{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_54032/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_54032","id":"gutenberg_54032","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/54032","summary":null,"tags":["Category: American Literature","Category: Essays, Letters & Speeches","Category: Journals","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Poetry","Literature -- Periodicals","Literature, Modern -- 19th century -- Periodicals"],"text":"GRAHAM\u2019S MAGAZINE.\n             VOL. XXXVII.      November, 1850.      NO. 5.\n\n\n                           Table of Contents\n\n                    Fiction, Literature and Articles\n\n          Enchanted Beauty. A Myth.\n          The Vision of Mariotdale\n          Tamaque\n          The Sunflower\n          Minnie de la Croix\n          Pedro de Padilh\n          Nettles on the Grave\n          Familiar Quotations From Unfamiliar Sources\n          Two Crayon Sketches\n          Quail and Quail Shooting\n          Review of New Books\n          Editorial. To Rev. Rufus Wilmot Griswold\n\n                       Poetry, Music, and Fashion\n\n          Hylas\n          Sorrow\n          Sonnet.\u2014Moral Strength.\n          The Reconciliation\n          Unhappy Love\n          The Wife\u2019s Last Gift\n          I Dreamed\n          Theodora\n          Charlotte Corday\n          Sonnet\u2014To Arabella, Sleeping\n          The Spectre Knight and His Ladye-Bride\n          To L\u2014\u2014. with Some Poems\n          Wordsworth\n          Le Follet\n\n       Transcriber\u2019s Notes can be found at the end of this eBook.\n\n                 *        *        *        *        *\n\n[Illustration: THE ANGEL\u2019S WHISPER.]\n\n                 *        *        *        *        *\n\n                           GRAHAM\u2019S MAGAZINE.\n\n       VOL. XXXVII.     PHILADELPHIA, November, 1850.     NO. 5.\n\n                 *        *        *        *        *\n\n\n\n\n                       ENCHANTED BEAUTY. A MYTH.\n\n\nThe mythologies, in which the faiths, philosophies and fancies of the\nworld have taken form, have such truth and use in them that they endure,\nunder corresponding changes, through the reformations of creeds and\nmodifications of ceremony which mark the history of natural religion\nthroughout all ages and countries. The essential unity of the race, its\nkindred constitution of mind and affections, its likeness of instincts,\npassions and aspirations, naturally account for the under-lying\nagreement in principles, and central similarity of beliefs, which are\ntraceable clean through, from the earliest to the most modern, and from\nthe most polished and elaborate eastern to the rudest northern opinions;\nand the nice transitions of doctrine from the infancy to the maturity of\nfaith and philosophy, are marked by an answering variance in their\nsignificant ceremonials. But, however mingled and marred, the inevitable\ntruth is imbedded in all the forms of fable, and, under an invariable\nlaw of mind, the inspirations of fancy correspond in essentials to the\noracles of revelation, just because human nature is one, and its\nrelations to all truth are fixed and universal.\n\nCreeds and formul\u00e6, like the geological crusts of the earth, at once\nretain and record the revolutions, disintegrations, intrusions and\nsubmersions from which they result. In the long succession of epochs\nwhole continents have risen from the deep, and the vestiges of the most\nancient ocean are found upon the modern mountain tops; promontories have\nbeen slowly washed away by the ceaseless waves, and new islands have\nshot up from the ever-heaving sea. Through the more recent crusts the\nprimitive formations frequently crop out upon the surface of the\npresent, and the comparatively modern, in turn, is often found\nfossilized beneath the most ancient; dislocated fragments are\nencountered at every step, and icebergs, from the severer latitudes, are\nfound floating far into the tropical seas. Nevertheless, through all\nchanges of system, revolution has been ever in the same round of\ncelestial influences and relations, and the alterations of form and\nstructure have been only so many different mixtures of unchanging\nelements, from the simple primitives to the rich composite moulds, into\nwhich the waters, winds and sun-light have, in the lapse of ages,\nmodified them. The constancy of essential principles, through all\nmutations of systematic dogmas, is strikingly analagous. The law of\nadaptation links the material globe and the rational race which occupies\nit in intimate relations, and the universal unity in the great scheme of\nbeing establishes such correspondences of organisms and processes with\nideas and ends, that the symbolisms of poetry and mythology are really\nwell based in the truth of nature, and the essential harmonies of all\nthings are with equal truth, under various forms, embraced by fiction\nand fact, fable and faith, superstition and enlightened reason.\n\n\u201cThe true light, which lighteth every man that cometh into the world;\u201d\n\u201cthe grace that hath appeared unto all men;\u201d and \u201cthe invisible things\nof the Creator, clearly seen and understood by the things which are\nmade,\u201d are propositions which have the formal warrant of our sacred\nbooks to back the authority of logical demonstration. Moreover, it is\npleasant and profitable to believe that \u201cHe hath not left himself\nwithout a witness\u201d among any of the tribes of men. The human\n_brotherhood_ is so involved in the divine fatherhood, that the\nindividual\u2019s hold on the infinite and eternal must stand or fall with\nthe universality of His regards and providence. If Canaan had been\nwithout a \u201cProphet of the Most High,\u201d if Chaldea had been left without\nsoothsayer and seer, and classic Greece and Rome destitute of oracles\nand Sibylline revelations, the Jewish theology and the Christian\napocalypse would stand unsupported by \u201cthe analogy of faith,\u201d and our\nhighest hopes would be shifted from the broad basis of an impartial\nbenevolence, to a narrow caprice of the \u201cFather of all Men.\u201d But,\nhappily, the sympathies of nature, the deductions of reason, and the\nteachings of the Book, are harmonious on this point, for we find\nMelchisedec, who could claim no legal or lineal relation to the\nLevitical priesthood, the chosen type of the perpetual \u201cHigh Priest of\nour profession;\u201d and Balaam, notwithstanding his heathen birth, and\nministry among the Canaanites when their cup of iniquity was full; and\nthe eastern Magi, who brought their gifts from afar among the Gentiles,\nto the new-born \u201cKing of the Jews,\u201d all alike guided by the same light,\nand partakers and fellow-laborers in the same faith, with the regular\nhierarchy of Mount Zion. So, the Star of Jacob is the \u201cdesire of\nnations,\u201d and the heart and hope of the wide world turneth ever toward\nthe same essential truth, and strive after it by the same instinct\nthrough a thousand forms, \u201cif haply they may find it.\u201d\n\nThe religious system of the Jews and Chaldeans agreed, with wonderful\nexactness, in the doctrine of angelic beings and their interposition in\nthe affairs of men. The superintendence of the destinies of nations and\nindividuals, and the allotment of provinces, kingdoms and families among\nthese ministering spirits, are as distinctly taught in the book of\nDaniel of the old testament, and in the gospel of St. Matthew of the\nnew, as in the popular beliefs of the Arabians and Persians; indeed, the\nBible sanction is general, particular, and ample, for the doctrine of\nangelic ministry as it has been held in all ages and throughout the\nworld.\n\nThe order and organization of these celestial beings, among whom the\ninfinite multiplicity of providential offices is thus distributed,\nfalling within the domain of marvelousness and ideality, of course, took\nthe thousand hues and shapes which these prismatic faculties would\nbestow; and in the various accommodations and special applications of\nthe doctrine, it naturally grew complicated, obscure, and sometimes even\nincoherent; but in all the confusion of a hundred tongues, kindreds and\nclimates, a substantial conformity to a common standard is apparent\nenough to prove the identity of origin and the fundamental truth common\nto them all.\n\nIt is to introduce one of these remarkable correspondences that these\nreflections are employed.\n\nFairy tales, it is said by encyclopedists, were brought from Arabia into\nFrance in the twelfth century, but this can only mean that that was the\nepoch of the exotic legends. In England, if they were not indigenous,\nthey certainly were naturalized centuries before Chaucer flourished; and\nthey were as familiar as the catechism, and almost as orthodox, when\nSpencer, wrote his Fairy Queen, and Shakspeare employed their agency in\nhis most exquisite dramas. But their date is, in fact, coeval with\ntradition, and earlier than all written records, and their origin is\nwithout any necessary locality, for they spring spontaneously from faith\nin the supernatural. They are inseparable from poetry. The priesthood of\nnature, which enters for us the presence of the invisible and converses\nfamiliarly with the omnipresent life of the creation, recognizes the\nadministration of an ethereal hierarchy in all the phenomena of\nexistence; they serve to impersonate the spiritual forces, which are\nfelt in all heroic action, and they graduate the responsive sympathies\nof Heaven to all the supernatural necessities of humanity. The live soul\ncan make nothing dead; it can take no relation to insensate matter; it\ninvests the universe with a conscious life, answering to its own; and an\ninfinite multitude of intermediate spirits stand to its conceptions for\nthe springs of the universal movement. Rank upon rank, in spiral ascent,\nthe varied ministry towers from earth to heaven, answering to every\nneed, supporting every hope, and environing the whole life of the\nindividual and the race with an adjusted providence, complete and\nadequate. In the great scale, place and office are assigned for spirits\ncelestial, ethereal and terrestrial, in almost infinite gradation. The\nhighest religious sentiments, the noblest styles of intellect and\nimagination, and the lower and coarser apprehensions of the invisible\norders of being, are all met and indulged by the accommodating facility\nof the system.\n\nThe race of Peris of Persia, and Fairies of western Europe, hold a very\nnear and familiar relation to the every day life of humanity, by their\nlarge intermixture of human characteristics and the close resemblance\nand alliance of their probationary existence and ultimate destiny to the\nlife and fortunes of men. A commonplace connection with ordinary affairs\nand household interests constitutes the largest part of the popular\nnotion of them; and their interferences among the vulgar are almost\nabsurd and ludicrous enough to impeach the earnestness of the\nsuperstition; but our best poets have shown them capable of very noble\nand beneficent functions in heroic story. Like our own various nature,\nthey are a marvellous mixture of the mighty and the mean, the\nmagnanimous, the malignant and the mirthful; they stand, in a word, as\nour own correspondents in a subtler sphere, and serve to illustrate, by\nexaggerating, all that is true and possible in us, but more probable of\nthem\u2014our own shadows lengthened, and our own light brightened into a\nhigher life. In some countries the legends are obscure, in others clear;\nbut they all agree well enough in ascribing their origin to the\nintermarriage of angels with \u201cthe daughters of men,\u201d and that they are\nput under penance and probation for the recovery of their paradise. So,\nlike our own race, they have fallen from a higher estate; their natures\nare half human, and their general fortunes are freighted on the same\ntide.\n\nThe nursery tale of the Sleeping Beauty will serve capitally to\nillustrate our theme. Handed down from age to age, and passed from\nnation to nation, through the agency of oral tradition chiefly, it has\nof course taken as many shapes as the popular fancy could impart to it;\nbut the essential points, seen through all the existing forms, are\nsubstantially these:\n\nA grand coronation festival of a young queen abruptly opens the story.\nThe state room of the palace is furnished with Oriental magnificence.\nThe representatives of every order, interest and class in the\nkingdom\u2014constructively the whole community\u2014are present to witness and\ngrace the scene. The fairies who preside over the various departments of\nnature, and the functions and interests of society, are assembled by\nspecial invitation to invoke the blessings and pledge the favors of\ntheir several jurisdictions to the opening reign. The ceremony proceeds;\nthe young queen is crowned; the priest pronounces the benediction, and\nthe generous sprites bestow beauty and goodness, and every means of life\nand luxury, until nothing is left for imagination to conceive or heart\nto wish. But an unexpected and unwelcome guest arrives\u2014an old Elf, of\njealous and malignant character, whose intrusion cannot be prevented,\nand whose power, unhappily, is so great, that the whole tribe of\namicable spirits cannot unbind her spells. Neither can she directly\nrevoke their beneficences; for such is the constitution of fairy-land\nthat the good and evil can neither annihilate each other\u2019s powers nor\ncheck each other\u2019s actions, and their active antagonism can have place\nand play only in issues and effects. The good commanded and dispensed\ncannot be utterly annulled, the profusion of blessings prepared and\npledged cannot be hindered in their source or interrupted in their flow,\nbut the recipients are the debatable ground; they are, within certain\nlimits, subject to the control of the demon, and the _end_ is as well\nattained by striking them incapable of the intended good. The queen and\nher household are cast into a magic slumber until (for the Evil will be\nultimately destroyed by the Good) an age shall elapse and bring a\nDeliverer, who, through virtue and courage, shall dissolve the infernal\ncharm. The blight fell upon the paradise in its full bloom, and it\nremained only for the youngest fairy present, who had withheld her\nbenefactions to the last, to mitigate the doom she could not avert, by\nbestowing pleasant dreams upon the long and heavy sleepers. A century\nrolls round. The Knight of the Lion undertakes the enterprise;\nencounters the horrible troops of monsters and foul fiends which guard\nthe palace; overcomes them; enters the enchanted hall, and wakens the\nwhole company to life, liberty and joy again. The knight is, of course,\nrewarded with the love he so well deserves and the hand he has so richly\nearned.\n\nThis is obviously the story of the apostacy and redemption of the human\nfamily, in the form of a fairy legend. It conforms closely to the\nnecessary incidents of such a catastrophe, and answers well and truly to\nthe intuitive prophecy of man\u2019s final recovery. In substance and method\nthe correspondence is obvious. Every notion of \u201cthe fall,\u201d whether\nrevealed or fictitious, assumes the agency of \u201cthe wicked one;\u201d and the\nfinal recovery, universally expected, involves the sympathies and\nemploys the services of the \u201cministering spirits,\u201d as important\ninstruments in the happy consummation.\n\nThis tale was presented as a dramatic spectacle last winter at the\nBoston Museum. The play is a minutely faithful expositor of the legend;\nand it is by the aid of this fine scenic exhibition that I am able to\nadjust the details, of which the primitive story is so legitimately\ncapable, to the answering points in the great epic of human history \u201cas\nit is most surely believed among us.\u201d The parallel presented does not\nseem to me fanciful, but the circumstantial exactness of resemblance\nmay, I think, be accounted for without supposing a designed imitation.\n\nBefore tracing the specialties and their allusions, let us notice the\ngeneral parallelism found between the pivotal points of the fabulous and\nauthentic representations.\n\nThe Bible Eden is introduced at the same stage of the story\u2019s action and\nin the same attitude to the principal characters of the narrative; it\nstands on the coronation day of its monarch, perfect in all its\nappointments; the realms of air, earth and ocean in auspicious relation,\nevery element harmoniously obedient, and the garden still glows with the\nsmile which accompanied the approving declaration, \u201cit is very good.\u201d\nDominion over the fish of the sea, and over the fowl of the air, and\nover every living thing that moveth upon the face of the earth, is\nconferred, and the heavens add their felicities to the inaugural\nrejoicings\u2014\u201cthe morning stars sang together, and all the sons of God\nshouted for joy.\u201d The gifts are without measure or stint, and the Divine\nbeneficence cannot be tainted in its source nor impeded in its efflux,\nbut the intended recipients, by \u201cthe wiles of the enemy,\u201d are rendered\nincapable of the enjoyment. The sin-blunted sense and passion blinded\nsoul of the fallen race, are plunged into a spiritual stupor, which\nsleep\u2014the sister and semblance of death\u2014strikingly illustrates; and\nthrough the long age of moral incapacity which follows, the highest mode\nof life is but dimly recognized and feebly felt in the dreams of a\nparadise lost and the visions of a millenium to come; till, \u201cin the\nfullness of time,\u201d when a complete psychical age shall be past. The\nDeliverer, having first overcome the wicked one, shall lead captivity\ncaptive, and by the \u201cmarriage of the Lamb\u201d with \u201cthe bride which is the\nChurch,\u201d perfect the redemption and bring in the new heavens and new\nearth.\n\nBut to the fable, the dramatic representation and the interpretation\nthereof.\n\nThe scene opens upon a rustic society, a hamlet, in the infancy of\ncivilization, such as, upon ballad authority, was \u201cmerrie England\u201d\nbefore the age of her conquests in arts, sciences and arms, and before\nthe crimes and cares of her age of glory replaced the days of her\ninnocence and contentment. Simplicity of manners, modest abundance,\nmoderate labor, aspirations limited to the range of things easy of\nattainment, and opinions comfortably at rest on questions of policy and\nreligion, describe the rural life upon Monsieur Bonvive\u2019s domain. The\nmaster, in bachelor ease, superintends the simple affairs of his\nvillage; Madam Babillard, the house-keeper, has the necessary excitement\nwithout the anxiety of her post\u2014just the amount of trouble that is\ninteresting with the pigs, poultry and pets of the homestead. The girls,\nindeed, are too hasty in ripening into womanhood, and the beaux are\nover-bold in their gallantries; but then, these are things of great\nconsequence to her, and she is, through them, a matter of great\nconsequence to the community, and the exercise of authority amply repays\nall its troubles and responsibilities. The affairs of the commonwealth\ntake good enough care of themselves generally; the people are happy in\nthe enjoyment of what they have, and equally happy in the\nunconsciousness of what they have not; the holydays come at least once\na-week, and there is space and place for work and play every hour of\nevery day. Good consciences, light hearts, and natural living, carry\nthem along very happily, and they have enough of the little risks and\nchanges of fortune to keep the life within them well alive. The\nwilderness upon which their village borders is known to be infested with\nhobgoblins and demons, and there is a current belief that in the centre\nof the forest there is a princely family bound in a spell for a hundred\nyears, but they have never penetrated the mystery nor clearly\nascertained the facts.\n\nAmong these simple people there is an ancient dame, who was old when the\noldest villager first knew her, and she has lived through all the known\ngenerations of men. Her whole life has been a continual exercise of the\nbest offices among the people; she has been nurse and doctress, friend\nand counselor, by turns, to the whole community, and they repay her with\nthe love and veneration which her goodness and wisdom command. She is\nnow apparently in the decrepitude of extreme age, but the frame only\nassumes the marks of age\u2014the mind is as young and the affections as\nfresh as they were \u201ca hundred years ago.\u201d She is the \u201cFairy of the\nOak,\u201d\u2014the youngest at the coronation scene, and the tutelary spirit of\nthe enchanted family. Ever since the hour of their evil fortunes she has\ninhabited a human form, performing the charitable offices of ordinary\nlife and mitigating its incident evils; but, especially she has been\ncultivating whatever of virtuous enterprise and aspiration appeared\namong the youth from generation to generation, directing it into the\nbest service and endeavoring by it the deliverance of the imprisoned\nspirits under her charge. Patiently and lovingly she has striven,\nearnestly and anxiously she has watched, every promise of a deliverance\nthat the race from age to age produced. Patriarch, prophet, apostle and\nphilanthropist, has each in his degree done his own good work, and the\nworld has been the better that they lived; each has added another\nassurance of the ultimate success, but themselves \u201chave died without the\nsight.\u201d Her own powers, and those of her auxiliaries, are vast and\nsupernatural, indeed, but the champion age of human redemption must be\nhuman, and she can but inspire, direct, sustain and guard the mighty\neffort.\n\nNow, a young Christian Knight \u201cthe Knight of the Lion,\u201d famous for deeds\nof valor in Holy Land, gives promise of the great achievement to the\nquick perception of the Guardian Spirit. She has aroused his enthusiasm\nand sustained his zeal, disciplining him by trial after trial, and\ntraining him from triumph to triumph, for still greater deeds, which\ntake continually more definite shape and more attractive forms in the\ndreams and reveries which she inspires, until he has grown familiar with\nthe vision and conscious of its supernatural suggestion, and she is able\nat last to intimate the duty and the trial which invite him by songs in\nthe air addressed to his waking ear.\n\n        \u201cThe enchanted maiden sleeps\u2014\u2014in vain\n           To hope redress from other arm,\n         Foul magic forged the mighty chain,\n           Honor and love will brake the charm.\n\n           *       *       *       *        *\n\n         Dread perils shall thy path surround,\n           Wild horrors ranged in full array,\n         Courage shall take the vantage ground,\n           Bright virtue turn dark night to day.\u201d\n\nDrawn westward by her art toward the scene of the great enterprise, he\nreaches the village on the border of the wilderness, and from the legend\ncurrent among the rustics inferring more definitely the character of his\nmission, he accepts it in the true chivalric spirit of faith, love and\nhope. His squire, or man-at-arms, who has followed him heretofore with\nan unquestioning fidelity, consents to incur the risks, though he has a\nvery imperfect apprehension of the heroic undertaking; but the devotion\nof a faithful follower answers instead of knowledge in his rank of\nservice. He would rather encounter a dozen flesh and blood swordsmen\nthan one ghostly foe; nevertheless, where his master leads he will\nfollow, whatever the character of the fight. The knight comprehends the\nnature of the conflict fully; it is not with flesh and blood, but with\n\u201cspiritual wickedness in high places\u201d that he \u201chas his warfare.\u201d To him\nthe great battle is not in the outward and actual, but is transferred to\nthe inward and spiritual sphere\u2014into the real life\u2014whence the ultimate\nfacts of existence derive all their currents and ends. So felt the hero\nwho said, in the great faith, \u201cwe have our conversation in heaven\u201d\u2014\u201cwe\nsit in heavenly places;\u201d and so felt and thought the reformer who\ndeliberately threw his ink-stand at the devils\u2019 head. The region of the\nideal is the fields of the highest heroism, and every life given to the\nworld in noble service and generous sacrifice is living in the spirit\nsphere in familiar sympathy with the good, and constant strife with evil\nangels. This faith is the main impulse in all chivalric action; even a\nheroic poem cannot be created without it. It cannot be false, for it\ndiffers nothing in the constancy and efficiency of its presence from the\nmost palpable facts, and is proved true by the test of harmonizing with\nall other truth.\n\nThe knight personates the highest ideal of philanthropy; the squire\nstands for the lower, more palpable modes of practical benevolence and\nreform. They are distinguished as widely as general and special\nprovidence, as the thorough emancipation of the soul and the charity\nwhich relieves the body, or the whole difference between the apostleship\nof spiritual and that of civil liberty. They correspond respectively to\nthe Prophet Elisha, who saw the mountain tops filled with horses and\nchariots of fire, outnumbering and overwhelming the hosts of the Syrian\nking; and his servant, who saw but two men, his master and himself,\nopposed to a numerous and well appointed army. Such is the difference\nbetween the seer and the servant in any labor or conflict of faith\u2014in\nany enterprise which involves the spiritual forces that rule the\nmovements of the world. Throughout the whole action of the drama the\nagency and deportment of the knight and his follower are marked by this\ndistinction. But the scene shifts, and the sympathetic and corroborative\nmovements in Fairy-land, are revealed. The Fairy of the Oak appears and\nsummons the spirits of the Air, Earth, Water and Fire. The elements,\ndisordered by the fall, and thenceforth at war with the poor fugitive\nfrom Paradise, must render their aid in his restoration, that when the\nlast enemy is put under his feet the material creation, cursed for his\nsin, may be renewed with his recovery, and the harmonies of matter\nanswer to the sanctities of spirit. The spirits of the material forces\nobey the invocation, and cordially promise sympathy and service:\n\n        \u201cThroughout all space\u2014above, below,\n         In earth or air, through fire or snow,\n         Where\u2019er our mission calls we fly,\n         Our tasks performing merrily,\n         Our guerdon winning happily.\u201d\n\nThe actors, human and ethereal, thus adjusted to their several offices,\nthe knight and his squire enter the haunted wood\u2014the squire to struggle\nwith the grosser forms of evil, some as ludicrous as sad, others as\nhorrible as atrocious, and all odious, coarse and palpable; the knight\nto be tempted of the devil, and do battle with him for the redemption of\nthe enchanted family from his dominion.\n\nOn the open front of the stage, darkened with smoke and foul with\noffensive odors of noxious gases, the squire is hotly engaged with the\ngreat dragon, in close rencontre, and at the same time assailed above,\naround, in flank and rear, by harpies, fiery serpents, and other forms\nof terror\u2014the battle of life translated into coarse _diablerie_. The\nsentiment and significance of the play in this take great liberties with\nthe regular charities and practical reforms of our social system. The\nsorts of evil which these monsters so uncouthly represent are such as\nphysical suffering, drunkenness, violence, fraud, and the thousand\nshapes of slavery, personal and political, and of all castes and colors.\nThey are represented as greedy and ugly, and full of mocking and\nmalignity, but with little intrinsic capability of mischief, for they\nare really unattractive in temptation and extremely awkward in battle,\nand much more remarkable for thick-skinned insensibility to assault than\nfor any adroitness in the combat. The squire bravely deals his blows\nupon the great dragon. Horror, fear and hatred of the monster, earnest\ndevotion to the \u201cgreat cause,\u201d with the courage of full commitment, and,\nperhaps, some regard for his reputation as a hard-hitter, put life and\nmetal in his veins, and right lustily he mauls away. The earliest\neffects of his prowess are remarkable. The dragon, defending his own\nground as confidently and angrily as if the empire of evil were really a\nrightful one wherever sanctioned by antiquity of possession, dashes his\nponderous jaws at the reckless agitator, opened wide enough to swallow\nhim, with all his weapons and armor at a gulp; but he manages to elude\nthe clumsy wrath, and, nothing daunted and nothing doubting, deals his\nblows with energy in the ratio of the rage they rouse. Curiously, but\nconformably enough, at every stroke another ring of the monster\u2019s tail\nunrolls. At first he was an unwieldy, but not an utterly misshapen\nbrute; now he has become a serpent and a scarecrow; the head and tail\nare as incongruous as the pretended righteousness of his cause and his\nvillainous method of defending it. The strife goes on, and grows only\nthe worse and wickeder for its continuance, till it is plain that the\nbeast is not to be mastered with hard blows, and if he yields it is\nbecause his huge, unwieldy bulk is exhausted with the protracted effort\nof defense, and he subsides at last rather than submits. So ends the\nbattle, and then comes the triumph. The valorous victor, claiming all\nthe honors he has won, mounts his sometime foe in the new character of\nhobby, and rides him grandly off the stage in a blaze of gaseous glory,\ncheered most vociferously by the boys and affording not a little\nmerriment, mixed with admiration, to the old folks. What a figure that\nprocession made! and how exact a figure, too, of many another that the\nworld witnesses admiringly. The squire is, however, none the less a hero\nthat his principles are rugged, his method rude, his ideas a little\nvulgar, and his aims tinged but not tainted with his egotism. The\ndragons, serpents and hobgoblins must be routed, and he is the man for\nthe emergency.\n\nAll the while this palpable warfare is proceeding in open view, the\nknight is engaged with the subtler fiends in the dim and doubtful\ndarkness of the background. Quite behind the scenes the severest strife\nis maintained, but enough is seen and intimated upon the stage to reveal\nthe real character of the conflict. The fidelity of illustration in the\nconduct of the allegory here was really admirable. At one time we\ndescried him through the gloom by the flashing of his sword, engaged in\nhand-to-hand combat with a host of fiends, rushing upon the foe with\ntrue chivalric enthusiasm; at another, hard pressed and well-nigh\nexhausted, sternly enduring the blows he could not parry or\nrepay\u2014exhibiting, in turn, every mood of courage to do and fortitude to\nendure the varied fortunes of the field. But anon, with equal\ntruthfulness of portraiture, he is discovered trembling in sudden and\nstrange panics, which show the temporary failure of his faith, and seem\nto threaten his utter desertion of the field. In the open presence of\nthe foe his courage never fails, but the stratagem of darkness and\ndesertion successfully evades the sword-thrust and the shield\u2019s defense,\nand gives him up to doubt and desperation. The powers of darkness take\nhold upon him, and in his agonies of fear and suffering he would, if it\nwere possible, that the cup might pass from him. In these moments of\nanguish and depression the Fairy of the Oak instantly appeared to\nstrengthen him. With a touch and a word she reassures him, and the\ndivine virtue again shines out, exposing visibly the demon of the doubt,\nand the good sword again flashes in the gloom, and the fiends, forced\ninto open fight, are finally overthrown.