“That’s your own fault, not mine. Constable, call the jury.”

“I’ll make affidavy that it weren’t no lachees on my part, your honor. I

hope Mr. Coger wont take no advantage nor nothen.”

“You needn’t set there and lie, Abe Kettle,” says Nirum. “You haint got

no witness anyhow, and you knows it.”

“Well, heave ahead!” says Abe, taking his seat at the desk. “All I want

is to criss-cross your witnesses, to show that this here suit is a spite

suit. All spite and malice, your honor, _and_ nothen else.”

“Constable call the jury,” again commands the justice, blowing his nose

with a snort like that of a Pleasant Pond bull-frog.

Hereupon this functionary, (who by the way, was the perfect terror of

all the apple-hooking boys in the place, and, next to his dog, the

greatest dependence, the owner of the said dog had for the preservation

of his orchard,) commenced calling over his jury list, and finding them

all “on the spot,” (the magical shilling would always bring about that

phenomenon,) the justice began the usual swearing in.

“James Bat, John Slow, Jacob Slush.”

Hereupon three vagabonds showed themselves.

“The evidence you shall give, (here the justice evidently forgot the

form of the oath, and began to fumble the leaves of his ‘Justice’s

Manual,’ with a sneaking and puzzled look.) Ah! oh! shall give between,

what’s his name, plaintiff, and A. B. defendant shall be the truth, the

whole truth, and nothing _but_ the truth. Kiss the book!” snatching up

an old song book near him, (the justice is purblind without his

spectacles, and they had at that juncture slipped down to the very tip

of his nose.) They obeyed, and the rest of the jury were all called and

sworn in the same manner.

The first witness called for the plaintiff was a thick-headed Dutchman,

who could not manage to speak English, and who looked as if it were

beyond his management altogether to keep his eyes open. He testified to

the plaintiff and defendant being together in Wiggins’ bar-room on the

4th of July last, and in the course of a quarrel which sprang up between

them, that the defendant had said that the plaintiff was a thief—(“And

so he is,” ejaculated Abe, at this point of the testimony, which

elicited a loud “_Silence!_” from the justice, and a grin of rage from

Nirum)—and that he had ‘stolen a sheep and hid its ears in a stump.’

Nothing could be more clear, but what was that to Abe?

“Are you through, little Blackberry?” asked he of the opposite counsel.

Young Kellogg looked at him indignantly for a moment and then, drawing

himself up, said—

“I demand the protection of the court here, from the impertinence of

this person.”

“Mr. Kettle, call the counsel by his name, or I shall be obliged to

commit you.”

“Why, your honor, I thought his name was Blackberry. Loafer Joe says it

is, and besides I never heerd him called by any other name, your honor.

He’s always called ‘little Blackberry’ whenever they tell of his hoss

runnen away with him last Gineral Trainen!”

“No matter what Loafer Joe says—you must call him by his name, _Mr.

Kellogg_, whenever you speak to him.”

“Well, your honor, all’s the same to Abe. Are you through, Mr. Kellogg?”

“Yes, and I demand judgment; the case is made out.”

“Not as you knows on, little Black—Mr. Kellogg I mean. Jest you wait a

bit—jest wait till I criss-cross this here witness a little might. Mr.

Slump, (addressing the witness,) who was present when I said that aire?”

“Loafer Joe was, and I was too.”

“Hem—ha—was there any one else?”

“Not as I seed.”

“Very well—put that down your honor. What did I say was the reason I

called him by his name?”

“You didn’t call him by his name. You said up and down, he was a thief.”

“_Very well!_ but what was the reason I said he was a thief?”

“Because you said that he’d stole a sheep and hid its ears in a stump!”

“Now, Mr. Slump, be careful—remember your oath; false swearen is a

state’s-prison matter—are you sarten I said a sheep! Didn’t I say a

calf?”

“Calf!”

“Yes, calf—_be careful now_—remember state’s-prison!”

The witness began to open his eyes and looked puzzled, and somewhat

frightened.

“You see, your honor, he looks skeered. Put that down, that he looks

skeered. _Answer_, Mr. Slump!”

“Calf!”

“Yes, calf!” bawls out Abe, and striking the table with his fist.

“Well, I don’t know but you did. Sheep—calf—calf—sheep—same thing.”

“It may be in Dutch, but it isn’t in English by a long shot, Mr. Slump.

Put that down, your honor, this ere intelligent witness doesn’t know the

difference between a calf and a sheep. He says, your honor, that I said

calf—and didn’t I also say _his_ ears, availing Nirum’s, instead of

_its_ ears.”

“Well, I don’t know but you did,” gasps out the witness, looking

frightened out of his wits.

“Put that down, your honor. I said _his_ ears instead of _its_. I call

for a nonsuit.”

“Call for a nonsuit!” ejaculates Kellogg, in a tone of indignant

surprise—“on what ground, pray!”

“On three grounds, your honor—First, the declaration says that I called

the plaintiff a thief in the hearing of ‘divers respectable persons,’

when the witness testifies that I said it in the presence of Loafer Joe

and himself—the first one being the greatest vagabond, and the last the

most infarnal fool in the village. That’s the fust ground. The second

is, I didn’t say a ‘sheep’ at all, but a ‘calf,’ and that I’m ready to

stand up to any day—(here Nirum aimed a blow at him with his crutch.)

Oh, you needn’t fight about it, Mr. Coger. It’s true and you know it.

Keep your crutches for your own carcass, you vagabone you. That’s the

second ground. The third ground is that I said _his_ ears instead of

_its_ ears, and that I’ll stand up to; also, for that very mornen this

here limpen saddler was as drunk as an owl, and was a lyen in the woods

above the village, with his ears, head and all, in an old rotten stump

back of Coit’s Ridge. I know that, your honor, for I pulled him out

myself, and all the thanks I got for it was abuse from the vagabone!”

In vain did Coger asseverate his innocence—(the story being, in point

of fact, a lie of Abe’s from beginning to end, as Nirum was noted for

his temperance all over the village, and was a Methodist class-leader in

good standing, in addition). In vain did Kellogg start upon his feet and

commence a loud denial of the whole story. The justice struggled not to

smile—the constable grinned—the jury followed suit, the audience

tittered, and the boys outside set up a yell like an Iroquois war-whoop,

of “Hooraw for Abe Kettle!”

As for Abe himself, he looked round him in the most staid and sober

manner, and then, after demanding for a second time his nonsuit, as he

termed it, took his seat; and the justice, looking dark in the face with

his efforts to conceal his laughter, dismissed the suit.

“I want a warrant for the costs, ef they aint paid on the spot,” says

Abe. “I’m ready to swear, your honor—”

“Pay him the costs and be hanged to him,” ejaculated Kellogg to his

client. “He’s ready to swear to any thing.”

And Nirum, with a sigh takes out his leathern pouch and defrays the

costs to the justice. Kellogg then takes his hat and sneaks over to his

office. Nirum hobbles to his shop—the justice closes his office door,

the boys melt away, and the farce is over.

Twelve o’clock! time for the stage—so I’ll take a look at the hill.

Sure enough, there is a pyramid of dust shooting up from its summit,

and, in the midst, gleams out the crimson coach like a boiled lobster

from the gray mist of its pot.

Down the hill whirls the dust, and soon we’ll see the machine upon the

flat. Ah! here it is, spinning along at a great rate. Past Griffin’s

black domicile—past the beautiful meadow on the right—past the rich

wheat-field on the left—past the smooth lawny hill, with its birchen

grove on its top—past Uncle Jack’s—past the “ridge farm road,” and now

it is creeping up the hill by Owlet’s blacksmith shop. Ah! here comes

the ears of the leaders above the brow of the hill—then the heads

tossing up and down with their efforts—then the bodies, reined and

strapped—then the wheelers—then the lower side of the slanting seat

which forms the driver’s throne—then the driver himself, with his four

reins slanting to the horses’ heads—then the whole red coach, creaking

and pitching. At last the top of the hill is gained, and, with a loud

crack of the driver’s whip, through the village trot the jaded steeds.

The coach looks like a bobbed rooster with his tail down, for the dusty

boot protrudes immensely at the rear, and all the weight appears to be

on the hind seat. Up rolls the coach, the driver making his whip crack

like Fanny Ellsler’s castanets in the “cracovienne,” and with a

prodigious attempt at creating a sensation—the machine stops at

Hamble’s. Here the passengers, in the shape of a fat old lady, a lean

old gentleman, and a cross baby between them, empty themselves on

Hamble’s porch, and the driver, with a loud “keh!” and an awful crack of

his whip, gallops over to the post-office.

Thither follow the whole village, all athirst for the contents of the

mail-bag, which the driver sends straight at the head of the boy who

appears at the threshold of the store (for calicoes are distributed on

one side, letters on the other, and rum in the rear,) to receive it. The

boy lugs in the bag, casts it over the counter with a wry face, and

straight commences to unlock it and unloose the iron chain through its

rings. That duty performed, he vomits forth the contents—tawny parcels,

large and small—inside the counter, and stooping down commences, with

the postmaster himself, the task of “overhauling the mail.” Now a packet

would skim from his hand—and now another would take a flying leap—and

now another would bound, with a jerk, away, and then he would place a

parcel carefully by his side—then away would fly another packet, and

then another would be placed by his knee, the latter swelling into a

small pile—the mail matter for Monticello. At last, all the contents

being carefully picked over, the boy would rise painfully, as if his

knee joints were sore. The chain would again be thrust through the

loops—the padlock locked, and the leathern sack be lifted over the

counter and be transferred to the box of the expectant coach, crushed

under the feet of the driver who, carefully gathering up his reins,

would give a chirrup and whistle to his trampling team—off would dart

the coach, and the fat old lady, and the lean old gentleman, and the

cross baby between them, who by this time is very red in the face, would

disappear in thick wreaths of gray dust up the turnpike leading to

Cochecton on the Delaware waters.

The Monticello mail is then grasped with both hands, a package every now

and then slipping to the floor, and poured upon the post-office side of

the store. An untwisting of hempen strings then takes place—the tawny

covers torn from letter and newspaper, and after conning a most tedious

time over the packages, the postmaster commences in a drawling lazy

voice to call over the names upon the backs of the letters. The Hon. Mr.

Johnson (or whatever his name is at Washington) never selected his

deputy for his skill in reading, I’ll be bound, or else he has been

awfully taken in—for such a blunderhead I never heard attempt to call

over mail matter before:

“Mr. Screw-screw—s-c-r-e-w—Screwdriver!”

“Screwdriver! who the devil’s that?” ejaculates one of the expectants.

“That’s the name on the letter, anyhow!” answers the postmaster

fiercely, and spitting out enough tobacco-juice to drown all the flies

in the store.

“‘S-s-’ that’s a ‘c’ r, stop, no that’s not an r, that’s an ‘h’-oh,

Schelmsford. Mr. Schelmsford!”

“Here!” promptly responds one of the number outside the counter.

“Five cents, Mr. Schelmsford! That’s right!”

“Mr. Stickup! Is Stickup here?”

“No Stickup here.” (Or any where else I fancy, continues one sotto

voce.)

“It’s likely you know as well as I do, when I’m looking right at the

letter, and you are staring at the rum barrels. I’ll thank you to hold

your tongue.”

“Send to Washington—have him put out—can’t read

writen—dunce—fool—blunderhead—how long must we wait?” burst out in

paroxysms of wrath from the expectants.

“Gentlemen have a little patience, will ye; you see what spider’s tracks

this writen is. It wants optics like those of a microscope to decipher

it,” responds the poor postmaster, perspiring in his dread at the awful

threats of the expectants. “Now have a l-e-e-t-l-e patience and you’ll

all get your letters.”

“Mrs. Soapdish!”

“Soapdish, you wretch!” shrieks a female voice in the crowd. “Soapdish,

you mean puppy! Soapdish! you low fellow!”

