? We had left that individual in the army when we left it. Let

it mean what it might it augured well, and immediately a complete

reaction of feelings took place in my breast. I became calm and

apparently careless of my fate, for I felt that I had a friend close by,

who was willing and able to save me.

“The time for the execution of my sentence arrived, and with a file of

soldiers as a guard, I was led to the fatal tree. A bandage was brought

forward, but I refused it, and bade them with a loud voice hurry with

the execution. The file of soldiers, with loaded muskets, were drawn in

a line fronting me, and I was bade to kneel.

“Now all was a deep silence; you might have heard a pin drop, and then

was heard the voice of the one in command—‘Attention, men! make ready,

take aim—fire’—and I rolled on the earth a bleeding corpse——.”

“What!”

“That is one of my uncle’s _yarns_,” said my friend Ned.

“Pshaw!”

* * * * *

THE CHOICE OF HEARTS.

BY THOMAS G. SPEAR.

Ye laughing nymphs! ye bright-ey’d girls!

Triumphing in your beauty,

Who blush beneath the shining curls

That round your brows the zephyr furls,

What kind of hearts will suit ye?

“True Valor’s heart,” says one anigh,

“Upon his war-horse dashing—

That rous’d to fight will never fly,

With sword, and plume, and ardent eye,

In battle brightly flashing.”

“Soft Pleasure’s heart,” another’s word,

“Alive to each emotion—

That can be blythesome as a bird,

Caress or sigh, and oft be heard

Proclaiming its devotion.”

“Ambition’s heart,” one maiden says,

“That loves in strife to riot—

That spurns control in every place—

That rushes on its daring race,

And rules ’midst life’s disquiet.”

“The generous heart,” says one fair elf,

“That thrives amidst confusion—

That never hoards or life or pelf,

But gives its all, then gives itself,

And revels in profusion.”

“The cheerful heart,” doth one declare,

“With sense and wit united—

That joys in music, laughs at care,

Still pleased and mirthful every where,

And never undelighted.”

“Proud Honor’s heart!” another cries,

“That brooks no man’s dictation—

That’s quick to seek the hero’s prize,

And stand, though with the deed it dies,

’Gainst wrong and usurpation.”

“The constant heart!” says one fair maid,

While blushes crown her beauty:—

“To ask for more I am afraid,

But take the heart that thus is swayed,

And trust it for its duty!”

Sweet girls! If I might dare express,

A word for your discretion,

’Twould be, that you should favor less

The flatterer’s, gamester’s, rake’s address,

And man of mere profession.

Men’s lives are in their daily deeds—

Thought oft disguises action.

Choose then the heart that clearly reads

Its glory where its duty leads,

Amidst the world’s distraction.

To such resign’d, of that fair band

Of daughters fit to cherish,

Each shall be cheer’d in heart and hand,

And feel love’s holy fires expand

Till lost to things that perish.

* * * * *

REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.

_Poetical Remains of the late Lucretia Maria Davidson, Collected

and Arranged by her Mother: with a Biography by Miss Sedgwick.

Lea and Blanchard: Philadelphia._

Some few months since, we had occasion to speak of “The Biography and

Poetical Remains of the late Margaret Miller Davidson”—a work given to

the public by Washington Irving. In common with all who read, we had

been deeply interested in the narrative set forth. The portrait of the

young and beautiful enthusiast, simply yet most effectively painted by

one who touches nothing which he does not adorn, could not have failed

to excite our warmest sympathies; and we dwelt upon the pleasing yet

melancholy theme with a lingering delight. Of the biographical portion

of the book we said, indeed, what every one says, and most justly—that

nothing could be more intensely pathetic. In respect, however, to the

“Poetical Remains,” the _tone_ of our observations was not fully in

accordance with that of the mass of our contemporaries. Without calling

in question the extreme _precocity_ of the child—a precocity truly

wonderful—we were forced, in some slight measure, to dissent from that

extravagant eulogium, which had its origin, beyond doubt, in a

confounding of the interest felt in the poetess and her sad fortunes,

with a legitimate admiration of her works. We did not, in truth,

conceive it to be either honest or necessary, to mislead in any degree

the public taste or opinion, by styling “Lenore,” as it exists, a fine

poem, merely because its author _might_ have written a fine poem had she

lived. We emphasize the “might”; for the history of all intellect

demonstrates that the point is a questionable one indeed. The analogies

of Nature are universal; and just as the most rapidly growing herbage is

the most speedy in its decay—just as the ephemera struggles to

perfection in a day only to perish in that day’s decline—so the mind is

early matured only to be early in its decadence; and when we behold in

the eye of infancy the soul of the adult, it is but indulging in a day

dream to hope for any farther proportionate development. Should the

prodigy survive to ripe age, a mental imbecility, not far removed from

idiocy itself, is too frequently the result. From this rule the

exceptions are rare indeed; but it should be observed that, when the

exception does occur, the intellect is of a Titan cast even to the days

of its extreme senility, and acquires renown not in one, but in all the

wide fields of fancy and of reason.

