“While Jeanie was striving to look in the direction which the woman

pointed out, and could na’ see through the tears that blinded her e’e,

the driver jumped down from the cart, and asked the puir girl where he

should leave her trunks, as it was getting late, and he must be off.

“‘You need not bring these big chests in here,’ said Mrs. Robertson; ‘I

have no room in my house for strangers and their luggage.’

“‘Your house!’ gasped Jeanie, catching her arm. ‘Did you na’ tell me

that he lived here?—and whereever Willie Robertson bides Jeanie Burns

sud be a welcome guest. Tell him,’ she continued, trembling all ower,

for she told me afterward that there was something in the woman’s look

and tone that made the cold chills run to her heart, ‘that an auld

friend from Scotland has jist came off a lang, wearisome journey to see

him.’

“‘You may speak for yourself!’ cried the woman angrily, ‘for my husband

is now coming down the clearing.’

“The word husband was scarcely out o’ her mouth than puir Jeanie fell as

ane dead across the doorstep.

“The driver lifted up the unfortunate girl, carried her into the cabin,

and placed her in a chair, regardless of the opposition of Mrs.

Robertson, whose jealousy was now fairly aroused, and who declared that

the bold huzzie should not enter her doors.

“It was a long time before the driver succeeded in bringing Jeanie to

herself, and she had only just unclosed her eyes when Willie came in.

“‘Wife,’ he said, ‘whose cart is this standing at the door, and what do

these people want here?’

“‘You know best,’ cried the angry woman, bursting into tears; ‘that

creature is no acquaintance of mine, and if she is suffered to remain

here, I will leave the house.’

“‘Forgi’e me, good woman, for having unwittingly offended ye,’ said

Jeanie, rising. ‘But, merciful Father! how sud I ken that Willie

Robertson, my ain Willie, had a wife? Oh, Willie!’ she cried, covering

her face in her hands, to hide all the agony that was in her heart, ‘I

ha’ come a lang way, as’ a weary to see ye, an’ ye might ha’ spared me

the grief—the burning shame o’ this. Farewell, Willie Robertson!—I

will never mair trouble ye nor her wi’ my presence, but this cruel deed

of yours has broken my heart!’

“She went away weeping, and he had not the courage to detain her, or say

one word to comfort her, or account for his strange conduct; yet, if I

know him right, that must ha’ been the most sorrowfu’ moment in his

life.

“Jeanie was a distant connection of my uncle’s, and she found us out

that night on her return to the village, and told us all her grief. My

aunt, who was a kind, good woman, was indignant at the treatment she had

received, and loved and cherished her as if she had been her own child.

“For two whole weeks she kept her bed, and was so ill that the doctor

despaired of her life; and when she did come again among us, the color

had faded from her cheeks, and the light from her sweet blue eyes, and

she spoke in a low, subdued voice, but she never spoke of _him_ as the

cause of her grief.

“One day she called me aside and said—

“‘Jamie, you know how I lo’ed an’ trusted him, an’ obeyed his ain wishes

in comin’ out to this strange country to be his wife. But ’tis all over

now,’ and she pressed her sma’ hands tightly over her breast, to keep

doon the swelling o’ her heart. ‘Jamie, I know now that it is a’ for the

best; I lo’ed him too weel—mair than ony creature sud lo’e a perishing

thing o’ earth. But I thought that he wud be sae glad an’ sae proud to

see his ain Jeanie sae sune. But, oh!—ah, weel!—I maun na think o’

that; what I wud jist say is this,’ an’ she took a sma’ packet fra’ her

breast, while the tears streamed down her pale cheeks. ‘He sent me forty

dollars to bring me ower the sea to him—God bless him for that!—I ken

he worked hard to earn it, for he lo’ed me then—I was na’ idle during

his absence. I had saved enough to bury my dear auld grandfather, and to

pay my ain expenses out; and I thought, like the gude servant in the

parable, I wud return Willie his ain with interest; an’ I hoped to see

him smile at my diligence, an’ ca’ me his bonnie gude lassie. Jamie, I

canna’ keep this siller—it lies like a weight o’ lead on my heart. Tak’

it back to him, an’ tell him fra’ me, that I forgi’e him his cruel

deceit, an’ pray to God to grant him prosperity, and restore to him that

peace o’ mind o’ which he has robbed me forever.’

“I did as she bade me. Willie looked stupefied when I delivered her

message. The only remark he made, when I gave him back the money,

was—‘I maun be gratefu’, man, that she did na’ curse me.’ The wife came

in, and he hid away the packet and slunk off. The man looked degraded in

his own eyes, and so wretched, that I pitied him from my very heart.

“When I came home, Jeanie met me at my uncle’s gate.

“‘Tell me?’ she said, in a low, anxious voice, ‘tell me, Cousin Jamie,

what passed atween ye? Had he nae word for me?’

“‘Naething, Jeanie; the man is lost to himsel’—to a’ who ance wished

him weel. He is not worth a decent body’s thought.’

“She sighed deeply, for I saw that her heart craved after some word fra’

him; but she said nae mair, but pale and sorrowfu’ the very ghaist o’

her former sel’, went back into the house.

“From that hour she never breathed his name to ony of us; but we all

ken’d that it was her love for him, that was preying upon her life. The

grief that has nae voice, like the canker-worm, always lies ne’est to

the heart. Puir Jeanie! she held out during the simmer, but when the

fall came, she just withered awa’ like a flower nipped by the early

frost, and this day we laid her in the earth.

“After the funeral was ower, and the mourners were all gone, I stood

beside her grave, thinking ower the days of my boyhood, when she and I

were happy weans, an’ used to pu’ the gowans together, on the heathery

hills o’ dear auld Scotland. An’ I tried in vain to understan’ the

mysterious providence o’ God, who had stricken her who seemed sae gude

and pure, an’ spared the like o’ me, who was mair deservin’ o’ his

wrath, when I heard a deep groan, an’ I saw Willie Robertson standing

near me beside the grave.

“‘Ye may as weel spare your grief, noo,’ said I, for I felt hard toward

him, an’ rejoice that the weary is at rest.’

“‘It was I murdered her,’ said he, ‘an’ the thought will haunt me to my

last day. Did she remember me on her death-bed?’

“‘Her thoughts were only ken’d by Him who reads the secrets of a’

hearts, Willie. Her end was peace, an’ her Saviour’s blessed name was

the last sound upon her lips. But if ever woman died fra’ a broken

heart, there she lies.’

“‘Oh, Jeanie!’ he cried, mine ain darling Jennie! my blessed lammie! I

was na’ worthy o’ yer love—my heart, too, is breaking. To bring ye back

aince mair, I wud lay me down an’ dee!’

“An’ he flung himsel’ upon the grave, and embraced the fresh clods, and

greeted like a child.

“When he grew more calm, we had a long conversation about the past, and

truly I believe that the man was not in his right senses when he married

yon wife; at ony rate, he is not lang for this world; he has fretted the

flesh aff his banes, an’ before many months are ower, his heid will lie

as low as puir Jeanie Burns’s.”

* * * * *

=THE LAST HOUR OF SAPPHO.=

=BY E. ANNA LEWIS.=

THE PROMONTORY OF LEUCADIA.

This is the spot—’tis here tradition says,

That hopeless love from this high towering rook

Leaped headlong to oblivion, or to death.

Oh, ’tis a giddy height! my dizzy head

Swims at the precipice!—’tis death to fall.

Southey.

My life is in its last hour . . . .

——————farewell, ye opening heavens!

Look not upon me thus reproachfully—

Ye were not meant for me—earth! take these atoms!

_Manfred._

I.

The sun was sinking from soft Hella’s shore,

Yet lingering still, as if he loved to pour

His beams o’er towers and temples then sublime,

But mouldering now beneath the tooth of Time;

To kiss the sloping hills, and myrtle boughs,

And flowers, and streams, and Lesbian maiden’s brows,

As they were warbling ’long the sultry vale

Like blithesome birds, or lisping some love tale:

Slowly he sunk, while far the deep waves rolled

Beneath his fiery track, like molten gold;

The spire, and minaret from the distant dome,

And castle hoar, and fane, and royal home;

The olive grove, the dark majestic palm,

The cypress sadd’ning in the pensive calm,

And in the liquid distance many an isle

Gleamed in his yellow beams and parting smile;

And there the lowing herds adown the hill

Were winding to their homes by glade and rill;

The weary peasants by their cabin door

To their shrill pipes their simple idyls pour;

Maidens reclining ’neath the spreading trees,

Bathe their dark brows in the refreshing breeze,

Send their wild mirth along the vales afar,

And greet with glowing eyes the evening star—

O, who would deem at such soft twilight time

Sorrow could rear her throne in that delightful clime.

II.

High on Leucadia’s famed and jutting rock,

Whose rugged base doth scorn the fearful shock

Of ocean’s waves, half-veiled in evening shade,

Sat Lesbian Sappho all for death arrayed:

Around her beauteous form her tunic flung,

And her dark tresses long and flowing hung

Down to the rock, steeped in the briny dew,

And gently waving as the breezes blew

Along the lea. One small hand held her lute,

The other rested on its strings all mute

As they had never breathed one thrilling song

Of fervent love, or anguish cherished long.