“Yes, Soapdish!” asseverated the postmaster, who seeing it is only a

woman begins to take courage. “Have you any objection to Soapdish? If

you have leave the letter, that’s all. Leave the letter for the dead

office at Washington, only _don’t interrupt_ me in my official duties,

my good woman! Soapdish is a very good name, the name your husband gave

you, no doubt, Mrs. Soapdish! Does she want her letter, after paying me

five cents for it!”

“You mean Mrs. Soper, Mr. Skinner,” modestly observes some one from the

crowd.

“No I don’t. I mean Mrs. Soapdish. Miss-es—Misses—Soap-dish—Soapdish!

Stop though! what a confounded crabbed hand!” squinting over it, then

glancing askance at it, and then fairly turning it upside down, after

endeavoring to squint inside, as if to find the name there. “On the

whole, I shouldn’t be surprised if it were ‘Soper.’ Here, take it, my

good woman, and look at it yourself. If it isn’t Soapdish, it’s Soper,

and one name is as good as another in Tahoo, for that’s the language the

fellow has written in I verily believe,” continues he, grumbling and

fumbling over his other letters.

“James Shipoker, Esq.!”

“James Shipoker, Esq.,” ejaculates the judge of the county court. “Oh,

what an _incorrigible ass_! James Shipman you fool! Well, I can’t stand

this. I’ll write to my friend, the Postmaster-General, and have you

kicked out, neck and crop, you dunce you!”

“Just come and help yourselves, gentlemen! I see how it is. You wish to

interrupt me to avoid paying the postage. I can see through a grindstone

as well as the best of ye, especially when there’s a hole in it big

enough to put John P.’s dog in. Here, boy, you come and call over the

letters. See if you have any better luck!”

The store-lad fortunately could “read writen,” and after a while each

one got his letter or his paper and left the post-office.

And thus endeth the second lesson. In other words, it is dinner time.

* * * * *

Dinner is dispatched.

The glossy dark shades begin now to stretch themselves from the golden

west. The shadow of “Coit’s house” (I mean to tell a story about that

also) lies strong and well-defined—a sable picture—upon the sunny

green—each tree “hath wrought its separate ghost upon the”—grass.

Hamble’s tall, straddling sign-post looks like a prone black giant upon

the gray highway, and the long sweep of the corner-well seems like an

elbow a-kimbo.

The girls and boys of the village now assemble for their usual afternoon

stroll. Pleasant Pond is the point fixed upon, and accordingly we start.

We turn up the green country-road leading to it, arm-in-arm. How fresh

and beautiful every thing is. The wheat is goldening—the meadow grass

is deepening—the pasture-fields are clovering, and the air is one

incense. The distant hills are freckled with gliding shadows, and the

pure pearls of clouds are dissolving as if the sky was Cleopatra’s

goblet. Others are wreathing, as if to form a silver garland for the

brow of Antony, whilst others are glittering in the sunlight, as if to

spread a canopy of snow for the fairy barge that in old times floated

along the Cydnus. The Titianesque beauty it promised in the early

morning, is gloriously fulfilled—lo! it is all one bright and rich and

golden glow of beauty.

So up the hill we pass, and down the hill we go, and now we are in the

forest with the soft, cool, green shadow falling over us like a mantle.

We are pleased with every thing—we smile at every thing—no thought of

care is in our happy hearts. The world is Eden, with the angel Hope

smiling us forward with her azure wings, and bidding us, with soft

entreating tones, to enter in its pathways, whilst the gate, the pure

white gateway, swings upon the post, shrouding our eye from all that is

behind, and forcing us to dwell upon the soft and fairy picture that the

future paints, to lure our steps in its delicious maze.

W-h-e-w! what a leap Pegasus has taken to be sure. Pat him gently, pat

him gently, for his eye is bright with fire; pat him gently, pat him

gently, for his heart is hot with ire; pat him gently, rein him gently,

or his hoof will spurn the ground, and on high he’ll rise and soar and

fly, with a swift and curbless bound—and, plain common sense! you will

be left kicking in the mud.

Well, we’ve patted him gently, the arching of his glossy neck is

over—his eye hath lost its mad brightness, his hoof settles into his

customary trot, and “Pegasus is himself again”—_Shakspeare_.

Hurrah! the pond is in view, appearing like a great looking-glass. Come,

let us hurry to the bank and have some fun. Here is our usual parlor—a

floor of silver sand—a roof of thick woven laurels—mossy logs for our

chairs, and the pond itself for our mirror. Here we are safe and

sound—call the roll!—no one missing. Now, now will we speed the bright

hours away, all shod with pure gold from the sun’s merry ray; with song

and with laughter we will wait till the west with gold and with crimson

the wreathed clouds has dressed; no care shall distract us, no sorrow

annoy, again you’re a girl and once more I’m a boy; with a pure sky

above us, and heaven within, ere you had known trouble or I had known

sin; let pleasure then smile on us—throw care away, come what may, come

what will, we’ll be happy to-day. So we will—say one, say all.

A party of us “male critturs” now leave the ladies plunged deep in song

and sentiment, for a plunge in the delicate balm of the waters stretched

like a dream of delight far, far away to our vision.

About half a mile from the party is a deep narrow cove, with a long

wooded point shutting it completely from observation. It is the most

lovely and retired spot in the universe for a “quiet dip.” And, reader,

here let me inform you, that bathing in our American ponds, and bathing

in the surf at the sea-side, are two different things. In the latter

case you go habited in a night-gown, striped like a state’s-prison bird,

and with many an “oh!” and “ah!” you feel your way over the moist cool

sand. At length you see the tall wave lifting itself up like a rearing

war-horse, and with silver-mane flashing, and azure-breast dashing, on

it comes. You stand stock still with suspended breath, and at length you

see the glittering and magnificent billow combing right over your head.

You involuntarily duck, but there is no escape, down comes the gorgeous

thing, slap, right over your whole person, wetting you through in an

instant, and as staggering and blinded you reel back to the shore, you

hear the delicious crumble of the wave upon the beach, than which no

sound in nature can be so deep and yet so rich, so sounding and yet so

mellow. But fresh water bathing is a different matter. No striped

night-gowns, but “in puribus naturalibus,” (I don’t know whether that is

good Latin or not, and don’t care,) you walk boldly along some cool,

soft, mossy log, its surface yielding like velvet to your naked feet,

and, souse, head first you dive into the limpid element.

And that was the case with us, until a dozen heads were on the surface

looking like magnified lily blossoms. A close net of these lilies was

woven in the water about six feet from the shore, the water being

perfectly paved with the great broad leaves, and it was necessary to

break our way right through them before reaching the deeper waters of

the cove. And right through them our way did we break. We made a charge

like a charge of South Sea Islanders, and though the tough, spongy,

supple stems clung around our limbs as if they meant to drag us

under—and the strong, thick, gigantic leaves, huge as the ear-flaps of

the moose, (who, by the bye, luxuriates upon the pond water lily,) cut

our arms and flapped heavily in our faces—and the round, cylindrical,

yellow blossoms kept bobbing into our mouths and knocking into our eyes,

we persevered until we struggled through them, and reached the deep

water. And then didn’t we luxuriate. Some “trod water,” some stretched

themselves out for a long swim, and one huge fellow, with fat enough to

keep him floating whether or no, elongated himself in a most wonderful

manner, laying his head flat upon the water at every impulsion of his

body snorting all the time like a porpoise. At length we became tired of

the deep water, and concluded to adjourn to the shallows inside the

lilies, and have a battle of shooting water at each other. This sport

was the usual termination to our baths.

Accordingly we hastened to the battle-ground, and took opposite sides.

Arranged in two long lines, we approached each other, each elbow drawn

back, and hand raised so as to bring the bottom of the palm on a level

with the water. In silence did we eye each other for a season—the word

then came, and then commenced the battle. And furiously raged the

strife. Not the legions of Cæsar pouring from their galleys, and the

wild warriors of Britain’s snowy cliffs—not the fierce _mustaches_ of

Napoleon, and the sturdy red-coats of Wellington, poured greater

destruction upon one another, than we dashed the glittering crystal of

the frighted cove on each other’s ranks. No faltering—no backing—but

looking steadily as the blinding water would allow, into the eyes of our

foes, we plied our work—no faltering—no backing—but looking steadily

as the blinding water would allow into the eyes of _their_ foes, they

also plied their work. Closer and closer we approached, and then, each

one singling his opposite for single combat, closed for desperate

strife. One cataract of tumbling water, raised by four scooping hands,

now sheltered two combatants, who finding the shots too heavy for face

and eyes, fairly turned back to back and madly dashed behind them the

flashing water. At length nearly blinded, all simultaneously retreated

from each other and sought the brink—all but the fat-headed,

porpoise-breathing fellow before mentioned, who, blinded by his own

torrents of water, and supposing that his antagonist was still

contending, kept up a most determined, desperate, and valorous dashing,

until gasping, choking, and blind from the cataracts which his own hands

scooped, and which dashed upon his own carcase, he turned at last to the

shore, bawling lustily for “quarter, quarter!” yelling at the same

time—“I yield—I yield—I yield!”

By the time this worthy had reached the shore, the rest of us were

dressed, and accordingly this victim to his own courage, was obliged to

undergo the interesting ceremony of “mumbling the peg!” Plucking at

last, with his strong teeth, the peg, driven fast and deep into the firm

earth by the heels of certainly a half dozen, he dons his garments, and

we all then join the ladies. By this time the pond is turning all colors

in the sunset. There, in the middle of its glassy surface, is a blush as

beautiful as ever crimsoned the cheek of beauty whilst listening to the

whispers of the dearly loved—and near it is a space of golden water,

lustrous as the shield of Galahad when approaching the “round table” of

Arthur and his knights, (knight most blest,) he proclaimed he had found

the “holy grail.” Purple is not wanting, rich as that around the neck of

the wild pigeon—nor emerald either, bright as the hue that glitters on

the body of the house-fly—nor glossy black, deep as the thunder-cloud’s

bosom when coming to scathe and destroy. Ah, how the tints glow—ah, how

they tremble, such as in the rainbow show, such do they resemble. Ah,

how the tints glow, and mingle, and pulsate—now are they woven in one

gorgeous robe that really makes plain Pleasant Pond look like some

paradisiacal scene of “the reign of Haroun Alraschid.” But at last the

colors fade—they die, alas! alas! alas!—they fade—they die—and now

remains of all that brilliant Eden not one single gleam. All—all has

departed.

By the time we ascend the banks, thread the labyrinth of “Bates’”

logging, and regain the road, the harvest-moon has risen. Snow white in

the pearly twilight, she soon will deepen into gold, and then change

into deep silver. Behold she changes even now, and the twilight deepens,

and now the broad and magnificent moonlight reigns. Ah, how glorious!

ah, how beautiful! A silver day is smiling, more soft, more delicate,

more radiantly pure than the “garish” one that just went glittering out

through the rosy portals of the west. The near forests and the distant

hills are all suffused, and mingled, and melted into a sweet romantic

picture of bewitching beauty. Back we retrace our path through the

jeweled woods, and now, scenting the odor of the clover-grass, we

diverge from our road into the deep cool verdure of the meadow. No

danger of dampening the dainty delicate feet of our girls either, for

there has been no rain for a month, and the earth is as dry as powder.

So we wade through the swaying verdure, and enjoy the “compacted sweets”

of the clover odors. Thence we scramble over a rough stone-wall, the

girls giving pretty screams, and holding up their petti—I beg pardon,

drapery, so as to jump more readily, and enter a corn-field. The rich

soil loosened by the hoe crumbles at our tread, and the plumy stalks

shake above our heads, almost excluding the moonlight. Mercy, what round

thing is that I stumbled over just then! not a skull I hope, although

corn-fields before now have sprung above church-yards and battle-fields.