Lucretia Maria Davidson, the subject of the memoir now before us, and

the elder of the two sweet sisters who have acquired so much of fame

prematurely, had not, like Margaret, an object of poetical emulation in

her own family. In her genius, be it what it may, there is more of

self-dependence—less of the imitative. Her mother’s generous romance of

soul may have stimulated, but did not instruct. Thus although she has

actually given less _evidence_ of power (in our opinion) than

Margaret—less written proof—still its _indication_ must be considered

at higher value. Both perished at sixteen. Margaret, we think, has left

the better poems—certainly the more precocious—while Lucretia evinces

more unequivocally the soul of the poet. In our August number we quoted

in full some stanzas composed by the former at eight years of age. The

latter’s earliest effusions are dated at fourteen. Yet the first

compositions of the two seem to us of nearly equal merit.

The most elaborate production of Margaret is “Lenore,” of which we have

just now spoken. It was written not long before her death, at the age of

fifteen, after patient reflection, with much care, and with all that

high resolve to do something for fame with which the reputation of her

sister had inspired her. Under such circumstances, and with the early

poetical education which she could not have failed to receive, we

confess that, granting her a trifle more than average talent, it would

have been rather a matter for surprise had she produced a worse, than

had she produced a better poem than “Lenore.” Its _length_, viewed in

connexion with its keeping, its unity, its adaptation, and its

completeness (and all these are points having reference to artistical

_knowledge_ and perseverance) will impress the critic more favorably

than its fancy, or any other indication of poetic power. In all the more

important qualities we have seen far—very far finer poems than “Lenore”

written at a much earlier age than fifteen.