Her swollen eyes, dejected, had not wept,

Though her past life in one dark tissue swept

Before her now—“I would sing one song more—

One wild, undying strain, ere life be o’er;

And I would gather in this latest theme

My sufferings—my heart’s benighted dream,

This fierce, consuming flame that racks my soul,

So that when Phaon glances o’er the scroll

I leave, my fate may flash upon his heart

Swift as from clouds the long pent lightnings start:—

Awake, my soul! nor yet within me die!

Draw back the veil from thy deep agony;

And chant but one song more—one sad farewell

To love and life:—oh! breathe in it thy knell!

Thy requiem—a dagger make each tone—

To pierce false Phaon’s heart when I am gone!”

She said; then swept its straining chords—but fleet

As struck, her lute fell shattered at her feet.

She gazed upon it as it quivering lay,

And felt that thus her hopes had ever passed away.

III.

Upon that melting scene, those glowing skies.

She cast around her sad and swimming eyes,

And to them breathed one silent, long farewell;

For in her earlier years they held a spell

Upon her lute, and she had of them sung

Ere darker passions had her bosom wrung.

Turning far thence, she gazed across the sea.

To where young Phaon dwelt—bright Sicily;

Then her heart swelled—to every wo awake.

And beat the narrow cage it could not break—

“Yes—yes—inconstant Phaon! thou art there

Rejoicing, heedless of my lone despair—

I see thee in the laurel-grove—thy noble form

Move on—a maiden hanging on thine arm,

And drinking thy sweet words, erst breathed to me—

Forsake me, reason—thought—and memory!—

I see thee in the gay Sicilian dance,

Bending upon the fair thy tender glance;

Where jewels gleam, and where soft beauty glows;

The song swells high, the crowned goblet flows;

Thy smile—my heart’s once light upon thy brow;

I see thee by a beauteous maiden now—

Love’s fickle vows—thy witching flatteries hear,

As thou dost breathe them in her willing ear.

O misery! why am I thus awake?

Sad heart of mine, oh! wilt thou never break?

There’s but one remedy far such deep wo;

A fearful antidote—but be it so!

And must I go?—from thee no farewell sigh;

No word to soothe my last keen agony;

No smile to cheer me in the hour of death?—

Oh! for some power, swift as the tempest’s breath,

To catch my dying shriek as I depart,

And ring it as a death-knell in thy heart.

And yet I would not chide thee, Phaon. No!

But I would wake thee to a sense of wo,

And all the misery that thou hast wrought,

And why a home beneath the waves I sought,

When thou wast far away: may peace be thine!

The gods preserve thee from a fate like mine!

The quick and fevered pulse, the tears that blind,

The heart’s dark void, the canker of the mind;

And if to ’parted spirits power be given,

To leave the high abode they hold in heaven,

Oh, I will guide thy footsteps from all wo,

Thy guardian angel be while lingering here below.

IV.

Phaon, thou wast the fond reality

Of my youth’s cherished dream—the phantasy

That hath beguiled me from my earliest days.

Luring me on—the theme of all my lays,

The pole-star of my heart in grief or joy.

The day-spring of my life, my Deity!

That I might win thy love, and make thee mine—

O dream too pure, too heavenly, too divine

For earth!—I’ve toiled through long and weary years,

In hours I stole from sleep and life’s dull cares,

And earned a laurel for my fading brow,

That will not wither like thy fragile vow;—

Yes, I have swept my lyre through Lesbian isles,

Till it has won from kings their softest smiles;

And royal dames have worshiped where I trod,

As there had been enshrined their favorite god;

The proud have sought my hand—the high of birth

Have knelt to me, as I were not of earth;

But these are nothing, since they fail to move

Thy heart, and gain for me thy constant love.

This was the die on which I staked my all.

And I, alas! have lost, and perish in thy thrall.

V.

And now, to thee, thou wild and mighty sea!

Terrific emblem of futurity!

That in thy restless might dost round me roll,

And chafe thyself like my own troubled soul;

Upon whose fickle bosom none can trace

The pathways of the dead unto their place

Of endless rest. From blighting storms of life,

From my own heart’s corroding fires and strife—

The flame that hath no sure relief but death,

I come to seek for peace, thy waves beneath.

Ope now thy breast, and hide forever there

My lifeless form—my fondness and despair!”

She said, then drew her robe around her close,

And calmly as reclining to repose

At eventide, from that tremendous height,

Headlong descended to eternal night,

On sea-weed beds to rest in slumbers sweet,

The boundless main her tomb, the waves her winding-sheet.

* * * * *

=NINE O’CLOCK.=

The night of the 30th of June, 1783, is memorable in the prison annals

of Paris, as the last night in confinement of the leaders of the famous

Girondin party in the first French Revolution. On the morning of the

31st, the twenty-one deputies, who represented the department of the

Gironde, were guillotined, to make way for Robespierre and the Reign of

Terror.

With these men fell the last revolutionists of that period, who shrank

from founding a republic on massacre; who recoiled from substituting for

a monarchy of corruption, a monarchy of bloodshed. The elements of their

defeat lay as much in themselves, as in the events of their time. They

were not, as a party, true to their own convictions; they temporised;

they fatally attempted to take a middle course amid the terrible

emergencies of a terrible epoch, and they fell—fell before worse men,

because those men were in earnest.

Condemned to die, the Girondins submitted nobly to their fate; their

great glory was the glory of their deaths. The speech of one of them, on

hearing his sentence pronounced, was a prophecy of the future, fulfilled

to the letter.

“_I_ die,” he said to the Jacobin judges, the creatures of Robespierre,

who tried him, “_I_ die at a time when the people have lost their

reason: _you_ will die on the day when they recover it.”

Valaze was the only member of the condemned party who displayed a

momentary weakness; he stabbed himself on hearing his sentence

pronounced. But the blow was not mortal—he died on the scaffold, and

died bravely with the rest.

On the night of the 30th, the Girondists held their famous banquet in

the prison; celebrated, with the ferocious stoicism of the time, their

last social meeting before, the morning on which they were to die. Other

men, besides the twenty-one, were present at this supper of the

condemned. They were prisoners who held Girondin opinions, but whose

names were not illustrious enough for history to preserve. Though

sentenced to confinement, they were not sentenced to death. Some of

their number, who had protested most boldly against the condemnation of

the deputies, were ordered to witness the execution on the morrow, as a

timely example to terrify them into submission. More than this,

Robespierre and his colleagues did not as yet venture to attempt: the

Reign of Terror was a cautious reign at starting.

The supper-table of the prison was spread: the guests, twenty-one of

their number stamped already with the seal of death, were congregated at

the last Girondin banquet: toast followed toast; the _Marseillaise_ was

sung; the desperate triumph of the feast was rising fast to its climax,

when a new and ominous subject of conversation was started at the lower

end of the table, and spread electrically, almost in a moment, to the

top.

This subject—by whom originated no one knew—was simply a question as

to the hour in the morning at which the execution was to take place.

Every one of the prisoners appeared to be in ignorance on this point;

and the gaolers either could not, or would not enlighten them. Until the

cart for the condemned rolled into the prison-yard, not one of the

Girondins could tell whether he was to be called out to the guillotine

soon after sunrise, or not till near noon.

This uncertainty was made a topic for discussion, or for jesting on all

sides. It was eagerly seized on as a pretext for raising to the highest

pitch the ghastly animation and hilarity of the evening. In some

quarters, the recognized hour of former executions was quoted, as a

precedent sure to be followed by the executioners of the morrow; in

others, it was asserted that Robespierre and his party would purposely

depart from established customs in this, as in previous instances.

Dozens of wild schemes were suggested for guessing the hour, by

fortune-telling rules on the cards; bets were offered and accepted among

the prisoners who were not condemned to death, and witnessed in stoical

mockery by the prisoners who were. Jests were exchanged about early

rising and hurried toilets: in short, every man contributed an

assertion, a contradiction, or a witticism to keep up the new topic of

conversation, with one solitary exception. That exception was the

Girondin Duprat, one of the deputies who was sentenced to die by the

guillotine.

He was a younger man than the majority of his brethren, and was

personally remarkable by his pale, handsome, melancholy face, and his

reserved yet gentle manners. Throughout the evening he had spoken but

rarely; there was something of the silence and serenity of a martyr in

his demeanor. That he feared death as little as any of his companions

was plainly visible in his bright steady eye; in his unchanging

complexion; in his firm, calm voice, when he occasionally addressed

those who happened to be near him. But he was evidently out of place at

the banquet; his temperament was reflective, his disposition serious;

feasts were at no time a sphere in which he was calculated to shine.

His taciturnity, while the hour of the execution was under discussion,

had separated him from most of those with whom he sat, at the lower end

of the table. They edged up toward the top, where the conversation was

most general and most animated. One of his friends, however, still kept

his place by Duprat’s side, and thus questioned him anxiously, but in

low tones, on the cause of his immovable silence—

“Are you the only man of the company, Duprat, who has neither a guess

nor a joke to make about the time of the execution?”

“I never joke, Marigny,” was the answer given, with a slight smile which

had something of the sarcastic in it; “and as for guessing at the time

of the execution, I never guess at things which I _know_.”

“Know! You know the hour of the execution? Then why not communicate your

knowledge to your friends around you?”

“Because not one of them would believe what I said.”

“But, surely, you could prove it. Somebody must have told you?”

“Nobody has told me.”

“You have seen some private letter, then; or you have managed to get

sight of the execution-order; or—”

“Spare your conjectures, Marigny. I have not read, as I have not been

told, what is the hour at which we are to die to-morrow.”.

