“But really,” she continued, “you should not have cut your brother’s

college chum so decidedly. I understood that Harry and the young Rumsey

were a second Damon and Pythias.”

“Absurd,” exclaimed Mrs. Armitage, now more nettled than ever. “Absurd,

my dear Mrs. Grey, I wonder you could have patience to listen to such an

evident tissue of falsehoods. You could not suppose I would tolerate

such a person as you describe.”

“I had no right to suppose them falsehoods,” replied the other quietly,

for she was the least bit of a quiz in the world. “I found the lady

comfortably seated in Mrs. Leonard’s drawing-room, and conversing

familiarly of you as a friend for whom she had the highest esteem. I saw

she was rather ill-bred to be sure, but she may be a very good sort of

woman for all that you know, and so on the strength of your friendship I

invited her to call upon me.”

“Poor Mrs. Grey,” ejaculated Helen, laughing, “she will come of course,

and then it will be your turn to be victimized. How could she ever have

become known to the Leonards?”

“I shall take care never to meet her,” said Mrs. Armitage, decidedly.

“To think of that officious person who insisted upon carrying my

traveling bag upon her lap, and constantly annoyed me with offers of

services, claiming my acquaintance, indeed. One thing is very certain,

she shall never procure an introduction.”

“Don’t be too sure,” said her merry friend, as she rose to take leave;

“strange things do happen sometimes. However, I am sorry that I have

caused you any annoyance, though I must say I think I have the worst of

it.”

So speaking Mrs. Grey departed, and Mrs. Armitage was speedily so deeply

engaged in household arrangements, that she forgot for a season the

unlooked-for acquaintance of Mrs. Rumsey.

A few days after her return home, Mrs. Armitage called upon Mrs.

Leonard, and here again was doomed to hear of Mrs. Rumsey, and the warm

friendship that existed between the young scion of the Rumseys and her

son Harry, with the decided admiration of the former for her daughter

Helen. Poor Mrs. Armitage! she began to think this Mrs. Rumsey was an

evil-genius sent to persecute her. She disclaimed all knowledge of her

tormentor, and asked Mrs. Leonard how she became known to _her_.

Her friend replied that she had met Mrs. Rumsey at the house of a friend

very frequently, and from her apparent familiar acquaintance with many

good families, supposed her to be a desirable visiter. She gave her a

casual invitation to call, which was immediately accepted, and she had

since brought her daughters. They were tall, showy girls, Mrs. Leonard

said, and much more presentable than their mother.

Mrs. Armitage denying all knowledge of the family seemed to surprise her

friend, as Mrs. Rumsey, to her knowledge, had used her name as a card of

introduction to several other persons.

Perplexed and thoroughly annoyed, Mrs. Armitage returned home. This

determined claim of friendship from a person who she was very sure must

be ill-bred and ridiculous, troubled her not a little.

The Armitage family occupied a high position in society. Mr. Armitage

was a man of intelligence and wealth, his mercantile influence was

great, and though mingling but little in the gay crowds which his wife

and daughter frequented, he was universally sought after and respected.

Mrs. Armitage was a refined and elegant woman, nurtured in luxury—she

shrunk from any contact with rude, or ill-bred persons, and thoroughly

despised the mean-spirited parasites who sought to bask in the influence

which her husband’s wealth and her own fashion shed abroad. She was

fastidious in her choice of associates, perhaps a little too much so,

and consequently her acquaintance was eagerly sought.

Her daughter Helen was, as has been said, a beautiful girl of eighteen,

with as much refinement, and less exclusiveness than her mother; a belle

in society, and the idol of her father at home. While Harry Armitage, a

frank, manly, high-spirited youth, just of age, full of fun, yet the

soul of honor, was his mother’s delight and the beau ideal of the

ladies.

Truly not to know the Armitages was to argue oneself unknown.

Harry Armitage, who was away on a shooting excursion, did not return

home until a few days after his mother, and consequently had heard

nothing of the Rumseys. But it so chanced, that on the very morning upon

which his mother called upon Mrs. Leonard, he was strolling up one of

the principal promenades with a friend, when they met a person whose

appearance attracted Harry’s attention.

“Who, in the name of all the tailors, is this walking fashion-plate?” he

exclaimed, glancing at the same moment toward a small, slight young man,

with very light hair, and a luxuriant buff-colored moustache, who, with

an air of ill-attempted ease, came sauntering toward them. He was

attired according to the latest mode, his bottle-green “cut-away”

displaying a gaudy vest and plaid neckerchief to great advantage, while

from beneath his drab pantaloons appeared feet snugly encased in

patent-leather pumps and crimson hose.

Harry’s friend looked up, as he replied smiling—“Why, Armitage, don’t

you remember your old chum and particular friend, young Rumsey?”

“I can’t say that I do,” replied the other with a smile, as the

individual in question passed, with a stare at Armitage and a low bow to

his friend. “At least,” he added, “you see he has cut me quite coolly. I

don’t think he recognized me any better than I did himself, for I am

pretty sure we never met before.”

“Strange, that he should not have known you,” said his companion. “Why,

he used your name as a means of introducing himself to me.”

“My name!” ejaculated Harry in surprise. “Impossible—how did it

happen?”

“Why, I met him at the tailor’s one day, and as I was waiting to be

served, heard him say—‘I think I will have a coat from the same piece

as my friend Armitage ordered, I like his taste.’ Of course I turned

upon hearing your name, and noticing my inquiring look, he asked—‘Do

you know Harry Armitage, sir?’ I bowed assent. ‘Fine fellow,’ said he,

‘an old college chum, and particular friend of mine—his sister Helen is

a superb girl. Happy to make your acquaintance, sir.’ He tendered me his

card, which bore the name of Samuel Rumsey, Esq., and received mine in

exchange. Since then I have met him several times at the theatre and

elsewhere, and have been not a little amused at his assumption of

fashionable manners, which sit upon him as awkwardly as a dress-coat

upon a Turk; but as your friend I have always treated him civilly. I am

surprised at your apparent ignorance of each other now.”

“I have been trying to recollect when I ever knew a person by that

name,” said Harry, after a pause, “and I remember such a boy at one of

the first schools to which I ever went. He was a lazy fellow, who spent

all his pocket-money in buying gilded watch-chains and imitation

breast-pins, and his leisure time in writing letters directed to

himself, purporting to come from fashionable friends in town. I

recollect he burnt nearly half his hair off at one time with the curling

tongs, and was constantly begging old boot-tops from the elder boys to

make straps, which he pinned fast to his pantaloons. We called him

‘gentleman Rumsey,’ a title with which he appeared highly delighted.

This person is doubtless the same, though I have never met him since I

left school, and why he should claim me as an acquaintance, I know not.

Do you know the family?”

“I have seen his sisters,” replied the other, “they are dashing girls,

but seemingly infected with the same desire to shine.”

“It is very evident that he did not know me, at least,” said Harry; “if

you meet him don’t enlighten him as to my identity, we may have some

sport yet.”

Soon after the young men separated, and Harry returned home.

Mrs. Armitage had just concluded a most pathetic account of her morning

visit, when Harry entered the room where his mother and sister were

seated, and began in his off-hand style an amusing relation of his

morning rencontre. When he mentioned the name of Rumsey, his mother

lifted her hands with an exclamation of terror, and Helen exclaimed

laughing—

“‘Monsieur Tonson come again,’ I declare. Well, Harry, I am wicked

enough to rejoice in your share of our annoyance, as perhaps through

your restless wits we may find a way to rid ourselves of it. This very

morning, when I returned to purchase some more ribbon such as I had to

trim my fall bonnet, the milliner said she had sold the last to the Miss

Rumseys, who were decided in their choice on being told I had selected

the same.”

“What is all this about the Rumseys?” asked Harry. And forthwith his

mother and sister proceeded to enlighten him on the subject so far as

they knew themselves.

Harry shared fully in the annoyance, and determined to devise some

method of punishing this pushing and impertinent family, and to find out

who and what they were.

“Who were the Rumseys?” This was a question much easier asked than

answered, as all allusion to past years was carefully avoided by the

people in question, and moreover, they came from an eastern city. They

occupied a stylish house in a fashionable quarter, and lived in a showy

manner; spending most of their time in promenading and receiving the

visits of those who ventured to call upon them.

The mother was an ignorant, ill-bred, over-dressed woman, who, to judge

by her conversation, was intimate with almost every family of note, and

who by dint of persevering assiduity had succeeded in gaining the

_entrée_ to a few fashionable houses. It was whispered about, to be

sure, that a waiter had seen her quietly transfer the card of an

_exclusive_ from the card-receiver of the lady she was visiting to her

own pocket, and said card was afterward observed occupying a conspicuous

place upon her centre-table. But this might have been mere servant’s

gossip, and it was scarcely credible that all the cards of distinction

that filled her gilded card-racks were obtained in the same way. The

supposition that she was known in one circle was the magical spring that

opened her way into another, and in this way she endeavored to pick the

locks, as it were, of the gates of fashionable society.

The daughters were what men of coarse taste would call “dashing girls

that make a fine show.” They were rather tall, with bright dark eyes,

brilliant complexions, irregular features, wide mouths, and large feet.

Their bonnets were always bent to the last extreme of fashion, and the

bright colors they wore were always in striking contrast. They affected

the fashionable, and certainly most ungraceful lounge, with decided

success, and in their daily promenades received numerous bows from

gentlemen of every variety. The son has been already introduced, it need

only be added that he excelled his family in forward impertinence, and

we have the picture complete.

Such were the Rumseys as they appeared candidates for fashionable

distinction. One peep behind the curtain will discover who they were.

Samuel Rumsey, senior, had been a green grocer in an eastern city. He

was a thrifty, pains-taking, plain man, who amassed a small fortune by

small means. His wife, who was a milliner’s apprentice, never could

persuade him to live in any other than the plain manner to which he had

always been accustomed. She succeeded, however, in prevailing on him to

send his children to fashionable boarding-schools, and upon his death,

the delighted widow found herself mistress of her own actions, and a

comfortable income. She immediately determined to become a woman of

fashion, but finding this impossible in a place where she was known, and

which is beside noted for the peculiarly high-bred tone of its

aristocracy, the ambitious widow removed to the goodly city of Gotham,

where she had understood that a golden key would unlock every avenue to

distinction, and where wealth is the only acknowledged sign of caste.

True as this opinion was, (and it has passed into a proverb and a

reproach to the great metropolis,) Mrs. Rumsey found some difficulty in

making her way. She visited watering-places, and freely used the names

of those of standing in her original place of abode. But she found

herself regarded with distrust by those whose acquaintance she was most

anxious to claim, and thought no subterfuge too mean to gain her desired

aim. The _prestige_ of Mrs. Armitage’s friendship she was particularly

anxious to secure, and thus followed the family to the watering-place

where they were staying, in the hope of accomplishing her designs. Their

unexpected departure foiled her plans; but determined not to be baffled,

she returned to town in the same cars, and hastened to spread abroad the

news of her friend, Mrs. Armitage’s, unexpected arrival. It did not seem

to occur to her shallow conception that such bare-faced falsehoods as

she found it necessary to tell must eventually be exposed. In her

anxiety to accomplish her wishes she lost sight of prudence, and thus

hastened the mortifying _dénouement_.