Who knows but this field now rustles above some “Indian burial-place” or

frontier battle-ground. However, this can’t be a skull, for my foot has

just “squashed” into another, and—why it is only a pumpkin. Confound

the long vines too, how they trip one up. What on earth is the reason

that they can’t plant corn-fields without putting pumpkins in also? They

only serve to trip up the girls and boys who condescend of a summer’s

night to enter the precincts.

I fancy a young ear of corn would not be unacceptable. A young, green,

succulent ear of corn. So come here you plumed chieftain, “lend me your

ears,” or rather, plumed chieftain! I will take you by the ears. I will

cut off your ears, plumed chieftain! all feathered, and satined, and

tasseled as thou art. Yea, verily will I, plumed chieftain! so here

goes. I tear off the emerald sheath and lo! the silver ear—pearly rich

art thou, silver ear of the plumed chieftain! all feathered, and

satined, and tasseled as he is, and I don’t think thou wilt be less rich

when the red fire shall make thee tawny and fit for the teeth.

But we leave the corn-field, with its infernal pumpkins, and once more

merrily wend our way along the moonlit road. Ah, here is the path

diverging to the “camp-meeting ground.” We are bound to enter, and so we

do. How sweetly quiet is the little glade with the forest sleeping in a

silver calm around it. Does not the echo now repeal the loud

enthusiastic “amens” that then awoke the air at the last “camp meeting,”

and the struggling agonized prayer of that gray-headed old man “that God

would blot out his sins for they had been many?” Does it not now, even

now, seem to thrill amidst those slumbering leaves? And the low music of

that lovely maiden’s commune with her God, as if he were her earthly

father, so tender, so affectionate—ah, her prayers were known in

heaven. The seraphs knew them as the prayers of one, pure as themselves,

the Son knew them as the usual breathings of a spotless soul, and the

Mighty Father knew them too, and loved and accepted them. Heaven is made

of such pure souls, oh, sweet and prayerful maiden!

And the loud triumphant singing—the halleluiahs of the throng. Oh, how

they sprung from the earth—oh, how they spread their wings—oh, how

they flew up to glory! Oh how they sprung—oh how they spread, oh how

they flew up to glory! Burning songs—burning songs, oh how they flew up

to glory!

But we leave this moonlight picture of peace and serenity and seek once

more our homeward road. We ascend the hill, and beneath us, slumbering

in the magnificent moonlight, lo! our beautiful village. Sleeping in the

moonlight, lo! our quiet, our peaceful, our beautiful village.

See, how the church steeple rises, soaring up, soaring up, in the solemn

and silvered heavens, with its vane sparkling like a dew-gemmed lark

hovering over the steeple. Hark! from that silvered steeple, soaring up,

soaring up in the solemn and silvered heavens there seems to come a

song, thrilling along the hushed and listening air, like the song of

that same dew-gemmed lark when he springs triumphant upon the highest

cloud of the morning. Hark! I hear the song, it trembles through my

soul. Listen, listen, listen to the moonlight song of the praising and

soaring steeple.

Art thou a seraph from heaven, thou sweet pure moonlight!

That thou comest in thy garb of dream-like and delicate beauty?

Dost thou bear the splendor of the “Great White Throne” near which

thou dost touch thy lute, dost thou bear it on thy glittering and

pearly wings!

Seraph!

For thou dost change all to a white and wondrous lustre,

Oh, Seraph!

Seraph of the starry brow and snowy pinion,

Brow of stars and pinion of snows.

Oh, heavenly Seraph! oh, Seraph of wonderful beauty!

Thou, thou, dost bear with thee the anthem of heaven,

Seraph!

Oh, Seraph!

Seraph of wonderful beauty!

And the anthem of heaven wakes echo on the bosom of earth.

Seraph!

Oh, Seraph!

Seraph of wonderful beauty!

The heavens are softly blue!

It is thy eye, Seraph!

That star glowing there like a gem from its mine,

Is a part of thy brow, Seraph! and that white cloud is thy pinion,

Seraph, thy beautiful pinion of snow.

Oh, Seraph! sweet Seraph! bright Seraph of wonderful beauty!

I point to thee upward from earth, I point to thee, Seraph!

For I love to reflect thy glance, although I am only of earth.

And I love to hymn thy praise, oh holy Seraph of moonlight!

When the summer daylight has gone out like a flash in the

crimsoning west,

And the dew of evening falls softly on grass and flower.

For then, oh, holy Seraph!

I know thou wilt come and reign the queen of the scene.

Farewell now, oh Seraph! oh Seraph that came from the skies,

And will wing back thy flight when the morn

Comes flashing again from the east!

Farewell—farewell—farewell!

Till the summer-night calls thee again!

And again will I praise thee in song,

Seraph!

Sweet Seraph!

Oh, Seraph of wonderful beauty!

The music melted on my ear, but upward through the soft depths of the

moonlit heaven soared a faint, throbbing star, and vanished at last in

the middle ether. It was the sweet farewell to its “Seraph of wonderful

beauty” of the praising and soaring steeple.

* * * * *

GENIUS.

BY HELEN IRVING.

In the sacred Hindoo Vega, is the sweet tradition found,

That while the waste of waters yet girt the new earth round,

Blooming out beneath the whisper of the great Almighty Power,

On the gloomy flood there floated, one lonely lotus-flower.

And within its crystal chalice, a frail, but heaven-blest shrine,

Was placed a spirit gifted with creative power divine,

Its celestial radiance making that lily-temple bright,

And through its pure leaves shedding on the wave a halo-light.

Filled with yearning was the spirit, dimly conscious of its power,

Feeling, yet not comprehending, all its grand and god-like dower;

Glowing with the joy and beauty of a soft supernal fire,

While his white wings restless quivered, with a seraph-like desire.

And his dreams and aspirations slowly took the form of prayer,

Wrestling till the blessing-answer, softly sounded through the air—

“Labor, for to thee is given, dower and destiny divine;

Labor, till the fire within thee, warmeth other hearts than thine!”

And with ceaseless, strong endeavor, wrought the spirit hour by hour,

Humbly looking up for guidance, to the Source of all his power,

Till in place of gloom and darkness, rosy light about him lay,

And dim forms of radiant beauty, seemed to throng around his way.

Forms of glory and of grandeur, and of fair immortal youth,

On his raptured vision shining, in the purity of truth,

Breathing love and throbbing life—life divine which he had given,

To his glowing spirit linking them, and thus through him to Heaven!

* * * * *

THE BIRTH OF THE YEAR.

BY HERBERT ENKERT.

[SEE ENGRAVING.]

The moon was sinking down the west,

And slowly, through the eastern way,

Aurora Borealis-like,

Arose the delicate light of day.

The countless spheres that jeweled space,

A proud, exulting anthem sung,

As into life the youthful Year

With more than mortal beauty sprung.

Beneath his Predecessor lay;

Twelve cycles had he seen go by,

And now his aged, withered form

Was stretched in death athwart the sky.

The young Year gazed upon his face,

The dew of tears was in his eyes,

When, looking up, he saw the shape

Of hoary Saturn fill the skies.

And Saturn crowned the youthful Year,

And placed the sceptre in his hand,

And bade him journey, day by day,

And month by month, from land to land.

With counsels garnered from the Past,

Those counsels only age can give,

He taught him how to pass through life—

To live as only good men live.

And then he sent him forth. The youth

Sprung lightly on his Orient way,

Saluting the arising sun,

Bird-like, with many a matin lay;

Behind him lay the shrouded dead,

Before, Sahara-like, was space;

But, like a man, the boy strode on,

With hopeful heart and radiant face.

* * * * *

[Illustration: ADVENT OF THE YEAR.

Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine by W. E. Tucker

Printed by J. M. Butler]

* * * * *

[Illustration: GEN^{L}. RICHARD MONTGOMERY.

Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine]

* * * * *

THE LIFE OF MAJOR-GENERAL RICHARD MONTGOMERY.

BY THOMAS WYATT, A. M., AUTHOR OF “HISTORY OF THE KINGS OF FRANCE,” ETC.

ETC. ETC.

Richard Montgomery, the subject of this memoir, was born in the year

1737, at Convoy House, the seat of his father, near Raphoe, in the north

of Ireland.

Thomas Montgomery, father of the above, had three sons, Alexander, John,

and Richard. Alexander commanded a grenadier company in Wolfe’s army,

and was also present at the capture of Quebec. He many years represented

the county of Donegal in the Irish parliament. John, the second son,

lived and died in Portugal; and Richard, after receiving a liberal

education at Trinity College, Dublin, entered the British army at the

age of eighteen, under General Monckton. In 1757 the regiment to which

he belonged was ordered to Halifax; and in the following year formed

part of the army at the reduction of Louisburg, a French fortress, on

which much money and science had been expended, and which had been

vauntingly named by its possessors, “the Gibraltar of America.” Here our

young aspirant commenced his career of field-service, which was destined

to end in another war on the same continent. Early in the spring of

1758, a naval and military force commanded by Major-General Amherst, and

Admiral Boscawen, began its voyage from Halifax to Cape Breton, and on

the 2d of June arrived in Cabarras Bay. As soon as practicable, the

reconnoiterings of the coast and other preliminaries were arranged.

Two divisions, commanded by Generals Lawrence and Wetmore, were employed

to keep the enemy in a state of separation; while the third, composed of

the _élite_ of the army under General Wolfe, pressed toward the headland

near Freshwater Cove, and in despite of a heavy and well-directed fire

from the French, and a surf uncommon high and perilous, gained the bank,

routed the enemy, and seized a position which covered at once the

further debarkation of the troops, and the necessary communications with

the fleet. It was in this movement Montgomery furnished the first

decisive evidence of those high military qualities which so distinctly

marked every step of his subsequent conduct. An incident is related, as

having occurred during the bombardment of the fort, which excited the

wit of one of the officers. While commanding in the trenches, a bomb

thrown from the fort knocked off the hat and grazed the skull of General

Lawrence, but without injuring him; which circumstance drew forth a

sarcastic remark from General Charles Lee, then a captain in the British

army—“I’ll resign to-morrow,” exclaimed Lee. “Why so?” asked the person

to whom he spoke. “Because,” said the wit, “none but fools will remain

in a service in which the heads of the generals are bomb-proof.” The

siege terminated on the 27th of July in the surrender of the fortress,

the destruction of several French ships of the line, and the capture of

a garrison of five thousand men.

So favorable were the impressions made of the aptitude of our young

soldier for military service, that he was immediately promoted to a

lieutenancy.

While the British were thus triumphant at Louisburg, they at another and

important point were fated to sustain a heavy loss, as well in

reputation, as in numerical force, in the defeat of the army of

Abercromby at Ticonderoga.

In 1759, General Wolfe was placed at the head of nearly eight thousand

soldiers, and several ships-of-the-line, with orders to reduce the

fortress of Quebec.

After arriving and well reconnoitering the fortress, the general

discovered obstacles greater than he had before conceived, and he found

the only expedient left for giving him a chance of accomplishing his

plans, was a constant and unrelaxing endeavor to decoy into detachments,

or to provoke to a general battle, his old and wary antagonist, who

seemed to understand too well the value of the strength of his castle,

to be easily seduced from it. The attempt was accordingly made, but

ended in a new disappointment and increased vexation, for the enemy

refusing to quit his stronghold, neither advanced in mass, nor in

detachment, to attack him, while his own troops showed a great want both

of order and discipline. This failure no doubt increased, if it did not

create, an indisposition, which caused a temporary suspension of the

general’s activity, during which he submitted to the consideration of

his officers the general question of future operations and the direction

to be given to them, subjoining at the same time statements and opinions

relative to the proposed attack.

To these considerations Montgomery, though a junior officer, was

permitted to give an opinion, which was received by his senior officers

with much respect, and afterward proved of great importance as followed

by Wolfe. Very soon, however, the fortress was surrounded by the

British, but nothing could be considered as done while it remained to be

taken, and for its security there was still left a sufficient garrison

and abundant supplies, with an exterior force already formidable and

hourly increasing. Under the aspect of things the chances were yet

against the invaders, and it required only a vigorous resistance on the

part of the garrison to have saved both the fortress and the province.