“Then how on earth can you possibly know it?”

“I do not know when the execution will begin, or when it will end—I

only know that it will be _going on_ at nine o’clock to-morrow morning.

Out of the twenty-one who are to suffer death, one will be guillotined

exactly at that hour. Whether he will be the first whose head falls, or

the last, I cannot tell.”

“And pray who may this man be, who is to die exactly at nine o’clock? Of

course, prophetically knowing so much, you know that?”

“I _do_ know it. I am the man whose death by the guillotine will take

place exactly at the hour I have mentioned.”

“You said just now, Duprat, that you never joked. Do you expect me to

believe that what you have just spoken is spoken in earnest?”

“I repeat that I never joke, and I answer that I expect you to believe

me. I know the hour at which my death will take place to-morrow, just as

certainly as I know the fact of my own existence to-night.”

“But how? My dear friend, can you really lay claim to supernatural

intuition, in this eighteenth century of the world, in this renowned Age

of Reason?”

“No two men, Marigny, understand that word, supernatural, exactly in the

same sense: you and I differ about its meaning; or, in other words,

differ about the real distinction between the doubtful and the true. We

will not discuss the subject: I wish to be understood, at the outset, as

laying claim to no superior intuitions whatever; but I tell you, at the

same time, that even in this Age of Reason, I have reason for what I

have said. My father and my brother both died at nine o’clock in the

morning, and were both warned very strangely of their deaths. I am the

last of my family: I was warned last night, as they were warned; and I

shall die by the guillotine, as they died in their beds, at the fatal

hour of nine.”

“But, Duprat, why have I never heard of this before? As your eldest and,

I am sure, your dearest friend, I thought you had long since trusted me

with all your secrets?”

“And you shall know this secret: I only kept it from you till the time

when I could be certain that my death would substantiate my words, to

the very letter. Come—you are as bad supper-company as I am: let us

slip away from the table unperceived, while our friends are all engaged

in conversation. Yonder end of the hall is dark and quiet—we can speak

there uninterruptedly, for some hours to come.”

He led the way from the supper-table, followed by Marigny. Arrived at

one of the darkest and most retired corners of the great hall of the

prison, Duprat spoke again—

“I believe, Marigny,” he said, “that you are one of those who have been

ordered by our tyrants to witness my execution, and the execution of my

brethren, as a warning spectacle for an enemy to the Jacobin cause?”

“My dear, dear friend, it is too true: I am ordered to witness the

butchery which I cannot prevent—our last awful parting will be at the

foot of the scaffold. I am among the victims who are spared—mercilessly

spared—for a little while yet.”

“Say the martyrs! We die as martyrs—calmly, hopefully, innocently. When

I am placed under the guillotine to-morrow morning, listen, my friend,

for the striking of the church clocks—listen for the hour while you

look your last on me! Until that time suspend your judgement on the

strange chapter of family history which I am now about to relate.”

Marigny took his friend’s hand, and promised compliance with the

request. Duprat then began as follows—

“You knew my brother Alfred when he was quite a youth, and you knew

something of what people flippantly termed the eccentricities of his

character. He was three years my junior; but, from childhood, he showed

far less of a child’s innate levity and happiness than his elder

brother. He was noted for his seriousness and thoughtfulness as a boy;

showed little inclination for a boy’s usual lessons, and less still for

a boy’s usual recreations—in short, he was considered by every body (my

father included) as deficient in intellect; as a vacant dreamer, and an

inveterate idler, whom it was hopeless to improve. Our tutor tried to

lead him to various studies, and tried in vain. It was the same when the

cultivation of his mind was given up, and the cultivation of his body

was next attempted. The fencing-master could make nothing of him; and

the dancing-master, after the first three lessons, resigned in despair.

Seeing that it was useless to set others to teach him, my father made a

virtue of necessity, and left him, if he chose, to teach himself.

“To the astonishment of every one, he had not been long consigned to his

own guidance, when he was discovered in the library, reading every old

treatise on astrology which he could lay his hands on. He had rejected

all useful knowledge for the most obsolete of obsolete sciences—the old

abandoned delusion of divination by the stars! My father laughed

heartily over the strange study to which his idle son had at last

applied himself, but made no attempt to oppose his new caprice, and

sarcastically presented him with a telescope on his next birthday. I

should remind you here, of what you may perhaps have forgotten, that my

father was a philosopher of the Voltaire school, who believed that the

summit of human wisdom was to arrive at the power of sneering at all

enthusiasms, and doubting of all truths. Apart from his philosophy, he

was a kind hearted, easy man, of quick rather than of profound

intelligence. He could see nothing in my brother’s new occupation but

the evidence of a new idleness; a fresh caprice, which would be

abandoned in a few months. My father was not the man to appreciate those

yearnings toward the poetical and the spiritual which were part of

Alfred’s temperament, and which gave to his peculiar studies of the

stars and their influences, a certain charm altogether unconnected with

the more practical attractions of scientific investigation.

“This idle caprice of my brother’s, as my father insisted on terming it,

had lasted more than a twelve-month, when there occurred the first of a

series of mysterious and—as I consider them—supernatural events, with

all of which Alfred was very remarkably connected. I was myself a

witness of the strange circumstance which I am now about to relate to

you.

“One day—my brother being then sixteen years of age—I happened to go

into my father’s study during his absence, and found Alfred there,

standing close to a window which looked into the garden. I walked up to

him, and observed a curious expression of vacancy and rigidity in his

face, especially in his eyes. Although I knew him to be subject to what

are called fits of absence, I still thought it rather extraordinary that

he never moved, and never noticed me when I was close to him. I took his

hand, and asked if he was unwell. His flesh felt quite cold: neither my

touch nor my voice produced the smallest sensation in him. Almost at the

same moment, when I noticed this, I happened to be looking accidentally

toward the garden. There was my father walking along one of the paths,

and there by his side, walking with him, was _another Alfred_!—Another;

yet exactly the same as the Alfred by whose side I was standing, whose

hand I still held in mine!

“Thoroughly panic-stricken, I dropped his hand, and uttered a cry of

terror. At the loud sound of my voice, the statue-like presence before

me immediately began to show signs of animation. I looked round again at

the garden. The figure of my brother which I had beheld there was gone,

and I saw to my horror that my father was looking for it—looking in all

directions for the companion (spectre or human being) of his walk.

“When I turned toward Alfred once more, he had (if I may so express it)

come to life again, and was asking—with his usual gentleness of manner

and kindness of voice—why I was looking so pale. I evaded the question

by making some excuse, and in my turn inquired of him how long he had

been in my father’s study.

“‘Surely you ought to know best,’ he answered, with a laugh, ‘for you

must have been here before me. It is not many minutes ago since I was

walking in the garden with—’

“Before he could complete the sentence my father entered the room.

“‘Oh! here you are, Master Alfred,’ said he. ‘May I ask for what purpose

you took it into your wise head to vanish in that extraordinary manner?

Why you slipped away from me in an instant, while I was picking a

flower? On my word, sir, you’re a better player at hide-and-seek than

your brother—he would only have run into the shrubbery, you have

managed to run in here, though how you did it in the time passes my poor

comprehension. I was not a moment picking the flower, yet in that moment

you were gone!’

“Alfred glanced suddenly and searchingly at me: his face became deadly

pale; and, without speaking a word, he hurried from the room.

“‘Can you explain this?’ said my father, looking very much astonished.

“I hesitated a moment, and then told him what I had seen. He took a

pinch of snuff—a favorite habit with him when he was going to be

sarcastic, in imitation of Voltaire.

“‘One visionary in a family is enough,’ said he: ‘I recommend you not to

turn yourself into a bad imitation of your brother Alfred! Send your

ghost after me, my good boy! I am going back into the garden, and should

like to see him again.’

“Ridicule, even much sharper than this, would have had little effect on

me. If I was certain of any thing in the world, I was certain that I had

seen my brother in the study—nay, more, had touched him—and equally

certain that I had seen his double—his exact similitude in the garden.

As far as any man could know that he was in possession of his own

senses, I knew myself to be in possession of mine. Left alone to think

over what I had beheld, I felt a supernatural terror creeping through

me—a terror which increased when I recollected that, on one or two

occasions, friends had said they had seen Alfred out of doors, when we

all knew him to be at home. These statements—which my father had

laughed at, and had taught me to laugh at, either as a trick, or a

delusion on the part of others—now recurred to my memory as startling

corroborations of what I had just seen myself. The solitude of the study

oppressed me in a manner which I cannot describe. I left the apartment

to seek Alfred, determined to question him with all possible caution, on

the subject of his strange trance, and his sensations at the moment when

I had awakened him from it.

“I found him in his bed-room, still pale, and now very thoughtful. As

the first words in reference to the scene in the study passed my lips,

he started violently, and entreated me, with very unusual warmth of

speech and manner, never to speak to him on that subject again—never,

if I had any love or regard for him! Of course, I complied with his

request. The mystery, however, was not destined to end here.

“About two months after the event which I have just related, we had

arranged, one evening, to go to the theatre. My father had insisted that

Alfred should be of the party, otherwise he would certainly have

declined accompanying us; for he had no inclination whatever for public

amusements of any kind. However, with his usual docility, he prepared to

obey my father’s desire, by going up-stairs to put on his evening-dress.