\n\nBulwer strikes the same profound fact of experience in heroic\nenterprise, in his \u201cTerror of the Threshold.\u201d The reformer, however,\nconfident in virtue and assured of the goodness of his undertaking,\nnaturally trembles at critical stages of revolution in opinions and\ninstitutions long established and interwoven with the existing order of\nsociety, for the risk of introducing new truths may well check the\ncurrent of a wise man\u2019s zeal. If I pull down, he will say, this temple\nwhose ceremonial, though barbarous and blinding, yet supports the morals\nof the worshiper and the present order of the social system, will the\nliberty and light bestowed avail for the designed improvement, or will\nthey only unsettle the securities of law and prove occasions of disorder\nand licentiousness? The brave bigot and fiery enthusiast know nothing of\nthis indecision. The cautious hesitation which springs from solicitude\nfor the best ends and most expedient means, never troubles their\nstubborn bluntness of purpose nor abates their boasted consistency of\naction. But the regular procedure of Providence is marked by regard for\nthe influence of conditions and the established law of progress. In\nthese things the highest benevolence meets impediments and suffers\nmodifications and even submits to postponement to avoid defeat; and the\nagents and instruments of the world\u2019s regeneration have their\nGethsemanes as well as their triumphs and transfigurations.\n\nNothing in language, scenery or costume irreverently asserted the\nallusions which I am exposing. I do not know that either playwright,\nperformer or spectator was concerned about or even conscious of the\nsignificant symbolism of the fable and its circumstantial exposition in\nthe play. It was produced as a beautiful dramatic spectacle. Apart from\nany mystical meanings, it was a perfect luxury of scenic entertainment.\nIt was so regarded by the visiters, and probably was designed for\nnothing more; but to me the analogy was a surprise and a delight,\ngrowing at every step of the development. It struck me first when I saw\nthe knight and his brave squire standing on the threshold of the\nenchanted hall, after their victory in the wilderness. With equal zeal,\ntruthfulness and devotion they had battled with the formidable foe, but\nwith very different aims and apprehensions. The difference was most\nmanifest when they stood in the presence of the enchanted family. The\nknight, breathless with awe and melting with compassion, showed how\ntenderly and reverently he felt the moral and mental bondage which\nstruck his opened vision; but the squire, though so faithful and loyal\nas a follower, and efficient as a servant, had yet not the penetration\nof a seer; and the preposterous spectacle of princes, counselors,\nknights, esquires, priests, soldiers, pages, artisans, musicians,\ndancers, slaves, retainers\u2014every class and calling among men\u2014all\narrested in mid-action, and slumbering for a century amid the luxury and\npageantry of a gorgeous festival, with the viands untasted and the cup\nundrained before them, struck him with a comic wonder and pleasant\nsportiveness which he cared not to suppress. Approaching the venerable\nprime minister of the realm, who sat with the goblet near his lip,\nimmovable as death, the thirsty soldier familiarly proposed to drink his\nhealth, and only made mouths at the cup when he found it \u201cas dry as\ndust.\u201d The cheek of the dancing girl, who stood pivoted for her century\nupon one toe, he found \u201cas cold as a stone;\u201d and the apples offered by\nan African slave to a guest, whose hand hung arrested midway in the\nreach, proved to his disappointed taste a petrified humbug. The whole\nscene of deprivation and incapacity before him he pronounced an epidemic\nsleeping fever, and he wondered if it was catching, and where and how he\nshould get his dinner!\n\nAll this has its parallel and exposition in the boys that mock a\ndrunkard reeling through the street, and the contrasted sadness which a\nsoul alive to the moral ruin feels at the same sight; or it may be\nwitnessed again in the conduct of an insensible boor and that of a\nperson of refinement in the presence of the insane; and in general, in\nthe sentiments of those who have, and those who have not, learned that\n\u201cthe life is more than meat, and the body than raiment.\u201d\n\nThese reflections present themselves in the pause while the champion\nstands, riveted with emotions of wonder and pity at the mingled gloom\nand glory of the scene.\n\nBut the action proceeds again. A strain of melody spontaneously waking\nfrom the silence of an age, fitly preludes and prophesies the harmonies\nof the new era, and there wants only the taliha-cumi of the Deliverer to\nawaken the princess and her household into the activities of full life.\nAt the bidding of the minstrel he advances to her pavilion. Answering to\nhis word and touch, she rises. One by one the women first resume their\nproper consciousness, and the revival of the men follows in proper\norder, till the spell is broken and the last shadow of the long night\ngives place to the perfect day. The renovated realm every where receives\nits primal beauty, the flowers of Eden bloom again, and the fruits\nregain their flavor, the wine is new in the new kingdom, and all the\nmaterial ministries of life without, respond to the renewed faculties\nwithin.\n\nThe fable has not yet exhausted the facts. Obeying the poetical\nnecessities of the epic story, and conforming also to the apocalyptic\nvision of the world\u2019s fortunes, which are to follow the first victory\nover the dragon and the binding of the adversary for a thousand years,\nwe have the peace and happiness of the disenchanted household once more\ndisturbed. The prince of the powers of darkness, that great magician who\nis the author of all the mischief from the beginning, is \u201cloosed out of\nhis prison,\u201d and gathering all his forces for a final battle, he\nsurrounds the castle. The queen\u2019s army, led by the knight, go out to\nmeet the grand enemy in battle, and he is utterly overthrown and his\npower broken for ever. The conquerors return in triumph to the castle,\nand in the midst of their rejoicings a herald from the outer wall, who\nhas witnessed the scene, announces the total annihilation of the enemy.\nThe elements, marshaled by their ruling spirits, have overwhelmed him; a\ntempest of hail and fire bursts upon his castle, and the earth opening\nhas swallowed up the last vestige of his kingdom and power.\n\nThe battle of Gog and Magog (20th Rev.) in which the deceived of the\nfour quarters of the earth are gathered together, and compass the camp\nof the saints about, is the very prototype of this incident in our\nstory, and \u201cthe fire which came down from heaven,\u201d and the \u201ccasting of\nthe devil which deceived them into the lake of fire and brimstone,\u201d is\nonly a different expression of the same final deliverance of the human\nfamily from the last enemy.\n\nThe marriage rites close and crown the grand achievement, and a\nmagnificent tableau illustrates the consummation. The spirits of the\nelements arise, and array themselves in a vertical arch upon the stage.\nThe centre and summit is occupied by a new figure, now first introduced,\ncostumed appropriately in pure white, representing Truth in augurated or\nuniversal harmony; the Spirit of Earth at the base on one side, and of\nWater at the other, while impersonations of Air and Fire occupy the\nintermediate positions. This bow of beauty and promise, emblematically\ndressed and decorated, stood a happy symbol of the restored order of the\nmaterial creation. The household, artistically arranged and displayed,\nrepresented the divine order of society, where government and liberty,\nrefinement and efficiency, luxury and industry, are reconciled, and man\nwith his fellow man is organized in the harmonies of the creative\nscheme. And, that the joy may be full to the utmost limits of communion\nand sympathy, the Fairy of the Oak is seen ascending, to take\npossession, in behalf of her race, of their recovered heaven\u2014the\nguerdon of their services to the redeemed family of Adam. So, the last\nscene in the drama mingles the new Heavens with the new Earth, and all\nthe worlds in our universe triumph together in the general resurrection,\nas they rejoiced on the birth-day of the creation.\n\nI do not know the history of the fairy tale, its age or origin. I know\nnothing of the design with which it was prepared for theatrical\nrepresentation, nor do I see why it should be inferred, because the idea\nand method are so strikingly significant, that the manager, after the\nfashion of the ancient \u201cMysteries,\u201d intended to restore sacred subjects\nto the stage in allegorical disguise. I suppose that the fable is simply\nfancy\u2019s method of the great fact, and that its doctrinals are the\nnatural intuitives and inevitable theory of the human mind concerning\nthe mystery of life, the great epochal experiences of the human family,\ntheir final fortunes, and the interests and sympathies of other worlds\nincluded; for such conceptions as these are general and common among all\nmen. The question of special revelation is not affected by its\nconcurrence with universally received ideas. The correspondence\npervading all systems proves the truth and unity of origin of the\nessential points in all, but in no wise touches the method of their\nrevealment, discovery or propagation.\n\nThe points and particulars of the play are none of them manufactured to\nsupply the running parallel we have given, nor are they nearly\nexhausted. Moreover, it will readily occur that the plan of the play\nillustrates the whole philosophy of world-mending by its merely human\nhero. The actual and eventual progress of civilization, religion and\nliberty can be laid down upon its scheme in the exactest detail of\nprinciples, which facts _must_ follow and fulfill. The supernatural\nagencies introduced also answer this aspect and rendering of the myth.\nThey well represent the material and immaterial forces concerned in all\nsocietary movements, and if they may not serve for the religion of the\ngreat process, they may do duty as philosophical abstractions, or as a\nbeautiful system of poetical symbolism\u2014for in the mystical\ncorrespondence of all these systems of ideas there is such fundamental\nunity of use.\n\n                                                                   W.\n\n                 *        *        *        *        *\n\n\n\n\n                                 HYLAS.\n\n\n                           BY BAYARD TAYLOR.\n\n\n      Storm-wearied Argo slept upon the water.\n      No cloud was seen; on blue and craggy Ida\n      The hot noon lay, and on the plain\u2019s enamel;\n      Cool, in his bed, alone, the swift Scamander.\n      \u201cWhy should I haste?\u201d said young and rosy Hylas:\n      \u201cThe seas were rough, and long the way from Colchis.\n      Beneath the snow-white awning slumbers Jason,\n      Pillowed upon his tame Thessalian panther;\n      The shields are piled, the listless oars suspended\n      On the black thwarts, and all the hairy bondsmen\n      Doze on the benches. They may wait for water,\n      Till I have bathed in mountain-born Scamander.\u201d\n\n      So said, unfilleting his purple chlamys\n      And putting down his urn, he stood a moment,\n      Breathing the faint, warm odor of the blossoms\n      That spangled thick the green Dardanian meadows.\n      Then, stooping lightly, loosened he his buskins\n      And felt with shrinking feet the crispy verdure,\n      Naked, save one light robe, that from his shoulder\n      Hung to his knee, the youthful flush revealing\n      Of warm, white limbs, half-nerved with coming manhood,\n      Yet fair and smooth with tenderness of beauty.\n      Now to the river\u2019s sandy marge advancing,\n      He dropped the robe and raised his head exulting\n      In the clear sunshine, that with beam embracing\n      Held him against Apollo\u2019s glowing bosom.\n      For sacred to Latona\u2019s son is Beauty,\n      Sacred is Youth, the joy of youthful feeling.\n      A joy indeed, a living joy was Hylas,\n      Whence Jove-begotten H\u00earacl\u00eas, the mighty,\n      That slew the dreaded boar of Erymanthus,\n      To men though terrible, to him was gentle,\n      Smoothing his rugged nature into laughter\n      When the boy stole his club, or from his shoulders\n      Dragged the huge paws of the Nem\u00e6an lion.\n      The thick, brown locks, tossed backward from his forehead,\n      Fell soft about his temples; manhood\u2019s blossom\n      Not yet had sprouted on his chin, but freshly\n      Curved the fair cheek, and full the red lip\u2019s parting,\n      Like a loose bow, that just has launched its arrow;\n      His large blue eyes, with joy dilate and beamy,\n      Were clear as the unshadowed Grecian heaven;\n      Dewy and sleek his dimpled shoulder rounded\n      To the white arms and whiter breast between them.\n      Downward, the supple lines had less of softness:\n      His back was like a god\u2019s; his loins were moulded\n      As if some pulse of power began to waken;\n      The springy fullness of his thighs, outswerving,\n      Sloped to his knee, and lightly dropping downward,\n      Drew the curved lines that breathe, in rest, of motion.\n\n      Musing a space he stood, a light smile playing\n      Upon his face\u2014a spirit new-created\n      To the free air and all-embracing sunlight.\n      He saw his glorious limbs reversely mirrored\n      In the still wave, and stretched his foot to press it\n      On the smooth sole that answered at the surface:\n      Alas! the shape dissolved in glimmering fragments.\n      Then, timidly at first, he dipped, and catching\n      Quick breath, with tingling shudder, as the waters\n      Swirled round his thighs, and deeper, slowly deeper,\n      Till on his breast the River\u2019s cheek was pillowed,\n      And deeper still, till every shoreward ripple\n      Talked in his ear, and like a cygnet\u2019s bosom\n      His white, round shoulder shed the dripping crystal.\n      There, as he floated, with a rapturous motion,\n      The lucid coolness folding close around him,\n      The lily-cradling ripples murmured: \u201cHylas!\u201d\n      He shook from off his ears the hyacinthine\n      Curls, that had lain unwet upon the water,\n      And still the ripples murmured: \u201cHylas! Hylas!\u201d\n      He thought: \u201cthe voices are but ear-born music.\n      Pan dwells not here, and Echo still is calling\n      From some high cliff that tops a Thracian valley:\n      So long mine ears, on tumbling Hellespontos,\n      Have heard the sea-waves hammer Argo\u2019s forehead,\n      That I misdeem the fluting of this current\n      For some lost nymph\u201d\u2014again the murmur: \u201cHylas!\u201d\n      And with the sound a cold, smooth arm around him\n      Slid like a wave, and down the clear, green darkness\n      Glimmered on either side a shining bosom\u2014\n      Glimmered, uprising slow; and ever closer\n      Wound the cold arms, till, climbing to his shoulders,\n      Their cheeks lay nestled, while the purple tangles\n      Their loose hair made, in silken mesh enwound him.\n      Their eyes of clear, pale emerald then uplifting,\n      They kissed his neck with lips of humid coral,\n      And once again there came a murmur: \u201cHylas!\n      O come with us, O follow where we wander\n      Deep down beneath the green, translucent ceiling\u2014\n      Where on the sandy bed of old Scamander\n      With cool white buds we braid our purple tresses,\n      Lulled by the bubbling waves around us stealing.\n      Thou fair Greek boy, O come with us! O follow\n      Where thou no more shalt hear Propontis riot,\n      But by our arms be lapped in endless quiet,\n      Within the glimmering caves of Ocean hollow!\n      We have no love; alone, of all th\u2019 Immortals,\n      We have no love. O love us, we who press thee\n      With faithful arms, though cold\u2014whose lips caress thee\u2014\n      Who hold thy beauty prisoned. Love us, Hylas!\u201d\n      The sound dissolved in liquid murmurs, calling\n      Still as it faded: \u201cCome with us, O follow!\u201d\n      The boy grew chill to feel their twining pressure\n      Lock round his limbs, and bear him, vainly striving,\n      Down from the noonday brightness. \u201cLeave me, Naiads!\n      Leave me!\u201d he cried; \u201cthe day to me is dearer\n      Than all your caves deep-sphered in Ocean\u2019s quiet.\n      I am but mortal, seek but mortal pleasure:\n      I would not change this flexile, warm existence,\n      Though swept by storms and shocked by Jove\u2019s dread thunder,\n      To be a king beneath the dark-green waters.\u201d\n      Still moaned the humid lips, between their kisses;\n      \u201cWe have no love. O love us, we who press thee!\u201d\n      And came in answer, thus, the words of Hylas:\n      \u201cMy love is mortal. For the Argive maidens\n      I keep the kisses which your lips would ravish,\n      Unlock your cold, white arms\u2014take from my shoulder\n      The tangled swell of your bewildering tresses.\n      Let me return: the wind comes down from Ida,\n      And soon the galley, stirring from her slumber,\n      Will fret to ride where Pelion\u2019s twilight shadow\n      Falls o\u2019er the towers of Jason\u2019s sea-girt city.\n      I am not yours\u2014I cannot braid the lilies\n      In your wet hair, nor on your argent bosoms\n      Close my drowsed eyes to hear your rippling voices.\n      Hateful to me your sweet, cold, crystal being,\n      Your world of watery quiet:\u2014Help, Apollo!\n      For I am thine: thy fire, thy beam, thy music\n      Dance in my heart and flood my sense with rapture:\n      The joy, the warmth and passion now awaken,\n      Promised by thee, but erewhile calmly sleeping.\n      O leave me, Naiads! loose your chill embraces,\n      Or I shall die, for mortal maidens pining.\u201d\n      But still with unrelenting arms they bound him,\n      And still, accordant, flowed their watery voices:\n      \u201cWe have thee now, we hold thy beauty prisoned\u2014\n      O come with us beneath the emerald waters!\n      We have no loves; we love thee, rosy Hylas.\n      O love us, who shall nevermore release thee:\n      Love us, whose milky arms will be thy cradle\n      Far down on the untroubled sands of ocean,\n      Where now we bear thee, clasped in our embraces.\u201d\n      And slowly, slowly, sunk the amorous Naiads;\n      The boy\u2019s blue eyes, upturned, looked through the water,\n      Pleading for help; but Heaven\u2019s immortal Archer\n      Was swathed in cloud. The ripples hid his forehead,\n      And last, the thick, bright curls a moment floated,\n      So warm and silky that the stream upbore them,\n      Closing, reluctant, as he sunk forever.\n\n      The sunset died behind the crags of Imbros.\n      Argo was tugging at her chain; for freshly\n      Blew the swift breeze, and leaped the restless billows.\n      The voice of Jason roused the dozing sailors,\n      And up the ropes was heaved the snowy canvas.\n      But mighty H\u00earacl\u00eas, the Jove-begotten,\n      Unmindful stood, beside the cool Scamander,\n      Leaning upon his club. A purple chlamys\n      Tossed o\u2019er an urn, was all that lay before him:\n      And when he called, expectant: \u201cHylas! Hylas!\u201d\n      The empty echoes made him answer: \u201cHylas!\u201d\n\n                 *        *        *        *        *\n\n[Illustration: THE HIGHLAND CHASE.]\n\n                 *        *        *        *        *\n\n\n\n\n                      THE VISION OF MARIOTDALE.[1]\n\n\n                          BY H. HASTINGS WELD.\n\n\n                            I.\u2014THE SURPRISE.\n\nMy charge was in a beautifully romantic and fertile spot, the natural\nfeatures of which would seem sufficient teachers of the power and the\ngoodness of God, if, indeed, nature were, as some insist, a sufficient\nteacher without revelation. I soon found myself, upon here taking up my\nresidence, almost the only man who thought it worth his while to study\nand admire the beauties which nature, with a lavish hand, had scattered\nover the scene. It was a valley, enclosed on all sides with hills, whose\nascents, crowned with verdure, exhibited every variety of tint and shade\nof green; for the trees of our country display, more than any other,\nthose varying colors and gentle yet distinctly marked contrasts which\nthe painter envies, but strives in vain to transfer to his canvas. There\nwere only two breaks in the surrounding amphitheatre. One was where a\nmountain stream came tumbling and babbling into the valley; the other\nwhere, in a more subdued and quiet current, it found egress. The sinuous\npath of this little river, or \u201crun,\u201d across the dale, was marked by a\ngrowth of beautiful trees, among which the straight-leaved willow, with\nits silver foliage shivering in the light, was most frequent and\nconspicuous; other trees which delight in water diversified the long,\ngreen defile; and a little boat, which belonged to one of my\nparishioners, offered me frequent twilight pastime. Some labor, to\nwhich, though unused at first, I soon became accustomed, was required to\nforce the boat upstream; but the highest \u201cboatable\u201d point once reached,\nI had only to turn the shallop\u2019s head and guide it down, letting my\nlittle barque slowly float, and conducting it clear of the shallows and\nobstructions. Delightful were the views which the turns in the stream\nwere continually opening; the overhanging trees, forming a green roof\nabove, were reflected below; and while I seemed thus suspended between\nanswering skies and trees, over my head and beneath my feet, to look in\neither direction of the stream seemed like peering into a mysterious\nfairy grot.\n\nOne evening as I paused, looking delighted upon the scene of\nenchantment, a new feature was, as if by magic, added to the picture. A\nlittle girl\u2014a child of surpassing loveliness\u2014slipped out from among\nthe bushes, and, skipping from stone to stone, stood on a high rock,\nnear the middle of the current\u2014the beau ideal of such a sprite as one\nmight fancy inhabiting the spot. Her loose tresses floated on the\nevening breeze, and her scanty drapery\u2014it was mid-summer\u2014as the wind\npressed it against her form, exhibited a delicacy and grace of contour\nwhich that artist would become immortal who could copy. She did not at\nfirst perceive me; and when the flash of my oar startled her, I almost\nexpected she would prove herself a vision, by vanishing into the sky\nabove in a cloud, or dissolving in a foam-wreath in the water which\nrippled among the rocks behind her.\n\nBut youth and innocence are courageous; and she took no other notice of\nmy approach than to seat herself, to await my coming, upon the same\nstone on which she had been standing. Her artless ease and beauty won my\nheart\u2014as men\u2019s hearts are often too easily won, through the eyes. Hers\nwas grace unaffected and natural. No drawing-room belle, after years of\npractice before her mirror, could have vied with this rustic nymph. She\npossessed what art can with difficulty imitate, and that never\nentirely\u2014perfect and unconscious self-possession; and she was the more\nadmirable, that in her child-like simplicity she dreamed not of\nadmiration.\n\nI pushed my shallop up beside the rock, and commenced a conversation\nwith her. I was grieved and amazed to find her helplessly ignorant upon\nthe commonest subjects which those who fear God teach their children.\nShe could not even read, she told me. She was born far away, she\nsaid\u2014in another land, mother used to say\u2014and did not remember that she\never went to church; but mother had told her that she was carried there\nonce to be baptized, and her name was Bessie.\n\n\u201cIs your mother dead?\u201d I asked.\n\n\u201cNo\u2014not dead\u2014I think not; but father\u2014\u201d\n\nA hoarse voice from the shore now shouted her name; and, unalarmed as\nshe had been when I approached, her little frame now shook with terror,\nand her interesting face was pale and sullen with mingled fear and\nanger.\n\n\u201cIs that your father?\u201d I said.\n\nShe did not stop to answer, but instantly commenced picking her way back\nto the bank. While she did so, her trepidation several times almost\ntripped her into the river. I should have watched her every step at any\nother time, but my attention was irresistibly drawn to the repulsive\nform which had come, like a dark and unwelcome shadow, over this fair\nscene. The face was positively one of the most demoniacal in expression\nI have ever met. Thick, black hair, unkempt, hung over the low forehead,\nand the shaggy dark eye-brows seemed to glower in habitual gloom over a\nrough and unshaven face. The expression of the whole was that of a man\nwhose countenance is saddened into surliness, like a clay image of\nSatan, by habitual strong potations. A slovenly disregard to dress\ncompleted the picture of a man who has sold himself to the vilest and\nmost disgusting habits of intoxication.\n\nWhile I trembled for the fate of such a child, in such hands, she had\ncome within his reach, and, stretching forth his arm, he dragged her to\nhim by the hair, tripping her from her footing into the water, and\npulling her to the shore with more inhuman rudeness than I can\ndescribe\u2014her dress draggled and muddied, and her limbs bleeding from\ncontact with the sharp stones and pebbles. Blow upon blow the ruffian\ninflicted upon her, which I could hear as well as see from where I\nstood. Not a sound, not a cry escaped her; and while I was hesitating\nwhether I ought not to try to reach and rescue her, he ceased beating\nher, and turned up a path in the bank-side. She silently and doggedly\nfollowed him; and I sadly took my way home, lamenting that the beauty\nand peace of such a place should be so brutally interrupted; and\nsorrowing more than all, that frequent ill-usage had so deadened the\nchild\u2019s sensibilities as to make her, otherwise so natural and\nunaffected, thus endure pain with the sullen fortitude of an old\noffender. I trembled for the life of a child growing up under such\ninfluences; for I could see in her future nothing but crime, suffering\nand degradation.\n\nIt was later than my usual time of return when I reached the landing,\nand there were already lights in the few houses which stood there. I\nmight have mentioned before\u2014but that I hate to acknowledge the\nfact\u2014that the utilitarian habits of our era had converted my romantic\nstreamlet into a \u201cpower\u201d to turn a mill-wheel. It is not a grist-mill,\nwhich is a proper appendage to rural scenery, but a woolen manufactory,\nwhich, with its unromantic surroundings, caused me many a joke from my\nfriend, the owner of the boat and of the mill. When I excepted to such\nthings as stretching frames, as a blot on the beauty of the landscape,\nand to the dirty wool and dye-stuff as ruining its romance, he would\ntell me that if these valleys and rocks had never heard the clatter of\nhis machinery, neither would the \u201csound of the church-going bell\u201d have\ndisturbed their echoes. There was no answering this, because it was\nperfectly true, and I could therefore only \u201chumph\u201d and be silent. Though\nwrong in some points of his course, Mr. Mariot, our \u201cowner,\u201d was a\nliberal man and well disposed\u2014would there were more such! He built the\nlittle church in which I officiated, and he, in effect, supported the\nrector. If he had not done so, there could have been neither church nor\nservice. And he found his account in the superior order of his\nestablishment; and would have done still more if, beside building the\nchurch, he had abated or forbidden a nuisance which sadly impeded my\nusefulness.\n\nMr. Mariot stood at the landing, and as I stepped ashore said, \u201cI came\ndown to meet you, Doctor, for Yorkshire Jack is in one of his furious\nfits, and vows he will beat you\u2014priest or no priest.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd who is Yorkshire Jack?\u201d I asked, though a suspicion who he might be\ninstantly shot through my mind. My suspicion was correct\u2014for, upon Mr.\nMariot\u2019s explanation, I found that he was the very ruffian whose conduct\nI have been describing. As we passed the house dignified with the title\nof the \u201cMariotdale Hotel,\u201d loud voices came through the open windows.\nMr. Mariot would have hurried me past, but I laid my hand upon his arm,\nand in a low but determined tone said, \u201cWait, sir!\u201d\n\nSunday after Sunday I had preached\u2014to little purpose\u2014and here was the\nreason. Several of my usual congregation, upon whose hearts the word of\nGod fell like seed upon a beaten path-way, sat listening, half laughing,\nhalf terrified, at the blasphemy of this fiendish fellow\u2014Yorkshire\nJack\u2014and half a score more, who never, by any chance, were seen within\nthe church walls, were applauding him at the top of their voices. O,\nthey will have a fearful reckoning who have supplied fools who deny God\nwith words of blasphemy, and with the scoffings of infidelity, through a\nprostituted press\u2014who have caught the thoughtless with profane wit, and\nbetrayed the daringly wicked with the hardihood of declared infidelity!\nThe worst words of the worst men were rolled from this wretch\u2019s lips, as\nif they were his own utterance; the shallowest cant of infidel\nliterature came from his mouth as if his own heart had originated what,\nindeed, it had only harbored. Out of the borrowed abundance of a vile\nheart, his lips spake; and the applause of his auditory was scarcely\nless disgusting than his words were.\n\nWomen began to gather round the windows of the house\u2014they dared not\nenter\u2014and to call in hoarse whispers to their husbands, fathers and\nsons to come out. Children climbed up and looked in, now gazing,\nopen-mouthed, with terrified interest to the drunken maniac\u2019s fury\u2014now\nlaughing, in thoughtless merriment, as his antics became ridiculous. At\nlength, spent with the vanity of a successful orator to a fit audience,\nfilled with drink, and worn out with rage, Yorkshire John sank on a\nchair. The efforts of his satellites failed to awaken him to new\nravings. The joke was worn out\u2014the women coaxed their husbands away,\nthe children walked off, rehearsing, describing, and laughing over what\nthey had heard. The place was soon hushed and still, the monotonous\nvoice of the water only breaking the silence of the night, and Mariot\nand I took our way homeward\u2014for I lodged with him.\n\nOn our way nothing was said. The family, except Mrs. M., had retired;\nand Mariot seemed as if he would have made that circumstance a pretext\nfor following them in silence. He put a night lamp in my hand, but I\nplaced it on the table, and, sitting down, took up THE BOOK. He sat\nalso\u2014but it was evidently with unwilling politeness. Conscience was at\nwork\u2014and he was desirous to evade, rather than listen to, her warnings.\nI opened to the twenty-eighth of Isaiah, and he started as I read, \u201cWo\nto the crown of pride, to the drunkards of Ephraim!