“Amir Khan,” the longest and chief composition of Lucretia, has been

long known to the reading public. It was originally published, with

others, in a small volume to which Professor Morse, of the American

Society of Arts, contributed a Preface. Partly through the Professor,

yet no doubt partly through their own merits, the poems found their way

to the laureate, Southey, who, after his peculiar fashion, and not

unmindful of his previous _furores_ in the case of Kirke White,

Chatterton, and others of precocious ability, or at least celebrity,

thought proper to _review_ them in the Quarterly. This was at a period

when we humbled ourselves, with a subserviency which would have been

disgusting had it not been ludicrous, before the crudest critical

_dicta_ of Great Britain. It pleased the laureate, after some squibbing

in the way of demurrer, to speak of the book in question as

follows:—“In these poems there is enough of originality, enough of

aspiration, enough of conscious energy, enough of growing power to

warrant any expectations, however sanguine, which the patrons and the

friends and parents of the deceased could have formed.” Meaning nothing,

or rather meaning anything, as we choose to interpret it, this sentence

was still sufficient (and in fact the half of it would have been more

than sufficient) to establish upon an immovable basis the reputation of

Miss Davidson in America. Thenceforward any examination of her true

claims to distinction was considered little less than a declaration of

heresy. Nor does the awe of the laureate’s _ipse dixit_ seem even yet to

have entirely subsided. “The genius of Lucretia Davidson,” says Miss

Sedgwick in the very volume now before us, “has had the meed of far more

authoritative praise than ours; the following tribute is from the London

Quarterly Review.” What this lady—for whom and for whose opinion we

still have the highest respect—can mean by calling the praise of

Southey “more authoritative” than her own, is a point we shall not pause

to determine. _Her_ praise is at least honest, or we hope so. Its

“authority” is in exact proportion with each one’s estimate of her

judgment. But it would not do to say all this of the author of

“Thalaba.” It would not do to say it in the hearing of men who are sane,

and who, being sane, have perused the leading articles in the “London

Quarterly Review” during the ten or fifteen years prior to that period

when Robert Southey, having concocted “The Doctor,” took definitive

leave of his wits. In fact, for any thing that we have yet seen or heard

to the contrary, the opinion of the laureate, in respect to the poem of

“Amir Khan,” is a matter still only known to Robert Southey. But were it

known to all the world, as Miss Sedgwick supposes with so charmingly

innocent an air;—we mean to say were it really an honest opinion,—this

“authoritative praise,”—still it would be worth, in the eyes of every

sensible person, only just so much as it demonstrates, or makes a show

of demonstrating. Happily the day has gone by, and we trust forever,

when men are content to swear blindly by the words of a master,

poet-laureate though he be. But what Southey says of the poem is at best

an opinion and no more. What Miss Sedgwick says of it is very much in

the same predicament. “Amir Khan,” she writes, “has long been before the

public, but we think it has suffered from a general and very natural

distrust of precocious genius. The versification is graceful, the story

beautifully developed, and the orientalism well sustained. _We think it

would not have done discredit to our most popular poets in the meridian

of their fame; as the production of a girl of fifteen it seems

prodigious._” The cant of a kind heart when betraying into error a

naturally sound judgment, is perhaps the only species of cant in the

world not altogether contemptible.

We yield to no one in warmth of admiration for the personal character of

these sweet sisters, as that character is depicted by the mother, by

Miss Sedgwick, and by Mr. Irving. But it costs us no effort to

distinguish that which, in our heart, is love of their worth, from that

which, in our intellect, is appreciation of their poetic ability. With

the former, as critic, we have nothing to do. The distinction is one too

obvious for comment; and its observation would have spared us much

twaddle on the part of the commentators upon “Amir Khan.”

We will endeavor to convey, as concisely as possible, some idea of this

poem as it exists, not in the fancy of the enthusiastic, but in fact. It

includes four hundred and forty lines. The metre is chiefly

octo-syllabic: At one point it is varied by a casual introduction of an

anapæst in the first and second foot; at another (in a song) by seven

stanzas of four lines each, rhyming alternately; the metre anapæstic of

four feet alternating with three. The versification is always good, so

far as the meagre written rules of our English prosody extend; that is

to say, there is seldom a syllable too much or too little; but long and

short syllables are placed at random, and a crowd of consonants

sometimes renders a line unpronounceable. For example:

He loved,—and oh, he loved so well

_That sorrow scarce dared break the spell_.

At times, again, the rhythm lapses, in the most inartistical manner, and

evidently without design, from one species to another altogether

incongruous; as, for example, in the sixth line of these eight, where

the tripping anapæstic stumbles into the demure iambic, recovering

itself, even more awkwardly, in the conclusion:

Bright Star of the Morning! this bosom is cold—

I was forced from my native shade,

And I wrapped me around with my mantle’s fold,

A sad, mournful Circassian maid!

And I then vow’d that rapture should never move

_This changeless cheek, this rayless eye_,

And I then vowed to feel neither bliss nor love,

_But I vowed I would meet thee and die_.

Occasionally the versification rises into melody and even strength; as

here—

’Twas at the hour when Peris love

To gaze upon the Heaven above

Whose portals bright with many a gem

Are closed—forever closed _on them_.

Upon the whole, however, it is feeble, vacillating, and ineffective;

giving token of having been “touched up” by the hand of a friend, from a

much worse, into its present condition. Such rhymes as floor and

shower—ceased and breast—shade and spread—brow and wo—clear and

far—clear and air—morning and dawning—forth and earth—step and

deep—Khan and hand—are constantly occurring; and although, certainly,

we should not, _as a general rule_, expect better things from a girl of

sixteen, we still look in vain, and with something very much akin to a

smile, for aught even approaching that “_marvellous ease and grace of

versification_” about which Miss Sedgwick, in the benevolence of her

heart, discourses.

Nor does the story, to our dispassionate apprehension, appear

“beautifully developed.” It runs thus:—Amir Khan, Subahdar of

Cachemere, weds a Circassian slave who, cold as a statue and as

obstinately silent, refuses to return his love. The Subahdar applies to

a magician, who gives him

a pensive flower

Gathered at midnight’s magic hour;

the effect of whose perfume renders him apparently lifeless while still

in possession of all his senses. Amreeta, the slave, supposing her lover

dead, gives way to clamorous grief, and reveals the secret love which

she has long borne her lord, but refused to divulge because a slave.

Amir Khan hereupon revives, and all trouble is at an end.

Of course, no one at all read in Eastern fable will be willing to give

Miss Davidson credit for _originality_ in the conception of this little

story; and if she have claim to merit at all, as regards it, that claim

must be founded upon the manner of narration. But it will be at once

evident that the most naked outline alone can be given in the compass of

four hundred and forty lines. The tale is, in sober fact, told very much

as any young person might be expected to tell it. The strength of the

narrator is wholly laid out upon a description of moonlight (in the

usual style) with which the poem commences—upon a second description of

moonlight (in precisely the same manner) with which a second division

commences—and in a third description of the hall in which the entranced

Subahdar reposes. This is all—absolutely all; or at least the rest has

the nakedness of mere catalogue. We recognize, throughout, the poetic

sentiment, but little—very little—of poetic _power_. We see occasional

gleams of imagination: for example—

And every crystal cloud of Heaven

Bowed as it passed the queen of even.