But fear betrays like treason. Ramsay, the French commander, saw in some

demonstrations, made by the British fleet and army as trials of his

temper, a serious intention to attack him by land and water at the same

time, when, to escape this, he opened a negotiation for the surrender of

the fort at the very moment when a reinforcement was ready to enter it.

The negotiation speedily closed by the surrender of the capital, and

Quebec was now in possession of the British. Montgomery was the first to

place the British flag on the ramparts of the fortress with his own

hands.

* * * * *

By this time a large military force had been collected in British

America, and having no longer any professional occupation there,

detachments were made from it against the French West India Islands. Of

these expeditions the principal objects were the reduction of St. Pierre

and Fort Royal in the island of Martinico, and of Havana in that of

Cuba. These campaigns were extremely laborious and perilous, not only by

the climate and season, but by the means of defense furnished by nature.

In each of these Montgomery had a full share, as well of the toil and

danger, as of the commendation bestowed upon efforts, which ultimately

triumphed over every kind and degree of resistance. Martinico

surrendered in February, 1762, and Havana and the Moro Castle in the

August following; two events greatly tending to hasten the treaty of

Versailles, which put an end to the war on the 10th of February, 1763.

During this siege the loss sustained by the British army amounted to

twenty-eight thousand men, besides which, more than half of the troops

sent back to New York, either died on the passage or after their

arrival.

Of the garrison left at Havana under General Keppel, but seven hundred

men were found fit for duty at the peace. Soon after the official

annunciation of peace, Montgomery, who with the seventeenth regiment,

had returned to New York, sought and obtained permission to return to

England, where he remained until the close of the year 1772. Although

the military abilities of Montgomery were highly distinguished, war and

conquest had no other charms to him than as the means of peace and

happiness to mankind, and he found leisure in the midst of camps to

cultivate an excellent taste for philosophy and polite literature.

To these he added a careful study of the arts of government and the

rights of mankind, looking forward to that time when he might return to

the still scenes of private life, and give a full flow to the native and

acquired virtues of a heart rich in moral excellence. He had formed an

early attachment, amounting even to an enthusiastic love for this

country.

The woodland and the plain; the face of Nature, grand, venerable, and

yet rejoicing in her prime; our mighty rivers, descending in vast

torrents through wild and shaggy mountains, or gliding in silent majesty

through fertile vales; their numerous branches and tributary springs;

our romantic scenes of rural quiet; our simplicity, _then_ uncorrupted

by luxury or flagrant vice; our love of knowledge and ardor for

liberty—all these served to convey the idea of primeval felicity to a

heart which was fraught with benevolent feelings.

It was during his residence of nine years in England, that the

controversy between Great Britain and her American colonies commenced.

This he watched with a jealous eye, and at last fancied he saw enough to

cause him to abandon the King’s service, and to seek America as his

future and permanent home. He accordingly sold the commission he then

held, and in January, 1772, arrived in New York.

Very soon after his arrival he selected a delightful spot on the banks

of the Hudson river, in the state of New York, purchased a farm there,

and expected to retire from the bustle of a noisy world. The following

year he married a daughter of Robert R. Livingston, then one of the

judges of the superior court of the province.

In this most eligible of all situations, the life of a country

gentleman, deriving its most exquisite relish from reflections upon

dangers and past services, he gave full scope to his philosophical

spirit and taste for rural elegance. Satisfied with himself, and raised

above all vulgar ambition, he devoted his time to domestic pursuits, the

intercourse of a select society, the study of useful books, and the

improvement of his villa. But neither wood nor lawn could make him

forget the duties which he owed to society. When the hand of unlawful

authority was stretched forth, Montgomery was ready to exchange his

peaceful groves for the tented field. From that fatal day in which the

first American blood was spilt by the bands of British brethren, and the

better genius of the empire turned abhorrent from the strife of death

among her children, our hero chose his part. In this state of things,

the National Congress employed itself in June, 1775, in organizing an

army, and, among other acts, appointed a commander-in-chief, four

major-generals, and eight brigadiers.

Of the latter description Montgomery was one. This unequivocal mark of

distinction, conferred by the highest acknowledged authority of the

country, without solicitation or privity on his part, was received by

him with a homage mingled with regret, apparently foreboding the

catastrophe which was soon to follow.

In a letter to a friend he says—“The Congress having done me the honor

of electing me a brigadier-general in their service, is an event which

must put an end for a while, perhaps forever, to the quiet scheme of

life I had prescribed for myself; for, though entirely unexpected and

undesired by me, the will of an oppressed people, compelled to choose

between liberty and slavery, must be obeyed.” Under these noble and

self-sacrificing views and feelings, Montgomery accepted the commission

tendered to him, and from that hour to the moment of his death, the

whole force of his mind and body was devoted to the honor and interest

of his adopted country. His principles of loyalty remained unshaken.

Love to our brethren whom we must oppose, the interchange of good

offices, which had so intimately knit the bands of friendship between

the two members, the memory of those days in which we fought under the

same banners; the vast fabric of mutual happiness raised by our union,

and ready to be dissolved by our dissensions; the annihilation of those

plans of improvement in which we were engaged for the glory of the

empire—all these considerations conspired to render this conflict

peculiarly abhorrent to him and every virtuous American, and could have

been outweighed by nothing earthly but the unquenchable love of liberty,

and that sacred duty which we owe to ourselves and our posterity.

The necessity of resistance was manifest, and no sophistry could

question our right. “In cases of national oppression,” says Blackstone,

“the nation hath very justifiably risen as one man to vindicate the

original contract subsisting between the king and the people.”—“If the

sovereign power threaten desolation to a state, mankind will not be

reasoned out of the feelings of humanity, nor sacrifice liberty to a

scrupulous adherence to political maxims.” Montgomery did not hesitate

to accept the commission, praying at the same time that “Heaven might

speedily reunite us in every bond of affection and interest; and that

the British empire might again become the envy and admiration of the

universe.” He was entrusted, jointly with General Schuyler, with the

expedition against Canada, but, in consequence of the illness of that

gentleman, the whole duty devolved upon him. There was benevolence in

the whole plan of this expedition. It was to be executed not so much by

force as by persuasion, and it was exactly suited to the genius of

Montgomery. He understood the blessings of a free government, and could

display them with captivating eloquence.

He had a soul great, disinterested, affectionate, delighting to

alleviate distress, and to diffuse happiness. He possessed an industry

not to be wearied, a vigilance that could not be eluded, and courage

equal to his other abilities. From the military character of the French

population in Canada, and its contiguity to the northern section of the

Union, it was determined to endeavor to neutralize powers so extended

and menacing. This invasion was determined on by two routes, the one by

the river Sorel, the other by the Kennebec; the army by the former route

were to act against Forts St. John, Chamblee, and Montreal; while the

second should enter Canada at or near Quebec, contemporaneously with the

other, and effect a junction, if possible, with Major-General Schuyler,

who should command in chief.

To the first of these armaments Montgomery was assigned, as the elder of

the two brigadiers. He accordingly hastened to Ticonderoga, the point

selected for the principal rendezvous and outfit of the projected

invasions. On arriving at his post his first object was to acquire a

correct knowledge of the force of the enemy and his position, and found

that General Carleton was at Montreal preparing a naval force intended

to act on Lake Champlain. He perceived at once the plan and the

necessity of its defeat, and at once took his post at the Isle-aux-Noix,

as the best point to carry his plan into execution. In a letter to

General Schuyler announcing his intention, he says—“Moving without your

orders, I do not like; but, on the other hand, the prevention of the

enemy is of the utmost consequence; for if he gets his vessels into the

lake, it is over with us for the present summer. Let me entreat you to

follow in a whale-boat, leaving some one to bring on the troops and

artillery. It will give the men great confidence in your spirit and

activity; and how necessary to a general this confidence is, I need not

tell you. I most earnestly wish that this suggestion may meet your

approbation, and be assured that I have your honor and reputation much

at heart. All my ambition is to do my duty in a subordinate capacity,

without the least ungenerous intention of lessening that merit, which is

justly your due.” He hastened with his corps of one thousand men, and

two pieces of light artillery, to begin his movement down the lake. It

was ten days, owing to the head winds, before he reached the position he

had selected. Major-General Schuyler arrived about the same time, and it

was thought a nearer approach to the enemy advisable. The movement was

ordered, and a landing effected without obstruction, about a mile and a

half from St. John’s. On the evening of their landing, after it was

dark, they were visited by a Canadian, who gave the following

information—

“That the twenty-sixth was the only regular British corps in Canada,

that with the exception of fifty men, retained by General Carleton at

Montreal, the whole of this was in garrison at St. John’s and Chamblee;

that these two forts were strongly fortified and abundantly supplied;

that one hundred Indians were at the former, and a large body collected

under Colonel Johnson; that the vessel intended for the lake would be

ready to sail in three or four days, and would carry sixteen guns; that

no Canadian would join the American army, the wish and policy of the

people being neutrality, provided their persons and property were

respected, and the articles furnished by, or taken from them, paid for

in gold or silver; that, under present circumstances, our attack upon

St. John’s would be imprudent; and lastly, that a return to the

Isle-aux-Noix would be proper, as from this point an intercourse with

the inhabitants of Laprairie might be usefully opened.” On hearing this

report a council of war was called, and it was decided to return to

their former position on the island. In General Schuyler’s report to

Congress we find the following—“I cannot estimate the many obligations

I lie under to General Montgomery for the many important services he has

done, and daily does, and in which he has had so little assistance from

me, as I have not enjoyed a moment’s health since I left Fort George,

and am now so low, as not to be able to hold the pen. Should we not be

able to do any thing decisively in Canada, I shall judge it best to move

from this place, which is a very wet and unhealthy part of the country,

unless I receive your orders to the contrary.”

With this manifest foreboding of eventual disappointment, the commanding

general left the camp and returned to Ticonderoga; and from thence to

Albany, where he was actively and usefully employed, during the

remainder of the campaign, in forwarding supplies to the army.

Montgomery remained at the island only long enough to receive a

reinforcement of men and a few pieces of artillery.

He then re-embarked, again landed at St. John’s, and commenced

operations for its investiture.

On the 18th of September, he marched with a party of five hundred men to

the north of the fort, where he met a considerable portion of the

garrison returning from the repulse of an American party under Major

Brown. A skirmish ensued, which in a few minutes terminated in the

repulse of the enemy, who fled in disorder. But for the timidity among

the Americans, the whole party might have been captured. General

Montgomery in speaking of his men says, “As soon as we saw the enemy,

the old story of treachery spread among the men; and the cry was, we are

trepanned and drawn under the guns of the fort. The woodsmen were less

expert in forming than I had expected, and too many of them hung back.

Had we kept more silence we should have taken a field-piece or two.”

Montgomery now determined to establish a camp at the junction of the two

roads leading to Chamblee and Montreal, in order to cut off supplies,

this he did, and defended it with a ditch, and a garrison of three

hundred men. But new difficulties appeared to arise. His artillery was

so light that it made little or no impression upon the walls, and the

artillerists raw and unskillful. And, added to all this, was the

insubordinate and mutinous conduct of his men, who, from constant

exposure to the damp and unhealthy climate, were suffering from attacks

of chills and fever; under these circumstances, the commander was

prevented from enforcing discipline.