Harry could not discover much of the Rumseys’ history, but he heard

enough of their proceedings to justify himself, he thought, in the

scheme he had formed for their mortification and exposure. He persuaded

his friend to introduce him to young Rumsey by his middle name, which

was Lee, and represented himself as a young stranger who was anxious to

become acquainted in the city. His friend feared exposure, but Harry was

sure of never meeting the Rumseys in his circle, and so persisted in his

design.

Young Mr. Lee was accordingly introduced, and received with patronizing

condescension. His fine appearance and elegant manners could not fail of

making a favorable impression, and the family contented themselves with

the remark, that if they were harboring a nobody, he was at least a very

presentable one.

Harry said nothing at home regarding his plans, but visited the family

frequently. He could scarcely forbear discovering himself when he heard

his mother and sisters mentioned in the most familiar terms, and one of

the Miss Rumseys would occasionally say—

“I certainly must introduce you to my lovely friend, Helen Armitage; you

will be struck with her, I am sure.”

On one occasion Harry could not forbear pointedly replying that he

should claim her promise upon the first opportunity. He amused himself

by observing their adroitness in parrying questions about their supposed

acquaintances, while he became thoroughly disgusted at the deliberate

falsehoods which he heard them repeat of persons whom he knew perfectly

well, but of whom they had no knowledge further than a chance

introduction, or perhaps only knew by sight. When he thought them

sufficiently committed by their deceptions, he prepared for the grand

finale.

Harry’s friend and confidant in this affair was Mrs. Grey, with whom he

was an especial favorite, and who, beside her innate love of mischief

and desire to assist her young friend, had her own private reasons for

desiring to mortify the Rumseys. They had annoyed her exceedingly by the

perseverance with which they followed up her chance invitation to Mrs.

Rumsey. That lady promptly accepted the invitation, and although her

visit was not returned, yet came again, introducing her daughters, and

running over her list of fashionable friends with all the volubility of

a parrot. Go where she would, poor Mrs. Grey was doomed to meet her

tormentor, and at every turn found herself already heralded by her

indefatigable follower. She fully sympathised now in the annoyance of

her friend Mrs. Armitage, but concealing her vexation waited until the

proper season for crushing this impertinence effectually.

Many moments of merriment did the two conspirators enjoy over the

contrivances to which this foolish family subjected themselves. And

Harry described the patronising air of Samuel Rumsey, Esq., and his

adroit avoidance of those to whom he had promised Mr. Lee an

introduction, with infinite glee. It was fortunate for Harry that his

companion did so, or the ruse might have been discovered too early. He

frequently heard himself mentioned as a particular and intimate

associate, and often felt like punishing the impostor who thus made

mention of himself and family.

It was decided, at length, that Mrs. Grey should give a _soirée_, to

which the Rumseys were to be invited. She was afraid they would decline

the invitation, fearing to meet the people of whose acquaintance they

had falsely boasted; but Harry, who knew them better, was sure they

would not lose so favorable an opportunity of an introduction into the

society they aspired to, and so prevailed upon his friend to send the

invitations.

The Rumseys received Mrs. Grey’s card of invitation with delight. No

scruples were felt, no fear of exposure entertained. The mother had

repeated the names of fashionable people so often, that she began to

believe she really knew them, and the daughters trusted to their address

in avoiding any mortifying _contre-temps_, while the son was wholly

absorbed in the one idea of the great sensation his stylish appearance

would produce. An acceptance was sent, dress-makers, milliners, and

tailors put in immediate requisition, and on the appointed evening,

fluttering in lace and rustling in silks, the Rumseys were ushered into

Mrs. Grey’s elegant and crowded apartments.

After due presentation to the hostess, the Rumseys looked about them and

found themselves surrounded by entire strangers. There were a very few,

and among them Mrs. Leonard, upon whom Mrs Rumsey had called, and

several whom they knew by sight only. As the group were debating which

way to turn their steps, Mrs. Grey advanced, and addressing Mrs. Rumsey,

said—

“You will meet many of your friends here this evening, Mrs Rumsey. There

are Mrs. Starsbury and the Floyds, have you spoken to them yet? Shall I

walk over with you?”

Now these ladies Mrs. Rumsey had only heard of through her milliner, and

had no claim whatever to their acquaintance; she therefore replied that

she was waiting an opportunity of speaking to her friend, Mrs. Leonard,

who was engaged in conversation with another lady.

“Oh yes!” said the provoking Mrs. Grey, “now she is looking this way,

she evidently recognizes you, as does her friend.” So saying she

escorted her visiter toward the group.

Mrs. Leonard replied civilly to Mrs. Rumsey’s eager salutation, but the

lady at her side maintained a dignified silence.

“My dear Mrs. Mornton,” cried Mrs. Grey, “don’t you recognize your

friend, Mrs. Rumsey? I have heard her talk of you so frequently.”

“Who is Mrs. Rumsey?” replied the lady, who was very exclusive, with a

well-bred stare. “I do not know her.”

“Not know her! Oh, I understand—some little disagreement,” said Mrs.

Grey, in an undertone.

“Not at all,” answered the other decidedly; “the lady is an utter

stranger, believe me.”

Mrs. Grey looked around, but Mrs. Rumsey had disappeared.

Meanwhile the young ladies met several gentlemen whom they knew

slightly, and who relieved their awkwardness by a polite attention. They

were evidently surprised, however, to see troops of ladies constantly

passing, among whom were many whose acquaintance the Miss Rumseys had

claimed, but none of whom recognized or noticed them in any way. As for

Samuel Rumsey, Esq., he was quite shocked at the indifference with which

his attentions and remarks were received, and Mrs. Rumsey now joining

her daughters, their position was becoming very unpleasant, when they

beheld the quondam Mr. Lee talking with their hostess. Surprise at

seeing him was mingled with satisfaction at the appearance of one

person, at least, to whose acquaintance they had a real claim. But their

astonishment was increased upon beholding the general welcome he

received from those to whom they supposed him an utter stranger.

He soon approached them, and after a few remarks observed that he had

been introduced to several of their friends, and offered his arm for a

promenade. This offer was gladly accepted by the young ladies.

“Here are the Miss Floyds,” said Harry, pausing before two elegant

looking girls; “doubtless they will be delighted to see you.”

The Miss Rumseys colored—they had seen the Miss Floyds at their

milliners. They bowed in confusion, and Harry mischievously added:

“The Miss Rumseys have not met you before in a long time, I presume.”

“I do not remember the name,” replied the eldest Miss Floyd politely;

“where had we the pleasure of meeting you, Miss Rumsey?”

“We met at Mrs. Leonard’s,” answered one of the young ladies, determined

to brave it out, and with an affected air of indifference she gave place

to a group who now advanced, and remarking to Harry that “they were

proud girls,” moved away.

Harry replied with a quizzical look, and the young ladies fearful of

another mortification, complained of the heat, and took their seats near

where Mrs. Armitage was sitting. Mrs. Rumsey was upon a sofa at their

side talking energetically to a strange lady, who, like many others had

been, was deceived by her apparent acquaintance with persons of

standing, and who was entertained by the personal chit-chat which she

retailed.

Meanwhile the rebuff of Mrs. Mornton, and the confusion of the young

ladies upon meeting the Miss Floyds was whispered about, and the

question of “Who are the Rumseys?” was passed from one to another of

those whose names had been freely used by the family.

Harry stationed himself behind the young ladies, and out of his mother’s

view, then bending low—

“Who is that beautiful girl with a camelia in her hair?” he asked,

pointing to his sister, who stood near her mother with a group of

admirers about her.

“That is Helen Armitage,” replied Miss Rumsey, proud of her knowledge of

the belle of the evening.

“I shall claim your promise of an introduction,” answered Harry, “she

does not appear at all proud.”

The sisters looked confused, and Harry pitying their evident uneasiness

almost repented of his scheme, when he heard his mother’s name coupled

with that of “dear Helen,” mentioned in the most familiar manner by Mrs.

Rumsey, who was enlarging upon the delightful summer excursion which she

had so much enjoyed with her dear friend Mrs. Armitage. Harry could bear

this no longer, but rising, addressed Mrs. Rumsey.

“My dear madam, your daughters have kindly promised me an introduction

to Miss Armitage, but as the young lady is engaged at present, may I beg

your kind offices in making me acquainted with her mother, who it seems

is your intimate friend, and I will trust to my own address in winning

her daughter’s suffrage.”

Just then Mrs. Grey, accompanied by young Rumsey, approached. She had

heard Harry’s speech, and Mrs. Rumsey finding herself completely

cornered, and elated by her confidential conversation with the strange

lady, who was evidently a guest of note, determined by a bold stroke to

master her dilemma. She accordingly, despite her daughters’ appealing

looks, rose, and accompanied by Harry and her son, approached Mrs.

Armitage, and dropping a profound courtesy, said very rapidly—

“My dear Mrs. Armitage, you have perhaps forgotten me, as we have not

met since last summer, but allow me to present you my son, Mr. Samuel

Rumsey, a college chum and companion of your son Henry, they were great

friends, I assure you; and this is a young _protégé_ of mine, very

desirous to make your acquaintance, Mr. Harry Lee.”

“Armitage!” added Mrs. Grey, who stood at her shoulder.

Mrs. Rumsey looked around in surprise, and Mrs. Armitage with a flushed

cheek, rose from her seat, saying haughtily—

“The introduction is altogether valueless, as yourself and son are both

entirely unknown to me—and as to this young gentleman,” she added,

turning with a displeased air to the ci devant Mr. Lee, “it is scarcely

necessary to introduce a son to his mother, though I marvel much at

finding him in such society.” And placing her hand upon her son’s arm

she moved away with a stately air.

Poor Mrs. Rumsey stood perfectly still in a state of blank bewilderment,

while Mrs. Grey exclaimed—

“How could you, Mrs. Ramsey, present Harry Armitage as a stranger to his

mother, can it be possible that you had no acquaintance with her after

all?”

Mrs. Rumsey looked around, she saw the suppressed smile that hovered on

the lips of those about her, and murmuring something about explaining it

all on another occasion, hastily left the room. Her daughters had

already vanished, and as for Samuel Rumsey, Esq., he was no where.

Mrs. Armitage was some time in becoming reconciled to the stratagem of

Mrs. Grey and Harry, but finding herself no longer haunted by the

Rumseys, forgave the two conspirators at last.

The Rumseys found it convenient to leave town immediately. Their

furniture was sold—the house rented to another tenant, and “The people

who knew every body and whom nobody knew,” ceased to be talked of or

remembered.