Amreeta was cold as the marble floor

That glistens beneath the nightly shower.

At that calm hour when Peris love

To gaze upon the Heaven above,

Whose portals bright with many a gem

Are closed—forever closed _on them_.

The Subahdar with noiseless step

Rushed like the night-breeze o’er the deep.

We look in vain for another instance worth quoting. But were the fancy

seen in these examples observable either in the general conduct or in

the incidents of the narrative, we should not feel obliged to disagree

so unequivocally with that opinion which pronounces this clever little

production “_one which would not have done discredit to our most popular

poets in the meridian of their fame_!”

“As the work of a girl of sixteen,” most assuredly we _do not_ think it

“_prodigious_.” In regard to it we may repeat what we said of

“Lenore,”—that we have seen finer poems in every respect, written by

children of more immature age. It is a creditable composition; nothing

beyond this. And, in so saying, we shall startle none but the brainless,

and the adopters of ready-made ideas. We are convinced that we express

the unuttered sentiment of every educated individual who has read the

poem. Nor, having given the plain facts of the case, do we feel called

upon to proffer any apology for our flat refusal to play ditto either to

Miss Sedgwick, to Mr. Irving, or to Mr. Southey.

* * * * *

_The Seaman’s Friend; Containing a Treatise on Practical

Seamanship, with Plates; A Dictionary of Sea Terms; Customs and

Usages of the Merchant Service; Laws Relating to the Practical

Duties of Masters and Mariners. By_ R. H. Dana, Jr. _Author of

“Two Years Before the Mast.” Little and Brown: Boston. Carey and

Hart: Philadelphia._

The publishers of this neat little volume have very prudently

stereotyped it; anticipating an extensive and continuous demand. In

truth, the work belongs to the class of the obviously needful, and its

circulation and appreciation are matters of certainty. Ever since men

“went down to the sea in ships,” there has been a difficulty in

procuring exact, compact, and universally intelligible information on

the very topics which Mr. Dana now discusses. The necessary knowledge

was to be gleaned, imperfectly and superficially, from amid a mass of

technical jargon, diffused over a world of questionable authority. Books

on Seamanship are extant, to be sure—works of the highest scientific

merit and ability—and the writings of Captain Basil Hall give,

incidentally, a vast fund of intelligence on naval subjects; but the

true _desideratum_ was a work which could only be written by an

individual placed exactly in the circumstances which surrounded Mr.

Dana. It is well known that he is a man of talent and well educated;

that ill-health induced him to try a sea-voyage in the capacity of

common sailor; and that thus he has been enabled to combine the

advantages of theoretical and practical science. His “Two Years Before

the Mast” was, very deservedly, one of the most popular books ever

published, and proved immensely profitable—at least to his booksellers.

It gave, in a rich strain of philosophical observation, all the racy

_spirit_, as the present volume conveys all the exact _letter_ of the

sea.

There is only one improvement which we could wish to suggest. An

appendix, we think, should be added; embracing, first, in as popular,

that is to say, in as untechnical a form as possible, the philosophy of

latitude and longitude—the general principles of which may be rendered

intelligible to almost any understanding—and, secondly, the formulæ

employed in the application of these principles to navigation, with

concise rules for the use of the sextant and chronometer, and for solar,

lunar, and stellar observations.

* * * * *

_The Miser, or the Convicts of Lisnamona. By_ William Carleton,

_Author of “Traits and Stories of the Irish Peasantry.” Two

Volumes. Carey and Hart: Philadelphia._

This story originally appeared in the “Dublin University Magazine,”

under the title of “Fardorougha, or The Miser.” It was much copied and

admired, and has all the _Irish_ merit for which its author is so

famous.

* * * * *

_Fragments From German Prose Writers. Translated by_ Sarah

Austin. _With Biographical Sketches of the Authors. D. Appleton

and Company. New York._

This is a book about which little can be said, except in the way of

general and pointed commendation. Its title fully explains its

character; although the fair authoress is at the trouble of enlarging

upon the nature of the fragmentary contents. These _scraps_ embody

specimens of every variety of the prose literature of Germany—convey,

_in petto_, its whole soul. The lives of the authors are invaluable. The

volume is, in point of mechanical appearance, one of the most beautiful

ever issued, even by the Appletons.