It was winter time, so he was obliged to take a candle with him.

“We waited in the drawing-room for his return a very long time, so long,

that my father was on the point of sending up-stairs to remind him of

the lateness of the hour, when Alfred reappeared without the candle

which he had taken with him from the room. The ghastly alteration that

had passed over his face—the hideous, death-look that distorted his

features I shall never forget—I shall see it to-morrow on the scaffold!

“Before either my father or I could utter a word, my brother said—‘I

have been taken suddenly ill; but I am better now. Do you still wish me

to go to the theatre?’

“‘Certainly not, my dear Alfred,’ answered my father; ‘we must send for

the doctor immediately.’

“‘Pray do not call in the doctor, sir; he would be of no use. I will

tell you why, if you will let me speak to you alone.’

“My father, looking seriously alarmed, signed to me to leave the room.

For more than half an hour I remained absent, suffering almost

unendurable suspense and anxiety on my brother’s account. When I was

recalled, I observed that Alfred was quite calm, though still deadly

pale. My father’s manner displayed an agitation which I had never

observed in it before. He rose from his chair when I re-entered the

room, and left me alone with my brother.

“‘Promise me,’ said Alfred, in answer to my entreaties to know what had

happened, ‘promise that you will not ask me to tell you more than my

father has permitted me to tell. It is his desire that I should keep

certain things a secret from you.’

“I gave the required promise, but gave it most unwillingly. Alfred then

proceeded.

“‘When I left you to go and dress for the theatre, I felt a sense of

oppression all over me, which I cannot describe. As soon as I was alone,

it seemed as if some part of the life within me was slowly wasting away.

I could hardly breathe the air around me, big drops of perspiration

burst out on my forehead, and then a feeling of terror seized me which I

was utterly unable to control. Some of those strange fancies of seeing

my mother’s spirit, which used to influence me at the time of her death,

came back again to my mind. I ascended the stairs slowly and painfully,

not daring to look behind me, for I heard—yes, heard!—something

following me. When I had got into my room, and had shut the door, I

began to recover my self-possession a little. But the sense of

oppression was still as heavy on me as ever, when I approached the

wardrobe to get out my clothes. Just as I stretched forth my hand to

turn the key, I saw, to my horror, the two doors of the wardrobe opening

of themselves, opening slowly and silently: The candle went out at the

same moment, and the whole inside of the wardrobe became to me like a

great mirror, with a bright light shining in the middle of it. Out of

that light there came a figure, the exact counterpart of myself. Over

its breast hung an open scroll, and on that I read the warning of my own

death, and a revelation of the destinies of my father and his race. Do

not ask me what were the words on the scroll, I have given my promise

not to tell you. I may only say that, as soon as I had read all, the

room grew dark, and the vision disappeared.’

“Forgetful of my promise, I entreated Alfred to repeat to me the words

on the scroll. He smiled sadly, and refused to speak on the subject any

more. I next sought out my father, and begged him to divulge the secret.

Still sceptical to the last, he answered that one diseased imagination

in the family was enough, and that he would not permit me to run the

risk of being injected by Alfred’s mental malady. I passed the whole of

that day and the next in a state of agitation and alarm which nothing

could tranquilize. The sight I had seen in the study gave a terrible

significance to the little that my brother had told me. I was uneasy if

he was a moment out of my sight. There was something in his

expression—calm and even cheerful as it was—which made me dread the

worst.

“On the morning of the third day after the occurrence I have just

related, I rose very early, after a sleepless night, and went into

Alfred’s bed-room. He was awake, and welcomed me with more than usual

affection and kindness. As I drew a chair to his bedside, he asked me to

get pen, ink and paper, and write down something from his dictation. I

obeyed, and found to my terror and distress, that the idea of death was

more present to his imagination than ever. He employed me in writing a

statement of his wishes in regard to the disposal of all his own little

possessions as keepsakes to be given, after he was no more, to my

father, myself, the house-servants, and one or two of his most intimate

friends. Over and over again I entreated him to tell me whether he

really believed that his death was near. He invariably replied that I

should soon know, and then led the conversation to indifferent topics.

As the morning advanced, he asked to see my father, who came,

accompanied by the doctor, the latter having been in attendance for the

last two days.

“Alfred took my father’s hand, and begged his forgiveness of any

offense, any disobedience of which he had ever been guilty. Then,

reaching out his other hand, and taking mine, as I stood on the opposite

side of the bed, he asked what the time was. A clock was placed on the

mantel-piece of the room, but not in a position in which he could see it

as he now lay. I turned round to look at the dial, and answered that it

was just on the stroke of nine.

“‘Farewell!’ said Alfred, calmly; ‘in this world, farewell for ever!’

“The next instant the clock struck. I felt his fingers tremble in mine,

then grow quite still. The doctor seized a hand-mirror that lay on the

table, and held it over his lips. He was dead—dead, as the last chime

of the hour echoed through the awful silence of the room!

“I pass over the first days of our affliction. You, who have suffered

the loss of a beloved sister, can well imagine their misery. I pass over

these days, and pause for a moment at the time when we could speak with

some calmness and resignation on the subject of our bereavement. On the

arrival of that period, I ventured, in conversation with my father, to

refer to the vision which had been seen by our dear Alfred in his

bed-room, and to the prophecy which he described himself as having read

upon the supernatural scroll.

“Even yet my father persisted in his scepticism; but now, as it seemed

to me, more because he was afraid, than because he was unwilling, to

believe. I again recalled to his memory what I myself had seen in the

study. I asked him to recollect how certain Alfred had been beforehand,

and how fatally right, about the day and hour of his death. Still I

could get but one answer; my brother had died of a nervous disorder (the

doctor said so); his imagination had been diseased from his childhood;

there was only one way of treating the vision which he described himself

as having seen, and that was not to speak of it again between ourselves;

never to speak of it at all to our friends.

“We were sitting in the study during this conversation. It was evening.

As my father uttered the last words of his reply to me, I saw his eye

turn suddenly and uneasily toward the farther end of the room. In dead

silence, I looked in the same direction, and saw the door opening slowly

of itself. The vacant space beyond was filled with a bright, steady

glow, which hid all outer objects in the hall, and which I cannot

describe to you by likening it to any light that we are accustomed to

behold either by day or night. In my terror, I caught my father by the

arm, and asked him, in a whisper, whether he did not see something

extraordinary in the direction of the door-way?

“‘Yes,’ he answered, in tones as low as mine, ‘I see, or fancy I see, a

strange light. The subject on which we have been speaking has impressed

our feelings as it should not. Our nerves are still unstrung by the

shock of the bereavement we have suffered: our senses are deluding us.

Let us look away toward the garden.’

“‘But the opening of the door, father; remember the opening of the

door!’

“‘Ours is not the first door which has accidentally flown open of

itself.’

“‘Then why not shut it again?’

“‘Why not, indeed. I will close it at once.’ He rose, advanced a few

paces, then stopped, and came back to his place. ‘It is a warm evening,’

he said, avoiding my eyes, which were eagerly fixed on him, ‘the room

will be all the cooler if the door is suffered to remain open.’

“His face grew quite pale as he spoke. The light lasted for a few

minutes longer, then suddenly disappeared. For the rest of the evening

my father’s manner was very much altered. He was silent and thoughtful,

and complained of a feeling of oppression and langor, which he tried to

persuade himself was produced by the heat of the weather. At an

unusually early hour he retired to his room.

“The next morning, when I got down stairs, I found, to my astonishment,

that the servants were engaged in preparations for the departure of

somebody from the house. I made inquiries of one of them who was

hurriedly packing a trunk. ‘My master, sir, starts for Lyons the first

thing this morning,’ was the reply. I immediately repaired to my

father’s room, and found him there with an open letter in his hand,

which he was reading. His face, as he looked up at me on my entrance,

expressed the most violent emotions of apprehension and despair.

“‘I hardly know whether I am awake or dreaming; whether I am the dupe of

a terrible delusion, or the victim of a supernatural reality more

terrible still,’ he said, in low, awe-struck tones as I approached him.

‘One of the prophecies which Alfred told me in private that he had read

upon the scroll, has come true! He predicted the loss of the bulk of my

fortune—here is the letter, which informs me that the merchant at

Lyons, in whose hands my money was placed, has become a bankrupt. Can

the occurrence of this ruinous calamity be the chance fulfillment of a

mere guess? Or was the doom of my family really revealed to my dead son?

I go to Lyons immediately to know the truth: this letter may have been

written under false information; it may be the work of an impostor. And

yet, Alfred’s prediction—I shudder to think of it!’

“‘The light, father! I exclaimed; ‘the light we saw last night in the

study!’

“‘Hush! don’t speak of it! Alfred said that I should be warned of the

truth of the prophecy, and of its immediate fulfillment, by the shining

of the same supernatural light that he had seen—I tried to disbelieve

what I beheld last night—I hardly know whether I dare believe it even

now! This prophecy is not the last; there are others yet to be

fulfilled—but let us not speak, let us not think of them! I must start

at once for Lyons; I must be on the spot, if this horrible news is true,

to save what I can from the wreck. The letter—give me back the

letter!—I must go directly!’

“He hurried from the room. I followed him; and, with some difficulty,

obtained permission to be the companion of his momentous journey. When

we arrived at Lyons, we found that the statement in the letter was true.

My father’s fortune was gone: a mere pittance, derived from a small

estate that had belonged to my mother, was all that was left to us.