\u201d\n\n\u201cEdward Mariot,\u201d I said, \u201cGod will hold _you_ accountable for the sin\nwhich we have this night witnessed!\u201d\n\nHe arose\u2014I thought angrily. He commenced to speak, but a look from his\nwife dissuaded him. How would he defend himself with such facts so\nfresh? But I knew that there was a coldness in his manner as he returned\nmy \u201cgood night,\u201d with a half nod, such as I never before had witnessed\nfrom him. I feared that our friendship, and of course my further\nresidence in Mariotdale, was at an end; but I feared more, that it would\nbe written of my generous but business devoted friend, \u201cEphraim is\njoined to his idols\u2014let him alone!\u201d\n\n-----\n\n[1] The incidents which follow are not offered as from the writer\u2019s own\nobservation. As the simple narrative can be best told in the first\nperson, the reader must consider us both as having listened to the aged\nclergyman who related it. He was a veteran in the Christian army, and\ntruly adorned his vocation by unaffected dignity and sincere piety. Long\nexperience and close observation had given him power to penetrate\ncharacter, and to read the very thoughts of those whom he addressed. The\nlistener might often be startled at what seemed abrupt harshness, but\nthe result always showed that he knew in what manner to approach all\npersons. Sympathy and gentleness he well understood are lost on some\nnatures; and positive words are as widely improper for others. Clergymen\nare too apt to regard all men but as so many copies of each other. They\nare taught better as they grow older; but our friend seemed to have an\nintuitive knowledge of human nature.\n\n\n                          II.\u2014THE PEST HOUSE.\n\nThere was an air of uncomfortable constraint over our little family at\nthe breakfast table on the morrow. All thoughts were full of the same\nthing, but none liked to broach it. Edward Mariot\u2019s manner seemed to\nsay, \u201cI am disposed to forget, if you will be silent.\u201d But I was\ndetermined, at any cost to myself, to insist upon Mariot\u2019s doing his\nduty in relation to the disorderly house upon his premises\u2014or, failing\nin that, to leave the parish. I felt that my usefulness was at an end if\nI hesitated to do what Mariot, as well as I, knew was incumbent upon me;\nfor a clergyman who compromises his conscience to keep his parish, is\nnot only an unfaithful servant but an ally to the enemy. Events,\nhowever, were so ordered that I retained my friend, and was spared the\npain of giving him further reproof. I was informed that Yorkshire John\nwas at the door, and desired to see me.\n\nI rose instantly and went out. Mariot followed, fearing violence\u2014a\ndanger which did not once occur to me; for there are few\u2014very few\u2014so\nbase and cowardly as to make an attack upon a clergyman. The man could\nnot look me in the face. He was abashed and evidently afflicted, and,\nmerely muttering that Bessie was \u201cvery bad,\u201d and _wanted me_, turned and\nstrode hastily away.\n\nMariot accompanied me down to the little village, and, as we walked,\ngave me some particulars of the life and character of this singular\nbeing, Yorkshire Jack. He had only the one child, and its mother was\nstill living, but had been forced to leave her husband, on account of\nhis cruel treatment. Nobody knew precisely where she lived, or in what\nmanner she supported herself; but she was occasionally seen hovering\nabout the dale, with the intention of seeing or carrying away her\ndaughter. The father detained the child in the hope that the love of a\nmother would bring her back to him; for, in the years that she had been\nabsent, with a drunkard\u2019s inconsistency, he had earnestly desired her\nreturn, and vehemently promised amendment. In these professions, which\nhad reached her through a mutual acquaintance, she put no faith. She had\nbeen compelled to fly more than once before; and having, on those\noccasions returned only to discover the hollowness of his promises, and\nto receive new abuse, she had resolved to trust him no further. She\nheard, moreover, through common fame, of all his wild and wicked\nproceedings; and learning what her child suffered, was the more firmly\nresolved not only never herself to return, but to take away Bessie if\npossible. This made John but the more cruel, especially when in drink;\nand he was at all times mad with suspicion that some one would aid her\nin the abduction. Hence his rage against his daughter and against me;\nfor as he never conversed even with his own child, he could conceive of\nno purpose but a sinister one, in my accidental interview with little\nBessie. I was tempted to chide Mariot for suffering this state of things\nwithout interfering; but judged it discreet to be silent.\n\nJohn\u2019s house\u2014or rather his room\u2014was the picture of neglect and\ndesolation. He had converted it into a sort of fortification, so that\nnone but a most expert burglar could get in without his permission.\nNeither could the child get away when once the premises were locked.\nDuring the day he had been in the habit, often, of fastening her in, and\nwhen she went abroad it was with him. It was shocking to hear that the\npoor infant had been the forced auditor of her father\u2019s violence on the\nnight before, till, spent with fatigue, she fell on the floor and slept.\nNo wonder, you are ready to exclaim, that she was ill.\n\nBut her disease was evidently something more than mere exhaustion. Now\nfeverish and languid, she would anon become chilled. Pains in the head\nand back, redness of eyes, a husky voice, and sore throat, and a\nloathing rejection of food, with other symptoms, which I will not expose\nmy medical ignorance by attempting to describe, marked her affection as\none of no light character. A hint sent the father for a physician\u2014for\nremorse often hastens those whom affection cannot influence. Upon his\narrival he confirmed my surmises, and pronounced the case one of decided\nsmall-pox, and of a very dangerous and malignant type.\n\nThe father was frantic, and raved like a madman. He denied stoutly that\nsuch could be the case\u2014called us fools and idiots, and ordered all\u2014the\nphysician, Mariot and myself\u2014to leave his house. I looked at my friend,\nand saw tokens of the indecision and lack of resolution, which was his\ninfirmity. Then turning to the father, I said, \u201cWe will not leave this\nsweet child to perish in your hands; and unless you desist from\nviolence, if Mr. Mariot will not act, I will cause you to be committed\nas a disturber of the peace!\u201d The man was in a frenzy, and absolutely\nfoamed at the mouth; but the physician and Mariot supported me, and\ntaking advantage of his temporary absence, we turned his own\nfortifications against him and barred him out, while we should consult\nwhat to do in the emergency.\n\n\u201cMariot,\u201d I said, after he and the physician had proposed and rejected\nas impracticable several expedients, \u201cthere is a _pest house_ ready to\nyour hand. Take that.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe tenant will not suffer it,\u201d said he.\n\n\u201cLeave that to us.\u201d And, with the doctor, I went directly to the tavern,\nand without circumlocution informed the landlord that we were about to\nbring a small pox patient to his house, and desired a room!\n\nHe, too, stormed and threatened, but we insisted. The terror among the\nresidents had now grown intense, for the rumor had spread; and they\nhaving collected, with one voice demanded that the house should be\ntaken. It stood apart from the rest, and was in all respects eligible\nfor the purpose.\n\n\u201cIf you do bring the child here,\u201d said he, \u201cI will leave.\u201d\n\n\u201cDo so before, if you choose,\u201d I answered, \u201cfor in one hour she will be\nhere.\u201d And I further informed him that upon his future quietness and\ngood behavior it would depend whether he should be proceeded against for\nthe sale of spirits to minors and his other misdeeds.\n\nA new cause of alarm was now discovered. The mother of the child lay\nsick in another house; and investigation into the nature of her illness\ndeveloped the fact that, in a stolen interview with poor little Bessie,\nit was she who had communicated to the child the infection. Both mother\nand daughter were removed to the tavern, a nurse was provided, and all\nproper steps were taken for their comfort. Yorkshire John, having become\nsubdued by these events, was suffered to be their attendant. The\nlandlord, having received Mariot\u2019s assurance that his reasonable charges\nshould be met, sullenly acquiesced, and did not carry out the threat of\nremoval. The customers, however, fortunately for themselves, avoided the\n\u201cPest House,\u201d and his business was reduced completely to that of an\ninfirmary. Thus, what fear of moral contagion could not accomplish, was\neffected by the dread of physical infection.\n\n\n                            III.\u2014THE VISION.\n\nPass over a couple of years, and behold me, the energetic actor\u2014perhaps\nalmost unclerical\u2014in the events of the preceding narrative, now\ndomiciled permanently in the \u201cMariotdale Hotel.\u201d The old landlord\u2014a\ngood weaver\u2014has resumed his place in the works, and frequently avows\nhis satisfaction at the change which circumstances compelled him to make\nin his pursuits. Yorkshire John, his very self, is my landlord\u2014and a\nquieter dwelling there is not in the country. Perhaps much of this is\ndue to the good management of his wife\u2014for she, after all, is the man\nof the house.\n\nAnd Bessie?\n\nPoor Bessie! We laid her down to rest in the churchyard two years since,\nfor the illness she had was unto death. It was this shock which recalled\nthe father to his senses; and rest assured I did not spare him. He was\nnot a man who could _bear consolation_, for it seemed as if he could\nalmost strike the person who offered it. He rebelled against the blow,\nbut found that he was in the hands of a God who will reach those by\naffliction who refuse to be persuaded by mercy.\n\nPoor Bessie\u2014did I say? Blessed child! If the dead can look on earth,\nshe knows that her father and mother have been reformed and reconciled\nthrough her death; that father and mother have learned to believe that\nthe early lost are early saved.\n\nAnd Mariot, my warmer friend than before, admits that my counsel was\nsound\u2014that the souls as well as the bodies of his people are in some\nsense in his charge, and that he who neglects his duty in regard to the\nfirst cannot atone for that neglect by care of the last.\n\nI often float in the evening down to Bessie\u2019s rock, and seldom fail to\nsee in the twilight, THE VISION. Nor does it now prove to be of the\nearth, earthly, as once it did\u2014for I know that she is in Heaven.\n\n                 *        *        *        *        *\n\n\n\n\n                                SORROW.\n\n\n                          BY ALFRED B. STREET.\n\n\n          I saw at sunrise, in the East, a cloud\u2014\n            A form upon the sky; at first it seemed\n            Gloomy and threatening, but at length it beamed\n          Into a glow of tender light endowed\n          By the soft rising light. How mild and sweet\n            It shone! how full of holy tenderness!\n          How like some hovering Angel did it greet\n            My heart until I almost kneeled to bless!\n            It brightened more and more, but less and less\n          It melted, leading further still my gaze\n            Into the heavens; with lovelier, lovelier dress\n          It shrunk, until it vanished in a blaze.\n          Thus sorrow, kindled by Religion\u2019s light;\n        Turns to a tender joy, pointing toward heaven our sight.\n\n                 *        *        *        *        *\n\n\n\n\n                        SONNET.\u2014MORAL STRENGTH.\n\n\n                         BY MRS. E. C. KINNEY.\n\n\n            The spirit that in conscious right is strong,\n              By Treachery or Rage may be assailed;\n            But over single-handed RIGHT, hath WRONG\n              Never by art or multitude prevailed;\n              As Samson, shaking off the withes that failed\n            To hold the Titan, rose all free among\n              The weak Philistines that before him quailed,\n            And bade defiance to the coward-throng!\n              So the Titanic soul through moral power\n              Rending the toils of Calumny, doth tower\u2014\n            A host within itself\u2014sublimely free,\n              Above the foes that in their weakness cower.\n            Shorn of its strength the human soul must be,\n            Ere overcome by truth\u2019s worst enemy.\n\n                 *        *        *        *        *\n\n\n\n\n                                TAMAQUE.\n\n\n                     A TALE OF INDIAN CIVILIZATION.\n\n\n                         BY HENRY C. MOORHEAD.\n\n\nOne day, during a ramble in the interior of Pennsylvania with my gun and\ndog, I found myself on the top of a high mountain, which commanded an\nextensive view of the surrounding country. The charms of the landscape\nsoon drew off my attention from the pursuit on which I had set out so\nzealously in the morning; and leaving my dog to chase the game at his\npleasure, I indulged myself in pursuing the phantoms of my imagination.\nIn this mood of mind I approached the end of the mountain, whose rugged\ncliffs overhung the river which washed their base. My dog running to the\nbrink, looked over, but instantly bounded back again, ran to and fro,\nlooking up in my face then crept back cautiously to the spot, and gazed\nintently at some object below him. Curious to learn what it was that so\ndeeply interested my faithful companion, and anxious to secure it, if\nworth shooting, I looked to the priming of my gun, and stretching myself\non the rock, projected my head over the precipice. A single glance made\nme follow my dog\u2019s example, and draw back; for, on a kind of shelf,\nformed by a projecting rock, a few feet below me, sat an old man, his\nwhite hairs flowing over his shoulders, calmly surveying the scene\naround him. From his dress and whole appearance, I judged that he was,\nlike myself, a stranger in that neighbourhood, which made me still more\ndesirous to seek his acquaintance. I soon found a winding path which led\nto the front of the bluff, and in a few moments brought me to the side\nof the stranger. To my increased surprise I found that he was sitting at\nthe mouth of a cavern, which had been scooped out of the solid rock by\nthe hand of Nature. Here was as convenient a cell, and as profound a\nsolitude as any hermit could desire. But it was clear that he was no\nhermit. His was neither the garb, nor the look, nor the address of a man\nliving in seclusion from his fellows. When a sudden turn in the path\nbrought me close to his side, he rose calmly, and saluted me as blandly\nand as kindly as if we had been old acquaintances. Stammering out a few\nwords of apology for my intrusion, I was about to withdraw, when he\ninterposed with a courteous gesture.\n\n\u201cWould you not like to have a look at my hermitage?\u201d said he; then,\nperhaps, noticing my look of incredulity, he added, \u201cIt is mine now, at\nleast, by the right of possession.\u201d\n\n\u201cPardon me,\u201d said I, \u201cbut I should not take you for an inhabitant of\nthese mountains.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd why not, pray?\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is not customary, I think, for wild men of the woods and rocks to\nwear white neckcloths and polished boots,\u201d said I.\n\nThe old gentleman laughed at this remark, and then said, \u201cyou may call\nme a _temporary_ hermit, then; for you certainly found me alone, and\nsitting at the mouth of my cave. Indeed, if I were to assert my claim to\nit, I doubt whether there is any man living who could show a prior\nright; for I knew this place when few white men had ever penetrated what\nwas then considered a remote wilderness.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe prospect must have changed very much since then,\u201d said I.\n\n\u201cIn some respects it certainly has,\u201d he replied; \u201cbut the main features\nof a scene like this continue ever the same. The plough cannot level\nmountains, nor cultivation change the course of rivers. I have been\ntracing the windings of this stream with my eye, and find them just as\nthey were; and I recognize every soaring peak, and every projecting rock\nas an old acquaintance; I saw broken clouds just like these floating\nabove the mountain tops fifty years ago; and I would almost swear that\nyonder eagle is the same which then sailed so majestically through the\nair.\u201d\n\n\u201cThose villages and forms, however, must be new to you.\u201d\n\n\u201cAh, yes!\u201d said he, \u201cthere we see the hand of civilization. Where now\nour eyes take in no less than four neat and thriving villages, there\nwere not then as many clusters of rude wigwams; and these green fields\nand blooming orchards were an unbroken wilderness.\u201d\n\n\u201cA most happy change,\u201d said I.\n\n\u201cSo reason doubtless tells us,\u201d he replied. \u201cBetter the peace and\nindustry which now reign here, than the war-whoop, or the listless\nindolence of savage life. And yet it is melancholy to think how quickly\nthese old lords of the forest have disappeared. Many a league was made\nin their rude fashion to endure between the parties and their\ndescendants, as long as these mountains should continue to stand, or\nthis river to run. The eternal hills still cast their shadows on the\never-rolling waters; but the powerful tribes who appealed to them as\nperpetual witnesses of their faith are extinct, or live only in a few\nwretched stragglers, thousands of miles away in the far west. We have\npossessed ourselves of their heritage; and to show our gratitude, we\nabuse them for not having made a better use of their own possessions,\nand congratulate ourselves on the happy change we have effected.\u201d\n\n\u201cThere will never be wanting romantic persons,\u201d I remarked, \u201cto\ncelebrate the glories of savage life, and the felicity of spending a\nnorthern winter half naked and half starved, under the precarious\nshelter of a wigwam.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell,\u201d said he, with enthusiasm, \u201clet them embalm the memory of the Red\nMan! It will appease the manes of those ambitious warriors to be\nrenowned in song and story. The noblest spirits of the world have gained\nbut a few lines in a Universal History, or a single page in a\nBiographical Dictionary, and have deemed themselves well paid for a life\nof toil. Ambition is everywhere the same; and its essence is a desire to\nbe remembered. It may happen that the sad fate of the Indian will\nperpetuate his memory when the achievements of all his conquerors have\nbeen forgotten.\u201d\n\n\u201cI cannot help suspecting,\u201d said I, smiling, \u201cthat you have yourself\nbeen a warrior, perhaps the adopted son of the chief who presided over\nthese hunting-grounds.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d said he, \u201cI was not so great a favorite with the chief of these\nhunting-grounds.\u201d\n\n\u201cAh, then,\u201d continued I, \u201cyour sympathy is that of a generous conqueror\nfor an unfortunate adversary.\u201d\n\n\u201cNot exactly that either,\u201d said he; \u201cI was neither for nor against them.\nIf you are inclined to hear my story, I will relate it here, in sight of\nevery spot to which it refers.\u201d\n\nWe then sat down on the rock together, and he proceeded as follows.\n\n                 *        *        *        *        *\n\nI came out as bearer of despatches to what was then the frontier\nsettlement; but an errand of my own induced me to come on here. It was\nat the time that the Moravians were making zealous and apparently very\nsuccessful efforts to civilize and Christianize the Indians; and they\nhad a station, under the care of the venerable Luten, which I know must\nbe somewhere in this neighborhood. Although I had known and honored\nLuten from my boyhood, I should scarcely have ventured on such an\nexpedition for the mere pleasure of seeing _him_; but he had brought his\nwife with him, and what is more to our present purpose, his daughter,\nMary. Well, it was a rash undertaking to penetrate this wilderness\nwithout a guide, just then, for the Indians were in a state of angry\nhostility toward the whites, in consequence of some real or supposed\ninjuries lately received; but what will not an enterprising young fellow\nrisk in such a cause? Even the bold hunter often carries his life in his\nhand; and the game I was pursuing was better worth the risk than a wolf\nor a panther.\n\nHaving struck on this chain of mountains, and finding that they\ncommanded a view of the surrounding country, I followed them up until I\nreached the brow above us, when I caught a glimpse of a figure suddenly\ngliding down the face of the hill toward where we are now sitting. I\ncautiously followed, and saw a man whom I knew, from his appearance, to\nbe an _Indian conjurer_, enter this cave. Without disturbing him, I\nreturned to the hill above, and carefully explored the country round for\nthe station I was in search of. I had given up the search, with the full\nconviction that there was no settlement in sight, when the light breeze\nwafted to my ear the sound of human voices. I soon made out that it was\na familiar strain of sacred music, and sweeping over the valley again\nwith my telescope, discovered an encampment just where yonder creek\nempties into the river. It was the hour of evening worship; and the\nsavages were tuning their voices to the unwonted notes of a Christian\nhymn. Of the venerable missionary, it might emphatically be said, that\nhe pointed to heaven, and led the way. He had left country, home, and\nfriends; the habits of a lifetime, and the tastes of a highly cultivated\nmind, for the sake of the poor Indian; and it mattered little to him\nwhether his head reposed in a palace or a wigwam, or whether his bones\nwere laid in the Fatherland or in some wild glen of the New World, so\nthat his Master\u2019s work was sped. If such thoughts passed through my mind\nwhilst my eye rested for a moment on him, they were instantly put to\nflight when I saw another figure in the group. But he would have\nforgiven my irreverence, if he had known of it, for the love he also\nbore his gentle Mary.\n\nI quickly descended the mountain, and reached the encampment just as the\nsun was setting. Luten received me as a son; Mary as a brother, except\nthat the blush which suffused her face and the agitation of her nerves\nwere something more than fraternal\u2014so, at least, I flattered myself.\nWhen I inquired for the missionary\u2019s wife a tear started into the eye of\nboth father and daughter. I understood it all\u2014she had found a grave in\nthe wilderness.\n\nI had many questions to ask as well as to answer, and much news to tell,\nand the evening wore away before curiosity had been satisfied on either\nside. But I felt anxious to know their plans and prospects for the\nfuture; I therefore inquired of Luten how he was succeeding with the\nIndians.\n\n\u201cFar beyond my most sanguine expectations,\u201d he replied.\n\n\u201cYou really think, then, that it is possible to change their savage\nnatures,\u201d said I.\n\n\u201cWhy should it be thought doubtful?\u201d said he. \u201cAre we not all descended\nfrom the same parents\u2014all partakers of the same fallen nature\u2014all\nhastening to the same bourne? But you would scarcely recognize the\ngnarled and stunted oak, springing from the scanty earth afforded by a\ncrevice in the rock, as belonging to the same species with the monarch\nof the forest, striking his roots deep in a generous soil, and spreading\nhis branches proudly toward heaven. Pour into the minds of these poor\nheathen savages the light of civilization and Christianity, and in a few\ngenerations they will have become the noblest race of men in the world.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is a very common belief, however,\u201d said I, \u201cthat they are incapable\nof civilization; and does not experience seem to justify this opinion?\u201d\n\n\u201c_My_ experience proves the contrary,\u201d said he, with emphasis. \u201cThe\npeople now in this encampment were lately fierce and blood-thirsty\nwarriors; I wish the docility and meekness they now exhibit were more\ncommon among white men.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut has there been time,\u201d I asked, \u201cto warrant the conclusion that the\nchange will be permanent?\u201d\n\n\u201cI have no fear as to that,\u201d he said; \u201cthe change is radical\u2014the savage\nnature is extinct in them; and, like children, their plastic minds can\nnow be moulded into any form by education.\u201d\n\n\u201cI hope it will prove so,\u201d said I; \u201cbut do their chiefs go with them?\u201d\n\n\u201cTheir favorite young chief, Tamaque, now leads them as zealously in the\npath of peace, as he formerly did in the war-path,\u201d he replied. \u201cA noble\nyoung fellow he is, too.\u201d\n\n\u201cIndeed he is,\u201d said Mary, who had hitherto been listening to our\nconversation in silence; \u201che is always so kind and gentle. I love him as\nmy own brother.\u201d\n\nThe very bluntness of her words might have satisfied me that she meant\n_only_ what she said; but somehow or other I did not like her form of\nexpression, and I began to feel anything but partial toward the person\nthey referred to. \u201cPray what does he look like?\u201d I inquired.\n\n\u201cOh, he is very handsome,\u201d said she, with the same provoking simplicity.\n\n\u201cAnd no doubt very accomplished,\u201d said I, drily.\n\n\u201cWhy, yes,\u201d she replied, \u201che is by no means wanting in accomplishments.\nHe was educated at one of our own schools, and, it is said, proved a\nvery apt scholar. Indeed, his civilized accomplishments are very\nrespectable; and as to his savage ones,\u201d she added, laughing, \u201che is\nforemost in all the exercises of his tribe.\u201d\n\nI joined in the laugh, rather faintly, and then added, maliciously:\n\n\u201cNo doubt even his copper color is unusually bright.\u201d\n\n\u201cBy no means,\u201d she replied; \u201chis color is that of a white man a little\ntanned by exposure to the sun.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe truth is,\u201d said Luten, \u201che is only half Indian, and he seems to be\nendowed with most of the virtues of both the white and red man, without\nthe vices of either.\u201d\n\nThe affair had now become serious, and I could no longer help regarding\nthis accomplished half-breed chief as a formidable rival.\n\n\u201cOn him, more than any man,\u201d continued Luten, \u201crest my hopes for the\nregeneration of his race. I imagine to myself that I see in him the\nfuture founder of Indian civilization. Yes, my young friend, ere you\nhave attained the age which now bears me to the ground, you will see\nthese savage tribes every where pursuing the arts of peace; you will see\nthem kneeling at the altar of the living God, and putting to shame the\nboasted civilization of the white man. My old body will be dust long\nbefore that; but this hope, and belief, have sustained me amidst all the\ntoils and privations of a life in the wilderness.\u201d\n\nI looked anxiously in the speaker\u2019s face; for the thought struck me that\nhis mind had become unsettled. But his placid countenance and clear,\nsteady eye, at once convinced me that what I had deemed madness, was\nnothing more than the enthusiasm of a bold and sanguine reformer. I\ncould not find it in my heart to disturb the vision which afforded him\nso much delight by any expression of my doubts, and still less did I\nfeel inclined to enter upon any further discussion of the merits of\nTamaque. I had heard too much about them already for my repose that\nnight; and every remark I had made on the subject had only served to\ncall forth a fresh eulogy. I therefore gladly accepted Luten\u2019s\ninvitation to retire to my bear-skin couch. Many were the visions that\nchased each other through my brain during my broken slumbers, and\nTamaque was connected with them all. Sometimes I saw him the king of a\nmighty people, with Mary at his side, crowned as a queen. Again I found\nmyself engaged in deadly conflict with him, and waked just in time to\nescape receiving the death-blow at his hands. At another time I seemed\nto have got the better of him, and was about to plunge my sword into his\nbosom with fierce exultation, when my hand was arrested by a reproachful\nlook from her, and started up and thanked heaven that it was only a\ndream. At length, however, I fell into a sound and tranquil sleep. But I\nwas not permitted long to enjoy it; for, just at the dawn of day, a\nstrange Indian rushed into the camp, yelling the war-whoop until the\nmountains echoed it back again. The whole camp was instantly in motion;\nin a few minutes the council-fire was blazing, and the Indians had\nranged themselves around it.\n\nThe messenger soon told his story. A number of fanatic white men had\nbanded together and sworn eternal hostility to the Indians. They\nprofessed to consider them as standing in the same relation to\nthemselves as the Canaanites of old did to the children of Israel; and,\ntherefore, in the name of God, they waged an exterminating war against\nthem. They had just fallen upon an Indian village of Tamaque\u2019s tribe,\nand slaughtered the inhabitants, without regard to age or sex. This\nmessenger had alone escaped to tell the dreadful tidings. His words\nproduced a deep sensation on these fierce warriors, just emerging into\ncivilization. The old instincts of their natures were evidently\nreawakened; and it seemed as if a signal only were wanting to make them\nrush forth, as in former days, with tomahawk and scalping-knife.\n\nLuten hastened to check the torrent of passion which threatened, in one\nmoment, to sweep away the fruits of all his labors. Standing, like a\nvenerable patriarch, among his rebellious household, he endeavored, by a\nskillful blending of persuasion with parental authority, to restore them\nto a sense of duty. Reminding them of their solemn vows, he conjured\nthem by that regard for plighted faith which is the red man\u2019s boast, not\nto forget or break them in this moment of passion. He pointed out the\nhigh destiny they had to accomplish, in spreading light and knowledge\nall through the wilderness, and leading the way to a great reformation\nof the Indian race. Then, in a more solemn tone, he spoke of the world\nto come; painting the happiness in store for those who persevere to the\nend, and the uncontrollable miseries reserved for the unfaithful. His\nearnest eloquence was perfectly adapted to their simple apprehensions,\nyet eminently calculated to strike their imaginations by the wild\nimagery with which he embellished it. Their stern natures relented as he\nspoke, and he seemed to be on the point of regaining all his influence\nover them, when another messenger arrived, and signified that he had\nimportant news to communicate.\n\nHe told of new outrages, more cruel, if possible, than the first; and\nwhilst every heart beat high with rage and horror, turned to Tamaque and\naddressed him thus:\n\n\u201cThese griefs are common to us all; but the words I am now to speak will\nfall more dismally on Tamaque\u2019s soul than the howling of a famished\nwolf. Yesterday you had a father and a sister. I saw that father\u2019s gray\nhairs red with blood; I saw that sister, when flying from the blazing\nwigwam, driven back by the white men\u2019s spears\u2014and she returned no more.