* * * * *

_Confession; Or the Blind Heart. A Domestic Story. By the Author

of “The Kinsmen,” “The Yemassee,” “Guy Rivers,” etc. Two

Volumes. Lea and Blanchard: Philadelphia._

In general, Mr. Simms should be considered as one giving _indication_,

rather than _proof_ of high genius. He puts us in mind of a volcano,

from the very darkness issuing from whose crater we judge of the fire

that is weltering below. So far, with slight exceptions, he has buried

his fine talent in his themes. He should never have written “The

Partisan,” nor “The Yemassee,” nor his late book (whose title we just

now forget) about the first discovery of the Pacific. His genius does

not lie in the outward so much as in the inner world. “Martin Faber” did

him honor; and so do the present volumes, although liable to objection

in some important respects. We welcome him home to his own proper field

of exertion—the field of Godwin and Brown—the field of his own rich

intellect and glowing _heart_. Upon reading the first few pages of

“Confession,” the stirring words of Scott arose to our lips—“My foot is

on my native heath, and my name is McGregor.”

It is our design to speak in full of the volumes before us; but we have

left ourselves no space for the task, and must defer it, perforce, until

the new year.

* * * * *

_Cecil; Or The Adventures of a Coxcomb. A Novel. Two Volumes.

Lea and Blanchard: Philadelphia._

This work is an obvious but very spirited and excellent imitation of the

Pelhams and Vivian Greys. It abounds, even more than either of these

works, in point, pungency and vivacity, but falls below them in true

wit, and in other higher qualities. Altogether, it is richly

entertaining, and will meet with success. The theme is a good one well

managed.

* * * * *

SECRET WRITING.

The annexed letter from a gentleman whose abilities we very highly

respect, was received, unfortunately, at too late a period to appear in

our November number:

Dear sir:

I should perhaps apologise for again intruding a subject upon

which you have so ably commented, and which may be supposed by

this time to have been almost exhausted; but as I have been

greatly interested in the articles upon “cryptography,” which

have appeared in your Magazine, I think that you will excuse the

present intrusion of a few remarks. With secret writing I have

been practically conversant for several years, and I have found,

both in correspondence and in the preservation of private

memoranda, the frequent benefit of its peculiar virtues. I have

thus a record of thoughts, feelings and occurrences,—a history

of my _mental_ existence, to which I may turn, and in

imagination, retrace former pleasures, and again live through

by-gone scenes,—secure in the conviction that the magic scroll

has a tale for _my_ eye alone. Who has not longed for such a

confidante?

Cryptography is, indeed, not only a topic of mere curiosity, but

is of general interest, as furnishing an excellent exercise for

mental discipline, and of high _practical_ importance on various

occasions;—to the statesman and the general—to the scholar and

the traveller,—and, may I not add “last though not least,” to

the _lover_? What can be so delightful amid the trials of absent

lovers, as a secret intercourse between them of their hopes and

fears,—safe from the prying eyes of some old aunt, or it may

be, of a perverse and _cruel_ guardian?—a _billet doux_ that

will not betray its mission, even if intercepted, and that can

“tell no tales” if lost, or, (which _sometimes_ occurs,) if

_stolen_ from its violated depository.

In the solution of the various ciphers which have been submitted

to your examination, you have exhibited a power of analytical

and synthetical reasoning I have never seen equalled; and the

astonishing skill you have displayed,—particularly in

deciphering the cryptograph of Dr. Charles J. Frailey, will, I

think, crown you the king of “secret-readers.” But

notwithstanding this, I think your opinion that the construction

of a _real cryptograph_ is impossible, not sufficiently

supported. Those examples which you have published have indeed

not been of that character, as you have fully proved. They have,

moreover, not been sufficiently accurate, for where the key was

a phrase, (and consequently the same character was employed for

several letters,) different words would be formed with the same

ciphers. The sense could then only be ascertained from the

context, and this would amount to a probability—generally of a

high degree, I admit—but still not to a positive certainly.