“My father’s health gave way under this misfortune. He never referred

again to Alfred’s prediction, and I was afraid to mention the subject;

but I saw that it was affecting his mind quite as painfully as the loss

of his property. Over, and over again, he checked himself very strangely

when he was on the point of speaking to me about my brother. I saw that

there was some secret pressing heavily on his mind, which he was afraid

to disclose to me. It was useless to ask for his confidence. His temper

had become irritable under disaster; perhaps, also, under the dread

uncertainties which were now evidently tormenting him in secret. My

situation was a very sad, and a very dreary one, at that time: I had no

remembrances of the past that were not mournful and affrighting

remembrances; I had no hopes for the future that were not darkened by a

vague presentiment of troubles and perils to come; and I was expressly

forbidden by my father to say a word about the terrible events which had

cast an unnatural gloom over my youthful career, to any of the friends

(yourself included) whose counsel and whose sympathy might have guided

and sustained me in the day of trial.

“We returned to Paris; sold our house there, and retired to live on the

small estate to which I have referred, as the last possession left us.

We had not been many days in our new abode, when my father imprudently

exposed himself to a heavy shower of rain, and suffered, in consequence,

from a violent attack of cold. This temporary malady was not dreaded by

the medical attendant; but it was soon aggravated by a fever, produced

as much by the anxiety and distress of mind from which he continued to

suffer, as by any other cause. Still the doctor gave hope; but still he

grew daily worse—so much worse, that I removed my bed into his room,

and never quitted him night or day.

“One night I had fallen asleep, overpowered by fatigue and anxiety, when

I was awakened by a cry from my father. I instantly trimmed the light,

and ran to his side. He was sitting up in bed, with his eyes fixed on

the door, which had been left ajar to ventilate the room. I saw nothing

in that direction, and asked what was the matter. He murmured some

expressions of affection toward me, and begged me to sit by his bedside

till the morning; but gave no definite answer to my question. Once or

twice I thought he wandered a little; and I observed that he

occasionally moved his hand under the pillow, as if searching for

something there. However, when the morning came, he appeared to be quite

calm and self-possessed. The doctor arrived; and pronouncing him to be

better, retired to the dressing-room to write a prescription. The moment

his back was turned, my father laid his weak hand on my arm, and

whispered faintly:—‘Last night I saw the supernatural light again—the

second prediction—true, true—my death this time—the same hour as

Alfred’s—nine—nine o’clock, this morning.’ He paused a moment through

weakness; then added:—‘Take that sealed paper—under the pillow—when I

am dead, read it—now go into the dressing-room—my watch is there—I

have heard the church clock strike eight; let me see how long it is now

till nine—go—go quickly!’

“Horror-stricken, moving and acting like a man in a trance, I silently

obeyed him. The doctor was still in the dressing-room: despair made me

catch eagerly at any chance of saving my father; I told his medical

attendant what I had just heard, and entreated advice and assistance

without delay.

“‘He is a little delirious,’ said the doctor—‘don’t be alarmed: we can

cheat him out of his dangerous idea, and so perhaps save his life. Where

is the watch?’ (I produced it)—‘See: it is ten minutes to nine. I will

put back the hands one hour; that will give good time for a composing

draught to operate. There! take him the watch, and let him see the false

time with his own eyes. He will be comfortably asleep before the

hour-hand gets round again to nine.’

“I went back with the watch to my father’s bedside. ‘Too slow,’ he

murmured, as he looked at the dial—‘too slow by an hour—the church

clock—I counted eight.’

“‘Father! dear father! you are mistaken,’ I cried. ‘_I_ counted also; it

was only seven.’

“‘Only seven!’ he echoed faintly, ‘another hour, then—another hour to

live!’ He evidently believed what I had said to him. In spite of the

fatal experiences of the past, I now ventured to hope the best from our

stratagem, as I resumed my place by his side.

“The doctor came in; but my father never noticed him. He kept his eyes

fixed on the watch, which lay between us, on the coverlet. When the

minute hand was within a few seconds of indicating the false hour of

eight, he looked round at me, murmured very feebly and doubtingly,

‘another hour to live!’ and then gently closed his eyes. I looked at the

watch, and saw that it was just eight o’clock, according to our

alteration of the right time. At the same moment, I heard the doctor,

whose hand had been on my father’s pulse, exclaim, ‘My God! it’s

stopped! He has died at nine o’clock!’

“The fatality, which no human stratagem or human science could turn

aside, was accomplished! I was alone in the world!

“In the solitude of our little cottage, on the day of my father’s

burial, I opened the sealed letter, which he had told me to take from

the pillow of his death-bed. In preparing to read it, I knew that I was

preparing for the knowledge of my own doom; but I neither trembled nor

wept. I was beyond all grief: despair, such as mine was then, is calm

and self-possessed to the last.

“The letter ran thus;—‘After your father and your brother have fallen

under the fatality that pursues our house, it is right, my dear son,

that you should be warned how you are included in the last of the

predictions which still remains unaccomplished. Know, then, that the

final lines read by our dear Alfred on the scroll, prophesied that you

should die, as we have died, at the fatal hour of nine; but by a bloody

and violent death, the day of which was not foretold. My beloved boy!

you know not, you never will know, what I suffered in the possession of

this terrible secret, as the truth of the former prophecies forced

itself more and more plainly on my mind! Even now, as I write, I hope

against all hope; believe vainly and desperately against all experience,

that this last, worst doom may be avoided. Be cautious; be patient; look

well before you at each step of your career. The fatality by which you

are threatened is terrible; but there is a Power above fatality; and

before that Power my spirit and my child’s spirit now pray for you.

Remember this when your heart is heavy, and your path through life grows

dark. Remember that the better world is still before you, the world

where we shall all meet! Farewell!’

“When I first read those lines, I read them with the gloomy, immovable

resignation of the Eastern fatalists; and that resignation never left me

afterward. Here, in this prison, I feel it, calm as ever. I bowed

patiently to my doom, when it was only predicted: I bow to it as

patiently now, when it is on the eve of accomplishment. You have often

wondered, my friend, at the tranquil, equable sadness of my manner:

after what I have just told you, can you wonder any longer?

“But let me return for a moment to the past. Though I had no hope of

escaping the fatality which had overtaken my father and my brother, my

life, after my double bereavement, was the existence of all others which

might seem most likely to evade the accomplishment of my predicted doom.

Yourself and one other friend excepted, I saw no society; my walks were

limited to the cottage garden and the neighboring fields, and my

every-day, unvarying occupation was confined to that hard and resolute

course of study, by which alone I could hope to prevent my mind from

dwelling on what I had suffered in the past, or on what I might still be

condemned to suffer in the future. Never was there a life more quiet and

more uneventful than mine!

“You know how I awoke to an ambition, which irresistibly impelled me to

change this mode of existence. News from Paris penetrated even to my

obscure retreat, and disturbed my self-imposed tranquillity. I heard of

the last errors and weaknesses of Louis the Sixteenth; I heard of the

assembling of the States-General; and I knew that the French Revolution

had begun. The tremendous emergencies of that epoch drew men of all

characters from private to public pursuits, and made politics the

necessity rather than the choice of every Frenchman’s life. The great

change preparing for the country acted universally on individuals, even

to the humblest, and it acted on me.

“I was elected a deputy, more for the sake of the name I bore, than on

account of any little influence which my acquirements and my character

might have exercised in the neighborhood of my country abode. I removed

to Paris, and took my seat in the Chamber, little thinking at that time,

of the crime and the bloodshed to which our revolution, so moderate in

its beginning, would lead; little thinking that I had taken the first,

irretrievable step toward the bloody and the violent death which was

lying in store for me.

“Need I go on? You know how warmly I joined the Girondin party; you know

how we have been sacrificed; you know what the death is which I and my

brethren are to suffer to-morrow. On now ending, I repeat what I said at

the beginning:—Judge not of my narrative till you have seen with your

own eyes what really takes place in the morning. I have carefully

abstained from all comment, I have simply related events as they

happened, forbearing to add my own views of their significance, my own

ideas on the explanation of which they admit. You may believe us to have

been a family of nervous visionaries, witnesses of certain remarkable

contingencies; victims of curious, but not impossible chances, which we

have fancifully and falsely interpreted into supernatural events. I

leave you undisturbed in this conviction (if you really feel it;)

to-morrow you will think differently; to-morrow you will be an altered

man. In the meantime, remember what I now say, as you would remember my

dying words:—Last night I saw the supernatural radiance which warned my

father and my brother; and which warns me, that, whatever the time when

the execution begins, whatever the order in which the twenty-one

Girondins are chosen for death, I shall be the man who kneels under the

guillotine, as the clock strikes nine!”

* * * * *

It was morning. Of the ghastly festivities of the night no sign

remained. The prison-hall wore an altered look, as the twenty-one

condemned men (followed by those who were ordered to witness their

execution) were marched out to the carts appointed to take them from the

dungeon to the scaffold.

The sky was cloudless, the sun warm and brilliant, as the Girondin

leaders and their companions were drawn slowly through the streets to

the place of execution. Duprat and Marigny were placed in separate

vehicles: the contrast in their demeanor at that awful moment was

strongly marked. The features of the doomed man still preserved their

noble and melancholy repose; his glance was steady; his color never

changed. The face of Marigny, on the contrary, displayed the strongest

agitation; he was pale even to his lips. The terrible narrative he had

heard, the anticipation of the final and appalling proof by which its

truth was now to be tested, had robbed him, for the first time in his

life, of all his self-possession. Duprat had predicted truly; the morrow

had come, and he was an altered man already.