But many hundred miles away, in another state, the Rumseys still

flourish, and occasionally boast of their charming friend Harry

Armitage, and the elegant Mrs. Grey.

Who that mingles in the harlequin crowd of this jostling, restless

world, has not known one person at least who might belong to the

Rumseys?

* * * * *

EDEN.

BY JOHN A. STEIN.

Proudly down the western mountains

Rolls the monarch of the skies,

And the heavy clouds around him

In a craggy archway rise—

Seeming, with their rugged edges,

In a molten glory bright,

Glowing portals to a region

Bathed in Eden’s golden light.

And as downward from the headland

On the wooded vale I gaze,

I may view the sunbeam fainting

On the forest’s bluish haze—

And, in bronzéd lustre winding,

Mark the bright Swatara glide,

With the trees like joyous pilgrims

Flocking by on every side.

And I hear the vesper warbling

Of the wood-birds ’mid the trees—

And I breathe the odorous incense

Of the flow’rets of the leas—

And I hear the reapers singing

’Mid the nodding yellow grain,

Till the universal gladness

Wakes a rapture in my brain.

And a host of blesséd memories,

Long unthought-of, burst their trance—

And in fairy garb around me

Weave a wild, fantastic dance—

Weave a glad and restless measure

To the heart’s accordant beat,

Circling merrily around it

With their airy, agile feet.

To my soul they sing a yearning

They at times have sung before—

“Oh! that upward through the ether

I in ecstasy could soar—

Burst the shackles which confine me

To this slavish earth, and fly

With my tinted wings the ranger

Of the gleaming evening sky.”

And responsive to the cadence,

’Neath inspired Fancy’s spell,

With its fringéd wings expanding,

Leaps my spirit from its cell;

And above it hovering, whispers,

In the golden sunset light,

“Oh! for one to share the rapture

Of my Eden-seeking flight.”

By the cloud-arch bounded radiance

Of the regions of the blest—

By the empress star that gleams above,

That cloudy archway’s crest—

By the gladness of the earth beneath—

The loveliness above—

I invoke thee, and entreat thee,

Glorious spirit of my Love!

Thou art with me, oh, my idol!

Thou art trembling by my side—

And with rustling pinions crossing,

Through the lambent air we glide.

Through the glowing arch before us

Let us seek the Eden-land—

We are pilgrims of the Beautiful,

The Happy, and the Grand.

* * * * *

JANUARY.

In the illuminated calendars prefixed to old Romish Missals, January is

frequently represented as a man carrying faggots for burning, or a

woodman’s axe, shivering and blowing his fingers. Modern artists and

poets represent Winter as a feeble old man—a type of the pale

“descending year.” Against this idea a celebrated writer thus warmly

protests:—

Talk not of Winter as a dotard old!

Gray-haired and feeble, palsied every limb,

‘A withered branch his sceptre:’ ’tis a whim

He well may laugh to scorn; a warrior bold,

Girded with strength is he! Asleep—awake—

He is all energy to ear and sight;

He bids the winds go forth, and forests quake,

Like flowers before gay Summer’s fresh’ning gale;

He doth unchain the floods, and, in their might,

Adown the hills they rush, and through the vale,

With deafening clamor, till they reach the main.

The Romans dedicated this portion of the year to the heathen god Janus,

from whom it derives its name. Our Saxon ancestors gave it the name of

_wolf-monath_, or wolf-month, because the wolves, which anciently

infested the British forests, impelled by hunger, at this season

descended from their accustomed haunts and attacked the domestic

animals, and even man himself, when the inclemency of the weather had

destroyed or put to flight their usual prey. Such scenes are now unknown

in Great Britain. Thomson describes the dire descent of a troop of such

monsters from

The shining Alps,

And wavy Apennines and Pyrenees,

——By wintry famine roused:

Cruel as death, and hungry as the grave,

Burning for blood!—bony, and gaunt, and grim!

Assembling wolves in raging troops descend;

And, pouring o’er the country, bear along,

Keen as the north wind sweeps the glossy snow.

All is their prize.

Rapacious at the mother’s throat they fly,

And tear the screaming infant from her breast,

E’en beauty, force divine! at whose bright glance

The generous lion stands in softened gaze,

Here bleeds, a hapless, undistinguished prey.

In this inclement month, the feeble rays of the sun are rarely felt, the

smaller rivers and ponds are frozen over, and sometimes a strong and

sudden frost converts the gliding streams into blocks of solid ice.

An icy gale, oft shifting o’er the pool,

Breathes a blue film, and in its mid career

Arrests the bickering storm.

Loud rings the frozen earth, and hard reflects

A double noise; while, at his evening watch,

The village dog deters the nightly thief;

The heifer lows; the distant waterfall

Swells in the breeze; and with the hasty tread

Of traveler, the hollow-sounding plain

Shakes from afar.

It freezes on

Till Morn, late rising o’er the drooping world,

Lifts her pale eye, unjoyous. Then appears

The various labor of the silent Night:

Prone from the dripping eave and dumb cascade,

Whose idle torrents only seem to roar;

The pendent icicle, the frost-work fair,

Where transient hues and fancied figures rise;

Wide-spouted o’er the hill, the frozen brook,

A livid tract, cold gleaming o’er the morn.

How strikingly beautiful is the appearance of the hoar frost, which

clothes the trees in crystals, which sparkle like the most brilliant

gems. Well might Howitt exclaim, as he gazed on the gorgeous effects of

its incomparable loveliness,

What dream of beauty ever equalled this!

What visions of my boyhood do I miss,

That are not here restored! All splendors pure;

All loveliness, all graces that allure;

Shapes that amaze; a Paradise that is—

Yet was not—will not in few moments be;

Glory from nakedness, that playfully

Mimics with passing life each summer boon,

Clothing the ground, replenishing the tree,

Weaving arch, bower, and delicate festoon,

Still as a dream—and, like a dream, to flee!

The inclemency of the season is shown by its effects on animals,

particularly on the numerous tribes of birds. As the cold advances, they

become bold by want, and fearlessly approach the habitations of man. The

little snow-birds, as they are commonly called, crowd into the

farm-yards, and at the barn-doors pick their scanty fare from the chaff

and straw. Robins and thrushes in flocks descend from the tops of trees,

and frequent the warm manured fields in the neighborhood of towns.

Snipes, woodcocks, wild ducks, and other water-fowl, are forced from the

frozen marshes, and obliged to seek their food about the rapid streams

which are yet unfrozen.

As the cold grows more intense, various kinds of sea-fowl quit the bleak

open shores, and ascend the rivers, where they offer a prey to the

fowler. Cowper thus beautifully paints the sufferings of the feathered

tribes:—

How find the myriads that in summer cheer

The hills and valleys with their ceaseless songs,

Due sustenance, or where subsist they now?

Earth yields them naught; the imprisoned worm is safe

Beneath the frozen clod; all seeds of herbs

Lie covered close; and berry-bearing thorns

That feed the thrush, (whatever some suppose,)

Afford the smaller minstrels no supply.

The long protracted rigor of the year

Thins all their numerous flocks. In chinks and holes

Ten thousand seek an unmolested end,

As instinct prompts; self-buried there they die.

And Burns, with true poetic sympathy for the sufferings of all created

things, while listening to the stormy terrors of a winter’s night, thus

apostrophizes the feathered songsters of the grove:—

Ilk happing bird, wee helpless thing,

That in the merry months o’ spring

Delighted me to hear thee sing—

What comes o’ thee?

Whare wilt thou cow’r thy chittering wing,

An’ close thy e’e?

Yet amid all these indications of the severity of the season, there are

pleasing circumstances which sometimes occur. In the prairies of our

western world, the song of the prairie-thrush is heard occasionally

ushering in the new year. This is the most early songster in that part

of the world, which, sitting on the top of some high bending shrub, in

showery weather, as he rides to and fro with the breezes, exerts his

throat in loud, uninterrupted strains, which has gained for him the

appellation of the storm-bird.

In this month the small wren of the prairie sings melodiously as it hops

from reed to reed in search of food. If we examine the plants at this

season of the year, we perceive the hand of the Creator, in his wise

protection of what he intends for the happiness of his children. Those

plants called herbaceous, which die down to the root every autumn, are

safely concealed under ground, preparing their new shoots to burst forth

when the earth is softened by spring. Shrubs and trees, which are

exposed to the open air, he has closely wrapped in a covering sufficient

to protect them from the most severe weather. The buds are protected in

their hard-coated calyx to secure their forthcoming beauty from decay;

if one of those buds be carefully opened, it is found to consist of

young leaves rolled together, within which are even all the blossoms in

miniature, which are afterward intended to delight our eyes, or probably

to refresh by their fragrance our senses. As that great and celebrated

naturalist, Cuvier, would often say to his pupils, “Show me a botanist

who is a skeptic, and I will show you an idiot. An infidel naturalist is

a _rara avis_ I have never yet met with.”

This gloomy month is, however, not altogether without flowers, for now

the _Heleborus fœtidus_, and various mosses blossom in our woods, and

fructification goes on below a depth of snow. One of the most remarkable

products of the season are the white berries of the mistletoe. This

plant, which was almost worshiped by the Druids as a sacred emblem and

decoration of their domestic hearths, during the festival of Christmas,

is chiefly remarkable for the peculiarity of its growth—being always

found adhering to and deriving its nourishment from the juice of some

tree, and never attached to the earth. It flowers early in the year, but

its berries do not make their appearance till December. They are the

food of non-migrating birds of the most hardy kinds; the plant is

principally found attached to the apple-tree, but sometimes, though

rarely, on some others; it is least frequently found on the oak, on

which its occurrence is considered a curiosity by botanists.

We have, however, in the month of January, occasionally, days which we,

for the moment, regard as of exceeding beauty, because, perhaps, of the

contrast between them and seasonable weather amidst which they occur.

The sun shines bright and warm, the gnat is tempted forth from its

secret dormitory, and we are apt to forget that the winter is not yet

“past and gone.” The morrow recalls us to a full sense of our position

in the scale of the seasons—the sky is black and threatening, or a

pelting storm of snow and sleet so alters the fair face of nature, that

we are glad once more to take refuge from her frowns amid the delights

of the social hearth.

The amusements of sliding, skating, and other pastimes on the ice, give

life to this dreary season; and during the continuance of our long

frosts, armies of skaters of all ages may be seen almost equal to the

skaters of Wilna, where the peasant girl frequently skates sixteen miles

to market to dispose of her basket of eggs, which she carries on her

head.

The opening and the close of the year each afford topics and occasion

for mournful meditation. Who is he, on taking a view of the past, but

would gladly recall many words and actions which at the moment of

utterance were thought to be correct, or actions for which he would

gladly make restitution? The following reflections are very appropriate:

“I stood between the meeting years,

The coming and the past;

And I asked of the future one—

Wilt thou be like the last?

For sorrow, like a phantom, sits

Upon the last year’s close;

How much of grief, how much of ill,

In its dark breast repose!