In this painful situation, he was frequently forced to compromise with

professional dignity, and submit his own opinion to that of a board of

officers of inferior rank. To lessen the number and pressure of these

embarrassments, Montgomery decided on changing his position and removing

to the northwestern side of the fort; which, as he was informed, would

furnish ground of greater elevation and dryer face, with a sufficient

supply of wholesome water. The misfortunes of Montgomery appeared to

follow one after the other in rapid succession. To quiet the restless

activity of Ethan Allen, who, without commission or command, had forced

himself into the army as a volunteer, Montgomery sent him to Laprairie,

with an escort of thirty men, and orders to mingle freely with the

inhabitants, and so to treat them, as would best conciliate their

friendship and induce them to join the American standard. In the

commencement, Allen was not unsuccessful, for he added to his corps

fifty Canadians; when, either deceived in regard to the enemy’s

strength, or indifferent to its magnitude, and without direction or

privity on the part of his General, he determined to risk an attack on

Montreal. This insane attempt was met by a party of British who captured

him and thirty-eight of his followers.

Shortly after, another event took place, as fortunate as it was

unexpected, and which eventually decided the fate of the garrison. A

gentleman from New York, named James Livingston, had resided for a

considerable time in Canada, and by a proper course of conduct had won

the esteem of a large number of the inhabitants. Montgomery was so

fortunate as to enlist this gentleman in his favor, and prevailed on him

to raise an armed corps, under the promise of eventual protection, made

and promulgated by the order of Congress. With three hundred of these

newly raised recruits, Majors Brown and Livingston obtained possession

of Fort Chamblee, capturing the whole of the garrison, and a large

quantity of military stores, among which were one hundred and twenty-six

barrels of gunpowder. By this fortunate movement, General Carleton found

himself compelled to quit his insular position at Montreal, and risk a

field movement in defence of his fortress. The force at the disposal of

General Carleton, did not exceed twelve hundred men, and which was

composed partly of Canadian militia, who were serving with reluctance,

and emigrants from Scotland, recently engaged—in no way acquainted with

military duty.

On the 31st of October he crossed the St. Lawrence opposite Longueil,

whence he determined, after mustering his forces to march against the

besieging army. The movements of Sir Guy Carleton, though conducted with

considerable secrecy, did not escape the vigilant eye of Montgomery, who

had for some time expected such a proceeding. He had previously ordered

certain officers to take a position with two regiments on the Longueil

road, ordering them to patrol that route carefully and frequently, as

far as the St. Lawrence; to report daily to the commanding general such

information as he might be able to obtain, and to attack any part of the

enemy indicating an intention of moving in the direction of the American

camp.

These regiments, commanded by General Warner, arrived at Longueil on the

morning of the same day that Carleton was preparing to cross, but did

not display their force until the British had nearly reached the shore.

He then suddenly opened upon them with both musketry and artillery,

killing many of the soldiers, and scattering and disabling their boats.

By a most fortunate coincidence, at the same time, and with similar

orders, Easton, Brown, and Livingston approach McLean, who, losing all

hope of support from Carleton, hastily withdrew to his boats and

descended the St. Lawrence.

This gratifying intelligence was immediately communicated to General

Montgomery, who presented them in a written form to the commandant of

St. John’s, urging the impossibility of his deriving any relief from

Carleton, and the useless effusion of blood, which must necessarily

follow any attempt to prolong the defense. After proper consideration

the garrison surrendered. The next step to be taken, was a rapid

movement on Montreal, but which was much impeded by the disaffection of

the troops; this was only overcome by a promise of discharge at

Montreal. Under this arrangement, he was enabled to display a force in

front of the town, which on the 12th of November secured to him a full

and peaceable possession of it, and of eleven armed vessels left by the

enemy. Though now master of a great part of Canada, Montgomery’s labors,

far from becoming lighter or fewer, were much augmented in both number

and character.

The pursuit of Carleton, (who had retreated to his fleet, with the hope

of making his escape through that avenue; but finding this impossible,

entered a small boat with muffled oars, and at midnight passed through

the American fleet without being perceived and hurried on to Quebec,)

and an experiment on the strength of Quebec, were objects sufficiently

indicated by his own judgment, and the hopes of the nation. To prosecute

so desperate an action required means of which he was greatly deficient.

His situation described in a letter to R. R. Livingston, then a member

of Congress, is a faithful picture of the embarrassments under which he

labored. He says:

“I need not tell you that until Quebec is taken, Canada is unconquered;

and that to accomplish this we must resort to siege, investment, or

storm. The first of these is out of the question, from the difficulty of

making trenches in a Canadian winter, and the greater difficulty of

living in them, if we could make them; secondly, from the nature of the

soil, which, as I am at present instructed, renders mining

impracticable, and, were this otherwise, from the want of an engineer

having sufficient skill to direct the process; and thirdly, from the

fewness and lightness of our artillery, which is quite unfit to break

walls like those of Quebec. Investment has fewer objections, and might

be sufficient, were we able to shut out entirely from the garrison and

town the necessary supplies of food and fuel, during the winter, but to

do this well (the enemy’s works being very extensive and offering many

avenues to the neighboring settlements,) will require a large army, and

from present appearances mine will not, when brought together, much if

at all exceed eight hundred combatants. Of Canadians I might be able to

get a considerable number, provided I had hard money, with which to

clothe, feed, and pay their wages; but this is wanting. Unless,

therefore, I am soon and amply reinforced, investment, like siege must

be given up.

“To the storming plan there are fewer objections; and to this we must

come at last. If my force be small, Carleton’s is not great. The

extensiveness of his works, which, in case of investment, would favor

him, will in the other case favor us. Masters of our secret, we may

select a particular time and place for attack, and to repel this the

garrison must be prepared at all times and places; a circumstance, which

will impose upon it incessant watching and labor by day and by night;

which, in its undisciplined state, must breed discontents that may

compel Carleton to capitulate, or perhaps to make an attempt to drive us

off. In this last idea, there is a glimmering of hope. Wolfe’s success

was a lucky hit, or rather a series of such hits. All sober and

scientific calculation was against him, until Montcalm, permitting his

courage to get the better of his discretion, gave up the advantages of

his fortress and came out to try his strength on the plain.

“Carleton, who was Wolfe’s quartermaster-general, understands this well;

and, it is to be feared, will not follow the Frenchman’s example. In all

these views, you will discover much uncertainty; but of one thing you

may be sure, that, unless we do something before the middle of April,

the game will be up; because by that time the river may be open and let

in supplies and reinforcements to the garrison in spite of any thing we

can do to prevent it; and again, because my troops are not engaged

beyond that term, and will not be prevailed upon to stay a day longer.

In reviewing what I have said, you will find that my list of wants is a

long one, _men, money, artillery, and clothing accommodated to the

climate_. Of _ammunition_ Carleton took care to leave little behind him

at this place. What I wish and expect is, that all this be made known to

Congress, with a full assurance, that, if I fail to execute their wishes

or commands, it shall not be from any negligence of duty, or infirmity

of purpose on my part. _Vale, cave ne mandata frangas._”

On the 19th of November, General Arnold having crossed the St. Lawrence

in safety, was joined by Montgomery, and on the 4th of December, took a

position before Quebec. The first thing was to obtain a knowledge of the

extent and structure of the enemy’s works; the force and strength of his

garrison, and the means possessed by the inhabitants to supply the wants

of the troops.

Montgomery having satisfied himself on these points, next presented a

summons to surrender in the customary form, a cannonade of the fort from

a battery of five guns and one howitzer; a display of the American force

in full view of the British garrison, in the hope that the enemy would

forego a contest; but this was done without producing any effect. At

this moment a circumstance took place which threatened the whole project

with defeat. Three companies of Arnold’s detachment (whose term of

service was on the point of expiring) having taken offence at the

conduct of their commanding officer, the cause of which offence was

never properly explained; seized the present occasion to make known

their intention of quitting the army, unless, in the approaching

movement they were permitted to attach themselves to some other corps.

Upon investigating the affair, General Montgomery found the complaints

so absurd, that he promptly determined, in justice to Arnold, to reject

the proposal. But before officially announcing his decision, he thought

it most prudent to try what could be effected by expostulation; in this

attempt he finally succeeded, and brought them back to a sense of good

order and obedience, without coercive means. The mind of Montgomery was

not yet at ease, and suspecting that the flame of the late controversy

might not be extinguished, he resolved to call a council of war, in

which he submitted two questions,—“Shall we attempt the reduction of

Quebec by a night attack? And if so, shall the lower town be the place

attacked?” This seemed to infuse new life into the officers, and both

questions were affirmatively decided, the troops were ordered to parade

in three divisions at two o’clock in the morning of the 31st of

December; the New York regiments and part of Easton’s Massachusetts

militia, at Holland House; the Cambridge detachment and Lamb’s company

of artillerists, with one field-piece at Captain Morgan’s quarters; and

the two small corps of Livingston and Brown at their respective grounds

of parade. To the first and second of these divisions were assigned the

two assaults on the opposite sides of the lower town; and to the third,

a series of demonstrations or feigned attacks on different parts of the

upper. This arrangement was made to meet the expectations of colonies,

who looked to Montgomery for the capture of the capital, and speedy

reduction of the province. But they understood little of Montgomery’s

difficulties; the steep heights which fortified the upper town rendered

the passage from one to the other almost impassable. The number of

soldiers in the garrison consisted of about two hundred and seventy

marines and regulars, eight hundred militia, and four hundred and fifty

seamen. The movement began between three and four o’clock in the

morning, from the Heights of Abraham; Montgomery advancing at the head

of the first division by the river road, round the foot of Cape Diamond

to Aunce au Mere; and Arnold at the head of the second, through the

suburbs of St. Roque, to the Saut de Matelots. Both roads were so

obstructed by snow and thick masses of ice, as to render their progress

very difficult. These obstacles being at last surmounted, the first

barrier was approached, vigorously attacked, and rapidly carried, and

the troops after a moment’s pause pushed on to the second.

A moment, and but a moment, was now employed to re-excite the ardor of

the troops, which the fatigue of the march and the severity of the

weather had somewhat abated. “Men of New York,” exclaimed Montgomery,

“you will not fear to follow where your general leads—march on!” then

placing himself again in the front, he pressed eagerly forward to the

second; he assisted with his own hands in pulling up some pickets which

hindered the march. Near this place a barrier had been made across the

road, and from the windows of a low house, which formed part of it, were

planted two cannon. At his appearing upon a little rising ground, at the

distance of about twenty or thirty yards, the guns were discharged, and

the general with his aide-de-camps fell dead. Thus terminated the life

and labors of Major-general Richard Montgomery, in the thirty-ninth year

of his age.

Upon hearing of the death of their commander, both divisions made a

disorderly and hasty retreat to the Heights of Abraham.

The fortune of the day being now decided, the corpse of the fallen

general was eagerly sought for and soon found. When the corpse of

Montgomery was shown to Carleton, the heart of that noble officer

melted. They had served in the same regiment under Wolfe, and the most

friendly relation existed between them throughout the whole of the

French war. The lieutenant-governor of Quebec, M. Cramahé, ordered a

coffin to be prepared for him, and decently interred within the walls of

the city, where friends and enemies united in expressions of sorrow, as

his remains were conveyed to their final resting-place. Ramsey, in his

History of the Revolution, has the following appropriate remarks:

“Few men have ever fallen in battle so much regretted on both sides as

General Richard Montgomery. His many amiable qualities had procured him

an uncommon share of private affection; and his great abilities an equal

proportion of public esteem. Being a sincere lover of liberty, he had

engaged in the American cause from principle, and quitted the enjoyment

of an easy fortune, and the highest domestic felicity, to take an active

share in the fatigues and dangers of a war instituted for the defense of

the community of which he was an adopted member. His well-known

character was almost equally esteemed by the friends and foes of the

side of which he espoused. In America he was celebrated as a martyr to

the liberties of mankind; in Great Britain, as a misguided good man,

sacrificing to what he supposed to be the rights of his country.

His name was mentioned in Parliament with singular respect. Some of the

most powerful speakers in that assembly displayed their eloquence in

sounding his praise and lamenting his fate. Those in particular who had

been his fellow soldiers in the previous war, expatiated on his many

virtues. The minister himself acknowledged his worth, while he

reprobated the cause for which he fell. He concluded an involuntary

panegyric by saying, “Curse on his virtues, they have undone his

country.”