The carts drew up at the foot of the scaffold which was soon to be

stained with the blood of twenty-one human beings. The condemned

deputies mounted it; and ranged themselves at the end opposite the

guillotine. The prisoners who were to behold the execution remained in

their cart. Before Duprat ascended the steps, he took his friend’s hand

for the last time: “Farewell!” he said, calmly. “Farewell! I go to my

father and my brother! Remember my words of last night.”

With straining eyes, and bloodless cheeks, Marigny saw Duprat take his

position in the middle row of his companions, who stood in three ranks

of seven each. Then the awful spectacle of the execution began. After

the first seven deputies had suffered there was a pause; the horrible

traces of the judicial massacre were being removed. When the execution

proceeded, Duprat was the third taken from the middle rank of the

condemned. As he came forward, and stood for an instant erect under the

guillotine, he looked with a smile on his friend, and repeated in a

clear voice the word, “_Remember!_”—then bowed himself on the block.

The blood stood still at Marigny’s heart, as he looked and listened,

during the moment of silence that followed. That moment past, the church

clock of Paris struck. He dropped down on the cart, and covered his face

with his hands; for through the heavy beat of the hour he heard the fall

of the fatal steel.

* * * * *

“Pray, sir, was it nine or ten that struck just now?” said one of

Marigny’s fellow prisoners to an officer of the guard, who stood near

the cart.

The person addressed referred to his watch, and answered—“Nine

o’clock!”

* * * * *

=VIRGINIA DARE.=

=BY MRS. L. H. SIGOURNEY.=

[The first-born child of English parents in the Western World

was the granddaughter of Governor White, who planted a

short-lived colony at Roanoke, Virginia, in the year 1587.]

’Twas lovely in the deep greenwood

Of old Virginia’s glade,

Ere the sharp axe amid its boughs

A fearful chasm had made;

Long spikes of rich catalpa flowers

Hung pendent from the tree,

And the maqudia’s ample cup

O’erflowed with fragrance free;

And through the shades the antlered deer

Like fairy visions flew,

And mighty vines from tree to tree

Their wealth of clusters threw,

While wingéd odors from the hills

Reviving welcome bore,

To greet the stranger bands that come

From Albion’s distant shore.

Up rose their roofs in copse and dell,

Outpealed the laborer’s horn,

And graceful through the broken mould

Peered forth their tasseled corn:

While from one rose-encircled bower,

Hid in the nested grove,

Came, blending with the robin’s lay,

The lullaby of love.

There sang a mother to her babe—

A mother young and fair—

“No flower like thee adorns the vale,

O sweet Virginia Dare!

Thou art the lily of our love,

The forest’s sylph-like queen,

The first-born bud from Saxon stem

That this New World hath seen;

“Thy father’s axe in thicket rings,

To fell the kingly tree;

Thy grandsire sails o’er ocean-brine—

A gallant man is he!

And when once more, from England’s realm,

He comes with bounty rare,

A thousand gifts to thee he’ll bring,

Mine own Virginia Dare!”

As sweet that mother’s loving tones

Their warbled music shed,

As though in proud baronial hall,

O’er silken cradle-bed;

No more the pomps and gauds of life

Maintained their strong control,

For holy love’s new gift had shed

Fresh greenness o’er her soul.

And when the husband from his toil

Returned at closing day,

How dear to him the lowly home

Where all his treasures lay.

“O, Ellinor! ’tis naught to me,

The hardship or the storm,

While thus thy blessed smile I see,

And clasp our infant’s form.”

No secret sigh o’er pleasures lost

Convulsed their tranquil breast,

For where the pure affections dwell

The heart hath perfect rest.

So fled the Summer’s balmy prime,

The Autumn’s golden wing,

And Winter laid his hoary head

Upon the lap of Spring.

Yet oft, with wily, wary step,

The red-browed Indian crept

Close round his pale-faced neighbor’s home,

And listened while they slept;

But fierce Wingina, lofty chief,

Aloof, their movements eyed,

Nor courteous bowed his pluméd head,

Nor checked his haughty stride.

John White leaped from his vessel’s prow,

He had braved the boisterous sea,

And boldly rode the mountain-wave—

A stalwart man was he.

John White leaped from his vessel’s prow,

And joy was in his eye;

For his daughter’s smile had lured him on

Amid the stormiest sky.

Where were the roofs that flecked the green!

The smoke-wreaths curling high?

He calls—he shouts—the cherished names,

But Echo makes reply.

“Where art thou, Ellinor! my child!

And sweet Virginia Dare!

O, silver cloud, that cleaves the blue

Like angel’s wing—_say where!_

“Where is the glorious Saxon vine

We set so strong and fair?”

The stern gray rocks in mockery smiled,

And coldly answered “_where!_”

“Ho! flitting savage! stay thy step,

And tell—” but light as air

He vanished, and the falling stream

Responsive murmured—“_where!_”

So, o’er the ruined palisade,

The blackened threshold-stone,

The funeral of colonial hope,

That old man wept—alone!

And mournful rose his wild lament,

In accents of despair,

For the lost daughter of his love,

And young Virginia Dare.

* * * * *

=REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.=

_The Poetical Works of Fitz Greene Halleck. New Edition.

Redfield: Clinton Hall, New York._

This is a new and very beautiful edition, the most beautiful that has

ever been published, of one of the sweetest, most elaborately finished,

most expressive and original poets of America. No one can read Halleck,

without being at once impressed with the sense that he is a writer

entirely _sui generis_ and most peculiar; not merely imitating no one,

but resembling no one, and—

“Si liceat magnis componere parva”—

Like the notorious Andrew Jackson Allen, himself alone.

Mr. Bryant we have never heard accused of imitation; yet it is notorious

that his style, elaborate, didactic, stately, sometimes magniloquent,

sometimes magnificent, always as brightly polished and always as cold as

a Toledo rapier’s blade, always arousing admiration, and at times awe,

but rarely awakening sympathy, but never calling forth a tear, closely

resembles that of many English poets, none of them his inferior, the

most remarkable of whom are Thompson of the Seasons, and Young of the

Night Thoughts; and Wordsworth; and although I acquit him wholly of any

premeditated design to follow in any of their footsteps, I still hold it

as an undoubted truth, that unless those three great didacticians had

written before him, Bryant would not have written, at least as he has

written. Not that I design or desire to underrate his talent, or detract

from his well-earned laurels; for I admire him as a grand, calm, pure,

and at times almost sublime, English writer; but that no passage ever

caused me a thrill in the veins, a tear in the eye, or a flush on the

cheek; and that his want of honest human sympathies renders the report

of his fame greater than the reality of his popularity.

Longfellow, again, principally I believe from mere base malignity on the

part of his would-be critics, and vile envy of his superiority, has been

falsely accused of plagiarism, and most unjustly charged with copying

Keats, Shelley, and Tennyson, with the former two of whom he has nothing

whatever in common, while he resembles the latter only in the perfect

flow of his inimitable rhythm, and the really artificial, but most

seemingly inartificial, structure of his smooth versification; in all of

which he as far excels his supposed model, as he does in expression,

simplicity and force, not of diction only but of thought, and in the

fire of his quick and vivid fancy.

Of Halleck, on the contrary, though he alone has successfully followed

Byron in the half-lyric, half-comic vein of Don Juan and Fanny; even as

Byron alone followed that of Whistlecraft—though in the fineness of his

fancy, in the neat finish and epigrammatic turn of his antithetical

verses, in his playful wit, and felicitous turns of natural pathos, he

rivals if not equals Moore—it has never been said, never could be said,

that he resembles, much less copies, either Moore or Byron, or any other

poet of ancient times or modern.

The most observable characteristics of Halleck are the exquisite grace

with which he glides from the purest and sweetest sentiments into the

most delicate, yet most pungent wit; in the playfulness of his fancy;

the truth of his humanity; and the epigrammatic terseness of his smaller

compositions. Such as—

Green be the turf above thee

Friend of my better days!

None knew thee but to love thee,

None named thee but to praise—

An elegy of which it can be truly said, as of how few persons through

all time, that there is not one idea wanting, or one superfluous; not

one word that could be altered without injuring the beauty and force of

the ensemble.

The most frequently quoted of Mr. Halleck’s poems, are “The Death of

Bozzaris,” and “Alnwick Castle,” the latter perhaps the most generally

popular of all his writings. But, in my judgment, the best, beyond all

doubt, is “The Field of the Grounded Arms;” which, because it is

entirely beyond the low sphere of New York poetical criticism, as being

writ in unrhymed lyric lines, has been little praised or noticed, in

proportion to its real merits, which are of the highest.

The same exquisite power and felicity in the fitness of wording, noticed

above, of the lines “On the Death of Joseph Rodman Drake,” and the

terseness of phraseology, in which Mr. Halleck clearly surpasses every

contemporaneous poet, native or foreign, is here most conspicuous; as is

the perfect harmony, which causes unrhymed metric lines, which some

wiseacres would doubtless call rhythmic prose, to read melodious and

sonorous as the most perfect rhymed lyrics. My limits will not allow me

to quote this beautiful poem, breathing the true fire of honest and

impartial patriotism and love of country; and, as it is already long

before the public, and known to all judicious readers, I prefer to pass

on to a long extract from an unpublished poem on “Connecticut,” the

poet’s birth-place and heart’s home, a portion of which is now for the

first time suffered to see the light.