\nThen I came, swift as a hunted deer, to sound the war-whoop in the ears\nof Tamaque and his warriors.\u201d\n\nThroughout the whole scene Tamaque had been sitting as impassive as a\nstatue. It was impossible to gather from his looks any hint of what was\npassing in his mind; and when, at length, he rose, the fire that beamed\nfrom his eye alone enabled me to anticipate his purpose.\n\n\u201cWarriors!\u201d he said, \u201cwe must listen to the song of peace no longer. The\nwhite man\u2019s words are love, but his embrace is death. Let us return,\nwithout delay, to the customs of our fathers. Even now I hear their\nvoices, from the land of spirits, calling us to war and vengeance.\u201d Then\nturning toward me, he continued: \u201cThe stranger has come just in\ntime\u2014seize him and drag him to the torture.\u201d\n\nWith savage yells some gathered round me, whilst others hastened to\nprepare the stake, and others to collect the implements of torture. I\nhad seen the operation once in my life, and remembered it well. In that\ncase, the victim was stripped naked and tied with a grape vine to the\ntop of a pole, having a free range on the ground of ten or fifteen feet.\nAt the foot of the pole was a flaming fire of pitch-pine, and each\nIndian held in his hand a small bundle of blazing reeds. The\ndeath-signal being given he was attacked on all sides, and driven to the\npole for shelter; but, unable to endure the flames that scorched him\nthere, he again rushed forth and was again driven back by his\ntormentors. When he became exhausted water was poured on him and a brief\nrespite given, that he might recover strength for new endurements. The\nsame scene was acted over again and again, until they had extracted the\nlast thrill of anguish from his scorched and lacerated body.\n\nSimilar preparations were now making for me, and I watched them with\nshuddering interest as the fire was kindled and the faggots distributed.\nJust as they were about to drag me to the stake, however, Luten\ninterposed. But all his appeals and entreaties were unheeded; and when\nat last he begged them, if they must have a victim, to take him and\nspare his young friend, Tamaque rudely repulsed him, and ordered him to\nbe carried away to his tent. My last hope of escape was now\nextinguished, when lo! a figure glided suddenly into the arena,\narresting the attention of all, as if she had been a messenger from\nHeaven. Can the daughter control these wild spirits who have rebelled\nagainst the authority of the father? She binds her white handkerchief\nround my arm, and then whispers in the ear of Tamaque. The words,\nwhatever they are, act like a charm on him. His stern countenance\nrelaxes almost into a smile, and he stands for some moments absorbed in\nmeditation. Again she whispers a few earnest words; upon which he comes\nforward, takes me by the arm, and leads me, in silence, to the outskirts\nof the encampment.\n\n\u201cNow go!\u201d he cried, pointing toward the east; \u201cyou are indebted for your\nfreedom to one I love better than you. See that you make a good use of\nit; for, if you should be retaken, and brought here again, not even\n_her_ entreaties shall save you from the torture. Away! and here,\u201d he\ncontinued, handing me a red belt, \u201cbear to the false-hearted cowards you\ncame from this token of the hatred and defiance of Tamaque and his\nwarriors.\u201d He waved his hand to prevent my replying, and stalked away.\n\nI was now free, but by no means satisfied with the manner in which my\nliberty had been procured. What meant this mysterious influence of a\nfair young Christian girl over a haughty savage chieftain? What were\nthose whispered words which had wrought the sudden charm? Had she\nyielded to some request, or given some pledge in order to make her\nprayer effectual? My mind was racked with torments scarce less poignant\nthan those which just before had threatened to assail my body. I\nresolved at all hazards to see the end of it; and, therefore, in\ndefiance of fire and faggot, concealed myself at a point close by, which\ncommanded a full view of the neighborhood.\n\nI had not been long in my hiding place when I saw a procession, with\nTamaque at its head, move from the camp in the direction of this\nmountain. I conjectured at once that they were coming here to consult\nthe conjurer, and resolved to follow them. When they had descended the\nface of the precipice to the spot where we are now sitting, I crept\ncautiously forward on the rock above, and found myself in full hearing\nof their consultation.\n\n\u201cHow often have I warned you,\u201d said the conjurer, \u201cagainst the teachings\nof the white men. I told you they only wished to rob you of your courage\nthat they might destroy you the more easily; but you refused to listen\nto me.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, well,\u201d said Tamaque, \u201cthat is past; there is no help for it now.\nLet us talk of the future.\u201d\n\n\u201cLast year,\u201d continued the conjurer, \u201cwhen no game was to be found, and\nwhen the corn all withered away, I told you the Great Spirit was angry\nbecause you were forsaking the customs of your fathers; but you turned a\ndeaf ear to my words.\u201d\n\n\u201cI remember it all,\u201d said Tamaque, \u201cbut go on, and tell us of the\nfuture.\u201d\n\n\u201cThey promised you,\u201d persisted the conjurer, \u201cthat if you would worship\ntheir God you should go to their heaven when you died. I told you that\nyour spirits and theirs could never live in peace in the same\nspirit-land; but you would not believe me.\u201d\n\n\u201cCome, come, I am tired of this,\u201d said Tamaque.\n\n\u201cNo forests, no rivers, no deer, no hunting and no war,\u201d continued the\nconjurer, \u201cwhat would the Indian warrior do in the white man\u2019s heaven?\u201d\n\n\u201cCease your babbling!\u201d cried Tamaque, in a tone no longer to be\ndisregarded. \u201cIf you can foretell our fortunes in this war speak; if\nnot, out on your boasted wisdom!\u201d\n\nThe conjurer seemed to feel that it was necessary to come to the point.\nAfter a long pause, he asked:\n\n\u201cWhat have you done with the white stranger that came to your camp last\nevening?\u201d\n\nThe old impostor had no doubt seen me at the same time I had seen him as\nI crossed the mountain, but he was determined to make a mystery of it.\nTamaque seemed puzzled.\n\n\u201cHow did you know of his coming?\u201d he inquired.\n\n\u201cTamaque doubts the conjurer\u2019s wisdom,\u201d he replied.\n\n\u201cNo!\u201d said Tamaque, \u201cyou would not tell me what I come to hear. Go on,\nnow, and I\u2019ll believe you.\u201d\n\n\u201cHas the stranger been put to death?\u201d\n\n\u201cHe is gone,\u201d said Tamaque.\n\n\u201cIt was wrong,\u201d said the conjurer; \u201che should have died at the stake.\nThe Great Spirit calls for a sacrifice. The missionary and his daughter\nmust die.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo!\u201d said Tamaque, \u201cit is impossible.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt must be so,\u201d replied the conjurer; \u201cthey must die before sunset.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt cannot be,\u201d said Tamaque firmly; \u201ccommand me to do any thing but\nthat.\u201d\n\n\u201cI command you to do that,\u201d replied the conjurer, \u201cor I will call down\nconfusion on your war-party.\u201d\n\n\u201cI tell you,\u201d said Tamaque fiercely, \u201cthey shall not die. Say no more\nabout it.\u201d\n\n\u201cObstinate man!\u201d said the conjurer, \u201cyou dare not disobey me. They shall\ndie, and you shall kindle the fire beneath them.\u201d\n\nTamaque now sprang forward and seized the conjurer by the throat.\n\u201cVillain!\u201d he exclaimed, \u201cI warned you to speak of that no more. Name it\nagain, and I will toss you headlong down the mountain.\u201d\n\nFinding that Tamaque could not be overawed, the wily conjurer now\nchanged his tactics.\n\n\u201cYou might safely spare them,\u201d he said, \u201con one condition; but I dare\nnot name it.\u201d\n\n\u201cGo on,\u201d said Tamaque, \u201cyou have nothing to fear, if you do not speak of\ntheir death.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe anger of Tamaque is dangerous,\u201d continued the conjurer; \u201cand who\ncan tell what words will rouse it?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, no!\u201d said Tamaque mildly, \u201cI will hear you patiently; and if you\nrequire me even to leap down this dizzy precipice, I\u2019ll obey you.\u201d\n\n\u201cListen, then,\u201d said the conjurer; \u201cand if my words sound harsh in your\nears,\u201d said the old hypocrite, \u201clet not your anger be kindled. They\nshall live if you choose, but then the white maiden must become\nTamaque\u2019s wife.\u201d\n\nI was looking over, at the moment, from the rock above, full at Tamaque.\nHe started convulsively; his whole frame shook with emotion; whilst a\ngleam of joy absolutely lighted up his dark features. My own sensations\nwere not less violent, perhaps, though somewhat different in their\ncharacter.\n\nAfter a pause Tamaque asked, in a tone of affected indifference:\n\n\u201cIf I consent to this, do you promise success to our expedition?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d said the conjurer, \u201cyou will conquer all your foes, and\nreestablish the power and glory of the red man. Behold! a vision of the\nfuture rises up before me. I see Tamaque great and powerful, the ruler\nover many nations; and far off, for many generations, I see his\nchildren\u2019s children walking in his footsteps.\u201d\n\n\u201cYour words are good,\u201d said Tamaque.\n\n\u201cSo will be your deeds,\u201d said the conjurer. \u201cStrike boldly, and fear\nnothing.\u201d\n\n\u201cTamaque knows no fear,\u201d replied the haughty chief. \u201cTo-morrow he will\ngo forth with his warriors, and thus will he rush upon the foe.\u201d As he\nspoke he heaved from its resting place a huge fragment of rock, which\nbounded down the mountain roaring and smoking, and crushing all before\nit, until, with a loud plunge, it disappeared beneath the bubbling\nwaters.\n\nI had now heard and seen enough; and there was no time to be lost if I\nwished to save _her_ from\u2014from what? Confusion on the thought! My head\nreeled, and I came near falling down amongst them. But I soon rallied,\nand made all possible haste to reach the camp before Tamaque.\n\nSuddenly, as I emerged from a clump of trees yonder on the bank of the\ncreek, I saw her whom I sought close before me, kneeling on a mound of\nearth,\u2014doubtless her mother\u2019s grave. I stood entranced, and listened,\nin spite of myself, to the broken sentences which she uttered aloud.\n\n\u201cAnd save, oh, merciful Father,\u201d she murmured, \u201csave his white hairs\nfrom the dangers which surround us.\u201d Her filial words here became\ninaudible. The next sentence that reached my ears related to a different\nperson. \u201cMay thy powerful arm protect us from the cruel rage, and the\nstill more cruel love of that dreadful man!\u201d My jealous ears drank in\nthese words with ecstasy. They were a balm to my wounded spirit; a\ncompensation for all my sufferings. Again she spoke aloud: \u201cAnd him, the\nstranger, who wanders, unprotected, through the wilderness; oh! guard\nhis steps from harm, and grant, in thine own good time, that\u2014\u201d her\nvoice now died away into a gentle whisper. When it rose again she was\nsaying, \u201cAnd for me, in mercy, give thy unhappy child, here, in this\nhallowed spot, a peaceful grave.\u201d I began to feel that my listening,\nhowever inadvertent, was little less than sacrilege; and, therefore,\nquietly stole away out of hearing.\n\nAs soon as I discovered that she had risen to her feet, I again drew\nnear. Great was her surprise and consternation at seeing me.\n\n\u201cOh! why do you linger here,\u201d she cried. \u201cYou should, ere this, be far\non your way toward home. Fly instantly, and look not behind you; for, if\nyou should be taken by these cruel savages no human power can save you\nfrom a dreadful doom.\u201d\n\n\u201cI know that well,\u201d I replied; \u201cbut can you think me so careful of my\nown life as to run away and leave you to their tender mercies?\u201d\n\n\u201cFear nothing for me,\u201d she said; \u201cthey do not rank me among their\nenemies, and will not harm me.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut although you may be safe from their hatred, have you nothing to\nfear from their friendship?\u201d said I.\n\nThe tide of confusion mounted to her brow at these words, and she\ntrembled in every limb. But, quickly recovering herself, she said: \u201cCome\nwhat may, I share the fate of my father.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut go,\u201d said I, \u201cbring your father quickly, and we will all escape\ntogether.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d said she, sadly, \u201che is old and feeble; his absence would soon be\nnoticed; they would certainly pursue us, and easily overtake us.\u201d\n\nI could make no reply to this, for I knew that we could not take her\nfather with us, and I felt sure that she would not go without him. With\nthe dogged resolution of despair, therefore, I said:\n\n\u201cYour own fidelity teaches me my duty. I shall remain in these woods to\nwatch over your safety. Seek not to change my purpose. Better endure all\nthe torments these fiends can inflict than the shame and remorse I\nshould suffer if I left you.\u201d\n\nI spoke in a tone that could leave no doubt of my sincerity or firmness.\nShe evidently felt it so, and stood for some minutes with her eyes fixed\non the ground in silent meditation. Then, at length, raising her head,\nshe abruptly asked:\n\n\u201cCan you paddle a canoe?\u201d\n\nI replied that I could with considerable skill.\n\n\u201cThen go down immediately to the mouth of the creek,\u201d she continued; \u201cI\nwill bring my father there, and it is possible that we may yet escape\nacross the river. It is worth the trial, at least, and is our only\nhope.\u201d\n\nI hastened to the place designated, where I found two canoes moored to\nthe shore. In a few minutes Mary appeared, almost dragging her father\nalong. When the old man understood our purpose he refused to get into\nthe boat.\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d said he, \u201cI cannot leave these poor children, whom I have so long\ntaught and prayed for. Deserted by their pastor, they would soon return\nto their old habits, and the labor of long years would lose all its\nfruits.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut, sir,\u201d I replied, \u201cthey have already withdrawn themselves from your\nauthority. You cannot safely remain amongst them, for they now regard\nall white men as their enemies.\u201d\n\n\u201cI will stay,\u201d he answered, \u201cand bring them back to the fold from which\nthey are wandering, or else lay down my life among them.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut your daughter,\u201d I continued; \u201csurely this is now no place for her.\nCome! let us place her in safety, and then, if you choose, you can\nreturn.\u201d I saw that he hesitated; and so, taking him by the arm, I led\nhim, with gentle violence, into the canoe.\n\n\u201cAre these the only canoes at the station?\u201d I asked.\n\nBeing answered in the affirmative, I directed Luten to hold fast to the\nempty one, and then pushed off from the shore. My intention was to cut\noff pursuit by carrying the empty canoe some distance into the stream\nand then setting her adrift. The river was then about at its present\nheight, and dashed over these rapids with the same violence as now. It\nwas certain that no boat could drift through them without being swamped\nor broken to pieces.\n\nAccordingly, when we had attained what I thought a sufficient distance\nfrom the shore, I directed Luten to let go his hold. Scarcely had he\ndone so when a shriek from Mary, whose face was turned toward the shore,\nwas immediately followed by a plunge, and then another, into the water.\n\n\u201cIt is Tamaque and another Indian,\u201d she exclaimed, \u201cand they are\nswimming for the empty canoe.\u201d I cast a hasty glance behind me, and saw\nall the peril of our position; but I had no time for making\nobservations. My business was to ply the paddle.\n\n\u201cNow,\u201d continued Mary, \u201cthey have almost reached it; and now they have\ncaught\u2014but see! they have upset it in trying to climb in. No! it has\ncome right again; and now Tamaque has got in safely, and is dragging his\ncompanion after him. But it is too late; they are almost at the falls,\nand they cannot stem the current. Look! Merciful Heaven, they will go\nover, and be drowned!\u201d\n\nObeying the gentler impulses of her nature, she thought only of their\ndanger, forgetting that _that_ was our only chance of escape.\n\n\u201cOh! how they do struggle for their lives,\u201d she continued; \u201cand now they\nare standing still\u2014no, they are moving\u2014they are coming\u2014faster and\nfaster\u2014they are coming toward us!\u201d\n\nI again looked back for a moment, and, truly, they were coming, and\nevidently gaining on us. Luten meanwhile sat in the bottom of the canoe\nin a fit of total abstraction.\n\n\u201cI will not leave them, nor return from following after them,\u201d he\nmuttered; \u201cthey have gone astray, but I will bring them back, and they\nshall yet be the instruments, under God, of regenerating the whole\nIndian race.\u201d\n\nBut the state of things was now becoming critical, and Mary cried out in\nterror:\n\n\u201cOh, father, help!\u2014take that other paddle and help, or we are lost.\u201d\n\nThe old man roused himself up, took the paddle, and went to work in the\nbow of the canoe. But he was unskilled in the business, and did more\nharm than good. I begged him to desist, but he only replied by\nincreasing his well meant exertions. At length, however, he rocked the\nboat, and threw her out of her course so badly, that I was obliged to\ncommand him, peremptorily, to sit down; and he was soon again lost in\nmeditation.\n\nMeanwhile our pursuers were rapidly gaining on us. Under the guidance of\nher two powerful and well-trained workmen, their canoe bounded forward\nat every sweep of the paddles like a race-horse. I now saw that it was\nall over with us. We were still a long way from shore, and they were\nalmost upon us. Nor could it avail us any thing even if we should\nsucceed in landing first. They would capture us on the land if they did\nnot on the water. My heart sickened at the thought. To me captivity\nwould bring unutterable torments; and to my innocent and lovely\ncompanion a fate still more deplorable. Was there any alternative? I\nlooked the whole subject steadily in the face for one minute, and then\nmy resolution was taken. With a single dexterous sweep of the paddle I\nbrought the head of the canoe directly down stream, and then urged her\nforward toward the roaring cataract. Tamaque uttered a loud yell of rage\nand disappointment; and, the same moment, his tomahawk whizzed by within\nan inch of my head. But the current now drew us on with fearful\nrapidity. Mary sat pale and silent, gazing anxiously in my face; whilst\nher father continued unconscious of all that was passing. Now and then I\ncould hear his voice amid the tumult of the dashing breakers mournfully\nbewailing the apostacy of his neophytes.\n\nWe had now reached the very brink of the foaming precipice, when my eye\ncaught a narrow streak of blue water, which evidently descended in a\ngradual slope. I directed the canoe toward it, and she went down,\nplunging, I thought, entirely under; but she rose again filled with\nwater, but still afloat. I threw my hat to Mary; and, whilst I kept the\ncanoe steady in her course with one hand, I seized my hat in the other\nand commenced bailing. In a few minutes all danger of sinking was\nremoved. We had now a free course before us, and an impassible barrier\n(so it was deemed) between us and our pursuers. We felt that we were\nsafe;\u2014all but Luten; to whom our danger and our safety seemed equally\nindifferent. His thoughts were far away in the land of dreams, where he\nhad so long dwelt, and from which he would not yet depart. We spoke to\nhim, but he made no answer. At length his head began to sink slowly\ndown, and Mary hastened to support it. An ashy paleness now came over\nhis features; his breathing grew short and difficult, and his mutterings\nbecame inaudible; except once, when the name of Tamaque trembled on his\nlips. Then his eyes became fixed; his lips ceased to move; his hand\ndropped heavily down at his side; and now,\u2014the hot tears that rain from\nthe eyes of his dutiful child fall on the brow of death.\n\nIt was now near sundown; and when we reached the nearest white\nsettlement it was near morning. There we buried Luten; and his daughter\nbeing now an orphan, and without a protector in the world, why, of\ncourse,\u2014but I need not relate what followed. Suffice it to say that I\nwas no longer jealous of Tamaque, but even felt a pang of regret when I\nheard, soon after, that he had fallen in battle.\n\n                 *        *        *        *        *\n\n\n\n\n                          THE RECONCILIATION.\n\n\n                       BY MISS L. VIRGINIA SMITH.\n\n\n The midnight shadows deepen on, the earth is still and lone,\n And starry lamps in heaven\u2019s blue hall are fading one by one,\n For cold gray clouds wreathe o\u2019er them like a dim and misty veil,\n And through their foldings peers the moon\u2014a spirit wan and pale.\n\n As far away the gentle breeze is sighing mournfully\n It seems a murmur from the shore of olden memory,\n And while its cadence floats afar _thy voice_ I seem to hear\u2014\n Like music in some troubled dream it steals upon my ear.\n\n My heart beats faster as the sound fades out upon the night,\n And pants to drink again that tone of rapture and delight;\n At such an hour it cannot deem that voice is cold and strange,\n In such an hour it will forget that hearts like thine can change.\n\n No\u2014never, it shall _not_ be so\u2014the thought is burning pain,\n Which like the levin\u2019s blighting fire comes crushing through my brain;\n It cannot be our friendship\u2019s bright and glowing dream is o\u2019er,\n It must not be that we _shall meet_ as we _have met_ no more.\n\n Have I offended?\u2014then _forgive_\u2014\u2019twill be the nobler part\u2014\n And oh, _forget_ that I have wronged thy warm and generous heart,\n For careless words though lightly said come keenly to the mind,\n To chill its glowing depths with tones like winter\u2019s frozen wind.\n\n Ah! \u201ccast the shadow\u201d from thy heart, and mine shall glow with thine\n In purer flames, whose fairy gleams in rainbow beauty shine,\n Its thoughts of thee shall brighten then though all around be sad,\n Its every dream of thee be sweet\u2014its every vision glad\u2014\n\n                 *        *        *        *        *\n\n\n\n\n                             UNHAPPY LOVE.\n\n\n                          BY GEO. D. PRENTICE.\n\n\n               \u2019Tis vain, \u2019tis vain, these idle tears!\n                 Thou art far distant now;\n               No more, oh never more my lips\n                 May press thy pale, sweet brow;\n               And yet I cannot, cannot burst\n               The deep and holy spell that first\n                 Bade my strong spirit bow\n               With all of passion\u2019s hopes and fears\n               Before thee in our happier years.\n\n               Those eves of love, those blessed eves\u2014\n                 Their memory still comes back\n               A glory and a benison\n                 O\u2019er life\u2019s bewildering track,\n               Their light has vanished from our lot\n               Like meteor-gleams and left us\u2014what?\n                 The sigh, the tear, the rack!\n               And yet upon their visions blest\n               Still love can turn and sink to rest.\n\n               I know thou lovest me, I know\n                 Thine eyes with tears are dim,\n               I know that stricken love still chants\n                 To thee its mournful hymn;\n               I know the shadows of love\u2019s dream\n               In the deep waves of memory\u2019s stream\n                 Like soft star-shadows swim;\n               But oh! the fiend of wild unrest\n               Is raging in my tortured breast.\n\n               Forgive me, gentle one, forgive\n                 My burning dreams of thee;\n               Forgive me that I dare to let\n                 Forbidden thoughts go free;\n               My torrent-passions madly sweep\n               On, darkly on, and will not sleep\n                 But in death\u2019s silent sea;\n               And I\u2014a mouldering wreck\u2014am still\n               The victim of their stormy will.\n\n               Ah, dear one, suns will rise and set,\n                 And moons will wax and wane,\n               The seasons come and go, but we\n                 Must never meet again;\n               That thought, whene\u2019er I hear thy name,\n               Is like a wild and raging flame\n                 Within my heart and brain;\n               But none, save thee, shall ever know\n               The secret of my living wo.\n\n               Oft at the sunset\u2019s holy time,\n                 Our spirits\u2019 trysting hour,\n               I wander to commune with thee\n                 Beneath the wildwood bower;\n               And o\u2019er me there thy tone of love,\n               Like the low moaning of a dove,\n                 Steals with a soothing power;\n               \u2019Tis gone\u2014my voice in anguish calls,\n               But silence on the desert falls.\n\n               I gaze on yon sweet moon as erst\n                 We gazed on that dear night\n               When our deep, parting vows were said\n                 Beneath its mournful light;\n               And then with tones, low, sweet and clear,\n               Thou breathest in my ravished ear\n                 And risest on my sight\u2014\n               I call thee, but the woods around\n               With mocking voice repeat the sound.\n\n               I look on each memento dear,\n                 The tress, the flower, the ring,\n               And these thy sweet and gentle form\n                 Back to my spirit bring;\n               I seem to live past raptures o\u2019er,\n               Our hands, our hearts, our lips once more\n                 In one wild pressure cling\u2014\n               It fades\u2014I mourn the vision flown\n               And start to find myself alone.\n\n               I look upon thy pictured face\n                 \u2019Till from my straining eyes\n               My soul steals out to animate\n                 The sweet but lifeless dyes;\n               The dark eyes wake, the dear lips speak,\n               Their breath is warm upon my cheek\u2014\n                 I clasp the living prize;\n               Alas! I wake to cold despair,\n               There\u2019s but a painted mockery there.\n\n               My youth is vanished from my life,\n                 And ah! I feel that now\n               The lines of manhood\u2019s fading prime\n                 Are deepening on my brow;\n               My life is in its evening shade,\n               And soon its last pale flowers will fade\n                 Upon the withering bough,\n               Alas! alas! that life should be\n               So fleeting and not passed with thee!\n\n               Farewell, our dreams are idle now,\n                 And tears are idler yet,\n               But oft beneath the midnight moon\n                 My eyelids still are wet;\n               Oh! I could bear life\u2019s every grief,\n               Its shade, its cloud, its withered leaf,\n                 Its sun\u2019s last darkened set,\n               Could I but know that we might love\n               As now in that bright world above.\n\n               Farewell\u2014farewell\u2014yon gentle star\n                 Is pure and bright like thee\u2014\n               But lo! a dark cloud near it moves,\n                 The type, alas, of me!\n               From the blue heavens the cloud will go,\n               But that unfading star will glow\n                 Still beautiful and free;\n               And thus thy life, with fadeless ray,\n               May shine when I am passed away.\n\n                 *        *        *        *        *\n\n\n\n\n                             THE SUNFLOWER.\n\n\n                     A TRUE TALE OF THE NORTH-WEST.\n\n\n                          BY MAJOR RICHARDSON.\n\n\nOf all the tribes of Indians with whom it has been our lot to mix, and\nthese have not been a few, we know of none who can surpass in the native\ndignity and nobleness of manhood the Saukie tribe. We, however, speak\nnot of them as they exist at the present day. Many years have elapsed\nsince fighting against Hull, Winchester, and Harrison, we numbered, as\nco-operating with the division of the army to which we were attached,\nthree thousand fighting men of the \u00e9lite of the warriors of the\nprincipal tribes, headed by the indomitable and ever lamented Tecumseh,\nwhom, as a boy, then first attempting his _coup d\u2019essai_ at arms, we\never loved and revered, and with whom half an hour before his fall, we\nshook the hand of cordiality, and separation\u2014forever. We repeat, at\nthat period there were, varying slightly in number at intervals, not\nless than three thousand with the eighth division of the British\narmy\u2014and these were the choice warriors of the following tribes:\nShawanees, Delawares, Munsees, Hurons, Wyandots, Miamis, Chippewas,\nOttowas, Kickapoos, Foxes, Minouminies, Pottowattamies, Winnebagoes,\nLoups, Sioux, and lastly, for we cannot recollect some two or three\nothers\u2014the Saukies. Each tribe had its peculiar and distinctive\ncharacteristics\u2014but no one so markedly so as the last named people, and\nnext to them the Winnebagoes. We have remarked that we do not know what\nthe Indian tribes, even in their original hunting grounds have become\nsince so long abstinence from the pursuits of war and adventure, but\n_then_, the Saukies were the noblest looking men of all we have ever\nsince beheld in any quarter of the globe we have visited. They were a\ncollective impersonation of the dignity of man, as sent first upon earth\nby the will of God; nor were these characteristics of manly beauty\npeculiar only to a few, but general to all. A Saukie warrior, arrived at\nthe full stage of manhood, was tall\u2014generally from five feet eleven to\nsix feet in height, and of proportionate symmetry of person. Their\ncarriage was erect, dignified, graceful. Their look serene, imposing\nwithout sternness. Their features bore the Roman impress, and seldom did\nwe look upon a Saukie, arrived at mature age, without the memory\nadverting at once to the dignified senators of the forum of which we had\nso recently been reading. There was a nobleness\u2014a consciousness\u2014a\nnative dignity about these people that always inspired us with a certain\ndegree of awe and respect; and so deeply was this sentiment implanted in\nus at that very early period of a somewhat adventurous life, that our\n_beau ideal_ of manly beauty has ever since continued to be a Saukie\nwarrior of the commencement of the present century.