Nay, a case might readily be imagined, where the most important

word of the communication, and one on which the sense of the

whole depended, should have so equivocal a nature, that the

person for whose benefit it was intended, would be unable, even

with the aid of his key, to discover which of two very different

interpretations should be the correct one. If necessary, this

can easily be shown; thus, for example, suppose a lady should

receive from her affianced, a letter written in ciphers,

containing this sentence, “4 5663 967 268 26 3633,” and that _a_

and _n_ were represented by the figure 2,—_e_, _m_, and _r_ by

3,—_i_ by 4,—_l_ by 5,—_o_, _s_, and _v_ by 6,—_u_ by

7,—_w_ by 8,—and _y_ by 9; a moment’s inspection will show

that the sentence might either be “I love you now as ever,” or

“I love you now _no more_.” How “positively shocking,” “to say

the least of it;” and yet several of the ciphers that you have

published, have required a greater number of letters to be

represented by one character, than any to be found in the

example before us. It is evident, then, that this is not a very

desirable system, as it would scarcely be more useful than a

lock without its key, or with one that did not fit its wards.

I think, however, that there are various methods by which a

hieroglyphic might be formed, whose meaning would be perfectly

“hidden;” and I shall give one or two examples of what I

consider such. A method which I have adopted for my own private

use, is one which I am satisfied is of this nature, as it cannot

possibly be solved without the assistance of its key, and that

key, by which _alone_ it can be unlocked, exists only in my

mind; at the same time it is so simple, that with the practice

in it which I have had, I now read it, and write it, with as

much facility as I can the English character. As I prefer not

giving it here, I shall be compelled to have recourse to some

other plan that is more complicated. By a CRYPTOGRAPH, I

understand—a communication which, though _clearly_ ascertained

by means of its proper key, cannot possibly be without it. To

most persons, who have not thought much upon the subject, an

article written in simple cipher, (by which I mean with each

letter uniformly represented by a single distinct character,)

would appear to be an impenetrable mystery; and they would

doubtless imagine that the more complicated the method of

constructing such a cipher, the more _insoluble_—to use a

chemical expression—would be the puzzle, since so much less

would be the chance of discovering its key. This very natural

conclusion is, however, erroneous, as it is founded on the

supposition that possession must first be obtained of the key,

in order to unravel the difficulty,—which is not the case. The

process of reasoning employed in resolving “secret writing” has

not the slightest relation to the form or description of the

characters used, but refers simply to their succession, and to a

comparison of words in which the same letters occur. By these

means any cipher of this nature can be unriddled, as experience

has fully shown. A very successful method of avoiding detection,

would be to apply the simple cipher to words written backwards

and continuously. This, I conceive, might be called a perfect

cryptograph, since from the want of spaces, and consequently the

impossibility of comparing words, it would utterly perplex the

person attempting to discover its hidden import, and yet with

the help of the key, each letter being known, the words could

easily be separated and inverted. I give a short specimen of

this style, and would feel much gratified with your opinion of

the possibility of reading it.

[Illustration: a cryptograph]

Should this not be considered _perfect_, (though I suspect it

would puzzle even the ingenious editor to detect its meaning,) I

shall give another method below, which I can show _must_ be, and

if I am successful I think you will do me the justice to admit

that “human ingenuity” has contrived “a cipher which human

ingenuity cannot resolve.” I wish to be distinctly understood;

the secret communication above, and the one following, are not

intended to show that you have promised more than you can

perform. I do not take up the gauntlet. Your challenge, I am

happy to testify, has been more than amply redeemed. It is

merely with an incidental remark of yours, that I am at present

engaged, and my object is to show that however correct it may be

generally,—it is not so universally.

Agreeably to a part of my foregoing definition, _that_ cannot be

a proper cryptograph, in which a single character is made to

represent more than one letter. Let us for a moment see what

would be the result if this was reversed,—that is, if more than

one cipher were used for a single letter. In case each letter

were represented by two different characters, (used alternately

or at random,) it is evident that while the certainty of reading

such a composition correctly, by help of the key, would not be

at all diminished, the difficulty of its solution without that

help, would be vastly increased. This then is an approach to the

formation of a secret cipher. If, now, the number of the

characters were extended to three or four for each letter, it

might be pronounced with tolerable certainty that such a writing

would be “secret.” Or, to take an extreme case, a communication

might be made, in which no two characters would be alike! Here

all reasoning would be entirely baffled, as there would

evidently be no objects of _comparison_; and even if half a

dozen words were known, they would furnish no clue to the rest.

Here, then, is a complete _non plus_ to investigation, and we

have arrived at a perfect cryptograph. For, since any given

cipher would stand for but one letter in the key, there could be

but a single and definite solution; and thus both conditions of

my definition are fully satisfied. In the following specimen of

this method, I have employed the Roman-capital, small letter,

and small capital, with their several inversions, giving me the

command of 130 characters, or an average of five to each letter.