“Connecticut” is in our poet’s favorite measure, the decasyllabic stanza

of eight lines, and in his favorite vein, the serio-humorous style of

“Fanny.” I confess, for my own part, that I prefer the simple-serious to

the semi-comic semi-sentimental strain; for a sweet fall of pathos

melting into a dying close, and then abruptly terminated by a sarcasm or

a sneer, rather strikes me with a jarring violence, like that arising

from a musical discord, than charms me by the contrast it affords.

Admiration, at the dexterity of the versifier, mingles too largely with

vexation at the violence done to the harmony of beauty.

But of Mr. Halleck’s genial and various genius no component part is more

clearly marked than his hearty pantagruelism, which finds something

humorous in the deepest of sentiments, which must have its shot at every

folly as it flies, and which must vent its sarcasm at the weak point,

even in what it most admires; and never, it must be said, was wit of the

most pointed less ill-natured, humor more fairy-like and fanciful, or

sarcasm more softly veiled in dewy flowers of immortal verse.

His biting satires on the grim old Puritans, quaint and cruel, godly and

greedy, forgiving any thing to no men except their own pet sins to

themselves, most clamorous for tolerance to their own creed, most

intolerant to that of all others, are most refreshing in this age of

cant and fulsome section-adulation.

The following stanzas, in a bolder vein, following up his expedition of

Mather’s mendacity, are as sublime as they are bold and independent—

XVII.

No: a born Poet at his cradle fire

The Muses nursed him as their bud unblown,

And gave him, as his mind grew high and higher,

Their ducal strawberry leaf’s unwreathed renown.

Alas! that mightiest masters of the lyre,

Whose pens above an eagle’s heart have grown,

In all the proud nobility of wing,

Should stoop to dip their points in passion’s poison spring.

XVIII.

For Milton, weary of his youth’s young wife,

To her, to king, to church, to law untrue,

Warred for divorce and discord to the knife,

And proudest wore his plume of darkest hue:

And Dante, when his Florence, in her strife,

Robbed him of office and his temper, threw

’Mongst friends and foes a bomb-shell of fierce rhymes,

Shivering their names and fames to all succeeding times.

The two closing stanzas of this fragment are so perfectly, chastely and

inimitably beautiful, that they induce a strong hope that Mr. Halleck’s

fastidious judgment—for it is neither indolence of habit, nor

difficulty of composition, which keeps our poet for periods so long and

tedious behind the curtain, but the severe taste and chariness of his

muse, which causes him to reject as unworthy of his pen what most

writers would rejoice to put forward as the cope-stone of their

renown—will suffer him ere long to give us his “Connecticut” entire.

XXIV.

Beneath thy star, as one of the THIRTEEN,

Land of my lay! through many a battle’s night,

Thy gallant men stepped, steady and serene,

To that war-music’s stern and strong delight.

Where bayonets clenched above the trampled green,

Where sabres grappled in the ocean fight;

In siege, in storm, on deck or rampart, there

They hunted the wolf Danger to his lair,

And sought and won sweet peace, and wreaths for Honor’s hair.

XXV.

And with thy smiles, sweet Peace, came woman’s, bringing

The Eden sunshine of her welcome kiss,

And lover’s flutes, and children’s voices singing

The maiden’s promised, matron’s perfect bliss,

And heart and home-bells blending with their ringing

Thank-offerings borne to holier words than this,

And the proud Queen of Glory’s laurel leaves,

And gold, the gift to Peace, of Plenty’s summer sheaves.

Honor and health to Halleck, and may he speak to us in the high-hearted,

honest music of his soul oftener than heretofore; and let him rest

assured he cannot speak to us too often or too long. Valeto.

* * * * *

_Mysteries; or Glimpses of the Supernatural. By Charles Wyllys

Elliott. New York: Harper & Brothers. 1 vol. 12mo._

The publication of this volume is timely. It goes over the whole field

appropriated to oracles, astrology, dreams, demons, ghosts, spectres,

and the like, with long chapters on the Salem Witchcraft, the Cock-lane

Ghost, the Rochester Knockings and the Stratford Mysteries. The rules of

evidence in relation to such marvels are also clearly stated. Mr.

Elliott’s style is somewhat affected, but his information gives evidence

of research, and the circulation of his book may produce good. Every

thing which will tend in the slightest degree to scare away the late

importations of vulgar vagabonds from the “spiritual world,” ironically

so called, is worthy of patronage. We are not, of course, so audaciously

incredulous as to doubt the reality of “the spirits,” but we sincerely

hope that the Maine Liquor Law, in its most stringent provisions, may be

applied to them; for such a set of unfleshed drivelers and disembodied

nuisances never before attempted to convey to mortal ears the gossip of

ghost-land.

A curious story is related in Mr. Elliott’s book, on the authority of

Southey. We cannot forbear quoting it as an illustration of the way that

John Bull experiences supernatural fear. “In 1702 Whiston predicted that

the comet would appear on Wednesday, 14th October, at five minutes after

five in the morning, and that the world would be destroyed by fire on

the Friday following. His reputation was high, and the comet appeared. A

number of persons got into boats and barges on the Thames, thinking the

water the safest place. South Sea and India stock fell. A captain of a

Dutch ship threw all his powder into the river, that the ship might not

be endangered. At noon, after the comet had appeared, it is said that

more than one hundred clergymen were ferried over to Lambeth, to request

that proper prayers might be prepared, there being none in the church

service. People believed that the day of judgment was at hand, and some

acted on this belief, as if some temporary evil was to be expected. On

Thursday more than 7,000 kept mistresses were publicly married. There

was a prodigious run kept on the bank; Sir Gilbert Heathcote, at that

time head director, issued orders to all the fire offices in London,

requiring them to keep a good look-out, and have a particular eye on the

Bank of England.” The run on the bank, and the orders of Sir Gilbert, in

view of the world’s being destroyed by fire, are touches of practical

humor, which the most daring humorist would hardly have ventured to

imagine.

* * * * *

_The Works of Shakspeare: the Text Carefully Restored according

to the First Editions; with Introductions, Notes Original and

Selected, and a Life of the Poet. By the Rev. H. N. Hudson, A.

M. Boston: James Monroe & Co. Vol. 5, 12mo._

The present volume of Mr. Hudson’s beautiful edition of Shakspeare

contains King Richard II., the first and second parts of Henry IV., and

Henry V. The introductions, especially those to Henry IV., are probably

the ablest of the editor’s many able disquisitions. The analysis of

Prince Henry, Hotspur, Glendower, and, above all, Falstaffe, are in Mr.

Hudson’s most matured style, both of thought and expression. They are

positive additions to critical literature. No editor of Shakspeare, no

critic of character, has ever approached the masterly dissection of

Falstaffe given in this volume. The fat knight’s great intellect has

perfect justice done to it, while his humor is richly set forth. Mr.

Hudson says very finely of him, that he has “all the intellectual

qualities that enter into the composition of practical wisdom, without

one of the moral.” Of his sensuality, it is remarked: “The animal

susceptibilities of our nature are in him carried up to their highest

pitch, and his several appetites hug their respective objects with

exquisite gust. Moreover, his speech borrows additional flavor and

effect from the thick foldings of flesh which it oozes through;

therefore he glories in his much flesh, and cherishes it as being the

procreant cradle of jests; if he be fat, it enables his tongue to drop

fatness; and in the chambers of his brain all the pleasurable agitations

that pervade the structure below are curiously wrought into mental

delectation. With how keen and inexhaustible a relish does he pour down

sack, as if he tasted it all over and through his body to the ends of

his fingers and toes! Yet who does not see that he has far more pleasure

in discoursing about it than in drinking it? And so it is through all

the particulars of his enormous sensuality. And he makes the same use of

his vices and infirmities; nay, he often exaggerates and caricatures

those he has, and sometimes affects those he has not, that he may suck

the same profit from them.”

* * * * *

_The Book of Snobs. By William M. Thackeray. New York: D.

Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 18mo._

These biting and brilliant squibs were originally published in Punch. In

their collected form they will take their place among the most

characteristic of Thackeray’s works. This volume, in short, contains the

philosophy of Snobbism, as Vanity Fair and Pendennis contain its

illustrations in life. But while these sketches are philosophical, the

philosophy teaches by example. We have city snobs—military, clerical

and literary snobs—party-giving, dinner-giving, dining-out snobs—whig

snobs, tory snobs, radical snobs—snobs in the country and snobs on the

continent—university snobs, club snobs, and regal snobs. The result is

that the author, in snobbing the race, at last becomes almost a snob

himself—as it was said of Mr. Brownson, that he was so much of a

protestant that he protested himself out of protestantism. Thackeray’s

definition of a snob is “he who meanly admires mean things.”