I think on many a wasted hour,

And sicken o’er the void;

And many darker are behind,

On worse than naught employed.

Oh vanity! alas, my heart!

How widely hast thou strayed;

And misused every golden gift,

For better purpose made!

I think on many a once loved friend,

As nothing to me now;

And what can mark the lapse of time

As does an altered brow?

Thus thinking of the meeting years,

The coming and the past;

I needs must ask the future one—

Wilt thou be like the last?“

* * * * *

THE LIGHT OF LIFE.

[SEE ENGRAVING.]

In times of joy, when pleasure’s glow

Sends through the heart a rapturous thrill;

In hours of care and mournful wo,

When all is anguish, pain and ill:

From the blest volume of God’s word.

The _light of life_ shines bright and clear,

Awaking praise for good conferred,

And bidding grief find comfort there.

CLARA.

* * * * *

[Illustration: DRAWN BY JOHN W. WRIGHT.

THE LIGHT OF LIFE.

ENGRAVED BY T. B. WELCH EXPRESSLY FOR GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.]

* * * * *

ABOUT CRITICS AND CRITICISM.

BY THE LATE EDGAR A. POE.

Our most analytic, if not altogether our best critic, (Mr. Whipple,

perhaps, excepted,) is Mr. _William A. Jones_, author of “The Analyst.”

How he would write elaborate criticisms I cannot say; but his summary

judgments of authors are, in general, discriminative and profound. In

fact, his papers on _Emerson_ and on _Macaulay_, published in

“Arcturus,” are better than merely “profound,” if we take the word in

its now desecrated sense; for they are at once pointed, lucid, and

just:—as summaries, leaving nothing to be desired.

Mr. Whipple has less analysis, and far less candor, as his depreciation

of “Jane Eyre” will show; but he excels Mr. Jones in sensibility to

Beauty, and is thus the better critic of Poetry. I have read nothing

finer in its way than his eulogy on Tennyson. I say “eulogy”—for the

essay in question is unhappily little more:—and Mr Whipple’s paper on

Miss Barrett, was _nothing_ more. He has less discrimination than Mr.

Jones, and a more obtuse sense of the critical office. In fact, he has

been infected with that unmeaning and transparent heresy—the cant of

critical Boswellism, by dint of which we are to shut our eyes tightly to

all autorial blemishes, and open them, like owls, to all autorial

merits. Papers thus composed may be good in their way, just as an

impertinent _cicerone_ is good in _his_ way; and the way, in either

case, may still be a small one.

Boccalini, in his “Advertisements from Parnassus,” tells us that Zoilus

once presented Apollo with a very caustic review of a very admirable

poem. The god asked to be shown the beauties of the work; but the critic

replied that he troubled himself only about the errors. Hereupon Apollo

gave him a sack of unwinnowed wheat—bidding him pick out all the chaff

for his pains.

Now this fable does very well as a hit at the critics; but I am by no

means sure that the Deity was in the right. The fact is, that the limits

of the strict critical duty are grossly misapprehended. We may go so far

as to say that, while the critic is _permitted_ to play, at times, the

part of the mere commentator—while he is _allowed_, by way of merely

_interesting_ his readers, to put in the fairest light the merits of his

author—his _legitimate_ task is still, in pointing out and analyzing

defects and showing how the work might have been improved, to aid the

general cause of Letters, without undue heed of the individual literary

man. Beauty, to be brief, should be considered in the light of an axiom,

which, to become at once evident, needs only to be distinctly _put_. It

is _not_ Beauty, if it require to be demonstrated as such:—and thus to

point out too particularly the merits of a work, is to admit that they

are _not_ merits altogether.

When I say that both Mr. Jones and Mr. Whipple are, in some degree,

imitators of Macaulay, I have no design that my words should be

understood as disparagement. The style and general conduct of Macaulay’s

critical papers could scarcely be improved. To call his manner

“conventional,” is to do it gross injustice. The manner of Carlyle _is_

conventional—with himself. The style of Emerson is conventional—with

himself _and_ Carlyle. The style of Miss Fuller is conventional—with

herself and _Emerson_ and Carlyle that is to say, it is a

triple-distilled conventionality:—and by the word “conventionality,” as

here used, I mean very nearly what, as regards personal conduct, we

style “affectation”—that is, an assumption of airs or _tricks_ which

have no basis in reason or common sense. The quips, quirks, and curt

oracularities of the Emersons, Alcots and Fullers, are simply Lyly’s

Euphuisms revived. Very different, indeed, are the _peculiarities_ of

Macaulay. He has his mannerisms; but we see that, by dint of them, he is

enabled to accomplish the extremes of unquestionable excellences—the

extreme of clearness, of vigor (dependent upon clearness) of grace, and

very especially of thoroughness. For his short sentences, for his

antitheses, for his modulations, for his climaxes—for every thing that

he does—a very slight analysis suffices to show a distinct reason. His

manner, thus, is simply the perfection of that justifiable rhetoric

which has its basis in common-sense; and to say that such rhetoric is

never called in to the aid of _genius_, is simply to disparage genius,

and by no means to discredit the rhetoric. It is nonsense to assert that

the highest genius would not be benefited by attention to its modes of

manifestation—by availing itself of that Natural Art which it too

frequently despises. Is it not evident that the more intrinsically

valuable the rough diamond, the more gain accrues to it from polish?

Now, since it would be nearly impossible to vary the rhetoric of

Macaulay, in any material degree, without deterioration in the

_essential_ particulars of clearness, vigor, etc., those who write

_after_ Macaulay have to choose between the two horns of a

dilemma:—they must be weak and original, or imitative and strong:—and

since imitation, in a case of this kind, is merely adherence to _Truth_

and _Reason_ as pointed out by one who feels their value, the author who

should forego the advantages of the “imitation” for the mere sake of

being erroneously original, “_n’est pas si sage qu’il croit_.”

The true course to be pursued by our critics—justly sensible of

Macaulay’s excellences—is _not_, however, to be content with tamely

following in his footsteps—but to outstrip him in his own path—a path

not so much his as Nature’s. We must not fall into the error of fancying

that he is _perfect_ merely because he excels (in point of style) all

his British cotemporaries. Some such idea as this seems to have taken

possession of Mr. Jones, when he says:

“Macaulay’s style is admirable—full of color, perfectly clear,

free from all obstructions, exactly English, and as pointedly

antithetical as possible. We have marked two passages on Southey

and Byron, so happy _as to defy improvement_. The one is a sharp

epigrammatic paragraph on Southey’s political bias:

‘Government is to Mr. Southey one of the fine arts. He

judges of a theory or a public measure, of a religion, a

political party, a peace or a war, as men judge of a

picture or a statue, by the effect produced on his

imagination. A chain of associations is to him what a

chain of reasoning is to other men; and what he calls

his opinions are, in fact, merely his tastes.’

The other a balanced character of Lord Byron:

‘In the rank of Lord Byron, in his understanding, in his

character, in his very person, there was a strange union

of opposite extremes. He was born to all that men covet

and admire. But in every one of those eminent advantages

which he possessed over others, there was mingled

something of misery and debasement. He was sprung from a

house, ancient, indeed, and noble, but degraded and

impoverished by a series of crimes and follies, which

had attained a scandalous publicity. The kinsman whom he

succeeded had died poor, and but for merciful judges,

would have died upon the gallows. The young peer had

great intellectual powers; yet there was an unsound part

in his mind. He had naturally a generous and tender

heart; but his temper was wayward and irritable. He had

a head which statuaries loved to copy, and a foot the

deformity of which the beggars in the street mimicked.’”

Let us now look at the first of these paragraphs. The opening sentence

is inaccurate at all points. The word “government” does not give the

author’s idea with sufficient definitiveness; for the term is _more_

frequently applied to the _system_ by which the affairs of a nation are

regulated than to the act of regulating. “The government,” we say, for

example, “does so and so”—meaning those who govern. But Macaulay

intends simply the act or acts called “governing,” and this word should

have been used, as a matter of course. The “Mr.” prefixed to “Southey,”

is superfluous; for no sneer is designed; and, in _mistering_ a

well-known author, we hint that he is not entitled to that exemption

which we accord to Homer, Dante, or Shakspeare. “_To_ Mr. Southey” would

have been right, had the succeeding words been “government _seems_ one

of the fine arts:”—but, as the sentence stands, “_With_ Mr. Southey” is

demanded. “Southey,” too, being the principal subject of the paragraph,

should precede “government,” which is mentioned only in its relation to

Southey. “One of the fine arts” is pleonastic, since the phrase conveys

nothing more than “a fine art” would convey.

The second sentence is quite as faulty. Here Southey loses his

precedence as the subject; and thus the “He” should follow “a theory,”

“a public measure,” etc. By “religion” is meant a “_creed_:”—this

latter word should therefore be used. The conclusion of the sentence is

very awkward. Southey is said to judge of a peace or war, etc., as men

judge of a picture or a statue, and the words which succeed are intended

to explain _how_ men judge of a picture or a statue:—these words

should, therefore, run thus:—“by the effect produced on _their_

imaginations.” “Produced” moreover, is neither so exact nor so “English”

as “wrought.” In saying that Southey judges of a political party, etc.,

as _men_ judge of a picture, etc., Southey is quite excluded from the

category of “men.” “_Other_ men,” was no doubt originally written, but

“other” erased, on account of the “other men” occurring in the sentence

below.

Coming to this last, we find that “a chain of association_s_” is not

properly paralleled by “a chain of reason_ing_.” We must say either “a

chain of association,” to meet the “reason_ing_” a “chain of rea_sons_”

to meet the “associations.” The repetition of “what” is awkward and

unpleasant. The entire paragraph should be thus remodeled.

With Southey, governing is a fine art. Of a theory or a public

measure—of a creed, a political party, a peace or a war—he judges by

the imaginative effect; as only such things as pictures or statues are

judged of by other men. What to them a chain of reasoning is, to him is

a chain of association; and, as to his opinions, they are nothing but

his tastes.

The blemishes in the paragraph about Byron are more negative than those

in the paragraph about Southey. The first sentence needs vivacity. The

adjective “opposite” is superfluous:—so is the particle “there.” The

second and third sentences are, properly, one. “Some” would fully supply

the place of “something of.” The whole phrase “which he possessed over

others,” is supererogatory. “Was sprung,” in place of “sprang,” is

altogether unjustifiable. The triple repetition of “and,” in the fourth

sentence, is awkward. “Notorious crimes and follies,” would express all

that is implied in “crimes and follies which had attained a scandalous

publicity.” The fifth sentence might be well curtailed; and as it

stands, has an unintentional and unpleasant sneer. “Intellect” would do

as well as “intellectual powers;” and this (the sixth) sentence might

otherwise be shortened advantageously. The whole paragraph, in my

opinion, would be better thus expressed:

In Lord Byron’s rank, understanding, character—even in his person—we

find a strange union of extremes. Whatever men covet and admire, became

his by right of birth; yet debasement and misery were mingled with each

of his eminent advantages. He sprang from a house, ancient it is true,

and noble, but degraded and impoverished by a series of notorious

crimes. But for merciful judges, the pauper kinsman whom he succeeded

would have been hanged. The young peer had an intellect great, perhaps,

yet partially unsound. His heart was generous, but his temper wayward;

and while statuaries copied his head, beggars mimicked the deformity of

his foot.