\n\nThe period of occurrence of the incidents of our little tale was some\nfour or five years prior to the American declaration of war against\nGreat Britain, and when the North West Company of Canada, whose wealth,\nacquired in the pursuit of that trade, was at one time great, held\nvarious stockade forts in the heart of the Indian country. The\nambulating village of the Saukies was then situated on a branch of one\nof those small streams on which the forts were usually built, and at a\ndistance of about forty miles from that which will come more immediately\nunder our notice.\n\nWhite Bear was one of the most honored of the Saukie chiefs, and even\namong men whom we have just described as so eminently prepossessing, he\nwas remarkable. He was forty years of age, and possessed a majesty of\nmien and carriage that won to him the respect of his tribe not more than\ndid his wisdom in the council, and his daring in war. He had but one\nwife, and she was much younger than himself, but years had so little to\ndo with the estimate in which he was generally held by the squaws of his\ntribe, and particularly by his wife, whose passion for him was ardent as\nhis own for her, that this disparity had never even been noticed.\nIndeed, their friendship for each other was the remark of the whole\ntribe. For an Indian, he took great pride in her beauty, and spent with\nher many hours that ought to have been devoted to the chase. War for\nsome years past there had been none.\n\nSunflower was tall and graceful. She had very black, soft, languishing\neyes\u2014marked, yet delicate eyebrows. Her nose, like that of her tribe,\nwas Roman, but more delicately marked than that of the men, her teeth\nwere white and even, her mouth small, and her hair glossy as the raven\u2019s\nwing, and darker than the squirrel\u2019s fur. The full and massive club into\nwhich it was tastefully rolled and placed behind the back of her neck,\nproved its fullness and redundance. She was elegantly formed. She had\nnever been a mother, and her nut-brown bosom had all the roundness of\ncontour of a Venus, and the smoothness of the Parian marble. Her hands\nand feet, like those of all her race, were small, and yet there was a\ndevelopment of her whole person that set all art to improve it at\ndefiance. Late at night she always bathed in the sweet waters of the\nstream, and on its low banks combed the long and luxuriant hair that\novershadowed her person, and with the chewed root of the grape-vine,\nadded fragrance to her breath, even while she increased the dazzling\nwhiteness of the teeth she rubbed with it. To crown all the fascinations\nof this Indian wife\u2014this favored daughter of a race in which the\ninteresting and the beautiful are so rarely found, she had a voice whose\nevery note was laughing music.\n\nThere was one in that camp, and of that tribe, who saw the happiness of\nWhite Bear, not with envy, for his nature was too generous for so low a\npassion, but with regret that destiny had not given to him the\nbeautiful, the enchanting Sunflower. He was consumed with the most\nardent love. He lived only in and for her\u2014hung upon her look, fed upon\nher glance, and yet he had never spoken to her. His soul melted away\nwith love for her. To look at her alone was enjoyment the greatest he\ncould taste. The chase was deserted, his very flute, in which he\nexcelled, and on which he often played to the great delight of the\nadmiring Indian girls, was neglected. Not so his dress. No young Saukie\nbestowed more pains in decorating his person than did the tall and\ngracefully formed Wawandah, and this not from any foolish love of\ndisplay, as because he wished to appear favorably in her eyes, should\nshe ever be induced to regard him. The savage equally with the\ncivilized, tries to win a woman as much by dress as by address. But in\nvain Wawandah courted his toilet. The vermilion was applied to his cheek\nand lips without the desired result\u2014the Sunflower never once caught his\neye, or if she did, she was too much engaged in thinking of the White\nBear, to be conscious that any other of her tribe sought to win her\nattention.\n\nDays, weeks passed on, with the same unvarying result. Wawandah was\nsorely grieved at heart. He began to pine away. His soft and melancholy\neye became dull. He had no pleasure in the chase which took him far from\nthe encampment. Every step that he trod in pursuit led him farther from\nthe spot trodden by her, the very soles of whose feet he worshiped, and\nhe could not continue. Thus, when a stray buffalo would cross him, easy\nto be killed, and offering himself as an unerring mark to his rifle, his\npassion would so trouble his mind as to unnerve his arm. Then the ball\nwould pass unwounding by, and the half sneers of his companions arise\nand bring the blush to his cheek; as they bade him tauntingly leave the\nrifle to be handled by men, and go and amuse himself with the women. In\nlike manner he sought to avoid the war-dance, and the ball playing, and\nthe foot-race, for his mind was too painfully interested to engage\nunrestrainedly in these amusements, and unless excellence was to be\nobtained in whatever he undertook, Wawandah cared not to be a\ncompetitor. Wawandah was beginning to lose caste not only with the\nelders of the tribe but with the young men who were jealous of his\nsuperiority, and so much was he talked of that the very women knew all\nthat was said by the warriors, and the Sunflower like the rest. It was\nthe first time Wawandah had ever come under the notice of her he so\nfondly loved, and as he knew the cause, he secretly blessed the fate\nwhich had, even under circumstances so humiliating to the pride of a\nwarrior, been the cause of her bestowing even the slightest attention\nupon him.\n\nThe White Bear had been the friend of the father of Wawandah, who for\nten long years, according to Indian computation, had slumbered in his\ngrave with the red stained pole at its head. Since he had taken the\nSunflower to his bosom, he had neglected the boy, for his own breast was\nfull of the natural selfishness of love, and he had not found time to\nregard him as he would have done had he been free from the influence\nthat now exclusively governed him in all things. But when the Sunflower\ntold him that there was a youth in the village who, oppressed by some\nsecret care, had so degenerated in the tastes and pursuits of the young\nwarriors, as absolutely to have incurred their scorn, her husband\nrecollected the name, and determined as far as he could to comfort him,\nand to restore to him the respect of his tribe; and straightway he sent\na young boy to the wigwam of Wawandah, who was then lying on the skin of\na grizzly bear, which he had killed before the spirit of guilty love had\nentered into his heart, and the recollection of his skill and prowess in\nobtaining which was the only circumstance that still preserved to him a\ncertain consideration among the elders of the tribe. Astonished, almost\ndismayed at the message, Wawandah rose from his couch, and disguising\nhis feelings, said to the young messenger, \u201cThat it was good. He would\ngo to White Bear\u2019s wigwam presently.\u201d The boy departed, and Wawandah was\ntorn with emotion. What was the meaning of this message? Since the death\nof his father, the Black Vulture, the White Bear had taken no other\nnotice of him than he had of the young warriors generally; then how was\nit that he sent for him now, when almost shunned by the young men of his\ntribe; he bowed submissively and uncomplainingly to the effects of the\npassion that was preying upon his heart, rendering him regardless of all\nthings else. Why, he again asked himself, was this? Or had the White\nBear discovered his secret in the only way in which it could have\ntranspired\u2014through his eyes\u2014and sent for him to reprove and to\nthreaten. Still he was glad that he was sent for, no matter for what\nreason, for there was a faint hope at his heart that the Sunflower might\nbe present at the interview in the wigwam, and he felt that it would be\npleasant to be condemned in her hearing for that which she alone had,\nhowever innocently, occasioned.\n\nStill, with slow, and timid, and undecided step, he approached the tent\nof the great chief. The latter motioned him to be seated. Wawandah, who,\non entering, had seen in a corner of the tent a muffled figure, which\nhis beating heart told him was the wife of the White Bear, silently\nobeyed, and waited until the chief had finished his pipe. Wawandah now\nand then turned his eyes furtively in the direction of the squaw who was\nembroidering moccasins with the dyed quills of the porcupine, and could\nperceive that she, too, occasionally glanced at him in the same furtive\nmanner. The heart of Wawandah was troubled yet full of gladness. To be\nlooked at with interest by the Sunflower had been the summit of his\nhighest ambition.\n\n\u201cWawandah,\u201d said the White Bear, who had finished his pipe, and was now\nemptying the bowl of its ashes, \u201cthe chief, your father, was a great\nwarrior in the tribe; and when, a year after his death, you slew the\nwhite bear that was about to kill a young girl, all the tribe thought\nthat you too would become a great warrior. What says my son\u2014why is\nthis?\u201d\n\n\u201cUgh!\u201d was the sole and assentient reply of the youth.\n\n\u201cThe braves say you cannot shoot, and that your arm is wide as that of a\nsquaw from the buffalo or the deer\u2014that every papoose can beat you in\nthe race\u2014that you cannot wrestle, and that the ball never rebounds from\nyour foot. Is this true? Are you no longer a warrior? Why is this, my\nson?\u201d\n\nWawandah was silent for a moment, and then placing his palm over his\nheart, he said in so mournful a tone, that the Sunflower suddenly\nstarted and looked up. \u201cVery sick here. Wawandah wishes only to\nencounter another bear. The victory would not be the same.\u201d\n\nAs he uttered these words, his eyes beaming with melancholy tenderness\nwere turned upon the wife of the White Bear. It was just at that moment\nshe looked up. Their glances met. His dark and handsome features became\nflushed with crimson, as he traced in hers he thought, pity, sorrow, and\na full understanding of his position. A thousand delicious thoughts\npossessed his being. That look of commiseration had repaid him for every\ninsult he had endured. To be rewarded by another, he would have\nsubjected himself to the same a thousand fold. As for the Sunflower, she\ncould not tell wherefore, but it seemed to her as if a new light had\ndawned upon her being.\n\n\u201cMy son,\u201d said the chief, presenting his hand, \u201cI pity you, for I see it\nall. You love a squaw, who does not love you\u2014and that I know is enough\nto turn the rifle aside, and check the speed of the race. When the heart\nis sick the body is sick also. I am old, Wawandah, but I know it\u2014\n\n\u201cSee!\u201d he continued, after a short pause, \u201cthere is one who ought to be\nyour sister. The White Bear owes her life to you. Without your arm his\nwigwam would be as a desert. Taken from the fangs of one white bear, you\nhave preserved her for the arms of another.\u201d\n\nThe Sunflower and Wawandah looked this time fully, tenderly into each\nother\u2019s eyes\u2014a new affinity had been created\u2014a new tie mutually\nacknowledged. It was the first time they had been made aware that she\nwas the young girl thus saved. They both colored deeply, and with a\nconsciousness that that information was fraught with good or evil, for\nthe future, to themselves. Both awaited with interest and impatience\nwhat was to follow.\n\n\u201cWawandah,\u201d pursued the chief, \u201cI feel that I have wronged you by\nneglect. But I will make amends for it. Once more you shall be a man\u2014a\nhunter\u2014a warrior. You shall abandon your tent and live in mine. It is\nlarge enough for us all. The Sunflower will be glad to receive him who\nsaved her life in the most daring manner. Her smiles will make you\nforget your hopeless love, and when her hands have prepared the morning\nmeal, we shall go forth to the chase, for I, too, feel that my pretty\nSunflower too often dazzles my path with its brightness, and keeps me\nfrom the tracks of the deer and buffalo.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, the friend of my father is too good,\u201d replied Wawandah, with a\nmanner changed, from despair to life and hope, which, although unheeded\nby the husband, was not lost upon his beautiful wife. \u201cWawandah is\nthankful. He will sleep in the wigwam of the White Bear, and gain from\nhis goodness new courage to his heart, and strength to his arm, and\nskill to his eye. He will go forth to the chase as before. He will\nforget the love of the woman he cannot have, in the friendship of his\nsister\u2014in the child the Good Spirit allowed him to save for the friend\nof his father. Wawandah will be happy, and the White Bear will make him\nso.\u201d\n\nThe Sunflower rose from the spot where she was seated at her work, and\nmoving in all her gracefulness and dignity of carriage to her husband\u2019s\nside, leaned over him, and thanked him for his goodness in permitting\nher to aid in soothing him to whom she owed her life and happiness with\nhim.\n\n\u201cWawandah,\u201d said the husband of the Sunflower, \u201cyou may go; I wished to\ngive ease to your heart\u2014not to pine away like a love-sick woman. You\nlive here. I am not quite old enough to be your father, for\nfive-and-twenty years have passed over your head, but I shall be every\nthing else to you; nor is Sunflower old enough to be your mother, but\nshe shall be your sister, and her laughing eye shall make you glad. Go,\nthen, part with your wigwam, and let it be known throughout the tribe\nthe White Bear adopts you as his son.\u201d\n\nFrom that hour Wawandah became a changed man. He lived in the wigwam of\nthe White Bear. The beautiful Sunflower was ever before his eyes. Her\npresence inspired, her soft eye turned in gratitude upon him who had\npreserved her life, infused animation, if not hope, into his being. He\nhad no other thought, no other desire than to be loved by the Sunflower\nas by a sister, to be near her, to listen to her sweet voice, to mark\nthe expression of her beautiful eyes, to follow the graceful movements\nof her tall form\u2014all this he enjoyed, and he was happy. Sustained by\nher approval, once more the buffalo and the elk fell beneath his\nunerring rifle, and his honors graced the interior of the tent which the\nSunflower decorated with her own hands. Again he was foremost in the\nrace, and left his competitors behind when darting into the swollen\nstream they buffeted against the strong current that essayed to check\ntheir upward progress. In the wrestling-ring no one could equal his\ndexterity and strength; and where once his foot touched the ball, no\nopponent could bear from him his prize until it had reached the desired\ngoal. The women were often spectators of these sports, and approved the\nmanliness and activity of the handsome and modest-looking Wawandah, but\nnone more than his newly found sister, the peerless Sunflower of the\nWhite Bear.\n\n\u201cStrange!\u201d she would muse to herself, as she saw him amidst the loud\nplaudits of the aged and the young of the warriors, of the matron and of\nthe maid bear off every prize for which he contended\u2014\u201cstrange, that\nbefore he came to dwell within our wigwam, he was as a child, and even\nnow is a strong man, proud in his own power. It was disappointed love\nmade him weak and uncertain of aim in the chase, he said to the White\nBear. What, then, has made him strong, for no love warms him yet but the\nlove of his sister.\u201d The Sunflower sighed; she thought of the eloquent\nlooks he had often cast upon herself, and she endeavored to give a new\ndirection to her thoughts.\n\nOften would the White Bear and Wawandah set out on a hunting excursion\nof a couple of days, and return so laden with the meat of the buffalo\nand the deer, that the horses they took with them for the purpose, could\nwith difficulty walk under the heavy burdens. Then would the children,\nseeing them coming from a distance, clap their hands, and utter shouts\nof rejoicing, until the whole encampment attracted by their cries, would\nturn out and gathered together in small groups, await the arrival of the\nhunters, to whom the word and hand of greeting were cordially given. The\nSunflower would watch all this from a distance, and in silence; and her\nheart would become glad, for well she knew where the choicest of the\ngame killed by Wawandah\u2019s hand would be laid\u2014at his sister\u2019s feet with\na look of such touching eloquence of prayer for its acceptance that the\nvery anticipation took from her loneliness in absence; and she was\nalways right, for never on one occasion did Wawandah fail, and when he\nhad given of the best to the wife of the White Bear, his soft and\nbeautiful eyes rendered more lustrous by the deep hectic overspreading\nhis brown cheek, would thank him with such expression of silent\neloquence, that her own heart would invariably flutter, and her own\ncheek flush with as deep a crimson. And then, happy and contented and\nrewarded for all his toil, Wawandah would bear the remainder of his game\nto the tents of the chiefs, and distribute among the grateful wives of\nthese the remainder of the proceeds of his unequalled skill. No one was\nnow a greater favorite throughout the Saukie camp than the late despised\nWawandah, the son of the Black Vulture.\n\nOnce in the middle of August the White Bear and Wawandah set out with\ntwo others on an excursion, which was to last five days. Time had so\naccustomed the Sunflower to the presence of her brother, and his absence\non similar occasions had so seldom exceeded a couple of days, that when\nthe fifth had arrived she was uneasy and unhappy; and her longing for\nWawandah\u2019s return became such that she now, for the first time, became\naware of the full extent of her own feelings for him. She trembled to\nadmit the truth to herself, but it was in vain to conceal it. Guilt was\nin her soul. She loved Wawandah. True, but she was resolved that while\nshe sought not to change the character of their existing relations, she\nwould allow them to go no further.\n\nIt has already been shown that the Sunflower was in the habit of bathing\nin the stream on which the encampment of the Saukies had been pitched.\nThis was about a mile up, and in a secluded nook or narrow bay, the\noverhanging banks of which, closely studded with trees, formed a\ncomplete shelter from the observation of the passing stranger. The\nevening of the day previous to that on which the hunters were expected\nback was exceedingly sultry, and the Sunflower had gone with another\nSaukie\u2014a daughter of one of the chiefs\u2014to indulge in her favorite and\nrefreshing bath. After disporting themselves for some time in the\nrunning and refreshing stream, they were preparing to resume their\ndress, when both were startled by a low and sudden growl from the top of\nthe bank immediately above them. The Saukie maiden looked for a moment,\nand then trembling in every limb, and yet without daring to utter a\nword, pointed out to the Sunflower, on whose shoulder she leaned, two\nglaring eyes which, without seeing more of the animal, they at once felt\nto be those of a panther evidently fixed on themselves. The animal gave\nanother low growl, and by the crashing of the underwood amid which it\nlay, they knew it was about to give its final spring. Filled with terror\nthe Sunflower uttered a loud scream and even as the animal sprang\ndownward from his lair the report of a rifle resounded, and the whizzing\nball was distinctly heard as it passed their ears. The water around the\ngurgling spot where the panther leaped into the stream, was deeply\ntinged with his blood. He had been wounded, but not so severely as to\nprevent him from being an object of unabated terror. Not five seconds,\nhowever, had elapsed, before another form came from the very spot whence\nthe panther had sprung. The beast, infuriated by its wound, was running\nor rather bounding rapidly toward the Sunflower, who, paralyzed at the\ndanger, stood incapable of motion, and standing immersed up to her waist\nin the stream, and with her long dark hair floating over its surface.\nWith a wild and savage cry, meant to divert his attention to himself,\nWawandah, for it was he, pursued the animal as rapidly as he could\nthrough the interposing water. Startled by his unexpected appearance,\nthe Sunflower became, for the first time, conscious of her position,\nwhen turning, she fled as fast as she could with a view to gain the\nbeach and turn the ascent to the hill. This act saved her from severe\nlaceration, if not death, for it afforded time for Wawandah to overtake\nthe monster. Seeing itself closely pursued, the latter turned to defend\nitself, and before Wawandah could seize it by the back of the neck, with\na force against which it vainly struggled, it had severely wounded him\nin the left shoulder. Infuriated with pain, and still more so at what he\nknew to be the exposed position of the Sunflower, the latter, even while\nthe teeth of the panther were fastened in his shoulder, drew from his\nside his deadly knife, and burying it to the handle in its heart, while\nhe worked furiously to enlarge the wound, at length contrived to leave\nit lifeless floating on the surface of the stream. This done, his first\ncare was the safety of the Sunflower. He knew that while he continued\nthere she would not return for her clothes, which were lying on the\nbeach immediately under the point from which he had, on hearing the\nscream, leaped into the river, and therefore he had no alternative than\nto call out in clear and distinct tones that she might return without\nfear, as the panther was dead and he himself about to ascend the bank on\nthe opposite side, to secure his rifle and await her coming, as, after\nthe danger she had so barely escaped, he was determined not to allow her\nto be exposed, unprotected, to another.\n\nThat evening it was made known in every part of the Saukie encampment by\nthe daughter of the chief, that but for the sudden appearance and prompt\naction of the brave Wawandah, both herself and the Sunflower would have\nbeen torn to pieces by an enormous and savage panther, whose eyes were\nballs of fire, and whose teeth were like the wild boar\u2019s tusk. Again\nwere the plaudits of the camp bestowed upon him, and the head chief\nordered a war dance to be performed in honor of the exploit.\n\nThe dance was continued until late at night, but Wawandah did not mix in\nit. Thoughts were passing in his mind that little disposed him to join\nin festivities given in honor of himself. For the first time, that day\nhe had seen enough of the symmetry of form of the Sunflower to know that\nshe could no longer be as a mere sister to him. He felt that she must be\nto him as a wife or he must die. Giving as a reason, and it was a true\none, that his arm pained him very much, he retired to his bear-skin\ncouch long before the war dance had terminated.\n\nThe Sunflower sat at his side, and with a decoction of herbs which she\nhad boiled down to a thick gelatinous matter, ever and anon bathed the\nwound, and with a look so eloquent with thankfulness for this second\nserious service which he had rendered her, that Wawandah felt an\nirrepressible fire kindling in his veins, while his eyes were absolutely\nriveted on her own.\n\n\u201cHow came my brother so near me and so far away from the camp,\u201d she\nasked, desirous of turning his thoughts from an admiration that pained,\nyet not displeased her, \u201cand where has he left the White Bear and his\ncompanions. Was it well to come back without them?\u201d she concluded, half\nreproachfully, for she began to feel the danger of her position.\n\n\u201cIt was well that Wawandah came,\u201d he said, with more animation than he\nhad hitherto evinced. \u201cBut listen, my sister. An elk, with horns like\nthe branches of a great tree, had fallen beneath my rifle, when suddenly\na panther sprang from its lair. Determined to lay its skin at your feet,\nI followed it. The chase was long; it lasted from daybreak to the\nsetting sun. I knew not where I was, or in what direction I was going.\nSuddenly the panther crouched in a small thicket. I heard a cry. Oh, who\ncould mistake the birdlike voice of my sweet sister. The hair on the\ncrown of my head seemed to move. I felt my cheek white as that of a pale\nface\u2014my heart was sick. As the panther took his spring I fired. Oh, had\nI been myself, I should have killed him dead, but fear took away my\nskill and I was a woman, even as I had been for many moons before, until\nthe sister that I loved without hope brought comfort to my soul by\nsmiling upon me under the roof of her own wigwam.\u201d\n\nThe eyes of the Sunflower bent beneath the ardor of his gaze,\u2014her\nheaving bosom marked her emotion, and her hands dropped mechanically at\nher side. Now, for the first time, she knew that it was through his\nsilent love for her that the generous and noble-hearted Wawandah had\nincurred the odium of his tribe.\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d pursued the youth, \u201cnow that the panther is dead, and the\nSunflower is safe, Wawandah is glad of the wound received in saving her.\nHis step had never dared to move toward the spot where she bathed, but\nthe Good Spirit led him, even in the guise of a panther, to behold that\nwhich he had never seen but in his dreams.\u201d\n\nHe paused; leaning on his elbow, he had taken the small hand of the\nSunflower. He felt it tremble beneath the slight pressure of his. Then\nhe continued:\u2014\n\n\u201cThe love that filled my heart like the devouring fire of the prairie,\nbefore the good White Bear adopted me as his son, was nothing to what it\nis now. The Sunflower must be Wawandah\u2019s wife or she must see him die.\nHe will not live without her.\u201d\n\nNever had the warrior awakened such interest in the bosom of the wife of\nthe White Bear. His beautiful eyes spoke a language she could not\nresist. The deepening crimson of her cheek, the languor of her eye, and\nthe heaving of her bosom, were her only answer.\n\n\u201cThen the Sunflower is Wawandah\u2019s forever,\u201d he exclaimed, as he caught\nand pressed her to his heart, and imprinted the first kiss of love upon\nher brow.\n\nStill she replied not. She felt as if an inevitable fate was impelling\nboth to their destruction; but there was sweetness in the thought. The\nenormity of the ingratitude to the White Bear did not at first occur to\nher.\n\n\u201cWe must fly,\u201d she at length murmured. \u201cThe Sunflower is now the wife of\nWawandah, and she must seek another home. The White Bear will be here\nto-morrow, and never can the guilty one he loves bear to look upon his\ngenerous face again.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe Sunflower shall look upon him no more\u2014no more dazzle the White\nBear with the glare of her beauty,\u201d answered the youth. \u201cFar from this\nWawandah shall erect his tent, and alone. No one but his wife shall know\nwhere he dwells, or share his solitude. He has no thought but of her.\nWhile she gladdens his sight with her presence, he will ask no more of\nthe Spirit of Good. The camp is scarcely yet at rest. An hour before the\ndawn we will depart; and when the sun rises its fairest flower will have\ntraveled far from the tent of the White Bear forever.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe heart of the Sunflower is full of gladness,\u201d said the latter.\n\u201cNever does she wish to behold the face of another warrior but Wawandah.\nShe loves him because he has so long loved herself. Ah, how much must\nshe love him, when she leaves the tent of the White Bear forever to fly\nwith him. It is very wicked this. The Good Spirit will punish her, but\nher love for Wawandah is too great. She has not power over herself. She\nwould not stay if she could. And now it is too late.\u201d\n\nAt an hour before dawn Wawandah went stealthily forth. All was stillness\nin the camp, and only here and there was to be seen the flickering of\nsome expiring fire, while the low growl of the dog, too vigilant to be\nquite silent, and yet too lazy to bark outright, greeted him as he\npassed outside the skirt of his encampment. Presently he arrived at an\nopen space or sort of oasis in the forest, where were tethered many\nhorses with great blocks of wood fastened to one of the fore fetlocks.\nSelecting two of the best looking and best conditioned of these, he put\nbridles upon them, and removing the unwieldy clogs, led them back to the\ndoor of the wigwam of the White Bear. This time the dogs did not suffer\nthemselves to be disturbed. They seemed to recognize the horses, and to\nknow that he who led them was of the tribe to the masters of which they\nbelonged, and that the doubt they had in the first instance entertained\nno longer had existence. Leaving the horses standing quietly at the\nentrance, Wawandah went in. The Sunflower had put together every thing\nthat could be conveniently placed in two bundles, and then, having\nthrown the rude saddles on the horses, Wawandah now fastened one to each\ncrupper. The Sunflower was dressed in leggings of blue and the moccasins\nshe was making when first Wawandah entered the tent. A man\u2019s black hat,\nwith a white plume thrust through the band, was upon her head, and a\nmantle of blue cloth, fastened by a large silver brooch, upon her\nshoulders. Her linen was white as the snow, and altogether her great\nbeauty was adorned with the richest articles of her limited wardrobe,\nand in a manner befitting the occasion. While Wawandah, too, decked\nhimself in his best and secured his faithful weapons and companions of\nthe chase, she cut from the long hair she loosened for the purpose, a\nlarge tress, which she tied near the root with a blue ribbon, and\nfastened it to a nail within the wigwam door. This was a token to the\nWhite Bear that she still regarded even while she had deserted him for\never.\n\nWawandah pressed her again fondly to his heart. He was not jealous, but\nglad that the heart of the Sunflower bled for what she knew the White\nBear would suffer at her loss. He raised her in his arms to the saddle\nshe had been accustomed to use. Then carefully closing the door, and\nputting a stick over the wooden latch to secure it, he vaulted into the\nother. He then turned his horse, followed by the Sunflower, in the\ndirection of the bathing ground, beyond which the course he intended to\ntake lay, and as they passed, a beam from the moon which had then risen,\nglanced upon the form of the dead panther floating nearly on the spot\nwhere he had killed it.\n\nThe Sunflower gazed upon it with deep interest, for she felt that to\nthat hideous beast was to be ascribed the eventful step which she had\ntaken, and which was to decide the future misery or happiness of her\nlife. Presently the encircling arm of Wawandah, who had reined in her\nhorse, influenced by a nearly similar feeling, clasping her to his\nheart, seemed to admonish her of the intensity of joy he, too, had\nderived from the same cause.\n\nThat embrace refreshed and invigorated them. Once more, at the gentle\nbidding of Wawandah, the Sunflower put her horse into a gallop, and ere\nthe dawn of day the camp of the Saukies had been left far behind.\n\n\n                              PART SECOND.\n\nAt the distance of fifteen miles from the encampment of the Saukies, and\non the same stream, was a small post, belonging to the Canadian\nNorth-West Company of that day. As was usual in that region, it was\nsurrounded with a stockade, as a protection against any sudden attack of\nthe Indians. The force within consisted principally of voyageurs,\ntrappers, hunters, and, in fine, of men of such avocations as were\nconnected with the fur trade, then in its highest stage of prosperity.