The “Snob Royal” is one of the best essays in the volume. “In a

country,” says Thackeray, “where snobs are in the majority, a prime one,

surely, cannot be unfit to govern. With us they have succeeded to

admiration. For instance, James I. was a snob, and a Scotch snob; than

which the world contains no more offensive creature. He appears not to

have had one of the good qualities of a man—neither courage, nor

generosity, nor honesty, nor brains; but read what the great divines and

doctors of England said about him! Charles II., his grandson, was a

rogue, but not a snob; while Louis XIV., his old square-toes of a

contemporary—the great worshiper of big-wiggery—has always struck me

as a most undoubted and royal snob.” In George the Fourth he also finds

a regal snob. “With the same humility with which the footmen at the

King’s Arms gave way before the Plush Royal, the aristocracy of the

English nation bent down and truckled before Georgius, and proclaimed

him the first gentleman in Europe. And it’s a wonder to think what is

the gentlefolks opinion of a gentleman when they gave Georgius such a

title.”

* * * * *

_Outlines of English Literature. By Thomas B. Shaw, B. A. A new

American edition, with a Sketch of American Literature. By Henry

T. Tuckerman. Philadelphia: Blanchard & Lea. 1 vol. 12mo._

This compact duodecimo volume is an admirable guide to English and

American literature. Mr. Shaw’s work has been extensively circulated in

England and America, and well deserves its reputation. It is

well-written, evinces a well-trained study of the great English writers,

and abounds in information and judicious criticism. It clearly conveys

to the reader, uninformed in literary history, accurate ideas of the

sliding-scale of English reputations. Mr. Tuckerman’s sketch of American

literature occupies fifty closely-printed pages, and is a model of

compactness of style and distinctness of judgment. From a few of his

critical estimates we should feel inclined to dissent, and it would be

strange, indeed, if any two persons could agree in opinion on the merits

of the scores of authors coming within the scope of the editor’s plan;

but, as a whole, the judgments evince a genial and catholic taste,

unbiassed by prejudice, and combining both the disposition and the power

to decide justly. The critic’s discrimination is exhibited equally in

his criticisms on works of the understanding and works of the

imagination. The style is remarkably condensed; every word tells; yet

the sweet and fluent ease of Mr. Tuckerman’s diction gives no evidence

of purchasing brevity at any sacrifice of grace. The book deserves an

extensive circulation as the best and most available introduction to

English and American literature.

* * * * *

_Pierre; or The Ambiguities. By Herman Melville. New York:

Harper & Brothers. 1 vol. 12mo._

This work is generally considered a failure. The cause of its

ill-success is certainly not to be sought in its lack of power. None of

Melville’s novels equals the present in force and subtlety of thinking

and unity of purpose. Many of the scenes are wrought out with great

splendor and vigor, and a capacity is evinced of holding with a firm

grasp, and describing with a masterly distinctness, some of the most

evanescent phenomena of morbid emotions. But the spirit pervading the

whole book is intolerably unhealthy, and the most friendly reader is

obliged at the end to protest against such a provoking perversion of

talent and waste of power. The author has attempted seemingly to combine

in it the peculiarities of Poe and Hawthorne, and has succeeded in

producing nothing but a powerfully unpleasant caricature of morbid

thought and passion. Pierre, we take it, is crazy, and the merit of the

book is in clearly presenting the psychology of his madness; but the

details of such a mental malady as that which afflicts Pierre are almost

as disgusting as those of physical disease itself.

* * * * *

_The Men of the Time, or Sketches of Living Notables. New York:

Redfield. 1 vol. 12mo._

This is a thick duodecimo volume of some six hundred closely printed

pages, devoted to clear and concise biographies of men whose names are

now before the world. The number of notables is nearly nine hundred, and

it contains almost every name of reputation in Europe or America. The

labor of its compilation must have been great, as the editor has

diligently explored the recondite as well as obvious sources of

information. In most of the American biographies the information has

been obtained at first hand. The collection comprises living authors,

architects, artists, composers, demagogues, divines, dramatists,

engineers, journalists, merchants, novelists, philanthropists, poets,

politicians, savants, statesmen, travelers, voyagers and warriors. The

biographies vary in length according to the importance of the subject,

some of them being admirably and critically written, giving estimation

of character as well as narratives of events. It is a book which should

be in every house. The newspaper itself cannot be thoroughly understood

without a reference to this volume.

* * * * *

_Dombey and Son. By Charles Dickens. New York: Harper &

Brothers. 2 vols. 12mo._

This is a cheap, elegant, and finely illustrated edition of Dickens’

celebrated novel, which we trust will be followed by an edition of his

other works in the same form. “Dombey and Son,” though defective in

plot, and with some blunders in characterization, is still brimful of

the author’s genius, and contains many scenes and characters which

cannot fade from the reader’s memory. Dombey, Carker, Major Bagstock and

Edith, are apt to be bores when they are not caricatures, but Florence,

little Paul, Captain “Ed’ard Cuttle,” Toots and Susan Nipper, are

acquaintances which, once made, are a possession forever. As there is no

complete American edition of Dickens’ works in a convenient readable

form, we trust that the Harper’s will give us one modeled on the present

volumes.

* * * * *

=SIPS OF PUNCH.=

[Illustration: Master Tom surprises the family by stating that he

intends taking _his_ ladies out on a fishing excursion.]

[Illustration: “Please, Sir, did you want any body to _keep order_ on

these here Hustings on Polling Day?”]

[Illustration: PITY THE SORROWS OF THE POOR POLICE.

“Lor, Soosan! How’s a Feller to eat Meat such Weather as this. Now, a bit

o’ Pickled Salmon and Cowcumber, or a Lobster Salad _might_ do.”]

* * * * *

=FASHION PLATE.=

[Illustration]

Illustration.—A charming morning dress is thus formed: a dress of

_barège_, of silk pattern, with three _volants_ trimmed with a small

quilling _à la vieille_, and open in front, displaying a lace trimmed

neckerchief, (Mechlin lace,) while two small _volants_ finish the

sleeves; the last surmounted by a quilling similar to that of the body

of the dress.

The morning pardessus is also worn with a dress of percale, likewise

embroidered; _volant_ and sleeves in English embroidery; the front is

trimmed in the same manner; the body is ornamented with a double plait

in the stuff, and above the _volant_, and which replaces the braiding,

generally placed on pardessus of tissue. Lastly, are models of sleeves

trimmed with lace, one with two open _volants_; the other closed at the

wrist, and trimmed with a _manchette_ of lace.

MANTILLE A LA DUCHESSE.

[Illustration]

The edge of front is from 3 inches at the top to 34 at the bottom; the

shoulder seam is from 9 to 13¼; the bottom of front is sloped from 34 to

10¼; the curved line from 10¼-5¾-5⅛-5 is then cut; the edges of the

piece in which the armhole is cut are then vandyked—the straight lines

forming the vandykes are 1¼ long; this piece is then brought over the

other part of the front as far as the dotted line, which indicates the

place where it should be sewn; the edges of the vandykes are finished by

a narrow trimming, and there is a small button in each point; the bottom

of front is trimmed with a double row of lace from 34 to 10¼, being the

only part of the front which is trimmed with lace.

[Illustration]

* * * * *

=Transcriber’s Notes:=

Archaic spellings and hyphenation have been retained. Punctuation has

been corrected without note. Other errors have been corrected as noted

below. For illustrations, some caption text may be missing or incomplete

due to condition of the originals used for preparation of the ebook.

Page 343, gaseous envelop environs ==> gaseous envelope environs

Page 345, parallel of 25° degrees ==> parallel of 25° is

Page 345, winds are are not found ==> winds are not found

Page 345, by permament north ==> by permanent north

Page 346, constant eastterly winds ==> constant easterly winds

Page 346, though maritine adventure ==> though maritime adventure

Page 346, found themselve borne ==> found themselves borne

Page 347, where it orignated ==> where it originated

Page 347, along the Gaudalquivir ==> along the Guadalquivir

Page 352, Cape Lopez in 1° degree south ==> Cape Lopez in 1° south

Page 360, BY BON GUALTIER ==> BY BON GAULTIER

Page 362, Chronogloical science ==> Chronological science

Page 363, debilitated body politc ==> debilitated body politic

Page 363, razors where unheard of ==> razors were unheard of

Page 364, Affghans and other races ==> Afghans and other races

Page 370, performs a rapid piroutte ==> performs a rapid pirouette

Page 383, is usless to attempt ==> is useless to attempt

Page 402, fish is almost ominipresent ==> fish is almost omnipresent

Page 402, and peal it down ==> and peel it down

Page 408, growth and strenghtened ==> growth and strengthened

Page 408, for a mo- moment ==> for a moment

Page 412, how had Mable pined ==> how had Mabel pined

Page 412, and Mable determined ==> and Mabel determined

Page 413, Oh Mable, my love ==> Oh Mabel, my love

page 415, where Mable Dacre sat ==> where Mabel Dacre sat

Page 420, Richard eat with a feeling ==> Richard ate with a feeling

Page 421, and carry it it home ==> and carry it home

Page 425, Henry the Black, in 1036 ==> Henry the Black, in 1056

Page 425, token of his investure ==> token of his investiture

Page 425, battle of Wolskieur may not be correct name

Page 428, cost you to dear ==> cost you too dear

Page 431, guid wife Jenie Burns ==> guid wife Jeanie Burns

Page 434, heart’s corroding fire’s ==> heart’s corroding fires

Page 436, speak there uninteruptedly ==> speak there uninterruptedly

Page 439, which has accidently ==> which has accidentally

Page 443, of home human sympathies ==> of honest human sympathies

Page 443, inimitable rythm, and ==> inimitable rhythm, and

Page 445, poets, politicians, savans ==> poets, politicians, savants