In these remarks, my object is not so much to point out inaccuracies in

the most accurate stylist of his age, as to hint that our critics might

surpass him on his own ground, and yet leave themselves something to

learn in the moralities of manner.

Nothing can be plainer than that our position, as a literary colony of

Great Britain, leads us into wronging, indirectly, our own authors by

exaggerating the merits of those across the water. Our most reliable

critics extol—and extol without discrimination—such English

compositions as, if written in America, would be either passed over

without notice or unscrupulously condemned. Mr. Whipple, for example,

whom I have mentioned in this connection with Mr. Jones is decidedly one

of our most “reliable” critics. His honesty I dispute as little as I

doubt his courage or his talents—but here is an instance of the want of

common discrimination into which he is occasionally hurried, by undue

reverence for British intellect and British opinion. In a review of “The

Drama of Exile and Other Poems” by Miss Barrett, (now Mrs. Browning,) he

speaks of the following passage as “in every respect

faultless—sublime:”

Hear the steep generations how they fall

Adown the visionary stairs of Time,

Like supernatural thunders—far yet near,

Sowing their fiery echoes through the hills!

Now here, saying nothing of the affectation in “adown;” not alluding to

the insoluble paradox of “far yet near;” not mentioning the inconsistent

metaphor involved in the sowing of fiery echoes; adverting but slightly

to the misusage of “like” in place of “as;” and to the impropriety of

making any thing fall like _thunder_, which has never been known to fall

at all; merely hinting, too, at the misapplication of “steep” to the

“generations” instead of to the “stairs”—(a perversion in no degree

justified by the fact that so preposterous a figure as _synecdoche_

exists in the school-books:)—letting these things pass, we shall still

find it difficult to understand how Mrs. Browning should have been led

to think the principal idea itself—the abstract idea—the idea of

_tumbling down stairs_, in any shape, or under any circumstances—either

a poetical or a decorous conception. And yet Mr. Whipple speaks of it as

“sublime.” That the lines narrowly _missed_ sublimity, I grant:—that

they came within a step of it, I admit; but, unhappily, the step is that

_one_ step which, time out of mind, has intervened between the sublime

and the ridiculous. So true is this that any person—that even I—with a

very partial modification of the imagery—a modification that shall not

interfere with its richly spiritual _tone_—may elevate the passage into

unexceptionability. For example:

Hear the far generations—how they crash

From crag to crag down the precipitous Time,

In multitudinous thunders that upstartle

Aghast, the echoes from their cavernous lairs

In the visionary hills!

No doubt my version has its faults; but it has at least the merit of

consistency. Not only is a mountain more poetical than a pair of stairs,

but echoes are more appropriately typified as wild beasts than as seeds;

and echoes and wild beasts agree better with a mountain than does a pair

of stairs with the _sowing_ of seeds—even admitting that these seeds be

seeds of fire, and be sown broadcast “among the hills” by a steep

generation while in the act of tumbling down the stairs—that is to say,

of coming down the stairs in too great a hurry to be capable of sowing

the seeds as accurately as all seeds should be sown:—nor is the matter

rendered any better for Mrs. Browning, even if the construction of her

sentence be understood as implying that the fiery seeds were sown, not

immediately by the steep generations that tumbled down the stairs, but

mediately, through the intervention of the “supernatural thunders” that

were _occasioned_ by the steep generations that were so unlucky as to

tumble down the stairs.

* * * * *

THE TELEGRAPH SPIRIT.

BY JNO. S. DU SOLLE.

The telegraph-wires utter, when the wind blows, certain singularly sad,

yet spirited music-tones. When they pass through the leaves of a tree

the effect is strangely beautiful.

Mysterious Spirit! hark! I hear thee voicing,

Up where the wind-breath woos thee, with its tone

Of mingled mournfulness and strange rejoicing—

As though ’twould fear thee, yet to love were prone.

What doth it whisper ’mid the green tree’s shading?

Or art thou trembling, not with hope but ire?

Chid’st thou its love? Or is it thee upbraiding

With thine inconstant tongue of living fire?

Is it some life-tale thou art subtly telling?

Some tale of dark and passionate romance—

That the young leaflets seem with wonder swelling,

Shrink at thy touch, and eye thee so askance?

Or are they timid only with emotion?

And pout their tiny lips up but for show,

O’er some new story of the heart’s devotion,

That thou art murmuring to the earth below?

Or, ravished from the grasp of Time and Distance,

Com’st thou with News, to gift, with sudden joy,

The sad heart with a sense of fresh existence—

Making the old man feel once more a boy?

Or bear’st thou words to soothe not, but to sunder?

Quietly rupturing the holiest ties—

Just as the lightning’s flash, without its thunder,

Blasts what it looks on with its venomous eyes!

Or is’t, oh, Captive One! thy life-voice fretting,

That, like a caged-bird wrested from its home,

(Thy fluttering wing its sky paths unforgetting,)

Along thy prison-wires such murmurs come?

I hear thee now! And chafing, ah, how vainly!

For they have chained the death-glance of thine eye—

Sightless as Samson—struggling more insanely—

Thou couldst not if thou wouldst, lie down and die!

* * * * *

CAIUS MARIUS

AMIDST THE RUINS OF CARTHAGE.

A SKETCH FROM HISTORY.

BY W. GILMORE SIMMS, AUTHOR OF “GUY RIVERS,” “THE YEMASSEE,” “RICHARD

HURDIS,” &c.

_The Dungeon of Minturnæ._

MARIUS. THE CIMBRIAN.

Marius. What art thou, wretch, that in the darkness com’st,

The midnight of this prison, with sly step,

Most fit for the assassin, and bared dagger

Gleaming in thy lifted grasp!

Cimbrian. I am sent by those

Whose needs demand thy death. A single stroke

Sets us both free forever—thou from Fate,

Me from Captivity.

Marius. Slave, hast thou the heart

To strike at that of Marius!

Cimbrian. That voice! that name

Disarm me; and those fearful eyes that roll

Like red stars in the darkness, fill my soul

With awe that stays my hand. Master of the world,

The conqueror of my people hast thou been!

I know thee as a Fate! I cannot harm thee.

Marius. Go to thy senders, and from Marius, say,

That, if they bare the weapon for my breast,

Let them send hither one who has not yet

Looked in a master’s eye. ’Tis not decreed

That I shall perish yet, or by such hands

As gather in Minturnæ. Get thee hence!

——

_Public Hall of Minturnæ._

MAGISTRATES. THE CIMBRIAN. AUGUR.

Cimbrian. I cannot slay this man. Give me to strike

Some baser victim, or restore to me

My chains. I cannot purchase at such price

The freedom that I covet.

Magistrate. Yet this man

Conquered thy people.

Cimbrian. He hath conquered me!

Augur. And he must conquer still!

His hour is not yet come. The Fates reserve

His weapon for their service. They have need

Of his avenging ministry, to purge

The world of its corruptions. I behold

A fearful vision of the terrible deeds

That wait upon his arm. Let him go free.

Give him due homage; clothe him with fresh robes;

Speed him in secret with a chosen bark

To other shores. So shall your city ’scape

Rome’s wrath, and his hereafter.

Magistrate. It is well:

This counsel looks like wisdom.

Augur. It is more!

So the Gods speak through their interpreter.

Magistrate. Release him straightway—send him forth in honor;

We give him freedom—let the gods give safety.

——

_Island of Ænaria._

MARIUS. CETHEGUS.

Cethegus. Thou hast slept, Marius.

Marius. And thou hast watched my sleep.

Ah! truest friend and follower, not in vain;

Dismiss that cloudy trouble from thy brows,

The doubts that vex thy heart; for know that Fate

Still has me in its keeping, and decrees

Yet other deeds and conquests at my hand,

And still one glorious triumph. I shall be

Once more, in Rome, a Consul! When a child,

Sporting, on summer slopes, beneath old hills,

Seven infant eagles, from a passing cloud,

Dropt clustering in my lap. The Augurs thence

Gave me seven times the Roman Consulate.

Cethegus. Thou hast had it six.

Marius. One other yet remains.

Cethegus. Alas! the Fates but mock thee with a dream;

For know that, while thou sleptst, our treacherous bark

Loosed sail, and left the shores.

Marius. Gone!

Cethegus. Clean from sight.

Marius. Ha! ha! Now thank the gods that watch my sleep,

And save me when the might of man would fail!

Courage, my friend, that vessel speeds to wreck,

Racked on some lurking rock beneath the wave,

Or foundering in the tempest. We are safe!

Cethegus. Thou’rt confident.

Marius. As Fate and Hope can make me.

Yet look! there is an omen. We must fly

This place for other refuge. See the strife

Betwixt these deadly scorpions on the sands.

Cethegus. What read’st thou in this omen?

Marius. Sylla’s soldiers

Are fast upon our heels. Get to the shore;

Some fisher’s boat will help us from the land,

And bear us whither the directing fates

Decree for refuge—safely o’er the seas

That gulphed our treacherous vessel.

Cethegus. Be it so!

I follow thee whatever be thy fate!

Marius. Hark! dost thou hear?

Cethegus. What sound?

Marius. The tramp of horse;

And lo! the boat awaits us by the shore!

——

_Marius, alone, seated among the Ruins of Carthage._

Alone, but not a captive—not o’ercome

By any fate, and reckless of its doom,

Even midst the ruins by his own arm made,

There sits the Exile, lone, but unafraid!

What mighty thoughts, that will not be repressed,

Warm his wild mood, and swell his laboring breast;

What glorious memories of the immortal strife,

Which gave him fame, and took from Carthage life;

That giant-like, sea rival of his own

Proud realm, still challenging the sway and throne;

Doomed in long conflict, through experience dread,

To bend the neck at last, to bow the head;

To feel his foot upon her lordly brow,

And yield to him who shares her ruins now.

How o’er his soul, with passion still that gushed,

The wondrous past with all its memories rushed;

These ruins made his monument. They told

Of wisest strategy, adventure bold.

Dread fields of strife—an issue doubtful long,

That tried his genius, and approved it strong;

That left him robed in conquest, and supreme,

His country’s boast, his deeds her brightest theme;

Written in brass and marble—sung in strains

That warm the blood to dances in the veins;

That make young hearts with wild ambition thrill,

And crown the spirit with achieving will;

That seem eternal in the deeds they show,

And waken echoes that survive below;

Brood o’er the mortal slumbering in the tomb,

And keep his name in song, his works in bloom,

Till envious rivals, hopeless of pursuit,

Join in the homage, who till then were mute;

Catch up the glorious anthem, and unite

To sing the bird they could not match in flight;

Content to honor where they could not shame,

And praise the worth they could not rob of fame.