\nThe gentleman in charge was a Mr. Hughes, for many years subsequently,\nand even at this day, one of the British superintendents of Indian\naffairs. Besides the buildings which composed the post, there was a good\ndeal of spare ground, which had been alloted for the security of horses\nand cattle, embraced within the picketings. Around this place the ground\nwas denuded of trees, and nothing but a mass of shapeless stumps was to\nbe seen extending for nearly half a mile in every way, except toward the\nfront, which was bounded by the stream which divides it from the woods\non the opposite bank.\n\nOne evening, late at night, an Indian was seen approaching and driving\nbefore him a number of horses, tied by strings of bark, and so disposed\nas to keep up the order of what is called the Indian file. Three stout\nCanadians were sitting on a sort of elevated platform, which served as a\nlook-out over the stockade, one cutting with a great clasp knife a piece\nof fat pork upon his bread, that served him as a substitute for a plate;\na second puffing a cloud of smoke from a long handled black stone pipe;\nand the third lying on his back with his knees drawn up, and singing one\nof those plaintive boat songs which were peculiar to the Canadian\nvoyageur of the commencement of the present century.\n\n\u201cI say, Baptiste, cease that refrain of yours and listen,\u201d said the man\nwho was eating his supper of pork, and who evidently was at that moment\non duty as look-out. \u201cI am sure I hear the tramp of horses\u2014and sure\nenough it is them. See how they come, in file, like a string of dried\npeaches. I\u2019ll bet the best beaver I shoot or trap to-morrow, that\nscoundrel Filou, the Chippewa, has been at his old work again and stolen\na lot.\u201d\n\nBaptiste finished his singing, as directed, jumped to his feet, and\nlooked in the direction in which his companions had turned their gaze.\nThere was a mass of something moving, but whether men or horses the\nnight was too dark to enable him to distinguish with accuracy.\n\n\u201cParbleu!\u201d said the man who was smoking, \u201cwe had better tell the master.\nThe Saukies are not over friendly to us, and it may be a party of them\nstealing upon us, in the hope of catching us napping.\u201d\n\n\u201cBah! Latour,\u201d returned the man of the watch, \u201cthe Saukies don\u2019t make so\nmuch noise when they move. It\u2019s horses\u2019 hoofs we hear, and not the feet\nof men. A bottle of whisky to a blanket it\u2019s Filou with a fresh prize.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe odds are certainly long you give,\u201d said Le Marie, after he had\ndelivered himself of a prolonged puff; \u201cbut, sure enough, it is a gang\nof horses, and that\u2019s devilish like the Chippewa, who rides the first\nand leads the remainder.\u201d\n\nAll doubt was soon at rest, by the well-known voice of the Chippewa\nasking for admission for himself and horses into the stockade.\n\n\u201cComment!\u201d said Le Marie, \u201cdo you take me for a blancbec, to suppose I\nshall do any thing of the sort? You have stolen those horses, Filou, and\nno good will ever come to us if we let them in here.\u201d\n\n\u201cAsk captin,\u201d said the Chippewa, in a tone that denoted he expected his\napplication to be made known to that responsible officer.\n\nThe moment was a critical one. The Saukie Indians, as has been before\nstated, had manifested a hostile feeling toward the inmates of the post,\nand the avoidance of offense had been strictly enjoined, as a matter of\npolicy, upon the people of the establishment. Filou, more than all the\nothers, knew of the position and means of defense of the stockade, and\ntherefore it became particularly a matter of precaution not to offend\nhim.\n\n\u201cTake the rascal\u2019s message to the chief, Baptiste, and know if he is to\nbe admitted or not.\u201d\n\nIn a few minutes Captain Hughes, in no very good humor, made his\nappearance at the look-out, and seeing the large train of horses which\nthe rascal had stolen, told him, decidedly, that he himself might come\ninto the fort if he chose to leave his plunder behind him; but that the\nlatter must remain without.\n\nThe Chippewa grumbled a good deal at this decision, told him that he had\nlost a good horse, and finally decided on remaining without himself and\nkeeping watch over the animals.\n\nThe night passed away, and it was about an hour before dawn when the\nreport of a rifle was heard, and soon afterward a second, from a greater\ndistance. Aroused from their slumbers, Captain Hughes and his people\ninstantly rose and repaired to the look-out, where the drowsy sentinel\nwas just awakening from his sleep, and were accosted from without by the\nChippewa, who told them, with an alarmed air, that the enemy were\nstealing upon them, and earnestly craved admittance for himself and\nhorses. This request, after some little hesitation on the part of\nCaptain Hughes, was granted. His people were kept on the alert during\nthe remainder of the night, but nothing was to be seen that could\njustify an alarm. Toward morning, however, Captain Hughes resolved to go\nforth with a party and reconnoitre. He insisted that the Chippewa, who\nwas extremely unwilling to move, should accompany them, and point out\nthe direction whence the firing proceeded. In vain he pleaded that he\nwas tired and wanted rest. They compelled him to lead the way.\n\nUntil the day began to dawn, every thing was dark in the extreme\u2014so\nmuch so, indeed, that the undenuded stumps which, scorched and blackened\nby fire, had been left to complete their natural decay, were scarcely\nvisible; but as the mists of night cleared away, the opening of the\nforest, about a mile distant from the stockade, was distinctly seen, and\nall eyes were turned toward it, as though to a place of danger.\n\n\u201cHush!\u201d said Le Marie, who the next after the Chippewa headed the party,\nmaking a sign for them at the time to stop. \u201cThere is no enemy there,\u201d\nhe said, \u201cbut one, and him I should very much like to put a bullet into.\nLook! don\u2019t you see that white bear?\u201d\n\nThe whole party looked attentively, and distinctly saw the skin of a\nwhite bear, but its actions were so erratic that none could account for\nthe singular attitudes into which it appeared to throw itself.\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll soon stop his dancing,\u201d said Le Marie, as he raised his ride, \u201cand\nif I don\u2019t finish him, Baptiste, you can follow my shot on the instant.\u201d\n\n\u201cStop!\u201d said Captain Hughes, striking down the leveled rifle; \u201cpretty\neyes for voyageurs and hunters, you have. Don\u2019t you see that it is only\nthe loose skin of a white bear, and that there is some one waving it\ntoward us as a signal?\u201d\n\n\u201cParbleu, so it is!\u201d said Le Marie, doggedly, for he was annoyed,\npriding himself, as he did, on his keenness of sight as a hunter, that\nthe captain should have noticed his mistake.\n\nAs they drew nearer, they could make out, just within the skirt of the\nwood, an Indian, reclining against a tree, and waving toward them, as a\nsignal, the skin of a grizzly bear. Close at his side, and leaning her\nhead upon her hands, was a woman.\n\nThe party approached, still headed by the Chippewa. When they had\narrived within a few yards, the stranger Indian drew up his body, seated\nas he was, to his full height, and looking indignantly at the Chippewa,\nsaid:\n\n\u201cThat is the man who shot me. The eye of Wawandah is good, and he can\ntell his enemy even in the dark.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow is this?\u201d asked Captain Hughes, turning to the horse stealer. \u201cYou,\nthen, fired the shot which you pretended to me was that of an enemy\napproaching the fort.\u201d\n\nThe Chippewa for a moment was confused, but soon he replied, sullenly:\n\n\u201cHe came to steal my horses; he had taken two of them, and was going off\nwhen I fired. He fired again, but his ball went into a stump at my side.\nWas I right?\u201d\n\n\u201cNever come near the fort again,\u201d said Captain Hughes, angrily, for he\nwas interested in the condition of the noble featured youth. \u201cYou are a\nblack-hearted villain. You steal horses in droves; and because another\ndeprives you of one or two, you take his life.\u201d\n\nThe eye of Wawandah brightened as he listened to the words of Captain\nHughes, which were, of course, spoken in Indian. \u201cWah!\u201d he exclaimed, \u201cI\ndid not steal\u2014I only exchanged horses. Those I left were better than\nthose I was going to take. They were fresher than my own\u2014I wanted them.\nBut,\u201d he added, fiercely, \u201cI am not going to die by his hand\u2014he shall\nnot dance over my scalp. Sunflower,\u201d he asked, after a moment\u2019s pause,\n\u201cdo you love me still, now that I am going to die and leave you without\na home?\u201d\n\nDeep sobs came from the bosom of the unhappy and guilty woman. She bent\nher head over him, and said, gently:\n\n\u201cOh, should I be here did I not love you, Wawandah?\u201d\n\n\u201cGood!\u201d he answered, pressing her vehemently to his heart. \u201cIt is sweet\nto me to hear the Sunflower say that she loves the dying Wawandah. The\nwhite chief will take care of you when I am dead.\u201d\n\n\u201cIf Wawandah dies, the Sunflower will die too. She cannot live without\nhim. Her heart is too full to live alone.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, no!\u201d he replied. \u201cThe white chief will go with you to the White\nBear. He will say that I am very sorry for the wrong I have done him,\nand that the last prayer of Wawandah, who has been so ungrateful to him,\nis, that he will take back his wife\u2014the sweetest flower of the Saukie\ntribe.\u201d\n\nThe Sunflower raised her drooping head, and looked Wawandah steadily in\nthe face for some moments. She made no remark, but resumed the same\ndesponding attitude.\n\nSummoning all his remaining strength\u2014for life was fast ebbing away\u2014the\nIndian now stretched himself to the utmost tension of his body, and,\nshouting out the war-cry of his tribe, drew his knife and plunged it\ninto his heart\u2014then fell back and expired.\n\nFor some moments the Sunflower lay as one unconscious on the bleeding\nbody of the ill fated Wawandah; then raising herself up, she revealed\nher face, the extreme paleness of which was visible even beneath the\ndark hue of her skin. She asked the Chippewa to come near her, that she\nmight communicate to him a message for the White Bear, offering her\nsilver arm bands as the price of his service.\n\nThe cupidity of the Chippewa, more than any remorse he felt, or desire\nto assist the Sunflower, induced him to approach and receive the\ntrinkets and the message; but while he was busily engaged in securing\nthat which was on her left arm, the Sunflower suddenly drew the knife\nfrom the body of her husband and plunged it into the heart of the\nChippewa, to whom she owed all the bitterness of her fate. He fell dead\nat the feet of Wawandah, and before Captain Hughes, or any of his party,\nhad time to prevent her, or even to understand her intention, she raised\nherself to her feet with the reeking knife in her hand, and killed\nherself with a single and unfaltering blow.\n\nDeeply shocked and pained by this lamentable catastrophe, Captain Hughes\ncaused his men to cut litters with their axes and carry the bodies to\nthe fort. No one felt regret for the just punishment of the Chippewa;\nbut the fate of the unhappy lovers created a deep sympathy in the hearts\nof all\u2014the more so from the surpassing personal beauty of both. Two\ngraves were dug\u2014one inside and the other on the outside of the\nstockade. In the first was placed a rude coffin, lined with a buffalo\nskin, which Captain Hughes had substituted for that of the grizzly bear,\nwere placed the bodies of Wawandah and the Sunflower. A sort of mound\nwas then raised over it, and at the head was stuck a short pole, the top\nof which, for about twelve inches, was painted red. The Chippewa was\nthrown unceremoniously, and without coffin, into the grave that had been\ndug for him outside.\n\nSome time afterward Captain Hughes, having occasion to visit the\nencampment of the Shawnees, on a subject connected with the differences\nthen existing between them and the North-West Company, took the\nopportunity of communicating to the White Bear all that he knew relating\nto the flight and death of the unfortunate Sunflower and Wawandah;\nadding to the detail the account of the sepulchral rites he had caused\nto be accorded to them.\n\nThe chief, a good deal emaciated and of much sterner look than when last\nintroduced to the reader, at first heard him with grave and\nimperturbable silence. But when he came to that part of his narrative\nwhich described the remorse of Wawandah for the injury he had done him,\na tear, vainly sought to be hidden by a sudden motion of the head, stole\ndown his cheek.\n\n\u201cWill my brother smoke?\u201d he said abruptly, handing him his pipe, while\nhe, with the disengaged hand, pressed that of Captain Hughes with the\nutmost cordiality.\n\n\u201cListen, my brother,\u201d he said, after a pause. \u201cYou have done well to the\nWhite Bear. His wigwam is empty without the Sunflower, who used to shed\nlight upon his hearth. Joy no more can enter it. The White Bear is alone\namong the rest of his tribe, like a blasted pine in the midst of a green\nforest; but it does good to his heart to hear the son of his friend\u2014the\nbroken-hearted one that he took into his lodge to soothe and to\nheal\u2014was sorry that he stole the flower of his heart, and left but a\nthorn in its place. The White Bear is sorry for them both; but they were\nyoung and foolish, and dearly have they been punished. I forgive them,\nbrother,\u201d again extending his hand, \u201cand I love the white chief, who did\nnot leave their bodies to be devoured by the wolves, but buried them as\nthe White Bear would have them buried. I am glad too that you treated\nthe Chippewa as a dog, without any sign to mark where he lays. I feel\nthat many moons will not pass over me; but while they do, I will live\nless unhappy at my loss, and ever love the white chief.\u201d\n\nThus terminated their interview; and Captain Hughes heard, not one month\nlater, of the death of the White Bear.\n\n                 *        *        *        *        *\n\n\n\n\n                         THE WIFE\u2019S LAST GIFT.\n\n\n                       BY MRS. JULIA C. R. DORR.\n\n\n    In the late Hungarian struggle, Count Batthyany was taken\n    prisoner by the Austrians. He was sentenced to be hung, and his\n    wife sent him a dagger, that, by taking his own life, he might\n    escape the ignominy of such a death.\n\n               I send a precious gift to thee,\n                 My own, my honored love\u2014\n               A gift that well I know thou\u2019lt prize,\n                 All gifts of earth above.\n               \u2019Tis meet and right that it should be\n                 The rarest\u2014\u2019tis the last!\n               Alas! how o\u2019er me rushes now\n                 The memory of the past!\n\n               Do you remember, love, the time\n                 When first within mine ear\n               Thy deep voice breathed the earnest words\n                 My soul rejoiced to hear?\n               I gave thee then my heart\u2019s first love,\n                 Its wealth of tenderness;\n               But ah! the gift I send thee now\n                 Hath greater power to bless.\n\n               And when, with clasp\u00e9d hands, we stood\n                 Before the altar-stone,\n               And tremblingly I vowed to be\n                 Forever thine alone;\n               Then by the flushing of thy cheek,\n                 And by thy kindling eye\u2014\n               By the low tones that thrilled my heart,\n                 And by thy bearing high\u2014\n\n               I knew, I knew the little hand\n                 So fondly pressed in thine,\n               Not all the treasures of a world\n                 Would tempt thee to resign.\n               But, love, upon Affection\u2019s shrine\n                 I lay an offering now,\n               Can weave a spell more potent far\n                 Than even wifely vow!\n\n               Now lift it from the sheltering folds\n                 That hide it from thy sight\u2014\n               Nay, dearest, start not to behold\n                 This dagger sharp and bright!\n               Look thou upon it tranquilly\u2014\n                 Without one hurried breath\u2014\n               \u2019Tis the last token of a love\n                 That cannot yield to death.\n\n               Is\u2019t not a precious gift, beloved?\u2014\n                 \u2019Twill break thy heavy chain;\n               And prison-bolts, and dungeon-walls,\n                 Shall bar thy way in vain!\n               The felon\u2019s doom thou need\u2019st not fear,\n                 This talisman is thine:\n               \u201cFreedom\u201d and \u201cHonor\u201d on the blade\u2014\n                 In glowing letters shine!\n\n               Oh! would that I might kneel, mine own,\n                 By thy dear side once more,\n               And hold thy head upon my breast\n                 Till life\u2019s last pang were o\u2019er!\n               I would not shrink nor falter,\n                 When I saw thy life-blood flow;\n               But deathless love should give me strength\n                 Calmly to let thee go!\n\n               It may not be! A shadow lies\n                 Darkly upon our way;\n               I may not hear thy last, low sigh,\n                 Nor o\u2019er thy still form pray.\n               Oh, God of love, and might, and power!\n                 Shall blood be shed in vain?\u2014\n               Upon our mountains and our vales\n                 It hath been poured like rain;\n\n               Our streams are darkened by its flow\u2014\n                 It taints the very air;\n               What marvel if our spirits sink\n                 In anguish and despair?\n               Look Thou upon us! Thou, whose word\n                 Can set the prisoner free!\u2014\n               So shall the tyrant\u2019s sword no more\n                 Hang over Hungary!\n\n                 *        *        *        *        *\n\n\n\n\n                               I DREAMED.\n\n\n                           BY WM. M. BRIGGS.\n\n\n             I had a dream of sunny hours,\n               That glided fast away;\n             I had a dream of starry flowers,\n             Unwet with tears of falling showers,\n               Untouched by dark decay;\n             I foolish dreamt of sunset skies\n         That slept unchanged amid their gorgeous dies.\n\n             I dreamt me of a little boat\n               Went sailing down a stream,\n             With stray bright leaves and flowers afloat,\n             And many a sunbeam\u2019s dusty mote\n               And painted pebble\u2019s gleam\u2014\n             I dreamt the barque\u2019s bright goal was won\n         And still the drifting flowers, the stream flowed on.\n\n             I dreamed still that I sad awoke\n               Upon a desert shore;\n             The cold, gray morning slowly broke,\n             An unseen sighing came\u2014it spoke\u2014\n               \u201cThus is it evermore,\n             Thus is it with thy hopes and fears\u2014\n         Flowers fade, skies darken, and the goal is tears!\u201d\n\n                 *        *        *        *        *\n\n\n\n\n                          MINNIE DE LA CROIX:\n\n\n                        OR THE CROWN OF JEWELS.\n\n\n                         BY ANGELE DE V. HULL.\n\n\nIn a large, old-fashioned house, at the pleasant country place of \u2014\u2014,\ndwelt a happy and united family, consisting of a father and five\ndaughters. Through the wide, long hall merry voices were ever heard, and\nround and round twinkling feet went dancing on the pleasant gallery that\nran on all sides, that there might be nothing to stop these\nlight-hearted creatures in their course. Each had her neat,\nsweet-looking chamber, wherein, at times, she might retire to while away\nleisure hours with some cherished book, or with rapid pen convey to\npaper her pure and fresh thoughts\u2014thoughts that were too sacred to be\nspoken\u2014that wove themselves into dreams of delight, that were never,\nnever to be realized. Happy, happy days! when they could weave these\nbright fancies, and dared to turn away from reality. The past had but\nits pleasures\u2014the present its more rational yet constant enjoyment, and\nthe future was hid by the rose-colored cloud that floated over its\nblessed anticipations.\n\nMr. de la Croix looked upon his daughters as his crown of jewels, and\nthe homestead as the humble and unworthy casket that contained it. They\nwere a host within themselves to drive away dull care, and left him by\nthe most exemplary of wives to perpetuate her fondly cherished memory.\nDearly loved they to dwell upon her virtues, her unfailing benevolence,\nher undying love for them all, and that holy piety that burned like a\nprecious light throughout her life. Sacred to them were the paths her\nfootsteps trod, the flowers she loved, and the trees her hand had\nplanted; and they strove with all their might of youth and inexperience\nto supply her place to the husband she had loved and taught them to\nlove.\n\n\u201cWhere are you all\u2014Blanche, Lisa, Kate, Rose and Minnie,\u201d cried Mr. de\nla Croix, one morning, coming out of his room. \u201cWho is ready to sew on a\nbutton for me?\u201d\n\n\u201cI, papa,\u201d \u201cand I,\u201d answered the five, hurrying on their dressing-gowns\nand opening their doors.\n\n\u201cI am first,\u201d said Rose, coming forward with her thimble and needle. \u201cGo\nback, every one of you!\u201d and she pushed them playfully away.\n\n\u201cAnd what a shame that papa has to call us up for such a thing. Minnie,\nthis is your week\u2014naughty girl! and you must be scolded for\nnegligence,\u201d said Lisa, shaking her dignified head at the culprit.\n\nMinnie ran behind her father, peeped into his face as she poked hers\nunder his arm, and raised her saucy eyes to his. She was the youngest,\nand consequently a privileged imp, depending upon every one else to mend\nand darn when her turn came.\n\n\u201cGo away, you wild girl,\u201d said her father, smiling. \u201cRose is the most\nindustrious of you all, for she is dressed before any of you.\u201d\n\n\u201cRose is housekeeper, and had to be up, papa; don\u2019t inflate her with\npraise she does not deserve. I have been up an hour.\u201d\n\n\u201cAn hour! and what were you doing, Miss?\u201d\n\n\u201c_Je flanais_\u2014there\u2019s French for you, in good earnest; and I heard the\nfirst bird that sang this morning,\u201d answered Minnie, with a gay laugh.\n\u201cI was making reflections of the most profound nature when you disturbed\nme\u2014and thus the world has lost a lesson.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd I have been reading La Bruy\u00e8re before my dressing glass,\u201d said\nBlanche, complacently, as soon as the mirth that followed Minnie\u2019s\nspeech had subsided.\n\n\u201cWell, I have been at work already,\u201d added Lisa, as she drew herself up.\nLisa was the tall one, and had the air of a princess.\n\n\u201cOh, Lisa! _you_ remind one of the old lady who sat in her rocking chair\nand did nothing,\n\n        \u2018From morning till night,\n         But darn, darn, darn;\u2019\u201d\n\nand Kate\u2019s merry black eyes danced about from one to the other. \u201cNow,\n_I_ have been writing verses.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, be an authoress\u2014scribbler, and have a mania for dirt, disorder\nand ink-stands. Pshaw! look at your fingers,\u201d said Lisa, pointing to\nthem.\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll wash them\u2014I\u2019ll wash them!\u201d cried Kate, \u201cwithout mumbling over\nugly spots, like Lady Macbeth. My little nail brush will do more than\nall her perfumes.\u201d\n\nAnd running to her room she went to work to verify her word.\n\nSoon they all met at breakfast, and Lisa presided at the cheerful board,\nlike the mother bird, while the rest chatted around her. She was not the\neldest but the most thoughtful, and to her all came for assistance and\nadvice. Her long fingers could fashion dresses, collars, ruffs, bonnets,\nif necessary, and her ingenuity trampled upon impossibilities with every\nnew pattern that appeared. So, while Blanche busied her fine head with\nmetaphysics, piano, harp and guitar, the three others learned from both\nto be agreeable and useful members of society.\n\nSociety they cared little for. Blanche had been a belle par excellence\nuntil she became tired and disgusted with admiration and lovers, whose\nname was legion. Lisa never liked one or the other. She contemplated\nballs and beaux at a distance, and called them absurdities, though\nnothing pleased her like dressing her sister, and seeing her courted and\nflattered, night after night and day after day.\n\nAs for Kate, she had a touch of the romantic; she liked to sing and\ndance at home, loved to laugh and be merry with those of her own age,\nbut thought that home the fairest and best place in the world. So, after\na winter of dissipation, she foreswore the beaumonde, and vowed its\nvotaries a heartless set.\n\nRose\u2019s large, soft, dark eyes never wandered farther than the fences\nthat bounded her father\u2019s enclosures. With something of eccentricity she\nloved to steal off and enjoy a lonely hour at the close of each day, and\nher piety became a proverb. Nothing could move her out of the reach of\nthe household gods, and at eighteen she was a child at heart and in\nmanner.\n\nMinnie was the imp! Minnie loved the world, and longed for a debut, as\nthe minor \u201cpants for twenty-one.\u201d For her all hands must work\u2014for her\nall hands must stop; and thus they were all at home, a bird\u2019s nest of\ndifferent nestlings, ready to take wing and fly when the parent bird has\nceased to control their movements.\n\n\u201cCome, daughters, sing and play,\u201d said Mr. de la Croix, as he sat in his\narm chair, at the wide hall door. \u201cWhat are you all about, eternally\nsewing and reading? Give the old house some life, will you?\u201d\n\nBlanche rose and seated herself at the piano, running her little white\nhands skillfully over the keys. Kate pulled the harp out of the corner,\nand soon a loud, clear voice swelled melodiously through the air. Then\ncame a chorus of fresh young notes, and the soft strains of the piano,\nwith the harp\u2019s wild, sweeping music, mingled together, while the father\nsat listening to his crown of jewels, full of rapture and pride.\n\n\u201cGive us that trio in Guillaume Tell, sister,\u201d said Rose, when they had\nfinished, and little Minnie glided into Blanche\u2019s seat, while the three\ngrouped around her to comply. Then the chairs were drawn together, and\nthe five tongues rattled like magpies to the half bewildered Mr. de la\nCroix, until he called for his candle and went to his apartment,\nfollowed by Kate, singing,\n\n        He called for his fife, he called for his wife,\n        And he called for his fiddlers three\u2014e-e.\n\n\u201cMinnie!\u201d said Lisa, holding up a dress with a wide rent in it, \u201cis it\n\u2018the weakness of my eyes that shapes this monstrous apparition,\u2019 or is\nit a reality?\u201d\n\n\u201cThere, now!\u201d cried the girl, snatching the dress from her, \u201cyou are on\none of your poking expeditions. I didn\u2019t intend you should see this,\nsister Lisa, for Rose promised to mend it for me.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd has Rose nothing to do for herself, that she is to waste time on\nyour carelessness?\u201d returned Lisa, gravely. \u201cIt is not two weeks since\nwe made this for you, and now it is ruined.\u201d\n\n\u201cGive it to me,\u201d said Rose, quietly; \u201cI did promise to mend it, and\nwould have done so before, but had the house to attend to; and the\nkeeping it and providing for it is any thing but a sinecure. Get me a\npiece out of the scrap basket, Minnie.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat is the way you all combine to spoil Minnie,\u201d said Blanche, raising\nher head from her book. \u201cShe will never be fit for any thing.\u201d\n\n\u201cAy!\u201d said the other, with an arch look and pointing to the volume, now\nclosed, \u201cand who makes pretty things for Miss Blanche, while she sits in\nher room poring over dull maxims and writing them off?\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd how am I to teach you if I do not learn something myself?\u201d asked\nBlanche, with a serious expression on her fair souvenir-like face.\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t teach me any of your old cynic Rochefoucauld\u2019s scandal. I hate\nhim, for he never says a good thing of the human heart, and places my\nown motives so often before my eyes that I take him for a reflector of\nmy inward-self, and blush.\u201d And Minnie covered her face in mock\nconfusion.\n\n\u201cSo much the better, then,\u201d said Rose; \u201cfor St. Paul tells us to know\nourselves, and I vote that we treat you to a double dose of \u2018les\nmaximes\u2019 every day.\u201d\n\n\u201cIs Daniel come?\u201d said Minnie, bending low and performing a salaam\nbefore her sister, who was seized with a fit of laughter that prevented\nher replying.\n\n\u201cI hope that you will keep your absurd ideas to yourself, Minnie,\u201d\nobserved Lisa, who now began to rip away at the torn skirt. \u201cYou are\ntalking treason when you begin to abuse La Rochefoucauld.\u201d\n\n\u201cTreason or no treason, then,\u201d cried she springing out of her seat, \u201cthe\nwhole world may come and listen to me, if my head were the penalty. So,\nI am off to the library. No, I wont go there, either, lest the old\ngentleman\u2019s ghost jump at me; but I\u2019ll go and practice the \u2018Bamboula,\u2019\nand sister Blanche may dance a Congo polka to it.\u201d\n\n\u201cSister Blanche leaves polkas to giddy girls, but is, nevertheless,\ndelighted to hear them speak of practicing. You were as lazy as a sloth\nover that \u2018Sueia\u2019 of Strakosch\u2019s, and do not know it yet.\u201d\n\n\u201cPshaw! _\u00e7a viendra_, as papa says when you all talk gravely over Rose\nand me. I am a perfect pattern of industry with regard to my music, am I\nnot, Lisa?\u201d\n\n\u201cYou certainly do pummel away unmercifully at the poor piano,\u201d said\nLisa; \u201cbut half the practicing consists of imitations of Mrs. this, or\nMiss that, in style, position or banging.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd don\u2019t people go about and give imitations of different lions? I\u2019m\nsure I only endeavor to carve out a distinguished name for myself.\u201d\n\n\u201cDid this in C\u00e6sar seem ambitious?\u201d quoted Lisa, turning with a smile\nfrom the willful thing that would never hear reason.\n\n\u201cPray, what fame is to arise from your imitation of Mr. Gamut\u2019s elbows?\nOr from Lucy Grey\u2019s symphonies?\u201d asked Kate.\n\n\u201cKate! Kate! did you not laugh yesterday when I played for you until the\ntears rolled down your face? And didn\u2019t you vow that Mr. Gamut himself\nsat at the piano?