“In this brief story of a short and useful life,” says his biographer,

“we find all the elements which enter into the composition of a great

man and a distinguished soldier; a happy physical organization,

combining strength and activity, and enabling its possessor to encounter

laborious days and sleepless nights, hunger and thirst, all changes of

weather, and every variation of climate.

“To these corporeal advantages was added a mind, cool, discriminating,

energetic, and fearless; thoroughly acquainted with mankind, not

uninstructed in the literature and sciences of the day, and habitually

directed by a high and unchangeable moral sense. That a man so

constituted should have won the golden opinions of friends and foes, is

not extraordinary. The most eloquent men of the British Senate became

his panegyrists; and the American Congress hastened to testify for him

their grateful remembrance, profound respect, and high veneration. A

monument to his memory was accordingly erected, on which might justly be

inscribed the impressive lines of the poet:

‘Brief, brave, and glorious was his young career;

His mourners were two hosts—his friends and foes;

And fitly may the stranger, lingering here,

Pray for his gallant spirit’s bright repose;

For he was Freedom’s Champion, one of those,

The few in number, who had not o’erstept

The charter to chastise, which she bestows

On such as wield her weapons; he had kept

The whiteness of his soul, and thus men o’er him wept.’

“To express the high sense entertained by his country of his services,

Congress directed a monument of white marble, with the following

inscription on it, which was executed by Mr. Cassiers, at Paris, and was

placed in front of St. Paul’s church, New York:

THIS MONUMENT

was erected by order of

Congress, 25th January, 1776,

to transmit to posterity

a grateful remembrance of the

patriotism, conduct, enterprise, and

perseverance,

OF MAJOR-GENERAL

RICHARD MONTGOMERY,

who, after a series of successes,

amid the most discouraging

difficulties, fell in the attack

on Quebec,

31st December, 1775,

aged 39 years.

“The remains of General Montgomery, after resting forty-two years at

Quebec, were, by a resolution of the Legislature of the State of New

York, brought to the city on the 8th day of July, 1818, and deposited

with an imposing solemnity suited to the occasion, near the monument

erected by order of the United States. The following inscription was

placed upon the additional coffin. ‘The State of New York, in honor of

General Richard Montgomery, who fell gloriously fighting for the

Independence and Liberty of the United States, before the walls of

Quebec, the 31st of December, 1775, cause these remains of this

distinguished hero to be conveyed from Quebec, and deposited on the 8th

day of July, 1818, in St. Paul’s Church, in the city of New York, near

the monument erected to his memory.’”

It has been stated in several histories of this lamented officer, that

the body was privately interred in the evening by a few soldiers; but

this is not true; and justice to his generous adversary requires that we

should vindicate the reputation of the lieutenant-general of Canada from

such a stigma. John Joseph Henry, Esq., who was under Montgomery, and

being taken by the enemy, had an opportunity of witnessing the honors

that were paid to his memory, writes thus: “It was on this day that my

heart was ready to burst with grief at viewing the funeral of our

beloved general. Sir Guy Carleton had, in our former wars with the

French, been the friend and fellow-soldier of Montgomery. Though

political opinion, perhaps ambition or interest, had thrown these

worthies on different sides of the great question, yet the former could

not but honor the remains of his quondam friend. About noon the

procession passed our quarters. It was a mournful sight. The coffin,

covered with a black pall, surmounted by transverse swords, was borne by

men. The regular troops, particularly that fine body of men, the seventh

regiment, with reversed arms, and scarfs on the left arm, accompanied

the corpse to the grave. The funeral of the other officers, both friends

and enemies, were performed the same day. Many and deeply heartfelt were

the tears of affection shed that day; of affection for those who were no

more, and of greeting and thankfulness toward Carleton. The British

soldiery and inhabitants appeared affected by the loss of this

invaluable man, though he was their enemy. If such men as Washington,

Carleton, and Montgomery, had had the entire direction of the adverse

war, the contention in the event might have happily terminated to the

advantage of both sections of the nation.”

* * * * *

THE TWO PALMS.

BY HENRY T. TUCKERMAN.

As the last column of a temple vanished,

A Palm-tree, in a city of the West,

Stood, like a hero from his country banished,

A proud though lonely guest.

Perchance its birth-place was a holy mountain,

Or radiant valley of some tropic isle,

Near pyramid, or mosque, or wayside fountain,

By Jordan or the Nile.

And oft its high and tufted crest beholding,

In each vibration of the arching leaves,

A plaintive strain I seemed to hear unfolding,

As when an exile grieves.

For solemn is the air of isolation,

And that lone offspring of the desert wild

Wore to my eye a look of consecration,

That sympathy beguiled.

No more around it eastern balms were stealing,

But smoke and dingy vapors of the town,

No Moslem in its pillared shade was kneeling,

Nor caravan sunk down.

Before it once the sandy ridges heaving,

Spread like an ocean, limitless and free,

And the mirage its panorama weaving,

Rose beautiful to see!

Now waves of eager life beneath it swelling,

With restless care mock oriental ease,

And chimney-stacks, tiled roof and murky dwelling,

Shut out the sun and breeze.

Yet even here I marked, each day, appearing

An aged Syrian, sorrowful and calm,

With folded arms, wan smile, and looks endearing

Cast on the lonely Palm.

And once he murmured, as the night descended,

While gazing fondly through unconscious tears,

“Fair tree, _the promise of thy life is ended_,

_For here thou hast no peers_.”

How near the good we distantly are craving!

The Syrian long had weary vigil kept—

One morn his country’s tree was gaily waving—

It blossomed while he slept!

Some far-off nook of that vast city treasured

Another Palm by careless eyes unseen,

That drearily the lingering years had measured,

Yet put forth shoots of green;

Until its ripened flower-dust uplifting,

On the strong currents of the tideless air,

With certain aim to his pent garden drifting,

A mate encountered there!

Thus seeds of Truth their noiseless flight are winging,

And Love instinctively steals through the crowd,

To hearts receptive consolation bringing,

They may not breathe aloud!

Accept the omen, thou who toilest lonely,

And patiently Life’s blossoming await,

Where God has planted thee be faithful only,

And thou shalt conquer Fate!

* * * * *

“A MERE ACT OF HUMANITY.”

A SLIGHT SKETCH.

BY GRACE GREENWOOD.

“Health to the art whose glory is to give

The crowning boon that makes it life to live.”

HOLMES.

Start not, my fastidious reader, when I announce that the young

gentleman, in whose favor and fortunes I would enlist your friendly

sympathies, as the hero of this sketch, is, or rather was, a _medical

student_. Now I am very well aware that medical students are

proverbially “hard cases”—wild, spreeing, careless, skeptically

inclined young gentlemen, whose handkerchiefs smell of ether, and whose

gloves are strongly suggestive of rhubarb; whose talk runs large, with

bold jests on _grave subjects_, sly anatomical allusions, and startling

hints at something

“Mair horrible and awfu’,

Which e’en to name wad be unlawfu’,”

and whose very laughter has a sort of bony-rattle about it.

But our friend, Will Ashley, fortunately belonged not to the Bob Sawyer

and Ben Allen class of Esculapian disciples. He was a man of refinement,

intellect, education, and principle—pleasing address, fine person, and

good family. Republican as I am, I can but think much of _good

blood_—pure and honorable blood, I mean. He had no bravado, no

pretension, no recklessness, no skepticism about him. He chose his

profession at the first, from a real, natural leaning that way, and

pursued it with true enthusiasm and untiring constancy; and this

partiality and devotion have been rewarded with the happiest success.

Dr. Ashley is now regarded by his many patients, with a remarkable

confidence and affection. To them, there seems “healing in the very

creak of his shoes on the stairs,” his cheerful smile lights up the sick

room like sunshine; his gentle words and sympathetic tones are as balm

and “freshening oil” to hearts and minds, wounded and distempered with

the body, and his bright laugh and playful wit are a positive tonic to

the weak and nervous and fearful. But I am anticipating; my story has

perhaps most to do with the student-life of Ashley.

When William was quite young—a mere boy indeed, he became much attached

to a pretty cousin of his own—a gentle, dark-eyed, Southern girl, who

made her home for some years with his mother and sister, in the quiet,

New England city of H——, where she was attending school.

Jessie Archer was, in truth, a lovely creature—with a heart full of all

good and kindly feelings—with a soft, endearing manner, but with very

little strength of character, or stability of purpose. She tenderly

loved her Northern relatives, and parted from them at last, from her

cousin William in particular, with many tears and passionate expressions

of regret. She was not positively betrothed to this cousin—such a

measure would have been opposed by their friends, on account of the

extreme youth of the parties—but she knew well his love and his dear

hope—that he looked upon her as his future bride, and she was well

content with this understanding.

As a matter of course, and lover-like necessity, William Ashley

corresponded with his cousin. At first, the letters on both sides were

frequent, long, and confidential; but after the first year of absence,

those of Miss Jessie changed gradually in their tone, and became “few

and far between.” But William, who was faithful and believing, made a

thousand kind excuses for this, and continued to write out of his own

affectionate and changeless heart. But at length his Jessie ceased to

write altogether. Two months went by, and then poor Ashley, in much

distressful anxiety, wrote to her, entreating to be told the cause of

her strange silence. There came a reply at last—a brief reply, written

in the dear, familiar hand, but bearing for a signature, a strange name.

She had been a fortnight married to a wealthy Virginia planter.

This home-thrust at his heart by a beloved hand; this sudden

annihilation of his dearest hopes, by her whose sweet source and centre

they had been, almost prostrated the young student, mind and body. He

was proud, sensitive, and twenty-one; he had the heart and was at the

age to feel acutely, to suffer and despair. His ambition died out—his

energies flagged—then his appetite _went by the board_; his eye grew

spiritless, his step heavy, and his cheek pale. “He must give up study,”

said his mother. “He must take a journey,” said his sister, speaking one

word for him and two for herself. This last proposition, which was

strongly pressed, was finally acceded to; and the young gentleman set

forth, dispirited and ill, under the care, (“protection,” she called

it,) of his charming sister, Ellen. They went directly West, for a visit

to the Falls; the very journey which William had always looked forward

to as his bridal-tour. Now it seemed but to depress and sadden him the

more; he was restless, moody, and abstracted—the very worst

traveling-companion possible to have. Ellen found it exceedingly

difficult to divert him from his melancholy thoughts and tender

recollections, “pleasant and mournful to the soul.” The fine scenery

along their route, constantly reminded him of the double pleasure he had

anticipated in first viewing it with his beautiful bride.

At Buffalo, our travelers took the afternoon boat for Chippewa. It was a

bright and breezy day, early in in July—water, earth and sky were lit

up gloriously by the declining sun, as they swept down that grand,

immortal river. As the brother and sister stood on deck, silently

drinking in the rare beauty of the scene and hour, they noticed a party

near them, distinguished amid all the crowd, by a certain quiet elegance

of dress and manner, with a bearing of perhaps unconscious superiority.

This was a family party, and consisted of an elderly gentleman, Mr.

Harley, a wealthy banker, and an honorable citizen of New York—his

wife, a sweet, motherly-looking woman—their daughter, Juliet, a fair

and delicate girl of eighteen, and their only son, Master Fred, a lad of

nine or ten.