How, with these memories gathering in his breast,

Of all the labors that denied him rest—

Of all the triumphs that his country bore

To heights of fame she had not won before—

Broods he, the exile from his state and home,

On what awaits thee and himself, O Rome!

Of what thy hate deserves, and his decrees,

Whom thou hast brought unwilling to his knees.

No sad submission yields he to his fate,

So long as solace comes to him from hate,

Or hope from vengeance. In his eyes, ye trace

No single look to recompense disgrace;

With no ambition checked, no passion hushed,

No pride o’erthrown, no fond delusion crushed;

With every fire alive that ever swayed,

His soul as lordly as when most obeyed,

He broods o’er wrongs, forgetful of his own,

And from his heart hears vengeance cry alone.

Fixed on the ruins round him, his dread eye

Glances, as if fastened on his enemy;

His hand is on the fragment of a shrine

That Hate may henceforth deem a thing divine:

Grasped firmly—could the fingers but declare

How dread the oath the soul was heard to swear!

The awful purpose nursed within, denies

Speech to the lips, but lightens up the eyes,

Informs each muscle with the deadliest will,

But till the murderous moment, bids “be still!”

Come read, ye ministers of Fate, the lore

That fills the dark soul of the fiend ye bore;

Reveal the secret purpose that inspires

That deadly mood, and kindles all its fires;

Scan the dread meaning in that viperous glance

Fixed on those ruins in intensest trance,

That nothing speaks to that it still surveys,

And looks within alone with meaning gaze;

Unclose that lip, that rigidly compressed,

Stops the free rush of feeling from the breast;

And on that brow, with seven deep furrows bound,

Write the full record of his thought profound.

What future scene beneath that piercing eye

Depicts the carnage and the victory;

The flashing steel—the shaft in fury sped—

The shrieking victim, and the trampled dead:

Say, what wild sounds have spelled that eager ear,

That stretches wide, the grateful strain to hear;

How many thousands perish in that cry

That fills his bloody sense with melody;

What pleading voices, stifling as they swell,

Declare the vengeance gratified too well?

What lordly neck, beneath that iron tread,

Strangled in utterance, leaves the prayer unsaid?

What horrid scene of triumph and of hate,

Do ye discover to this man of Fate,

Which, while his Fortune mocks the hope he bears,

Consoles his Past, and still his Future cheers?

He hath no speech, save in the ruins round;

But there’s a language, born without a sound,

A voice whose thunders, though unuttered, fly

From the red lightnings of the deep-set eye;

There passion speaks of hate that cannot spare,

Still tearing those who taught him how to tear;

One dream alone delighting his desire—

The dream that finds the fuel for his fire;

Let fancy shape the language for his mood,

And speak the purpose burning in his blood.

——

Marius. “If thou hadst ears, O Carthage! for the voice

That speaks among thy ruins, it would cheer

The spirit that was crushed beneath my heel,

To hear the tongue of thy destroyer swear

To live as thy avenger. I have striven

For Rome against thee, till, in frequent strife,

Thy might was overthrown—thy might as great

As Rome’s in days most palmy—save in this:

Thou hadst no soul as potent in thy service,

As I have been in hers. And thou, and all—

The Gaul, the Goth, the Cimbrian—all the tribes

That swelled the northern torrents, and brought down,

Yearly, the volumed avalanche on Rome,

Have sunk beneath my arm, until secure

She sat aloft in majesty, seven-throned,

And knew or feared no foe. This was my work—

Nor this alone; from the patrician sway,

That used her as the creature of his will,

I plucked her eagles, casting down his power

Beneath plebeian footstep. For long years

Of cruellest oppression and misrule,

I took a merited vengeance on her pride,

Debasing her great sons, that in their fall

Her people might be men. I loved her tribes,

Since they were mine. I made their homes secure;

I raised their free condition into state—

And I am here! These ruins speak for me—

An exile; scarred with honorable wounds,

At seventy years, alone and desolate.

“But the o’er-ruling Deities decree

My triumph. From thy ruins comes a voice

Full of most sweet assurance. Hark! it cries

To me as thy avenger. Thou forgiv’st

My hand the evil it has wrought on thee,

That the same hand, upon thy conqueror’s head

May work like ruin. The atoning Fates

Speak through thy desolation. They declare

That I shall tread the ungrateful city’s streets,

Armed with keen weapon and consuming fire,

And still unglutted rage. My wrath shall sow

The seeds of future ruins in her heart,

So that her fall, if far less swift than thine,

Shall be yet more complete. She shall consume

With more protracted suffering. She shall pass

Through thousand ordeals of the strife and storm,

Each bitterer than the last—each worse than thine—

A dying that shall linger with its pain

Its dread anxieties, its torturing scourge;

A period long as life, with life prolonged,

Only for dire, deserved miseries.

Her state shall fluctuate through successive years,

With now great shows of pride—with arrogance

That goes before destruction—that her fall

May more increase her shame. The future grows—

Drear characters, as written on a wall—

In fiery lines before me; and I read

The rise of thousands who shall follow me,

Each emulous of vengeance fell as mine,

By mine at first begotten. Yet why gaze

In profitless survey of the work of years,

Inevitable to the prescient soul,

And leave our own undone? I hear a voice

Reproaching me that I am slow to vengeance;

I, whom the Fates but spare a few short hours,

That I may open paths to other masters,

For whom they find the scourge. They tutor me

That mine’s a present mission; not for me

To traverse the wide future in pursuit

Of those who shall succeed me in their service,

But to speed onward in the work of terror,

So that no hungering Fate, the victim ready,

Shall be defrauded of its prey. I rise,

Obeying the deep voice that, from these ruins,

Rings on mine ear its purpose. I obey,

And bound to my performance as the lion,

Long crouching in his jungle, who at last

Sees the devoted nigh. The impatient blood

Rounds with red circle all that fills mine eye;

A crimson sea receives me, and I tread

In billows thus incarnadined from nations

That bleed through ages thus at every vein.

Be satisfied, ye Fates! Ye gods, who still

Lark homeless in these ruins that ye once

Made sacred as abodes, and deemed secure,

I take the sword of vengeance that ye proffer,

And swear myself your soldier. I will go,

And with each footstep on some mighty neck,

Shall work your full revenge, nor forfeit mine!

Dost thou not feel my presence, like a cloud,

Before my coming, Rome?[A] Is not my spirit,

That goes abroad in earnest of my purpose,

Upon thy slumbers, City of the Tyrant,

Like the fell hag on breast of midnight sleeper,

That loads him with despair? Alone I come;

But thousands of fell ministers shall crowd

About me with their service—willing creatures

That shall assist me first to work on thee,

And last upon themselves! The daylight fades,

And night belongs to vengeance. I depart,

Carthage, to riot on thy conqueror’s heart.”

Silent once more the ruins—dark the night,

Yet vengeance speeds with unembarrassed flight;

No fears delay, no toils retard the speed

Of that fierce exile, sworn to deadliest deed;

And thou, O Queen of Empires, now secure

Of state that might be peaceful, were it pure,

Too soon thy halls shall echo with the yell

That summons human fiends to works of hell!

Ambition, long unsated, urged by Hate,

Queen of the Nations, speaks thy mournful fate;

Thy valor wasted, and thy might in vain,

Thy virtues sapped to break thy despot’s chain;

Long didst thou rule, in simple courage strong,

The guardian friend of right, the foe to wrong;

Great in thyself, and conscious of the sway

That kept meet progress with the march of day;

That from all nations plucked the achieving arts,

That make sway sov’reign in a people’s hearts;

Proud on thy heights rose forms to worship dear,

There swelled the temple’s crest, the column there,

Each with its chronicle to spell the soul,

And each most precious to the crowning whole;

A world thyself—a wondrous world—that made

The admiring nations silent in thy shade;

Genius and art commingling in thy cause,

And gods presiding o’er thy matchless laws.

But dark the hour impends—the storm is nigh,

And thy proud eagles flaunt no more the sky;

Thou hast not kept thy virtues to the last,

And all thy glories centre in thy past—

Thy safety in thy glories. From beneath

Thy altars swells the midnight cry of death;

The tocsin summons—not to brave the foe,

But to make bare thy bosom to the blow;

From thy own quiver flies the shaft of doom,

And thy own children hollow out thy tomb.

The exulting shouts that mock thee in thy shame,

Were those that led thee once to heights of fame;

The bird that swoops to riot on thy breast,

Is the same eagle that made safe thy nest.

Hark at his shrilly scream! the sleuth-hounds wake,

The bloody thirst which in thy heart they slake;

Thy proud patricians, hunted down, survey

The herds they kept most busy with the prey.

These are the flocks they fostered from their foes,

And these are first to drink the blood that flows.

Wondrous the arts of vengeance, to inspire

The maddened son to prey upon the sire!

Wondrous the skill that fierce plebeian wields

To make this last the bloodiest of his fields.

Vain all thy prayer and struggle—thou art down,

His iron footstep planted on thy crown;

But in thy fate, ’tis something for thy pride,

Thus self-destroyed, thou mighty suicide!

-----

[A] The reader will be reminded by this passage of that noble and solemn

speech made by the Ghost of Sylla, at the opening of Ben Johnson’s

tragedy of Catiline: “Dost thou not feel me, Rome, etc.”

* * * * *

SONG.—THE CONGRATULATION.

Give wings to thy wildest hopes,

For thy destiny now is known,

And even a lover’s dreams

Could scarcely thus high have flown.

Give wings to thy wildest dreams—

The loved one now is thine,

Nor moveth there on the earth

A being so like divine.

A form so noble and free,

A heart so high and so true;

Oh! thine is as bright a star

As gleams in yon sky of blue.

Then give to thy glad thoughts wings,

Thy raptures no more conceal,

For to thee every coming hour

Can only new joys reveal.

WILFRED.

* * * * *

[Illustration: THE MEETING OF THE WATERS.]

* * * * *

GEMS FROM MOORE’S IRISH MELODIES.

NO. I.—THE MEETING OF THE WATERS.

[SEE ENGRAVING.]

There are two things that never grow old—good poetry and good music.

They live in the heart like the memory of a beloved friend. Good poetry

is the out-birth of real emotions. It is the language of the affections.

When the heart feels deeply its utterance takes the form of poetry; and

when it seeks to vary its affections and give them a deeper and more

expressive form, it seeks the aid of music. Poetry, in coming into the

mind, touches it with a sense of beauty, moves its sympathies, or

elevates it into a higher appreciation of the pure and heroic; but when

music is married to immortal verse, all becomes more intense and real.

How fully this is perceived when we hear some familiar ballad or fine

lyric sung with skill and taste. We saw beauties before, but now we feel

them.