This is to “make assurance doubly sure,” for I am satisfied that

were an average of three characters used for each letter, such a

writing would be emphatically secret. If you will be so kind as

to give my cipher a place in your interesting Magazine, I will

immediately forward you its key. Hoping that you will not be

displeased with my tedious letter,

I am most respectfully yours.

W. B. TYLER.

To Edgar A. Poe, Esq.

[Illustration: a cryptograph]

The difficulty attending the cipher by key-phrase, viz: that the same

characters may convey various meanings—is a difficulty upon which we

commented in our first article upon this topic, and more lately at

greater length in a private letter to our friend F. W. Thomas. The

key-phrase cryptograph is, in fact, altogether inadmissible. The labor

requisite for its elucidation, _even with the key_, would, alone, render

it so. Lord Bacon very properly defines three _essentials_ in secret

correspondence. It is required, first, that the cipher be such as to

elude suspicion of being a cipher; secondly, that its alphabet be so

simple of formation as to demand but little time in the construction of

an epistle; thirdly, that it shall be absolutely insoluble without the

key—we may add, fourthly, that, with the key, it be promptly and

_certainly_ decipherable.

Admitting, now, that the ingenious cryptograph proposed by our

correspondent be absolutely what he supposes it, impenetrable, it would

still, we think, be inadmissible on the first point above stated, and

more so on the second. But of its impenetrability we are by no means

sure, notwithstanding what, at a cursory glance, appears to be the

_demonstration_ of the writer. In the key-phrase cipher an arbitrary

character is sometimes made to represent five, six, seven, or even more

letters. Our correspondent proposes merely to reverse the

operation:—and this simple statement of the case will do more towards

convincing him of his error than an elaborate argument, for which we

would neither have time, nor our readers patience. In a key-phrase

cryptograph, equally as in his own, each discovery is _independent_, not

_necessarily_ affording any clue to farther discovery. Neither is the

idea of our friend, although highly ingenious, philosophical, and

unquestionably original with him, (since he so assures us,) original _in

itself_. It is one of the many systems tried by Dr. Wallis and found

wanting. Perhaps no good cipher was _ever_ invented which its originator

did not conceive insoluble; yet, so far, no impenetrable cryptograph has

been discovered. Our correspondent will be the less startled at this,

our assertion, when he bears in mind that he who has been termed the

“wisest of mankind”—we mean Lord Verulam—was as confident of the

absolute insolubility of his own mode as our present cryptographist is

of his. What he said upon the subject in his _De Augmentis_ was, at the

day of its publication, considered unanswerable. Yet his cipher has been

repeatedly unriddled. We may say, in addition, that the nearest approach

to perfection in this matter, is the _chiffre quarré_ of the French

Academy. This consists of a table somewhat in the form of our ordinary

multiplication tables, from which the secret to be conveyed is so

written that no letter is ever represented twice by the same character.

Out of a thousand individuals nine hundred and ninety-nine would at once

pronounce this mode inscrutable. It is yet susceptible, under peculiar

circumstances, of prompt and certain solution.

Mr. T. will have still less confidence in his hastily adopted opinions

on this topic when we assure him, from personal experience, that what he

says in regard to writing backwards and continuously without intervals

between the words—is all wrong. So far from “utterly perplexing the

decipherer,” it gives him no difficulty, legitimately so called—merely

taxing to some extent his patience. We refer him to the files of

“Alexander’s Weekly Messenger” for 1839—where he will see that we read

numerous ciphers of the class described, even when very ingenious

_additional_ difficulties were interposed. We say, in brief, that we

should have little trouble in reading the one now proposed.

“Here,” says our friend, referring to another point, “all reasoning

would be entirely baffled, as there would evidently be no objects of

_comparison_.” This sentence assures us that he is laboring under much

error in his conception of cipher-solutions. _Comparison_ is a vast

_aid_ unquestionably; but not an absolute _essential_ in the elucidation

of these mysteries.

We need not say, however, that this subject is an excessively wide one.

Our friend will forgive us for not entering into details which would

lead us—God knows whither. The ratiocination actually passing through

the mind in the solution of even a simple cryptograph, if detailed step

by step, would fill a large volume. Our time is much occupied; and

notwithstanding the limits originally placed to our cartel, we have

found ourselves overwhelmed with communications on this subject; and

must close it, perforce—deeply interesting as we find it. To this

resolution we had arrived last month; but the calm and truly ingenious

reasoning of our correspondent has induced us to say these few words

more. We print his cipher—with no promise to attempt its solution

ourselves—much as we feel inclined to make the promise—and to keep it.