Ashley was a thorough republican—poor and proud; and being now more

than usually inclined to coldness and reserve, instinctively shrunk from

all contact with this party, in whom he at once recognized the air

patrician and exclusive. But toward evening, Mr. Harley made some

courteous advances, and finally succeeded in getting up quite a free and

animated conversation with his young fellow-traveler, with whose

well-bred air and thoughtful countenance he had been attracted and

impressed. They discoursed on the magnificent scenery around them, then

on the battles and sieges, bold generalship and grand fighting which had

made classic ground of the wild Niagara frontier; and Ashley, who was an

admirable talker, soon became earnest and even eloquent, in spite of

himself. All at once, in looking up, he met the beautiful blue eyes of

Miss Juliet fixed upon him with evident interest and admiration. The

young lady dropped her gaze instantly, while a deep blush suffused her

bright, ingenuous face. An involuntary thrill of pleasure agitated the

heart of Ashley, and his cold eye kindled with a new fire; but as

thought returned—the thought of all the fickleness and coquetry, and

heartlessness of woman, his brow clouded, he bit his lip, and with a few

hasty words, turned abruptly, and drawing his sister’s arm within his

own, walked to the side of the vessel, and there stood, silently and

moodily, gazing down into the darkening waters and off into the

deepening twilight.

Owing to some detention, the boat was later than usual, so that it was

quite dark when they landed at Chippewa. On leaving the boat, Mr. Ashley

and his sister found themselves directly behind the party with whom they

had been conversing. Mr. Harley looking round and seeing them, began

making some inquiries respecting the hotel of which they had made

choice, when Master Fred, who, in his boyish independence, was walking

alone, suddenly stumbled and fell—fell from the broad plank over which

they were passing, into the river below. There were screams and shouts,

and rushings to and fro, but no rescue was attempted, until Ashley,

breaking from the clinging hold of his sister, leaped boldly into the

deep, dark water. For a few moments, which seemed an age to the

spectators, he searched in vain along the narrow space between the

vessel and the wharf, but finally he espied the lad’s head appearing

from under the boat, caught, and drew forth the already insensible

child, and greatly exhausted himself, swam back to the plank with his

precious burden. They were drawn on board together with joyful shouts

and earnest thanksgiving.

As Ashley stood in the gangway, staggering and half blind, the crowd

cheering and pressing around him, his sister flung her arms about his

neck, and hung upon him, laughing and weeping hysterically. But the poor

fellow was faint and chilled, and strove to release himself from her

passionate embrace. But just as he stood free, he felt his hand clasped,

but gently, timidly, and looking round, saw Miss Harley at his side. She

hastily raised that cold, wet hand to her warm, quivering lips, and

kissed it gratefully, while her tears, her irrepressible tears, fell

upon it, as she murmured—“God bless you! God in heaven bless you!” and

then hurried away to attend upon her brother, who had been carried back

into the cabin. The little lad soon recovered sufficiently to be able to

join the party, who together took their way to the Clifton House.

That night, after supper, which he had served in a private parlor, Mr.

Harley sought the room of Ashley—his heart overflowing with gratitude

toward the young hero, and his thoughts busy with plans of generous

recompense. At the door he met a servant bearing away a wet

traveling-suit, which sight quickened even more his warm and kindly

feelings. He entered, to find Mr. Ashley wrapt in a dressing-gown,

sitting by a table, his head bent down on his hands, a plate of light

food, almost untasted, and a cup of tea, half drank, pushed back from

before him. He was looking even paler and more spiritless than usual. In

fact, our friend was completely exhausted by the excitement and exertion

of the evening, and consequently deepened in moodiness and reserve. He

rose, however, as his visiter entered, and bowing politely, begged him

to be seated. But Mr. Harley came forward, took his hand, and pressing

it warmly, looked kindly into that pale, quiet face, his own countenance

all a-glow, and tears actually glistening in his deep-set, gray eyes.

Ashley cast down his own eyes in painful embarrassment, which Mr. Harley

perceiving, took the proffered chair, and strove to converse awhile on

indifferent topics. But he soon came round to the subject nearest his

heart—dwelt long and at large on his paternal joy and gratitude, not

seeming to heed the impatience of his sensitive auditor, and finally

closed with,

“I trust that there is some way in which I can _prove_ my gratitude—in

part reward you for your generous heroism. Tell me, my dear young

friend, can I repay you in any way?”

To Ashley’s jealous ear there was a tone of patronage—an insulting

jingle of the banker’s purse in these words, at which he involuntarily

drew himself up, and curled his short upper-lip; and when Mr. Harley

earnestly repeated his question, thus:

“Is there no way in which I can serve you?” he replied with a sort of

nonchalant hauteur,

“Yes; by never mentioning this little circumstance again. I but did for

your son what I would do for any fellow-creature. It was _a mere act of

humanity_, I assure you.”

Mr. Harley, quite taken aback, chilled, and withal deeply hurt, rose at

once, and with a stately bow and a cold “good-night,” parted from the

rescuer of his child, the young hero, with whom five minutes before he

would have divided his fortune. Tired and indifferent, Ashley flung

himself upon his bed, and slept soundly till late in the morning; then

rose with a headache, made a light breakfast, and hurried down to

Table-Rock with his sister, who had been up since daybreak, impatiently

awaiting his appearance.

Ashley was long lost in that first contemplation of the grand scene

before him; his soul seemed born to a new life—a new world of beauty,

and power, and dread, overwhelming sublimity.

The day was wondrously beautiful, and floods of sunlight were mingling

with the waters, and pouring over that stupendous precipice; into the

darkest deeps fell the fearless, glad sunbeams, sounding like golden

plummets those terrible abysses. There hung the rainbow, and Ellen, as

she gazed, remarked a wild-bird, who seemed sporting in the spray, pass

through the illuminated arch, and become glorified in its midst; and it

seemed to her like an innocent, confiding spirit, coming near to the

might and grandeur of Deity, through the beautiful gateway of love.

Ashley was at length roused from his trance of high-wrought rapture, by

feeling a small, timid hand laid on his arm, and turned to see Master

Fred standing at his side, with a faint glow on his cheek, and an

affectionate pleasure shining in his sunken eye. The lad, to-day

something of an invalid, was accompanied and half-supported by a

servant. Ashley felt an instinctive attraction toward this child, who

was a fine, intelligent boy, by the way, and talked with him more kindly

and familiarly than he had ever felt disposed to converse with the elder

Harley.

On leaving the rock, the Ashleys overtook Mr. Harley with his wife and

daughter. Juliet blushed painfully, as her eye met that of William, but

he bowed and smiled, as she bade the brother and sister, “Good-morning.”

Mr. Harley merely lifted his hat, but Mrs. Harley, who had been so

absorbed the evening previous by her intense anxiety for her son, as

almost to forget his brave rescuer, now, dropping the arm of her

husband, and grasping the hand of the young student, poured the whole

story of her boundless gratitude, of her deep, immeasurable joy, into

his _not_ willing ear. But after all, the blessing of that mother sunk

into his heart—a good heart, though somewhat wayward, and sadly out of

harmony with life just now.

A short time after this, Ashley again saw Miss Harley. They met in a

fearful place, behind the sheet, on Termination Rock—the secret, dread

abode, the dim, awful sanctuary of sublimity.

Even then, Ashley, exalted by poetry, solemnized by grandeur as he was,

could but remark the miracle of beauty which made the young lady look

lovely as ever in the rude, grotesque costume, the clumsy waterproof

dress provided for this adventurous expedition. He next noticed the

fearless, yet awe-struck enthusiasm, the high, rapt expression of her

face, as, sheltering her eyes from the storm of spray with her fair

hand, she gazed upward, to where the huge columns of water, dark-green,

and snowy-white, leaped over the shelving precipice, and plunged with a

thunderous roar into the black abyss at her side.

In after days he often thought of that fair creature, as she thus

appeared—so young, so delicate, yet so brave—so lost to herself almost

to life, in a deep trance of awe and adoration. He often thought of her

thus, as his last sight of her; for after this they parted—he and Ellen

passing over to the American side, saw no more of the Harleys during

their brief stay at the Falls.

Ashley was, almost in spite of himself, much improved in health and

spirits by travel; and on his return resumed his studies with a sort of

dogged devotion, if not with all his old enthusiasm. Yet sometimes, as

formerly, the vision of a fair being would come to disturb and distract

his thoughts—would flit across his humble room, be almost palpably

present to his waking dreams. But it hardly seemed the “lovely young

Jessie,” the “beloved of his early years;” this was a fairer, slighter

form, clad, oddly enough, in a heavy dress of yellow oil-cloth, with a

sort of hood, which, half-falling back, revealed a sweet face, all

glorified by sublime adoration. He saw—how distinctly he saw, the deep,

abstracted eyes, the bright, parted lips—ah, those lips! whenever he

recalled _them_ by some mysterious association, his eye would fall on

his own right hand—a tolerably symmetrical hand, surely, but with

nothing more peculiar about it, that I could ever see.

The fall succeeding the journey to Niagara, William Ashley received his

diploma, and the next spring opened an office in his native city. Not

possessing wealth, or much family-influence, and being young and modest,

he had at first few, very few calls. But he was always at his post,

never employed his leisure unworthily, or was idle or desponding. He

studied as diligently as ever, and waited patiently for those patients

whom he rested assured, in the future—the fair, golden future—were

“bound to come.”

It happened that the young physician’s way home from his office, lay

past, and very near to the elegant residence of Mr. N——, a wealthy and

somewhat distinguished citizen of H——; and, pouring through the open

windows of this mansion, he one night heard the sweetest singing that

had ever met his ear. It was a clear, fresh contralto voice, artistic in

execution, yet sweet, and full of feeling.

Ashley, a fine singer himself, was passionately fond of music; and he

lingered long before that house, walking up and down beneath the thick

shadows of the grand old elms.

This was but the beginning of pleasure; night after night, for some

weeks, found the young physician in the same spot, when he was almost

always so happy as to hear that rare, delicious singing, thrilling and

quivering through the still and dewy air. It was generally accompanied

by the piano; but sometimes he would see a gay group on the piazza, and

among them a slight figure in white, looking very fair and delicate in

the moonlight; then there would come the tinkling of a guitar, and sweet

love-lays of Italy, or wild ballads of Spain.

And thus it went on, till Ashley, the invisible listener, had become

altogether enchanted, spell-bound—_in love with a voice_, till fast and

far in the dim distance, faded away that late familiar vision in yellow

oil-cloth and falling hood, and fair, kindling countenance. He now spent

as many hours over his books as ever, but his thoughts, alas! were far

enough from the page; for, to tell the truth, and expose his boyish

folly, he was constantly dreaming out the form and features of the dear,

unknown—of her with the voice. Unlike his former self, he now looked

searchingly at the fair promenaders whom he met on the street, and he

there saw pretty young ladies enough, but no one in whom he recognized

his idea of the sweet singer.

At length the hour of good fortune came alike to the physician and to

the lover.

Just at sunset, one pleasant evening, a young horseman came dashing up

to Dr. Ashley’s office, to summon him to a lady who had dislocated her

ankle in springing from her horse. Our hero’s heart beat quick as the

messenger directed him to the house of Mr. N. The doctor was shown into

a small parlor, where, on a lounge, clad in a white wrapper, reclined

his first patient. A wealth of rich, golden hair, somewhat disheveled,

first attracted Ashley’s eye; there was something strangely familiar in

those bright curls, and he was not taken altogether by surprise when

Mrs. N—— presented him to her niece, “_Miss Harley_.”

The lady was lying with her hands over her face, to conceal the tears

drawn forth by her acute suffering; but at the mention of the doctor’s

name, she removed them, and looked up eagerly, smiling in the midst of

her pain, with pleasure and surprise.

But this was no time for more than a simple recognition, and the next

moment saw the doctor bending professionally over the throbbing and

swollen foot of the sufferer.

The setting of the dislocated joint caused this young girl excruciating

torture; but she bore herself through all with heroic patience—the

silent resignation of a true woman.

Yet when all was over—the ankle bound up, and a composing draught

administered, as the doctor took leave of his interesting patient, he

saw that her cheek was deathly pale, and that her lips quivered

convulsively.