With Moore’s exquisite Irish Melodies, we have been familiar from

childhood as poetry and music united. “The Meeting of the Waters,” “The

Last Rose of Summer,” “The Legacy,” “Come Rest in this Bosom,” and a

dozen besides that could be named, we think of but to love. Fashionable

they are not, because the fashion of this world changeth, and in

fashionable assemblages we rarely hear them; but now and then a gentle

friend warbles them for us in private—or some one bold enough for an

innovation, ventures upon a “Melody” in public. How the old sounds stir

the heart! How old associations and old feelings come up from the dim

past!

The words of these melodies were all written to old airs, familiar

throughout Ireland—native airs born from the hearts of the people, and,

like links in a golden chain, binding their hearts together. We need not

say how well Moore performed his task. Their popularity, for nearly half

a century, would make praise an idle tribute. Before these songs were

written, the wildly-beautiful, tender, and often spirit-thrilling

melodies of the people found only an imperfect utterance. But, when

words in correspondence with the music were given, the whole island

broke forth into song as by a single impulse. And, soon Albion took up

the strains responsive to her sister Erin, (we wish she had not proved

to Erin so unnatural a sister,) and for once, at least, found something

to admire and love that was born in the Emerald Island.

A remarkable instance of the power of some of these melodies over the

heart is that related of Lucretia Davidson. She was particularly

sensitive to music, and there was a song, “Moore’s Farewell to his

Harp,” to which she took a great fancy, and which always affected the

fine poetical organism of her mind in a peculiar manner. She wished to

hear it only in the twilight. Then she would listen to the strain until

she became cold, pale, and almost fainting. It was her favorite of all

songs, and gave occasion to the verses addressed, in her fifteenth year,

to her sister.

It was not the words of this song that alone affected Miss Davidson.

Without the melody in which they found a more perfect utterance, she

might never have thought of them after the first reading. But the music

spoke to her in the heart’s own language, and her spirit felt an intense

sympathy.

Of this particular native air, Moore says, it is “one that defies all

poetry to do it justice.”

Among the most tender and beautiful of the Irish Melodies is that known

as “The Meeting of the Waters,” Maclise’s exquisite illustration of

which we give in the present number of Graham. In the summer of 1807

Moore paid a visit to the Vale of Avoca, in the county of Wicklow, where

the two rivers Avon and Avoca meet, a most lovely and enchanting spot.

This visit suggested the song which has since been so wide a favorite,

and which has associated the vale of Avoca with all that is charming and

romantic.

“THE MEETING OF THE WATERS.

“There is not in this wide world a valley so sweet,

As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet;

Oh! the last rays of feeling and life must depart,

Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart.

“Yet, it _was_ not that nature had shed o’er the scene

Her purest of crystal and brightest of green;

’Twas _not_ her soft magic of streamlet or hill,

Oh! no, it was something more exquisite still.

“’Twas that friends, the beloved of my bosom, were near,

Who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear,

And who felt how the best charms of nature improve

When we see them reflected from looks that we love;

“Sweet vale of Avoca! how calm could I rest

In thy bosom of shade, with the friends I love best.

Where the storms that we feel in this cold world should cease,

And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace.”

The vale of Avoca, thus made classic ground, thousands have since

visited; and the tourist through Ireland would as soon think of

neglecting the lakes of Killarney as “the vale in whose bosom the bright

waters meet.”

From among the many descriptions of this beautiful spot, we will select

that given by an American lady who visited Ireland in 1845. It is brief

but eloquent. She says—

“It was Ireland’s summer twilight, lingering long, as though loth to

draw the curtain closely about a bright isle in a dark world like this.

It was early in July, the rich foliage had attained its maturity, and

not a seared leaf was sprinkled on bush or tree, to warn that autumn was

near. For the first mile the road was smooth and broad, lined with

trees, now and then a white gate with white stone pillars, opening to

some neat cottage or domain; the glowing streaks of the setting sun had

not left the western sky, and glimmered through the trees; while the

air, made fragrant by the gentle shower, diffused through body and mind

that calmness which seemed to whisper, ‘Be silent; it is the Vale of

Avoca you are entering.’ We descended a declivity, and the vale opened

upon us at ‘the Meeting of the Waters.’ The tree under which Moore sat

when he wrote the sweet poem had been pointed to me in the morning. We

now stood near the union of the two streams, where the poet says,

‘There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet,

As the vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet.’

The rich variety of wood; the still, clear, limpid water; the hill and

vale, in some parts dark and wild, in others light and soft, ever and

anon relieving the eye by some new variety; but above all, the pleasant

association that this vale, however dark and deep its recesses, harbors

not a venomous serpent or reptile—no, not even the buzz of the mosquito

is heard—made it unlike all others. We rode three miles, scarcely

uttering a syllable all the while; a holy repose seemed to rest on this

hallowed spot, as when it first bloomed under the hand of its Maker, and

imagination was prompted to say, as no serpent has ever coiled here, the

contaminating touch of sin has not left its impress.

“Never did I leave a spot more reluctantly; it was a night scene which

never has faded from my eye, and I hope never will.

‘O! the last rays of feeling and life must depart,

Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart.’

In the deep silence, the voice of God and the soft whisper of angels

seemed to be there. These voices said kindly, ‘There is mercy yet for

poor erring man.’ It appeared like the bow of the covenant, telling us

to look and remember that though this world has been cursed by sin, yet

a new heaven and earth are promised, of which this is a shadowy

resemblance.

“The borders of this valley are interspersed with gentlemen’s seats, and

here and there dotted with the white-washed cottages of the peasants;

and the rich cluster of foliage upon the hill sides, upon bush and tree,

almost persuade you that the dew of Hermon has fallen upon them.

Stranger, when you visit Ireland, visit the Vale of Avoca. If you love

God, here you will see him in a picture that must be read; if your stay

be limited, waste it not in decyphering a time-defaced stone, telling

the bloody deeds of some ancient warrior, or the austerity of some

long-lived ascetic; but linger in this spot; stop at the neat little

hotel, erected on purpose for the accommodation of the stranger; and

morning, noon, and night explore its never-dying beauties of light and

shade. Three times did I go through, and when I turned away at last, I

felt that

‘I could stay there forever to wander and weep.’”

T. S. A.

* * * * *

THE LONE GRAVE-YARD.

BY HON. J. LEANDER STARR.

On Nyack’s shore the mighty Hudson flows,

And on its banks the weeping willow grows;

A wood-embowered spot thus shaded o’er,

Lies half-concealed, sloping toward the shore.

Beneath the willows which are growing there,

Repose the forms of those once young and fair;

The aged, too, here rest in mystic sleep,

And here the widow often comes to weep.

It is a lovely spot for those who think—

For close beside the forest-covered brink,

The placid river rolls its gentle waves,

And breezes fresh fan o’er the silent graves.

Oft here I have sat on a still summer day,

When lured from city life, and cares away;

And lost in contemplation here reclined,

And sought to calm the turbulence of mind.

The bright sun sparkling on the rippled wave,

The light-winged bird chanting on every grave,

The balmy, pure, and health-restoring breeze,

Sporting its gambols through the leafy trees.

In such a spot whole hours have past and fled,

With no companionship except the dead;

Yet not _time lost_, for even the silent tomb

Proclaims its lesson—teaches of our doom.

And we may read, while thoughtful and alone,

A useful lesson from the sculptured stone;

And lay to heart, and in our own behalf,

The moral found in every epitaph.

How calm the mind when rambling ’mid such scenes,

What lessons thus the soul unconscious gleans!

How vapid—worthless—now seem worldly cares,

How vain and mad our mis-spent life appears.

The busy world drives fast its votaries on,

Months succeed days, and years these months again;

Then life is o’er—“the morning vapor” fled!

And we take rank with the unnumbered dead.

Who would not choose his grave in village ground?

Nature all calm—all sympathy—around!

Instead of that false mockery and wo,

Which city pageants, grand and heartless, show.

Numbered among the village dead I’d lie,

This be my resting-place whene’er I die!

No epitaph—no tomb-stoned fulsome fame,

But simply this—_the record of my name_.

* * * * *

THE CAPTIVES.

A TALE OF THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION.

BY S. D. ANDERSON.

No portion of the infant colonies suffered more from the rude and

unsparing hand of war than did the South, and especially the Carolinas.

The storm of desolation fell with double fury on those devoted sections

of our country, not only from the foreign invaders, seeking to strike

down the germ of our liberties, but also from the intestine foes with

which she was cursed. This latter kind of warfare was the more to be

dreaded, as it fell alike on the old and the young—the blooming youth

and the blushing maiden. No condition was permitted to escape. Gray

hairs were nothing in the estimation of those fiends in human shape,

called Tories. Children were taken from a weeping mother and consigned

to a lingering death; beauty was torn from the bridal altar, and

innocence from the house of prayer; all the kind and holy feelings of

the human heart were given to the winds, and the family hearth, and even

the household circle were often made the scene of a brutal death. Such

were some of the dangers and difficulties our fathers had to encounter

in the struggle for Independence.

A beautiful day, in the spring of 1781, was drawing to a close. The day

had been warm, but now the genial breeze of night, so peculiarly

pleasing in southern climates, had sprung up. Dim twilight had taken the

place of day, the song of the night-bird was beginning to be heard in

the wood, the deep-green foliage of the pines looked still deeper in the

fast increasing shadows of night, and one by one the stars took their

places in the sky. Silence still and deep rested all around; and naught

was heard save the occasional hoot of the solitary owl far in the sombre

depths of the forest that shaded both sides of the road, (if such the

dimly marked path might be called,) which led through this section of

the wood. The ground was covered with a dense growth of pines and other

trees, interlaced with wild vines and smaller shrubbery, so that their

shade, even in daylight, excluded from the eye every thing that was

removed a few paces from the road-side, but now, as the darkness came

down, all was a blank. Suddenly the stillness of the scene was broken by

a slight noise, and a solitary horseman emerged from the cover of the

wood into the opening. When he had gained the road, he checked his

horse, and carefully examined the vicinity, as if to satisfy himself of

the safeness of his position, as well as to mark the locality of the

spot. This caution seemed to proceed as much from a settled habit of

watchfulness, common in days of peril, as from a sense of personal

danger. In appearance the stranger seemed not to have arrived at the

full age of manhood. He was clad in a hunting-frock of blue domestic,

common in those days among the inhabitants of the Southern States. The

style and finish of the dress, however, bespoke more than usual

attention to the fitness of the articles. Around his waist was girded a

broad leather belt, embellished in front with a massive buckle, and

underneath this might have been seen, almost concealed by the folds of

his coat, a pair of pistols, such as were used by the horsemen of that

day. His pantaloons were of the same materials as his coat, and on his

head he wore a hat that differed from that of a common citizen of the

times, only in the additional ornament of a small cockade, worn on the

left side near the top. This, with a pair of boots made of untanned

leather, and armed with rude spurs, made up the costume of the new

comer. In stature he was rather over the usual standard, but not so much

so as to take from his figure its appearance of grace and activity. His

features were large and manly, and his complexion, though darkened by

exposure to the burning rays of the southern sun, still showed the tinge

of blood upon the cheek. His eyes were dark and piercing, and a

profusion of black and curling hair covered a finely-shaped head. In the

whole appearance and bearing of the individual could be read the love of

the daring and adventurous, shared in common with the noble and

chivalrous sons of the South in those days of peril and danger.