Some of our hundred thousand readers will, no doubt, take up the

gauntlet thrown down; and our pages shall be open for any communication

on the subject, which shall not tax our own abilities or time.

* * * * *

In speaking of our hundred thousand readers (and we can scarcely suppose

the number to be less), we are reminded that of this vast number, one

and only one has succeeded in solving the cryptograph of Dr. Frailey.

The honor of the solution, is however, due to Mr. Richard Bolton, of

Pontotoc, Mississippi. His letter did not reach us until three weeks

after the completion of our November number, in which we should,

otherwise, have acknowledged it.

* * * * *

THE CLOSING YEAR.

Perhaps the editors of no magazine, either in America or Europe, ever

sat down, at the close of a year, to contemplate the progress of their

work with more satisfaction than we do now. Our success has been

unexampled, almost incredible. We may assert without fear of

contradiction that no periodical ever witnessed the same increase during

so short a period. We began the year almost unknown; certainly far

behind our cotemporaries in numbers; we close it with a list of

twenty-five thousand subscribers, and the assurance on every hand that

our popularity has as yet seen only its dawning. But if such is the

orient, what will our noonday be? Nor, if we may for once play the

egotist, is this success wholly undeserved. Everything that talent,

taste, capital, or energy could do for “Graham’s Magazine” has been

done, and that too without stint. The best typography, the choicest

engravers, the finest writers, the most finished artists, and the utmost

punctuality in our business department, have lent their aid to forward

our enterprise; and what neither could have done singly, all combined

have effected. Nothing has been spared. The splendor of our

embellishments has never been equalled: the variety and richness of our

literary matter are not to be surpassed. We not only present a choicer

list of contributors than any other magazine in the country, but we

rejoice in more than one writer whom we alone have been able to tempt

from their retreats, and who cannot be induced to contribute to any

cotemporary. We have secured the exclusive services of Sartain, and have

made a permanent engagement with Sadd. Our Fashion Plates have become

the standards in that department, and the line engravings we have

furnished have been universally cited as superior to those of the

richest Annuals. In literary rank we are assigned the first place of our

class, and our criticisms on books are deferred to as the best in the

country. We may speak thus boldly, because, although we may be only Snug

the Joiner, yet whenever we roar as now, it is in the character of the

lion. Reviewing, therefore, our past success, and taking it—and why

not?—as an earnest for the future, we can afford, we opine, to sip our

cup of choice Mocha at ease, and if not to “shoulder our crutch,” at

least to “tell how fields were won.”

We shall begin the new year determined to surpass even what we have

done. As we have introduced a new era into magazine history we shall not

pause until the revolution is complete. We shall not follow the

namby-pamby style of periodical literature, but aim at a loftier and

more extended flight. For this purpose we shall increase the amount of

our reading matter, although, at the same time, our embellishments shall

even be superior in beauty to what they are at present. We have made

arrangements by which the graceful pens of two lady-editors will be

added to our strength. Our editorial list will then be as follows:

Geo. R. Graham,

Chas. J. Peterson,

Mrs. E. C. Embury,

Mrs. A. S. Stephens,

Edgar A. Poe.

Our Prospectus will show the number of American writers, in addition to

the editors, enlisted in the work. With such a _corps_ we may make any

promises.

To ensure a supply of the best original engravings we have, in addition

to Messrs. Sartain and Sadd, procured the aid of Messrs. Rawdon, Wright,

Hatch and Smillie, and Mr. Dick,—all well known for the elegance of

their work. Our chief illustrations shall, however, be as heretofore,

mezzotinto engravings,—they being decidedly the most effective,

elegant, rare, and desirable. This field we shall enjoy without even an

attempt at serious competition, it being impossible for any other like

magazine to bring out the same or equal talent in this way.

And now, as the play is over and we have spoken the epilogue, we will

draw the curtain with a single wish: “a happy new year, and many of

them, to our subscribers.”

* * * * *

Transcriber’s Notes:

Table of Contents has been added for reader convenience. Archaic

spellings and hyphenation have been retained. Obvious punctuation and

typesetting errors have been corrected without note. Other errors have

been corrected as noted below. For the text only version of this eBook,

in the article “A Chapter on Autograpy”, the various signatures which

were given in other formats as an illustration, are represented in the

text version as text with variable spacing and punctuation representing

the way in which the particular signature is handwritten.

page 259, remark of the gentleman ==> remark of the gentlewoman

[End of _Graham’s Magazine, Vol. XIX, No. 6, December 1841_, George R.

Graham, Editor]