\u201d said Minnie.\n\n\u201cIndeed I did. More shame for me!\u201d exclaimed Kate, laughing anew. \u201cBut\nyour imitations, as you call them, are more than human risibilities\ncould resist. I call Rose to witness in this case!\u201d\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t call me to witness any more of Minnie\u2019s pranks,\u201d said Rose. \u201cI\ncannot encourage them.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll force you, then,\u201d cried Minnie, seizing Kate around the waist.\n\u201cNow look at Mr. and Mrs. Dobbs waltz together.\u201d And round she spun,\npulling Kate after her, until Lisa and Blanche were adding their peals\nof laughter to Rose\u2019s hearty amusement. Away they went until Minnie\nwhirled her sister out of the room, and soon after sat down to the\nBamboula in sober earnest.\n\nThus ended all attempts at controlling Minnie, and her task seemed that\nof creating merriment wherever she went and turning all reproof into a\nmockery. Indeed, she laughed too constantly, and there were times when\nLisa shook her head gravely at this perpetual merriment. A woman\u2019s\nduties begin so sternly and so positively from the hour she marries\u2014the\nbridal wreath so quickly withers into one of cares and fears, that the\nsight of a creature like Minnie, full of thoughtlessness and glee,\nsaddened the heart that knew something of them all; and poor Lisa, with\nher responsibilities, vainly warned her young sister to laugh less and\nreflect more.\n\n\u201cI wish that you were married, Blanche,\u201d said she one day, as they sat\ntogether. \u201cWe see so few strangers at home, and seem so much like\nequals, that Minnie will fly into the face of every thing and every body\nwithout ever being curbed into tranquillity.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd what good would my marrying do, in the name of wonder?\u201d said\nBlanche with a stare.\n\n\u201cA vast deal, particularly if you were to bestow yourself upon a man\nlike Mr. Stuart, for instance.\u201d\n\nLisa went on with her work, and the deep blush that suffused her\nsister\u2019s fair face was unperceived.\n\n\u201cLisa!\u201d said Blanche, after a pause, and her voice faltered; \u201cLisa!\nwould you wish me marry?\u201d\n\n\u201cNot unless you are confident of being happy, dear Blanche,\u201d was her\nreply, and she looked up.\n\nOnce more the bright color mounted over the cheeks of her companion, and\nthe tears stood in her eyes. She held out her hand, and Lisa pressed it\naffectionately as she remarked her unusual emotion.\n\n\u201cMy dear sister! what is it that affects you thus?\u201d\n\n\u201cBecause, Lisa\u2014I _have_ had thoughts of marrying, not for Minnie\u2019s\nsake\u2014but\u2014for my own.\u201d She covered her face and burst into tears. Lisa\nrose and clasped her in her arms, soothing her with pet names and kind\nwords.\n\n\u201cDear Blanche\u2014sweet dove! tell me all about it? Is it really so? and\nhave you promised\u2014\u201d\n\n\u201cI have promised nothing, Lisa,\u201d replied Blanche, raising her head and\nleading her to a _causeuse_. \u201cSit down; and now that I can speak, listen\nand advise me.\u201d Lisa obeyed, and turned her earnest sympathizing eyes\nupon her sister with a look that invited confidence, such as Blanche was\nabout to give,\u2014a pure and unrestrained avowal of her feelings.\n\n\u201cYou know, Lisa, that I met Mr. Stuart frequently at my aunt\u2019s last\nwinter. He is a great favorite with her, and the only one among her\nyoung men acquaintances whose actual intimacy she solicits. Whenever he\ncame we were left together, naturally enough, while my aunt and uncle\nbusied themselves, one with her housekeeping and the other with his\npapers. There was always a congeniality of tastes between us that led to\nan absence of any thing like ceremony, and something like confidence\narose in our intercourse. There were books discussed that both had read,\nand many that I had never seen, which I was to like because he did.\nWherever we went in the evenings he went. He was always there to draw my\narm through his, and offer me the conventional attentions that became so\ndelightful at length. We never spoke of love, Lisa; we never talked\nsentiment _at_ one another, but it was impossible to deny that\u2014that\u2014\u201d\n\n\u201cYou loved one another,\u201d said Lisa, seriously. She put on no arch looks,\naffected no jests\u2014this was a grave subject to her.\n\n\u201cBut we never said so, Lisa,\u201d said Blanche, quickly. \u201cWe never said so;\nit was enough for us to be together. One morning I received a note from\nHelen Clarke, begging me go to her as she was very ill. My aunt\u2019s\ncarriage took me to Evergreen, and I remained a week absent. On my\nreturn I found that _he_ had been summoned to his mother\u2019s dying bed,\nand had hurried off an hour after the letter came, taking time only to\nsee my aunt and bid her adieu. \u2018He asked earnestly after you, Blanche,\u2019\nsaid she, smiling; \u2018and your absence grieved him deeply, my love. But he\nleft a message expressive of it all, and ended it with, Tell her, my\ndear Mrs. Bliss, that I will return as soon as I can, and she must not\nforget me.\u2019 I could not forget him, Lisa; but I despise a love-sick girl\nas I do the plague; so I came home, determined to be happy again among\nyou all. I would have been ungrateful, indeed, to mope at home where we\nall love one another\u2014to pine for a stranger, while I had still all that\nmade life so dear. Of course, he never wrote to me\u2014my aunt heard\noccasionally from him, and the letter announcing his return, affected me\ndeeply. Would he still be the same, or was there a change?\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd there was none,\u201d said Lisa, in a low voice. \u201cI know that now,\nBlanche, though I did not dream of this before. Blind creature that I\nwas, not to have felt that we must part after all!\u201d\n\n\u201cI have read in his looks that there is no change, Lisa,\u201d said her\nsister, growing pale. \u201cI know that he will tell me so this very day, for\nhe begged me to remain at home this evening to see him. But, Lisa, if\nyou do not like him\u2014if it grieves you too much to have me give up my\nhome for his, say so at once, and I will never leave you.\u201d Her lips\nquivered and her hand shook, but the voice was steady, and she looked at\nLisa with her calm, clear eyes until she felt those fond arms once more\nthrown around her.\n\n\u201cDear, generous Blanche!\u201d murmured the sister; \u201cdid you think I could be\nso selfish? Love on, dear girl, and be happy; God knows you deserve it!\u201d\n\nAnd soon after there was a wedding and a departure. Forth from the\nbird\u2019s-nest went the first fledgling, and the rest sorrowed at home\nuntil Time with its kind hand closed the wound at their hearts. There\nwere gleams of sunshine in the sweet, fond letters that came with their\ntales of happiness and renewed assurances that Blanche loved her old\nhomestead better than ever; with playful threats of jealousy from\nKenneth himself, as he added his postscript now to one, and now to the\nother.\n\nThey were a long time gone, but all was repaid when Blanche returned and\nplaced her first born in his grandsire\u2019s arms. Poor baby! he was\nwell-nigh crushed to death as the four aunts flew at him, but he grew\nused to the danger in time, and thus spared his mother a world of\nnursing and petting.\n\nIt was impossible not to love Kenneth Stuart\u2014impossible not to admire\nhim. He had all that high integrity, that unflinching honesty that a\nwoman loves to lean on. Nothing could be more gentle in manner or more\nfirm in purpose. He could be grave or gay whenever he was called upon;\nand his affection for his wife made him court that of her family that he\nmight further minister to her happiness, so they all learned to love as\nwell as reverence him, calling on him for advice or sympathy as on one\nanother. He had none of that childish jealousy of their mutual\nfondness\u2014none of that selfish longing to have her forget old ties for\nhim. It pleased him to see that same unrestrained intercourse pervade\ntheir family meetings, to know that he had not stepped in to shadow the\nlight of \u201cdays gone by;\u201d and thus they dared once more to boast of their\nsunny hours and eternal spring. Mr. de la Croix sat in the old\narm-chair, and listened to the pleasant voices of his children as of\nyore. Lisa went about her household duties with a firmer tread, Rose\nwent from one to the other with her gentle cares, Kate flitted here and\nthere, her merry eyes wandering around to read the wants of each and\nall, while Minnie skipped about and played tricks as usual, as\nincorrigible as ever, in spite of Blanche\u2019s matronly admonitions.\n\n\u201cBrother Ken, may I have the dark-haired, dark-eyed cousin that Blanche\ntalks so much about?\u201d said she, seating herself at his feet. \u201cI am\nthinking very seriously of the married state. I look at you and sister\nand conjugate the verb, _j\u2019aime_, _tu aimes_, _nous aimons_, _etc._ I\nwalk about with little Ernest, and practice baby songs, besides helping\nLisa to fuss about house, and darned a most unnatural and unfatherly\nhole in papa\u2019s socks this morning. I am perfectly recommendable, I\nassure you,\u201d and she turned up her saucy face and looked at him with an\nattempt at gravity that was, as Kate said, \u201ctoo absurd.\u201d\n\n\u201cYoung ladies of fourteen must not think of marriage,\u201d replied Kenneth,\nwith one of his peculiar smiles. \u201cI have destined Paul to Kate, as Lisa\nand Rose eschew yokes, etc.\u201d\n\n\u201cTo Kate!\u201d exclaimed Minnie, with a pout. \u201cAnd am I to be sacrificed\nbecause I am fourteen? Unhappy me!\u201d\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t rave, Minnie,\u201d cried Kate, with a gay laugh. \u201cI\u2019ll resign in your\nfavor if you say so. My time has not come yet, nor my hero.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut he _may_ come with this Louis le Desire, Kate, and in spite of your\nArcadian dreams of shepherds and piping swains, you may succumb,\u201d said\nMinnie, shaking her little hand at her sister.\n\n\u201cHave I lived to be told this?\u201d cried Kate. \u201cOf all people in the world,\ndo _I_ love piping swains?\u201d\n\n\u201cTo be sure you do, or you wouldn\u2019t admire all those little china\nmonsters under green trees and reclining on rocks that Miss Bobson\ncrowds upon her tables. I\u2019ve seen you gaze at them with an eye of love\nand inspiration, ten minutes at a time.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, to keep serious while you sympathized with her about the tarnished\nofficer that hangs over the mantle-piece.\u201d\n\n\u201cUnnatural girl!\u201d cried Minnie. \u201cIs it possible that you laugh at the\nsorrows of others? While I listen with ready tears to the account of his\nloss at sea, you are making light of this sacred wo. You shall never\ndeceive Miss Bobson again, Kate, for I shall warn her against the deceit\nof young ladies who have a passion for her porcelain, and draw her in a\nretired place the very next time she unbosoms the locket containing\ncurls of ancient hair.\u201d\n\n\u201cMinnie! Minnie!\u201d cried Blanche, reproachfully, \u201cis nothing sacred to\nyou?\u201d\n\n\u201cNothing about Miss Bobson, of course,\u201d was the reply of the heedless\ngirl. \u201cDo you wish to impose on me to pity her mawkishness?\u201d\n\n\u201cTo pity her age, Minnie, and her loneliness, if nothing else,\u201d said\nKenneth, gravely. \u201cAnd also to _respect_ her years.\u201d\n\n\u201cMercy on me! what have I done? Laughed at a ridiculous old maid, and\ndrawn Kate into the snare. This is a mountain and a mole-hill, indeed.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, leave her out then, Minnie,\u201d said Blanche, \u201cand let us reprove\nyou a little for laughing at everybody and every thing. I heard you this\nmorning crying like Mrs. Simms, and you are too old now\u2014\u201d\n\n\u201cToo old!\u201d cried Minnie, passionately. \u201cWould to God that I might remain\na child then, if I am to cease laughing as I grow older.\u201d\n\n\u201cLaugh as long as you can, dear girl, but not so much at others. I want\nyou to think more, Minnie; the world is not a paradise, and you must\ngrow more reasonable to bear a further knowledge of it.\u201d\n\n\u201cPshaw! you have all thought for me until now, continue to do so until I\nget Paul, the expected, to do it forever. Come, Rose, for a race down\nthe avenue in this lovely moonlight. I want some animation after these\nsevere lectures.\u201d And off they ran together, while the rest shook their\nheads in concert.\n\n\u201cShe is too volatile,\u201d said Kenneth, gently, \u201cbut she will be tamed down\nin time. You must not scold her for venialities like Miss Bobson again.\nNow please, dear Lisa, spoil me a little and get my candle, for I must\nwrite a letter to this very Cousin Paul of mine, before I sleep.\u201d\n\nAnd Paul Linden came. He was, as Blanche said, a handsome fellow, with\ndark eyes, and hair like the raven\u2019s wing, a beautiful mouth and teeth,\nand the finest whiskers in the world. He was a frank, open,\ngenerous-hearted creature, full of kindly impulses, but impetuous and\nexcitable, and much beloved by Mr. and Mrs. Stuart. This visit was one\nthey had long wished for, as more than probably it was preparatory to\nhis permanent settlement near them.\n\nIt was impossible not to feel flattered at the welcome extended him on\nhis arrival at Mr. de la Croix\u2019s, and before night, he was as much at\nhome as though he had known them for years.\n\n\u201cI am bewildered with this paradise of houris, Kenneth,\u201d said he, as\nthey paced the long piazza. \u201cSince my poor mother\u2019s death, which took\nplace, as you know, before I left college, I have never felt so\ncompletely domesticated among women, and the charm their society affords\nme is perfectly indescribable. How happy you are to have so pleasant a\nhome.\u201d\n\n\u201cHappy, indeed, Paul! They are a lovely group, and I consider myself\npeculiarly fortunate in being able to keep my Blanche here and preserve\nit entire. It would be a shame to break it up.\u201d\n\n\u201cBlanche is a jewel in herself,\u201d said Paul, affectionately. \u201cI had no\nidea that there could be four more like her. What a lovely girl her\nsister Kate is! I think she is _my_ favorite, Kenneth, if I may have\none.\u201d\n\nAnd Kenneth thought the preference reciprocal, but kept his counsel\nuntil a better time, for Minnie\u2019s voice was heard in the hall singing to\nthe baby, and he smiled as he remembered how she pretended to practice\nnursery songs.\n\n\u201cVery well done, Minnie,\u201d said he, as they paused at the door, and\nwatched her graceful frolicks with Ernest. \u201cYou are really growing quite\nrecommendable.\u201d\n\n\u201cNow, brother Kenneth, if you do tell that!\u201d cried she, blushing, \u201cI\nnever will speak to you again!\u201d\n\n\u201cI shall not tell, then,\u201d was the reply; \u201cbut in return for my\ndiscretion, you must go and ask Kate if she sewed the tassel on my\nsmoking-cap as she promised.\u201d\n\n\u201cTo be sure I did,\u201d said a pleasant voice, and Kate, tripping out of the\nparlor with the cap in hand, looked prettier than ever.\n\n\u201cAh, thank you, dear Kate! now do keep Paul in a good humor while I go\noff to smoke my cigar. It would be ill-mannered to leave him alone.\u201d\n\nKate smiled, and the walk on the piazza was changed for one down the\navenue. It must have been a pleasant one, for the bell rang for tea, and\nthey were still there watching the pale moon rise, and wondering within\nthemselves how often they would enjoy the same exercise with the same\npleasure.\n\nThey did not wonder long. Every evening there was a challenge from Paul\nLinden to some one, for a walk, and somehow or other they were all tired\nbut Kate, and all too busy but Kate. It was not very long, then, before\nthe silent leaves were witnesses to a plighting of faith between those\ntwo, and heard (if leaves _can_ hear,) what Paul Linden thought, the\nsoftest music on earth\u2014the low tones that told him the loss of sweet\nKate de la Croix\u2019s heart of hearts.\n\nThe leaves saw a strange ring glitter on her fair hand, and they were\ndiscreet\u2014but not so the sisters. Minnie spied the little symbol of\ntheir united faith, and poor Kate told her secret amid tears and sobs.\nEven _she_ was unhappy that night, as she remembered the burst of grief\nthat followed its disclosure, and another bird went from the nest almost\nas soon as the wedding was over.\n\nMr. de la Croix smoked an unusual number of cigars the evening his\ndaughter left, and the sisters tried to be cheerful; but there was not\none that went to bed that night without going into Kate\u2019s empty room to\nweep afresh. Lisa had to threaten to turn it into a rag-chamber before\nthey could accustom themselves to pass it without entering and mourning\nits occupant as one never to return.\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t be forever crying over Kate,\u201d she would say; \u201cshe is coming back,\nand you had better wait till then and be happy.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut we miss her so, Lisa,\u201d said Rose, as her large eyes filled.\n\n\u201cSo do I, but you do not see me going about crying over an old glove or\na scrap of writing as you do. And you cannot say that I love her less\nthan the rest of her sisters.\u201d\n\n\u201cMoreover, my dear girls,\u201d said Kenneth, taking his seat among them, and\nlifting little Ernest on his knee, \u201cyour spirits affect your father\u2019s.\nHe feels the loss of his child, and you must all try to speak of her\nreturn and not of her departure. I know how much you feel Kate\u2019s\nabsence, but you must begin to look upon your separation as a thing that\nis to come one day. It is in the course of nature. There are three more\nto leave their home; how can you expect that all can be as fortunate as\nBlanche and Kate, who remain with you, as of yore. Paul\u2019s business will\nprobably detain him a year, but he will return to settle here with us,\nand we must look at the bright side of things as long as we can. I have\nbeen saying all this to Blanche who ought to be as reasonable as Lisa;\nand now I am come to beg you for your own sakes to bear inevitable\ntrials with the fortitude that is so precious when you once attain it.\nMinnie wants scolding, I am afraid,\u201d continued he, as he stroked her\nhead fondly. \u201cWhy do you not play on the piano and sing as usual? The\nsound of music will enliven us all, and the mechanical exercise of those\nlittle fingers will occupy your mind after a while, particularly if you\nset to work with those _\u00e9tudes_ of Moschelles, of whose difficulty I\nhave heard so much.\u201d And he smiled so encouragingly that Minnie flew off\nto mind him, and soon after Mr. de la Croix come out of his room, saying\nhe was glad to hear the piano going again. Minnie was rewarded fully\nwhen she saw him take his old seat and doze while she played; and she\ntold Kenneth in confidence, that she was much obliged to him for the\nscolding, but he must not tell Lisa, because she might take advantage of\nit. And there came that night a long letter from Kate, that helped to\ncomfort them all. Poor Kate! her return was destined to be a sad one,\nfor on the route, her beautiful little girl, her darling Blanche, was\ntaken sick, and drooped so rapidly, that when she reached home, there\nwas no longer any hope.\n\nSilently they folded her in their arms, and noiselessly they bent their\nsteps to her own old room, and placed the little sufferer upon its bed.\nIts soft eyes turned lovingly to its stricken mother, who sat beside it\nin mute agony, as once more they all stood together and mourned over\nher. Poor, wretched mother! so young to be so sorrowed! How full of\nanguish was the appealing look she cast upon her father, as he gazed\nwith all a parent\u2019s suffering upon his bright, merry-hearted Kate.\n\nAll that human skill could do was done\u2014all that tender watchfulness\ncould effect; but the angels had gathered round, and were beckoning that\nlittle spirit away. Paler grew the pale cheek\u2014dim the sweet, loving\neyes; and the young mother bent over her beautiful child, in misery such\nas they know only who have laid these treasures in the grave.\n\n\u201cOh God of heaven!\u201d was her mournful cry, \u201cthou hast taken the sunshine\nof my life! Darker and darker grows the world to me, as those loved eyes\ngrow dim. Thou hast crushed me to the earth, oh God! raise me with faith\nin thy unerring wisdom, that I may not doubt thy justice! Oh, my\ntreasured one! Oh, my more than life\u2014what is life to me?\u201d\n\nHer husband turned and placed his hand in hers. She bowed her head upon\nit, as though to seek forgiveness, and once more raised it to look upon\nher darling. To the last those eyes had turned to her with a long,\nlingering look, but now Lisa was closing them in their eternal sleep,\nand the angels were bearing that pure, sinless one in triumph to their\nhome.\n\nWith a loud, piercing cry, the childless mother fell back, and the\nsisters no longer restraining their grief, filled the house with their\ncries. Kenneth bore her out of the room, and returned for Paul, who\nstood gazing at his dead infant as one stupefied.\n\n\u201cGo to your wife, Paul,\u201d said he; \u201cgo to poor Kate; your love alone can\nsoften this heavy blow;\u201d and he remained to bend and kiss the now\nstiffening form of the lovely little creature. \u201cI will send Blanche to\nyou, Lisa; you must not perform the last sad task alone. Alas! poor\nKate! how my heart bleeds for you!\u201d\n\nHe then sought Mr. de la Croix, who was wildly walking about the garden,\nmuttering to himself in his grief for the grandchild he had never known,\nand the mother\u2014his darling Kate. Kenneth remained to soothe him, and\nafter persuading him to take some rest, returned to the house.\n\nThe little corpse was already in its grave-clothes, looking like\nsculptured marble as it lay extended on the couch. The long, shining\nhair was parted on the pure brow, and fell around its head like a shower\nof gold. Pale tea-roses were on its breast, and in those white, clasped\nhands, emblems of its purity and fragility. Lisa and Blanche were\nweeping silently over their lost pet, and Minnie\u2019s screams, mingled with\nthe more subdued cries of Rose, came mournfully through the air. This\nwas the first sorrow of their womanhood, and the old homestead seemed\ndesolate indeed, now that the iron had entered one young, fresh heart\nwith its bleeding wound, its horrid void.\n\nKate came again to look upon her child. With Paul\u2019s arm around her, she\nstood once more beside its still cold form. Raising her hands, she\nuttered a low moan that pierced the hearts of those around her.\n\n\u201cOh, blessed babe!\u2014my darling, my loved one! I see you for the last\ntime! You that I have borne, that I have watched and cherished with more\nthan a mother\u2019s care; you that have given me so much happiness, so much\npride; here is all that is left to me, and _that_ must go into the cold\nearth to be seen no more! Those little arms that were folded around my\nneck; those little hands that clasped mine so lovingly, are mine no\nmore! Those lips that never refused to kiss me, will meet mine no more!\nOh God, no more! Why, ah why was I thus smitten to the dust? Why was she\nso surely mine\u2014so tended and so watched? Why is she torn from the\nmother that idolized her?\u201d\n\n\u201cThat she might be spared your trials, my dear child,\u201d said a voice; and\nthey all made room, as a venerable-looking old man came and stood beside\nher. \u201cThat she might wear that crown of glory which even your care could\nnot give her, and which she now treasures as you treasured _her_.\u201d\n\nKate bowed her head and wept. In her grief she could not remember this,\nand she listened in silence as holy words were spoken to her, and\npromises held out that she might grow strong in faith. Her piety came to\nher as a blessing, and she leaned, poor, broken reed, upon the cross her\nSaviour bore, until her spirit, fainting from its weight of wo, could\nbear to look upward and say, \u201cHis will be done.\u201d\n\nThe loved and the cherished was laid in her last resting-place, and her\nmother left to mourn and miss the care of her life. Affection and\nsympathy were given her, and no one seemed ever impatient with her\nconstant grief. But she made an effort to be cheerful once more, and\nmingling in the usual pursuits of the family, found it easier than she\nhad expected. Her husband\u2019s unvarying gentleness, his watchful kindness\nwere sources of much comfort to her bruised spirit, and she strove,\npoor, grieved one! to struggle _with_ her grief. Time passed, though the\nwound was fresh and often bled, Kate had learned, for the sake of\nothers, to appear happy and composed because she prayed for strength.\nBut who could tell the fierce strife that was working in her heart? Who\ncould dream of the hours passed in silent suffering, when sleep refused\nto visit her alone of that quiet crowd? When through the darkness she\ngazed, her spirit beckoning back the child, whose every look was\ntreasured, whose very cry came upon her troubled soul; when she tortured\nherself into the conviction that it might have been saved; that she\nherself, poor, devoted creature, had not been the watchful nurse beside\nits sick bed. Oh! if these bitter thoughts _are_ sent us as\ntemptations\u2014as trials of our faith in the mercy and justice of the\nAlmighty, how often we are tried, how often in danger of falling!\n\nAnd Kate struggled with a mighty strength against these terrible\nremembrances, going on as usual with her daily occupations, missing at\neach moment the beloved object of her care, but walking boldly on, not\ndaring to look behind, lest her courage should fail her.\n\nAnd thus she toiled and received her reward, as days went by, and she\nwas able to look to Heaven alone as the haven for all who were wrecked\nupon the world\u2019s wild coast. All seemed grateful to her for her\nresignation\u2014all were kind and considerate; and she remembered that\nthere was between herself and that \u201cbetter land\u201d a powerful link that\nnothing could destroy.\n\n\u201cI do not think that Rose is looking well, father,\u201d said she one day, as\nshe went into his room with her work, and seated herself at his side. \u201cI\nwish you would observe her.\u201d\n\nMr. de la Croix laid down his book with a look of alarm. Was another one\nof his crown of jewels to lose its brightness?\n\n\u201cI do not say that she is positively ill,\u201d said Kate, \u201cbut there is a\nlanguor about her\u2014an indifference to her usual enjoyments that I do not\nlike. She requires change.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut what can be the matter with her, my dear child?\u201d said her father,\nlooking bewildered. \u201cThere must be a cause.\u201d\n\n\u201cA cause that she is not probably aware of herself, but we cannot hope\nthat Rose\u2019s health will continue forever in the same perfect state, and\nas her disposition is different from the rest of us, her life has been a\nmore sedentary one through that very difference. You know she rarely if\never goes out.\u201d\n\n\u201cTrue, very true, my dear, I am glad you reminded me of this. Rose must\nhave a change, and, strange to tell, this very day I received a letter\nfrom your Aunt Bliss, begging that I would let her have one of the girls\nthis summer to accompany her.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut she goes to Europe, father!\u201d exclaimed Kate.\n\n\u201cAnd that is the very thing for Rose, hard as it is to send her so far;\nbut it will improve her in every thing. Send her here, my love, and tell\nLisa to come with her.\u201d\n\nWhat surprised them all was Rose\u2019s willingness to go; and they all\nagreed that she felt the necessity of being roused from her unusual\nstate, to be thrown more on her own resources. Kate\u2019s clear judgment had\nfound out the evil, and proposed the remedy; and Rose\u2019s eyes filled as\nshe thought of her sister\u2019s watchfulness in the midst of her grief.\n\nThe preparations for her departure were of great assistance to Kate, who\nbusied herself diligently, and gave herself no time for thought. She\naccompanied her father and Rose to meet her Aunt Bliss, and as the\nsteamer was detained a few days, remained to see her off.\n\nIt was a sad parting, for Rose had never been from home before; but she,\ntimid bird, must try her wings like the rest, and though her flight was\nlong, it would be a happy one; and when Kate and her father reached\nhome, part of the sisters\u2019 grief for Rose was lost in the delight of\nseeing her look so well\u2014so much more like her former self.\n\nThe old homestead resumed its quiet tone, and its occupants their usual\nhabits, more reconciled to their changes, more fit to play their part in\nthe battle of life. No longer looking upon their hoard of bliss as\nsecure, no longer expecting\n\n                  Amidst the scene to find,\n        Some spot to real happiness consigned,\n\nthey endeavor to prepare themselves to breast the storm, should sorrow\ncome again upon the little band.\n\nAll but Minnie, her grief was violent and willful, refusing all comfort,\nrejecting the means of softening it while it lasted; but there was no\nchange in her light volatile disposition; and Kate, poor Kate! wise from\nsad experience, lectured in vain.\n\n\u201cWhere is Blanche?\u201d said Lisa, coming in from the garden with her bonnet\non. \u201cDo you know Minnie?\u201d\n\n\u201cDo I know? Yes; she\u2019s hid in the moon, if you can\u2019t find her; for that\nis where Ariosto says every thing is hid that is lost.\u201d\n\n\u201cPshaw, Minnie! do not be foolish. Where is Blanche?\u201d\n\n\u201cTell me what you want with her, and I will take a broomstick and ride\nafter her then?\u201d said the wild girl. \u201cI must be paid for so much trouble\nbefore I undertake it.\u201d\n\n\u201cI would you could promise to stay in the clouds a while and freeze your\nspirits into reason. But my wants are no secret or I\u2019d never tell you,\nmadcap Minnie. Go and find Blanche, and ask her for the key of the\nsilver closet.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd that is all! I\u2019m sorry I promised now, as the contempt I feel for\nthe errand makes it disgraceful. But here I go, being honor itself about\nkeeping promises.\u201d\n\n\u201cExcepting those you make to become better and wiser,\u201d rejoined Lisa, as\nshe ran off. In an instant she was back.\n\n\u201cLord bless us! She is in the library listening to Kenneth read Cosmos.\nI wish he\u2019d put _me_ to sleep sometimes, as I am sure he often does his\nwife.\u201d\n\n\u201cI wish he would!\u201d said Lisa, \u201cand he would oblige others besides\nmyself. Go and ask Kate to come down in the store-room and help me.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd what do you want with Kate in the store-room, Miss Lisa?\u201d said\nMinnie, as she tied the key she held to the string of her bonnet. \u201cThere\nmust be something going on that I cannot guess.\u201d\n\n\u201cI want her to make an Italian cream for dinner, while I busy myself\nwith something else that does not concern you.\u201d\n\n\u201cOn the principle of \u2018_Faut \u00eatre deux pour avoir du plaisir_,\u2019 I\npresume,\u201d said Minnie. \u201cHow affecting! But something is in the wind,\nLisa, or you would not fuss over creams, etc. Is any one expected to\ndinner?