After he seemed to have been satisfied of the absence of any intruder,

he advanced a short distance up the path we have mentioned, until he

gained a place where the underwood was still more dense and

impenetrable. It was a small ravine, made by a rivulet in the wet

seasons, but at this time was dry. There the branches of the trees

interlaced and formed a natural retreat, so dense as to preclude its

being reached with any chance of success. When immediately in front of

this, he raised his hands to his mouth and produced a sound so nearly

resembling the cry of the wood-owl, that a person who was not very

familiar with the singular note of this bird must have been mistaken. It

was immediately repeated from the ravine, and in a short time a second

person made his egress from the leafy ambush. The appearance of the new

comer differed in all respects from that of the first. He was a modern

Hercules in frame and figure, and bore the marks of long and severe

service in sun and storm. But he was dressed much after the fashion of

his companion, though the materials were of a coarser kind, and boasted

no ornaments. He wore on his head a cap made of the skin of a fox. His

arms were the usual brace of pistols, but in addition he bore in his

hand a short rifle, and slung from his broad shoulder was the

powder-horn and bullet-pouch of the forest ranger. In his face could be

seen the marks of the frontier life—good-nature and courage—a man to

trust in danger—a friend when most needed. He advanced with slow and

cautious steps until he gained the edge of the wood, and then raising

his rifle into a position for immediate use, he breathed in a faint but

distinct voice “Hawks.” He waited a moment, and then the voice of the

stranger repeated, “_They fly_.” “_All’s right_,” was the glad answer

from the forester, and breaking from the thicket, he seized the hand of

the horseman with a nerve and energy that made the blood tingle to the

ends of the fingers.

“Well, Harry, what of the cavalcade?” asked the younger of the men, in a

voice that bespoke the excitement under which he was laboring. “Have

they passed? How many of them were there?”

“Oh, a score or more of the villains,” answered the other, in a bold,

free voice, “and young Wilson and his sister in the midst. They seemed

particularly choice of him, as he was lashed to one of the largest of

the gang; but what is to be done—have you seen the captain?”

“No,” replied the other, in an excited manner, “he has not returned from

the Santee. If the captain was but here, we would soon teach these

renegades better manners than to fire and kill at pleasure; and the

sister, too—was not the brother enough?”

There was something in the voice and manner of the speaker when he

alluded to the capture of this couple, that told a tale of the feelings,

plainer, perhaps, than he would have wished, if he had been in other

company than that in which he was. When he again spoke, however, he was

more calm and collected. Addressing himself with confidence to his

companion, he said,

“Harry, what would you advise? You have had more experience in this mode

of life than I, and this is an occasion which calls for all our

energies.”

A look of honest pride stole over the face of the forester at this

marked display of the confidence of his superior in rank; but it was

only for a moment, and then the old expression of caution and

determination again resumed its place. After a pause, in which he seemed

to be debating in his mind the better way of serving the wish of the

other, he appeared to have hit upon the plan, and advancing still nearer

to his companion to prevent the possibility of being overheard, he said,

in a low whisper,

“You must go back to the camp and raise the men, I will follow in the

trail of the party; they must have taken the lower route, as the late

defeat of the Tories in the north would make the other unsafe. If I fail

I will meet you at the Big Pine—you will take that road—they cannot

get farther than the Cypress Swamp to-night—I will be there.”

This arrangement seemed to meet the views of the other, as he made no

objections to it, but after some minor matters had been disposed of, the

two prepared to separate. Shaking his companion heartily by the hand,

the younger of the friends struck into the forest in the same direction

as that from which we saw him emerge. The other gazed after him until he

became lost in the darkness of the shadows, and then striking into the

wood in the opposite direction, he proceeded for some distance with

hasty steps, until he gained a spot more densely shaded than usual.

Parting the branches, he entered the enclosure, and in a few moments

came forth leading a horse, which he immediately mounted, and plunged

more deeply into the wood. Leaving our two friends to the fulfillment of

their tasks, we must give the reader some account of the circumstances

that preceded their introduction to us.

William Seaton, the hero of our narrative, was the only child of one of

the oldest families in the South. At the breaking out of the war of the

Revolution, his father took a firm and decided stand in the defense of

the rights of the Colonists, and sealed that defense with his blood. He

fell at the Siege of Charleston, bequeathing to his son the care of a

mother. With the same bold and fearless love of his native land that

distinguished his sire, young Seaton, on the receipt of this

intelligence, hastened home from the little band of men to which he

belonged, and bearing his mother to a place of safety, hurried to rejoin

his comrades again. He had joined that band, by the consent of his

patriot father at the outbreaking of the war, though then but a

stripling, and had acted with them in all those prominent events that

has rendered them so famous in the annals of freedom.

Attached to the same company as Seaton was a young man named Wilson,

like him a volunteer in the cause of liberty; and both being in the

spring of youth and promise, they became mutually attached. The hours

not devoted to labor were spent in the society of each other. In one of

the many changes that the fate of war made in the position of this band

of patriots, they encamped in the vicinity of Wilson’s father, and now,

when the duties of the camp did not call for the attendance of our

friends, the snatches of time were spent at the paternal residence.

George Wilson’s father was far advanced in the vale of years, and

consequently remained neutral, as far as actions went, in the

excitements of the day. But still his heart was with the Colonists in

the unequal struggle for their rights. The chief attraction for Seaton,

however, was Emma Wilson, the sister of George; and she was well worthy

a soldier’s admiration and love. She was a soldier’s sister, full of

noble daring, and untameable spirit. At each visit Seaton lingered

longer and longer. Each glance of his eye was full of meaning, and told

more truly to Emma, than words, the conquest she had made. Seaton feared

to offer the hand of a nameless soldier to the sister of his high-souled

friend, though that hand had been raised at the altar of liberty. But he

was poor, his father had periled his all in the cause of his country,

and it had been wrested from him; and now the son had nothing, save his

sword and the consciousness of rectitude. But that could not prevent the

growth of the passion in the breast of young Seaton; and how often would

he think he saw in the hesitation and blushes of Emma, when he requested

her to sing his favorite songs, something on which to build a lover’s

hopes; and this, though slight, would raise into a flame the fire of his

affections.

Thus stood matters, when, one evening, Seaton started to visit the

Wilson’s, George having been absent some days on account of the illness

of his father. It was some distance from the camp, and as he was in the

dreaming mood, he suffered his horse to proceed at a slow pace, and gave

full vent to his fancy. From this trance he was aroused by a slight

noise, and raising his eyes, he beheld (for a turn of the path brought

him within view of it) the mansion of the Wilsons in flames. Putting

spurs to his steed he soon arrived at the spot. Here all was desolation

and ruin. The truth flashed upon him. It was the work of the Tories. But

what had become of the inmates? Had they fallen victims, or had they

been made captives? No one was visible to solve the question. But no

time was to be lost, and after a hasty survey of the vicinity, he

started in the direction of the camp to report the affair and procure

assistance for the prisoners. On the return he fell in with one of the

scouts, and making known the affair to him, it was determined to fall

upon the trail of the party, if possible to watch them until they should

encamp, and then the scout, by superior knowledge of the windings of the

forest, must return to the camp and ensure the surprise and capture of

the foe. Acting on this, and knowing that the captain was at this time

on his way from the Santee with a body of recruits, Seaton chose the

route most likely to fall in with him, to whom he would communicate the

intelligence and obtain assistance. Giving his instructions to his

companion to await him at the Crossings, he gave the reign to his horse

and dashed into the wood. With the result of this meeting the reader is

already acquainted in the conversation between the two at the

commencement of the story. Buried in the gloom of the ravine, Harry

Burton saw the prisoners pass, guarded by a strong band of the Tories.

Marking their direction, he had in quiet awaited the coming of his

comrade.

Our business now is with the scout. After he parted from his companion,

he left the main route, and striking deeper into the forest, pursued his

way for some time with as much rapidity as the nature of the ground

would admit of, appearing to be guided more by instinct than reason, so

well did he, amid the darkness of the dense wood, find out the different

pathways and crossings of the forest. After continuing his unbroken

course for some time, he turned again in the direction of the main path.

Falling into the stream of a small rivulet that ran in that direction,

he followed it up, as if to prevent any marks of his horse’s feet being

seen in the coming light, if he should not succeed in his enterprise.

Silently and steadily did he ride on until he gained a bend in the

stream, where he dismounted, and leaving his animal in the deep shade of

the trees, continuously advanced to the edge of the pathway, and bent

his gaze long and earnestly along the road. Satisfied of the absence of

any hostile party, he emerged into the clearing, and commenced a careful

survey of the path, with as much accuracy as the faint beams of a

partially risen moon would permit. Long and anxious was the labor, and

not till he was satisfied of the recent passing of a band of mounted men

did it cease. Once confident of this, he again mounted, and pressed on

with renewed vigor, still keeping hid in the shade, though not at so

great a distance as before. Continuing his course for some time, he

gained the top of a hill, and here, for the first time since the passing

of the band at the Crossings, he again gained sight of the captives.

Halting, that the distance between them might be increased, and thus the

danger of discovery lessened, he had a full opportunity to observe them.

No material change had taken place in the aspect of the party since he

last saw them, save that the bonds of the female had been unloosed, and

she was suffered to ride between two of the band. Her brother was still

bound, and his horse fastened to that of one of the escort. The only

circumstance that struck the quick sight and sense of the scout was the

want of that caution and discipline that betokens the consciousness of

danger.

Taking advantage of this want of prudence on the part of his enemies,

the active mind of the scout suggested the bold expedient of pushing

into the front of the party, and by secreting himself in the dense

foliage that skirted both sides of the road, gather, if possible, from

the lips of the Tories, some hints of their designs. Without waiting to

calculate the danger of the undertaking, he again took to the forest,

and putting his steed into a swifter pace, made a circuit of some

distance to avoid the most remote possibility of being seen. Having

again gained the road-side, he took a position more favorable for his

purpose. He did not wait long ere the foremost of the band came in

sight. When sufficiently near, Harry recognized him as one of the most

active and unprincipled of the men who had long been a terror and dread

to that vicinity. He had been an unsuccessful suitor for the hand of

Emma Wilson; and this, joined to his unrelenting hatred of the Whigs,

made the object of the recent attack apparent to the scout. He was

attended by several others of the same character—some actuated by

motives of personal malice, and others by the love of plunder. The

leader appeared in earnest conversation with those who rode near him;

and, as they neared the place where the scout was concealed, the words

of some of them reached his ear. They were directed to the captain of

the band, and were spoken as if in continuation of a question.

“But what do you intend doing with the brother? He fought well, no

matter what else he has done, and deserves a better fate than I fear you

intend for him.”