From that time, for some weeks, day after day, the young physician might

have been seen (by Mrs. N——) kneeling by the side of Miss Juliet’s

couch—bending over that poor foot, bathing and dressing it, watching

with intense interest the subsiding of the swelling, and the

disappearance of the discoloration, till it became at last white and

delicate, like its mate and former fellow-traveler.

It is strange how, through all this time, the late music-mad young

gentleman existed without listening to the beloved voice, for now,

through the windows of that parlor, through the vines and roses of that

piazza, no sweet singing floated out into the moonlight.

I told you, dear reader, that Dr. Ashley used to kneel by Juliet’s side

to dress her ankle; but when that was better—very much better, almost

well, indeed, and clad in silken hose and slipper—it happened that

once, when quite alone with his fair patient, at the dreamy twilight

hour, the doctor suddenly found himself, by the force of habit, I

suppose, in his old position. This time Miss Juliet bent over him till

her hand lay on his shoulder—till her long, bright curls touched his

forehead, till they mingled in with his own dark locks. She said but a

word or two, and the young practitioner sprung up, impulsively and

joyfully, and took a prouder position by the side of his beloved

patient. His arm was soon about her slight waist—to support her,

probably, as her recent indisposition had left her but weak; her hand

was in his own; and as he held it thus, he mentally observed—“Quite the

quickest pulse I have ever felt.”

Miss Harley called herself well, but she did not seem perfectly so,

while she remained with her relatives in H——; at least her physician

called more and more frequently, nor did it appear that her poor ankle

ever quite regained its strength; for when she took her evening strolls

with Dr. Ashley, they were observed to saunter along slowly, and she was

seen to lean heavily on the arm of her companion.

It is said that there are men who think that a slight lameness imparts a

new interest to a lovely woman—and Dr. Ashley was probably one of

these.

One fine morning, early in September, Mr. Ogden Harley, the rich banker,

and respectable citizen, was seated in his cushioned arm-chair, in his

elegant library, in his princely residence in Waverly Place, in the city

of Gotham. He was looking as easy and comfortable as usual—as well

pleased with the world, and its ways in general, and its ways toward

himself in particular; and even more than usually happy and genial.

Mr. Harley was not alone on this morning. There was then and there

present a young man, rather tall, and quite handsome, modestly, yet

elegantly dressed—(our friend, the doctor, to let you into the secret,

dear reader)—who, with a very red face, and in a manner half proud,

half fearful, was just making a confidant of the old gentleman—telling

him a love-story of his own, in short. The good man seemed greatly

interested in this history, badly told as it was; and at its close, he

rose, quite hastily for one of his aldermanic proportions, and going up

to his visiter, and laying his hand kindly on his shoulder, said,

“With all my heart—with all my heart! I will give you my Juliet, and

place her fortune in your hands—for I honor and like you, young man.”

Ashley, quite overcome, could only stammer out,

“Oh, Mr. Harley, my dear sir, how can I ever repay you for this

goodness—this great kindness!”

“_By never mentioning this little circumstance again!_” replied Mr.

Harley, with a roguish twinkle of the eye. “I saw, my dear boy, what a

sad condition you were in, and this is A Mere Act of Humanity, I

assure you.’”

* * * * *

KING WITLAF’S DRINKING HORN.

BY HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.

Witlaf, a king of the Saxons,

Ere yet his last he breathed,

To the merry monks of Croyland

His drinking-horn bequeathed;

That whenever they sat at their revels

And drank from the golden bowl

They might remember the donor,

And breathe a prayer for his soul.

So sat they once at Christmas,

And bade the goblet pass;

In their beards the red wine glistened

Like dew-drops in the grass.

They drank to the soul of Witlaf,

They drank to Christ the Lord,

And to each of the Twelve Apostles,

Who had preached his holy word.

They drank to the Saints and Martyrs

Of the dismal days of yore,

And as soon as the horn was empty,

They remembered one Saint more.

And the Reader droned from the pulpit,

Like the murmur of many bees,

The legend of good Saint Guthlac,

And Saint Basil’s homilies;

Till the great bells of the convent,

From their prison in the tower,

Guthlac and Bartholomæus,

Proclaimed the midnight hour.

And the Yule-log cracked in the chimney,

And the Abbot bowed his head,

And the flamelets flapped and flickered,

But the Abbot was stark and dead!

Yet still in his pallid fingers

He clutched the golden bowl,

In which, like a pearl dissolving,

Had sunk and dissolved his soul.

But not for this their revels

The jovial monks forbore,

For they cried, “Fill high the goblet!

We must drink to one Saint more!”

* * * * *

STANZAS:

TO A FRIEND, WHO COMPLAINED OF WINTER AS A SEASON OF ENDURANCE.

BY A. D. WILLIAMS.

What if the snowy drapery

Of winter clothe the earth,

And rude “north-westers” chase thee

To the quiet fireside hearth?

And if the sportive wildness

Of others please thee not;

If summer’s balmy mildness

Comes not from grove or grot?

If in the narrowed towers

Of granite walls and gray,

Thy spirit mourns the flowers,

Through all the live-long day?

The muses still are beaming

Their radiance on thy way;

With light and beauty gleaming—

Dread shadows flit away.

And Art the breast is filling

With generous impulse, free;

The Poet’s lyre is thrilling

The soul with melody.

The student’s vigil proffers

The hope-lit spirit’s aim;

And honored duty offers

What truth and virtue claim.

And friendship true is smiling

In confidence and joy,

The lonely hours beguiling.

With sweet and loved employ.

Nor think that oft it fadeth,

On earth’s cold chilling stream,

Through many a heart pervadeth,

More than a “poet’s dream!”

And should thy soul be weary

Of mundane joys and ill,

Yet think not winter dreary,

For heaven the soul can thrill.

Bright, strong-winged Hope is pointing

In gladness to the skies,

And Faith, with Heaven’s anointing,

Bids brighter visions rise.

Then, call not winter dreary,

Sigh not for summer’s joy,

Nor let thy soul be weary

With dutiful employ.

* * * * *

THE RUMSEYS:

OR THE PEOPLE WHO KNEW EVERY BODY AND WHOM NOBODY KNEW.

BY AGNES L. GORDON.

“My dear Mrs. Armitage, I am delighted to see you; I have just this

moment heard of your return, and hastened to claim the privilege of an

old friend, in being the first to welcome you home again.”

So saying, little Mrs. Grey carefully navigated her way amid the piles

of trunks and band-boxes that strewed the hall, and warmly saluted her

friend, who was superintending the arrangement of the baggage.

After the first greetings were over, Mrs. Armitage led her visiter into

the drawing-room, that looked cheerless enough, draped in brown Holland

and shrouded in gloom. When the ladies were seated upon one of the

veiled divans, Mrs. Armitage said—

“I need not apologize to you, my dear Mrs. Grey, for the disorder in

which you find me. We have but just arrived, and the covers are not yet

removed from the furniture—nothing is in readiness for our reception,

because our return is entirely unexpected. Mr. Armitage was obliged to

be in the city, or we should have staid at least a fortnight longer. I

am quite at a loss to know how you should so soon have heard of our

arrival.”

“Why, I called upon Mrs. Leonard, this morning,” replied her guest, “and

there met your friend Mrs. Rumsey, who came down in the cars with your

party; she said she had just parted with you, and on that hint I rushed

off, regardless of etiquette, that I might give you the warm welcoming I

felt.”

Mrs. Armitage pressed her friend’s hand in acknowledgment, and then with

a puzzled look exclaimed:

“Mrs. Rumsey! Who in the name of wonder is she? I know no person of that

name, neither have I any recollection of it.”

“Not know her!” ejaculated Mrs. Grey, now surprised in turn. “Not know

her!—impossible! Why she was entertaining Mrs. Leonard with a long

account of your sayings and doings, and went off in ecstasies over

Helen’s beauty and musical talent.”

“Very strange!” repeated the other lady, musingly. “Mrs.

Rumsey—Rumsey—I cannot remember any such person. However, there were

so many people at the hotel that I did not see half of them, and of

course only made acquaintance with those who pleased me. Certainly this

Mrs. Rumsey was not among the number.”

“Well, you certainly must have had some conversation with her,” said

Mrs. Grey, “else she would not have repeated remarks that you made to

her, and beside she told us how very intimate Helen was with her

daughters, and what delightful strolls you all took together. Perhaps

you have not heard her name aright?”

“Perhaps not,” answered Mrs. Armitage; “what kind of looking person is

she?”

“Oh!” replied her friend, smiling, “she has not much in appearance to

delight one, certainly, though her _tout ensemble_ is rather striking,

and I should think not easily forgotten. She is rather short, and rather

thin, with a quantity of light frizzed curls, surmounted with pink

flowers and marabout feathers—she seems to make up in drapery what she

lacks in solidity, and wears deep flounces, and a quantity of lace

trimming, beside a very elegant watch and chatelaine. Altogether, she

was rather over-dressed, but must be of some standing, for I heard her

mention many of our first families in the most familiar manner.”

“And perhaps with no more claim to their acquaintance than she has to

mine,” replied Mrs. Armitage in a provoked tone, for she prided herself

a little upon her rank in the world of fashion. “I am sure I have no

acquaintance with the person whom you describe, and as for her

daughters—but here comes Helen, let her answer for herself.”

As she spoke Helen Armitage entered the room. She was a graceful,

beautiful girl of eighteen, with a decided style, though quiet in

manner, and justified the proud glance which her mother bestowed upon

her, as she advanced to welcome Mrs. Grey, who was deservedly loved by

all the family.

“My dear Helen how well you are looking,” exclaimed their visiter.

“Really you fully deserve all the encomiums that I have heard lavished

upon you this morning by the mother of your friends, the Miss Rumseys.”

“Helen, who are these Rumseys who seem to know us so well? I have no

recollection of them,” interrupted her mother.

“Really, mamma, I cannot tell,” replied Helen with a smile. “I think

there must be a mistake—where did they say they had met us, Mrs. Grey?”

Mrs. Grey then repeated all she had previously said, and added—“You

must surely remember them, Helen, since I understand that the young Mr.

Rumsey, Samuel Rumsey, junior, was your devoted cavalier.”

Helen shook her head—“I do not think I can claim the gentleman as upon

my list of admirers,” she said laughing; “and as for the young ladies, I

have no recollection of them.”

“Really, Helen,” said her mother, a little impatiently, “I wish you had

been more discreet in your choice of associates, it is not pleasant to

have one’s name connected with every ill-bred person whom you may meet

at a watering-place. You must have had some intimacy with them, or they

would not presume to mention you so familiarly.”

“I assure you, mamma, that I made no acquaintance except with those whom

you approved. Of the Rumseys I have not the slightest knowledge. I

remember now, that the day before we left, our general picknick party

was joined by a group who had arrived in the morning. The eldest lady

answered to Mrs. Grey’s description of our unknown friend; she was

accompanied by two younger ladies and a gentleman, whose style of

appearance, as well as her own, was rather _outré_, and they were

evidently strangers. One of the young ladies addressed a remark to me

upon the beauty of the scenery, to which of course I replied, and the

gentleman upon whose arm she leaned showed a desire to continue the

conversation, but as I had not been introduced, and he was moreover, an

ignorant, ill-bred person, I merely bowed and passed on. What their

names were I cannot tell, but they might have been the Rumseys.”

“Very likely,” said Mrs. Armitage, with a half smile, “but they say they

came down with us, and seem to know me.”

Helen laughed outright—“I remember that they were in the same car with

us. Don’t you recollect, mamma, that a lady sitting behind you, very

considerately pulled your shawl up on your shoulders, saying she feared

you would take cold? That was the same person whom I supposed to be Mrs.

Rumsey, and her polite son quite stared me out of countenance during the

journey, while his sisters seemed comparing notes together.”

“Taking an inventory of your dress and charms, Helen, that they might be

able to describe you correctly,” laughed Mrs. Grey, who began to enter

into the spirit of the affair, and was a good deal amused at her

friend’s evident annoyance.