\u201d\n\n\u201cI give you permission to expect as many persons as you like,\u201d replied\nshe, with provoking gravity. \u201cTell me their names, and I will prepare\nthe banquet.\u201d\n\n\u201cI never saw such a mysterious old oracle as you are! Getting out more\nplate, more napkins, and steeping gelatin with so much solemnity, as\nthough we never did have company in our lives before, then preserving\nsuch a dark cloud of silence on the subject! Kate! who is coming here\nto-day\u2014tell me, and don\u2019t be foolish about it?\u201d cried Minnie. \u201cSister\nis enveloped in mystery and wont let me know.\u201d\n\n\u201cKate does not know herself,\u201d said Lisa, smiling; \u201cbut may be she can\nguess.\u201d\n\n\u201cThis is Rose\u2019s birth-day,\u201d said Kate, after a pause, \u201cand\u2014\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd I forgot it!\u201d exclaimed Minnie, as she burst into a flood of tears.\n\u201cThe first one she ever passed away from home!\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd the last, I trust,\u201d said Kate, tenderly. \u201cPoor, dear Rose! I wonder\nwhere she is now!\u201d\n\n\u201cEnjoying herself very much, I suppose,\u201d said Lisa, crushing a lump of\nsugar into her bowl of eggs, \u201cand wishing we were all with her. She\nwould be surprised at the idea of your crying about her, I dare say.\u201d\n\nMinnie made a step forward, and threw down a cup that was too delicate\nfor such rough usage.\n\n\u201cThere!\u201d said her sister, \u201cyou have your day\u2019s work before you. I never\nsaw such a careless girl.\u201d\n\n\u201cNever mind,\u201d said Minnie, collecting the fragments, and smiling through\nher tears, \u201cthis will do to place among\n\n              The broken teacups,\n        Wisely kept for show,\n\nthat _you_ keep on the shelf there. I\u2019ll cement it for you.\u201d\n\n\u201cThank you! I wish you could mend some of your bad habits as easily as\nyou promise to patch broken china. It would keep you busy for life.\u201d\n\n\u201cAlas, poor Minnie!\u201d said the girl, \u201chow unjust the world is! What can I\ndo?\u201d\n\n\u201cGo and see that Sampson puts the dining-room in extra trim, and fill\nthe finger-bowls,\u201d said Lisa.\n\n\u201cDear sister! I am not Dalilah, and cannot manage the strong hero of\nantiquity,\u201d said Minnie, with affected humility. \u201cBut I will crown the\nbowls with orange leaves, and perform any other lowly task with much\npleasure.\u201d And she left the room singing a light song, that ever and\nanon fell sweetly on the ears of that united household as they paused to\ncatch the tones of the young, rich voice.\n\n\u201cMr. Selby and his nephew dine with us,\u201d said Lisa, as she and Kate\ncompounded their dessert together, \u201cand as the latter is about to sail\nfor Europe, papa has promised him letters for Uncle Bliss and Rose.\u201d\n\n\u201cIndeed!\u201d said Kate. \u201cThat will be very pleasant for them to see any one\nthat can give such direct news of us. Do you remember to have seen young\nMr. Selby, Lisa?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhen he was a little boy, I saw him once at his uncle\u2019s, but he has\nbeen at college for years past. He is now on a farewell visit, and will\nnot return for some time, of course. I hope he will be like old Mr.\nSelby, for he is one of the kindest and most agreeable men I ever knew.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, he is universally beloved. Paul esteems him highly, and often goes\nto him for advice.\u201d\n\nAnd Kate thought Paul\u2019s opinion sufficient to determine the importance\nof the universe.\n\nMinnie had her own ideas, and very soon found herself in merry\nconversation with Harry Selby, who devoted himself to his pretty\nneighbor at dinner with a zeal that made his uncle laugh.\n\n\u201cWhat is that, Miss Minnie? What did you say then?\u201d asked he across the\ntable.\n\n\u201cI was wondering, sir, if Mr. Selby will return a true hearted American,\nafter seeing all the splendor and beauty of the old world,\u201d replied\nMinnie, glancing at him with her bright eyes.\n\n\u201cOf course he will,\u201d said the uncle. \u201cDo you think now that any of the\nEnglish blondes, the French brunettes, or the Italian signoras, will\never drive your saucy face out of his mind?\u201d\n\nMinnie blushed\u2014so did Harry; but she parried the attack.\n\n\u201cOh, he can easily forget _me_, for this is our first meeting, and will\nbe the last; but there must be many persons whom he could not under any\ncircumstances so wrong\u2014yourself, for instance.\u201d\n\nMr. Selby laughed. \u201cAnd so you think that my ugly phiz will be the one\nto haunt a young fellow on his travels. Do him justice, Minnie, and give\nhim credit for a dash of sentiment at least. Do you think him insensible\nto the charm of dark eyes and all that?\u201d\n\n\u201cBy no means, sir; but it would be impertinent on so short an\nacquaintance to attempt to fathom so mysterious a thing as a human\nheart, such as I suppose belongs to Mr. Selby.\u201d And Minnie blushed again\nas a pair of large, brown eyes met hers with an unequivocal glance of\nadmiration.\n\nThe owner of said orbs began something like a compliment; but there was\nan unnecessary tinkling of the ice in Minnie\u2019s glass, and she did not\nappear to hear it. Besides, at that particular moment, Paul leant\nforward, and asked for some information about a planing machine; and the\nconversation turning on inch-boards, weather-boards, and thousands of\nfeet of lumber, the ladies rose and left the table to adjourn to the\nparlor.\n\nHarry soon followed them\u2014what cared he for planing-mills? And Blanche\nmade room for him by Minnie, the place he evidently wanted, for he never\nleft it until his uncle called to her for some music, and a \u201cgood old\nsong.\u201d\n\nUnfortunately for him, young ladies play too well now-a-days to require\na book before them, and as there were no leaves to be turned, Harry\nstood at a distance, admiring the rapid little fingers as they flew over\nthe ivory.\n\n\u201cWho taught you?\u201d exclaimed he, as she ended Rosellen\u2019s pretty\nvariations from Don Pasquale, \u201cwho taught you?\u201d\n\nShe pointed to Kate, who nodded her head with a proud smile.\n\n\u201cIs it possible! When I get to Paris, I shall boast of my countrywoman,\nMrs. Linden, for I am confident\u2014\u201d\n\n\u201cBut the song of Minnie, the song!\u201d interrupted Mr. Selby senior. \u201cI\nasked for a song, young lady.\u201d\n\n\u201cI know it, sir, but I will leave that to the rest, as I can only boast\nof a few notes as yet.\u201d And Minnie rose and gave her place to Blanche.\n\n\u201cMinnie does not like to show off unless she is sure of creating a\nsensation,\u201d said Mr. Linden, laughing as she took her seat beside him.\n\u201cIf you did but know, Mr. Selby, what a wonderful debut she is prepared\nto make; all the young ladies will hide their diminished heads next year\nat her first Mazourka, and never dance again. Wont they, Minnie?\u201d\n\n\u201cYou flatter me,\u201d said she, smiling good humoredly. \u201cI only intend to be\n_one_ of the stars\u2014not the bright particular one, for I have only my\nwits to help me out.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd they will be all sufficient,\u201d said old Mr. Selby, patting her\ncheek. \u201cI\u2019m sure of my little pet\u2019s entire success in the great world of\nfashion. How many ball-dresses is Rose to bring across the wide ocean?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, she has carte blanche,\u201d returned she, \u201cand I will send for you as\nsoon as they are unpacked, that you may determine my first costume.\u201d\n\nBut the evening wore away, and the family separated at an early hour, as\nthe letters must be written to Rose for the next morning. Each had a\nvolume to say, and Minnie\u2019s exceeded the third page, as she had promised\nsuch faithful accounts of home to the wanderer, even the dogs were\nimmortalized that night, for an affecting account of Ponto\u2019s regret for\nhis mistress drew tears from the writer\u2019s own eyes.\n\n\u201cLord bless us! what a correspondence,\u201d exclaimed Mr. de la Croix, as\nthe letters were thrown on the table. \u201cPoor Rose will never get through\nit.\u201d\n\n\u201cThere\u2019s a postscript from Kenneth, and myself, of course,\u201d said Paul,\nas he threw down a pretty envelope. \u201cAn endless communication from\nMinnie, six pages between Blanche and Kate, two from Lisa, she being too\nsensible to waste time, and a well filled sheet from you, sir. Rose will\nhave work and instruction for a week when all this reaches her. Did you\nhave a good pen, Minnie?\u201d\n\n\u201cTo be sure I did,\u201d replied she, looking up.\n\n\u201cThen I rejoice, for Rose\u2019s sake, your calligraphy being at times very\nEgyptian. However, Harry Selby will take great pleasure in assisting her\nto decipher it, I dare say; and I feel much relieved on her account.\u201d\n\nMinnie pulled his hair for him at this declaration, and vowed revenge.\nRose could read her writing very well, though others might be dull\nenough to suspect the contrary.\n\nThere was a charm about Minnie that was irresistible\u2014it was her\nunvarying good humor, her sweet, even temper. Even while asserting her\nwillful but childish dislike of reproof it was impossible to be angry\nwith her. Nothing like an angry retort ever passed her lips; as\nineffectual as a reprimand was to her wild spirit, she took it\nsmilingly, and disarmed displeasure with her winning ways. No wonder\nthat her sisters loved her; no wonder they feared for her as years\npassed, and she was yet untamed. Impulsive, obedient to these impulses,\nand inconstant in her tastes, Minnie de la Croix, at the age of\nseventeen, was no wiser than a child of ten. If she offended she was\nwretched until she had been forgiven, and as ready to pardon as she was\naverse to wound. Her life had been one of sunshine and love; but she was\ngrowing up to womanhood, and dreamed not of its perils and its\npains\u2014saw nothing but smiles and fair promises in the world before her.\n\nRose\u2019s account of young Selby\u2019s arrival in Paris was satisfactory to all\nparties. \u201cHe came to see us,\u201d wrote she, \u201cas soon as he arrived, taking\ntime only, as I suppose, to make himself look remarkably handsome under\na French valet\u2019s hands. He greeted me most affectionately, and I verily\nbelieve would have kissed me upon slight encouragement. He gave me news\nof my dear home, of my dearest father and sisters; and if he had been as\nugly as a Chinese, I should have thought him an Adonis. He tells me that\nyou are all in perfect health, and describes my Minnie as something very\nlovely. Very bewitching, he said, and so very pretty. My resemblance to\nher seemed to delight him; but as I am neither of the two epithets\nbestowed upon her, I am afraid it will wear off. We were at the Opera\nlast evening, and, of course, he joined us; but there was no time to\ntalk when Jenny Lind was singing, and I could not have heard him if he\nhad attempted it, I was so absorbed; but he had too much taste for such\na mistake. We spend this evening at the American Minister\u2019s, where I am\nto see a whole cage of French lions; and what is better, some of my own\ndear countrymen. I am delighted with the grace and ease of the Parisian\nladies\u2014it is impossible to resist their fascination of manner, the very\nlifting of their veils is a tableau in itself. Minnie\u2019s numberless\ndresses for next winter I shall choose under the surveillance of one of\nour new acquaintances, one of the presiding goddesses of fashion, whose\ntaste is so infallible, that, if she were to have her bonnet bent by\naccident, bent bonnets would suddenly become the rage.\u201d\n\nWe cannot give all Rose\u2019s letter, as it was a long one, but must hurry\nover her return, and bring her home in time for Minnie\u2019s ball, as the\nwhole house called it. The dear absentee arrived in the midst of the\npreparations, at the time appointed. Mr. de la Croix wished to celebrate\nher happy return among them with Minnie\u2019s debut, and there was no end to\nthe joy of the sisters as they all met together once more in the room\nwherein Rose\u2019s boxes and trunks had been carried. Mr. Linden was there\nwith a hammer, which he swung over their heads, as he called out where\nhe was to begin, and the door opened to admit Mr. de la Croix, Kenneth,\nand Harry Selby\u2019s uncle. Minnie had promised, he said, that he should\nchoose her costume upon this great occasion, and here he was, to do his\nduty conscientiously.\n\nHe was gladly welcomed, and Paul fell to work on a large _caisse_,\naccording to Rose\u2019s directions. The lid flew off and revealed a very\nmysterious covering of white paper, which they proceeded to remove, and\nLisa\u2019s nice hands were called upon to take out the beautiful dresses\nthat lay so lightly one upon the other.\n\n\u201cBeautiful!\u201d they cried, as a blue tarlatan of the most delicate shade\nwas held up. \u201cExquisite! Who is this for?\u201d\n\n\u201cFor Lisa,\u201d said Rose, displaying its beauties; \u201cand I have the most\nunexceptionable bouquets of pink moss roses for the looping of the\nskirt, sleeves, and one for the bosom. Now that white dress is for\nBlanche\u2014my Lady Blanche\u2014and the two rose-colored for Minnie and\nmyself. All have flowers to trim alike. You will find Kate\u2019s in the\nother box\u2014there was no room for it in this one.\u201d\n\n\u201cHere is another white one,\u201d said Minnie, who had danced around the room\nin a perfect glee. \u201cWhose is it?\u201d\n\n\u201cThat is yours also, Minnie,\u201d answered Rose, with an affectionate smile.\n\u201cYou will want more than one ball-dress, my little debutante. Then\u2014here\nPaul! Paul! to your duty\u2014open this box. Mr. Selby! you have something\nto do with this, sir.\u201d\n\nAll eyes turned to him as he came forward with a queer smile from the\nwindow at which he and Mr. de la Croix sat looking on, and enjoying the\nscene of gayety and confusion that passed before them.\n\n\u201cWhat have I to do with boxes, my pretty Rose,\u201d inquired he. \u201cI sent for\nno coats or pantaloons?\u201d\n\n\u201cBut you sent for the contents of this box, Mr. Selby,\u201d said she,\nnodding her head significantly. \u201cWhat they are, I know not; but Harry\nasked me to let it come on with my baggage, as it was yours, and to be\nopened at Oakwood. So here it is, and as _I_ have some curiosity about\nit, I call upon this self-constituted carpenter to gratify it.\u201d\n\nDown went Paul\u2019s hammer and chisel, and the nails gave way. More white\npaper\u2014and many little tape-strings running across, busied Lisa\u2019s\nfingers for some minutes. At length she drew out a dress so beautiful\nthat even Mr. de la Croix came forward. It was of a most delicate\ntexture, white, and embroidered around the skirt in palms of silver.\nNothing could be more exquisite, and Lisa drew forth gloves and slippers\nto correspond. There was still a small box lying within, but as every\none was exclaiming over the shining robe, she deferred taking it out\nuntil it was time.\n\n\u201cNow, Mr. Selby! Mr. Selby! what did you want with this dress? Tell us\nquickly\u2014are you going to be married?\u201d\n\n\u201cNot unless Minnie will have me, for it is hers,\u201d said he, covering her\nwith the lovely thing, and looking half ashamed as she uttered a scream\nof delight.\n\n\u201cI see a letter there for me\u2014hush child! hush! don\u2019t mention it, that\u2019s\na good girl\u2014I\u2019m quite rewarded by your pleasure; let us read Mr.\nHarry\u2019s communication.\u201d He broke the seal and began reading it aloud.\n\n\u201cMy dear uncle, Madame de Rosiere went to the modiste\u2019s with me, and\nchose these articles as you requested; being as perfect in taste and\ndress as she is in wit, it must be a gem, almost worthy of the fair\ncreature for whom it is destined. (Hem! Harry is eloquent.) As I knew\nwhere Miss de la Croix had _her_ dresses made, Madame de R. went with me\nthere, and arranged it all with the ingenuity of a Frenchwoman\u2014that\nthis was to be made and packed with the rest, though in a separate box,\nand sent to Mr. Bliss\u2019s hotel, when I asked him to take charge of it\naccording to your orders. It gave me the greatest pleasure to attend to\nyour commission, I do assure you, and I must thank you for it. How I\nlong to see your favorite in a costume that seems to my poor eyes, one\nthat will robe her like an angel of light. (Hurrah for the boy! he is\nreally a gone case.) In the small box you will find a\u2014\u201d here Mr. Selby\nmuttered the rest to himself, and ended with \u201cyour affectionate nephew,\netc.\u201d\n\nThe old gentleman then took out of a satin case a fan so superior to any\nMinnie\u2019s unpracticed eyes had ever seen, that her admiration knew no\nbounds. On the slender gold ring that passed through the handle was her\nname in full, and to a chain of fine workmanship was attached a ruby for\nher taper finger.\n\n\u201cMinnie is a spoiled child,\u201d said her father, taking the costly bauble\nand examining the pretty painting upon it, an acquisition in itself. It\nrepresented a young girl in the first bloom of youth with her arm around\nthe neck of a beautiful greyhound, that looked up wistfully in her face.\nThe attitude was full of grace, not unlike Minnie\u2019s own, and Rose smiled\nas she remarked that Mr. Selby had chosen an emblem of fidelity for her\nlittle sister\u2019s study during ball-room scenes.\n\n\u201cMore probably as an example,\u201d said his uncle, with a meaning smile.\n\u201cHarry can never be classed among that portion of his sex, \u2018to one thing\nconstant never,\u2019 and he, in my humble opinion, would love to communicate\nsome of the same spirit to others.\u201d A sly glance at Minnie accompanied\nthese last words; but she was examining her fan very closely, and did\nnot perceive it. At length she went and laid her hand upon his arm,\nlooking up at him with a grateful expression.\n\n\u201cYou have been so very kind to me\u2014so thoughtful of my enjoyment in the\nworld, that I cannot thank you in words. Some of these days, like the\nmouse proved to the lion, I may find a way to serve you, but until then\nyou must believe how deeply I feel all this attention. Now come and\nchoose my costume for to-morrow night\u2014shall I come out in all the\nsplendor of my white and silver?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, my dear,\u201d said Mr. Selby, kindly. \u201cYou must be like Rose to-morrow,\nand wear the other when my sister gets my old-fashioned house in\nreadiness for another party, where you will receive the guests as your\nown. Now let me kiss that soft cheek, and run away to my business in\ntown.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd not see all _my_ presents, Mr. Selby!\u201d exclaimed Rose. \u201cThey cannot\nequal yours, but I have some very choice specimens of porcelain, besides\ncollars, capes, etc. Now look at this transparent lamp-shade, with the\nangels\u2019 heads; and see these vases. Here is a coffee-cup for papa, one\nfor Paul and Kenneth, with their initials, and here is an inkstand for\nmy darling Kate.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd what is for Lisa and Blanche?\u201d asked he, admiring each as she\npresented them.\n\n\u201cThe lamp is for my industrious queen bee, Lisa, the vases for Blanche,\nand things innumerable for the rest. You do not care about seeing the\n\u2018dry goods,\u2019 I know, but wait until I show you some of my own work. I\nhave embroidered three vests for my three pets\u2014papa and \u2018the brothers,\u2019\nbesides a scarf for my friend, Mr. Selby.\u201d\n\nHe was delighted at the idea of being remembered by her while in a\ndistant land, and Rose was forced to send him away to get rid of his\nthanks.\n\nThey hurried over the rest of the unpacking, as many preparations were\nneeded for the next day\u2019s f\u00eate, and were soon running about from one\nroom to the other, laughing and singing as in days gone by.\n\n                                           [_Conclusion in our next._\n\n                 *        *        *        *        *\n\n\n\n\n                               THEODORA.\n\n\n                         A BALLAD OF THE WOODS.\n\n\n                         BY GEO. CANNING HILL.\n\n\nWith her raven tresses falling loosely down her neck of snow,\nAnd her cheek all flushed with crimson, like the morning\u2019s richest glow,\nFrom a covert, Theodora, like a loosened sheaf of light,\nBurst, with wild and ringing laughter, in upon my wildered sight.\n\nLike a golden dream she came to me, and like a dream she fled,\nCrushing crystal dews beneath her, as the diamonds in their bed;\nAnd a spirit seemed to linger round the covert whence she came,\nAs a glow is oft reflected from the brightness of a flame.\n\nFar within the solemn forest disappeared her sylphide form,\nAs the gentle star of even pales before presaging storm;\nEvery songster\u2019s notes were silent, all the wild-flowers wore a blush,\nAnd throughout the wood\u2019s dark mazes was a calm and holy hush.\n\nSuch a gush of richest melody as then bestirred the air,\nIn my soul awakened echoes that had long been slumb\u2019ring there;\n\u2019Twas a harmony angelic, that her spirit caught at birth,\nAnd she poured it out in mellow floods, as one of common worth.\n\nStraight she hied her to a fountain, that lay sleeping in the glen\u2014\n\u2019Twas a fountain hidden deeply from the common gaze of men;\nGreenest mosses grew about it, walling up its crystal wealth,\nSave a silver ribbon that escaped its velvet lip by stealth.\n\nOn its smooth and argent surface fell the tears that Dryads wept;\nIn its deep, unruffled bosom sweetest dreams serenely slept;\nNot a human face could ever have intruded on the calm\nThat was reigning all around it, like the fragrance from a balm.\n\nAs she drew, unguarded, nigh it, gently seemed the waters stirred;\nFor the music of her voice was as the warbling of a bird:\nAnd the sheet of liquid crystal, that was slipping o\u2019er the rim,\nFor a moment fairly quavered, ere it parted from the brim.\n\nComing nearer, then she spied it\u2014this sweet mirror hidden there\u2014\nAll set round with greenest mosses, and arbuscles fresh and rare;\nAnd she clapped her hands delighted, as she hastened to its side,\nAnd she shouted with a melody that thrilled its mimic tide.\n\nThen she sat her down beside it, and with hand pressed to her zone,\nThus a moment sat she silent, in her wonderment alone;\nRaven ringlets trembled slightly, lustrous eyes beamed wondrous bright,\nAs she gazed upon the crystal that lay sleeping in her sight.\n\nBending downward yet more lowly, till the wave her tresses swept,\nShe essayed to look beyond the brink, where Heaven\u2019s cerulean slept;\nBut she started as she caught the face so beautiful and fair\nThat was looking up into her own from out the lakelet there.\n\nThroughout all her wildered senses sped a feeling of affright;\nYet the tremor was well tempered with a sweet, unknown delight:\nAnd she gazed into the large blue eyes that met her from below,\nAnd she thought they peered from out a world beneath the waters\u2019 flow.\n\nThen a blush of richest crimson mounted up unto her cheek,\nAnd a smile enwreathed her parted lips, as if she fain would speak;\nBut yet while she looked still steadfastly, the face below it smiled,\nAnd Theodora clasped her hands, with seeming transport wild.\n\nEvery day thereafter went she, as a nun within her cell,\nTo the little crystal cloister there imbedded in the dell:\nAnd as every time she looked within, she saw an angel-face\u2014\nUpon each reflected feature read the words of truth and grace.\n\n                 *        *        *        *        *\n\n\n\n\n                            PEDRO DE PADILH.\n\n\n                            BY J. M. LEGARE.\n\n\n                      (_Continued from page 236._)\n\n                         SPAIN, AND TERCERA.  }\n                                AD. 1583.     }\n\nAfter the battle in which De Haye, the ma\u00eetre-de-camp was killed, and\nthe Portuguese ran away to a man, leaving the French to maintain the\nhonor of the day and their ultimate position on a hill near at hand, the\nSpanish army unbuckled their armor and sat down to stretch their limbs\nbeside the fires at which their suppers were cooking; and if any one in\ncamp lost appetite that evening, it was not because of the numberless\ngaping wounds witnessing to Heaven against him from the field behind. A\nmile or so above, a few scattered lights showed where the remnant of De\nChaste\u2019s army held ground, and awaited the morrow with little fear but\nmuch hunger, sending to perdition the viceroy and entire Portuguese\nnation the last thing before dropping to sleep: midway between these two\nrows of fires, was neither life nor light save such as a crescent moon\ngave, and as much as lingered in some poor wretch with more vitality\nthan was best for him. In which middle space the Damon and Pythias of\nthis story, Hilo and Carlo, prowled about, turning over the stiff\ncarcasses in search of valuables, for nothing of convertible worth came\namiss to the pair, whose personal property was staked nightly at dice.\nOccasionally an apparent corpse tossed about his arms and legs\nconvulsively, or prayed in a husky whisper for a little water, for life\nand mercy\u2019s sake a single draught; but in either case the Walloon, like\na rough angel of mercy as he was, put an end to their anguish promptly,\nsaying with a grin to Hilo\u2014\u201cYou know it\u2019s for his good I do it: if he\ndrank any thing it might keep him alive till somebody who aint his\nfriend comes round. It would be a heap harder to die after making up his\nmind he was to live again, wouldn\u2019t it?\u201d\n\nTo which Hilo replied with some contempt: the boy was ferocious, as has\nbeen elsewhere said, only on provocation\u2014\n\n\u201cYou\u2019re fitter for a hangman than a soldier, serjeant.\u201d\n\nA truth Wolfang took for a compliment.\n\n\u201cHey?\u201d cried that cidevant free-captain suddenly, \u201chere\u2019s one of our\nofficers, let\u2019s turn him over. A hole in the back of his casque by\nLucifer; it served him right for turning his back on the enemy.\u201d\n\nHilo may have recognized the whereabouts sufficiently to make a\ntolerably fair guess before the other added:\n\n\u201cOh\u2014oh\u2014the ma\u00eetre-de-camp, De Haye!\u201d But if he did he held his peace,\nand assisted in ridding the dead cavalier of a few personals.\n\nThe Walloon was thick-skulled, but his long service in villany had\nincreased his cunning as a matter of course, and a duller man than he,\nacquainted with Se\u00f1or de Ladron\u2019s peculiarities, might have jumped to a\nlike conclusion.\n\n\u201cBah! he wasn\u2019t a coward after all. The arquebuse that sent this ball\nwas behind him while he faced the Dons. The man you owe a grudge to had\nbetter keep awake, Hilo, my lad.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou\u2019re a fool,\u201d Hilo returned. \u201cHold your tongue. Do you wish to bring\nthe Spaniards upon us with your noise?\u201d\n\nTo which the other answered sullenly\u2014\u201cYou talk as if I wasn\u2019t more than\nyour slave. You\u2019d better mind what you\u2019re about. I aint going to stand\nit always, even if\u2014here now, what\u2019s to be done with these papers?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat is that shining in your hand?\u201d\n\n\u201cA locket, or something of the sort, he had in his breast. Hang it, you\nwant every thing!\u201d\n\n\u201cA locket!\u201d cried his comrade quickly. \u201cGive it here.\u201d Which the other\ndid unwillingly, and the other pocketed after holding it up to the\nlight. Hilo\u2019s mood up to this moment had been none of the sweetest, as\nthe captain could testify, but some virtue existed in the appropriation\nwhich was quite irresistible.\n\n\u201cCome, old fellow,\u201d he cried to the serjeant, in high good-humor, \u201cI was\nrather sharp with you just now, wasn\u2019t I? You know I\u2019m quick and all\nthat, and musn\u2019t mind me. Here\u2019s a handful of ducats for your locket, as\nyou found it; I fancy the thing, and don\u2019t grudge paying for it.\u201d\n\nA gift the captain took with a growl half of resentment, for _he_ had\nnot found a charm for himself, and could not so easily forget an offense\nas his master.\n\nIt was wonderful what a dog to fetch and carry that uncouth animal was\nto Hilo; how he followed him about, drew dagger in his service, and\nexposed his life any time rather than suffer the latter to embark alone\nin a perilous venture, a thing his youthful friend was much given to. It\nwould have been an unanswerable proof of the existence in all men of\nsome good trait, some capacity to love a brother, for a worse rogue than\nthe captain would be difficult to select. But, unhappily, this\nNetherlandish Damon had sounder, if less sentimental, reasons for\nsticking by his Pythias. Hilo, a wonderfully precocious youth, had\nfallen in with the honest captain some three or four years back, and\ndexterously turned to his personal advantage a comfortable sum brought\nover from Peru by the other. \u201cI like the boy, he\u2019s full of pluck. I\u2019ll\nschool him into the ways of the world, look ye,\u201d the captain used to\nsay, at the very time his prot\u00e9g\u00e9 was scheming to possess his ingots.\n\n\u201cI knew his father in Peru very well, a man of money. He lent me a\nhelping hand once, and I don\u2019t mind turning about and lending the boy\nany thing I have,\u201d he spoke later. And so, not because of the helping\nhand, as the captain wished understood\u2014which, to be sure, was Carlo\u2019s\nbeginning in life, the elder De Ladron having taken him into temporary\npartnership in the matter of a forced _repartimi\u00e9nto_ which turned out\ngolden\u2014but because he had entire reliance in the magnitude of the\nsenior\u2019s estate, he made over to Hilo the bulk of his possessions, on\nconditions legally witnessed, of a fourfold return immediately on the\nother\u2019s receiving his own. No doubt Hilo acted in good faith, less from\ninclination possibly than necessity, his money affairs having become\nrather intricate about that time, and there could be no question of the\nrepayment of the full amount\u2014the original was no trifle\u2014at the season\nspecified.\n\nBut when was that to arrive? A question Carlo asked himself with growing\ndissatisfaction not long after the last ducat had slipped through his\ndebtor\u2019s fingers. Hilo was in no hurry to marry the girl, and since\nsigning the captain\u2019s bond, had bestowed his affections elsewhere, as\npeople say. A French countess, black-eyed and brisk, took his fancy much\nmore than the blonde his betrothed, and during the stay of the French\nembassage at Madrid, the young gentleman was on good\nbehavior\u2014ostensibly at least. Of all her gallants none excited his\njealousy so much as a cavalier who had accompanied the count\nunofficially, and stood high in his daughter\u2019s favor.\n\nDon Hilo\u2019s way of removing an obstacle of this sort, was admirably\nillustrative of his sense of wrong, although sometimes, as in this\ninstance, liable to miscarry. He first picked a quarrel with De Haye,\nand that gentleman refusing point-blank to fight so disreputable a\nparty, was waylaid and killed by proxy in the person of Villenos, who\nwas of much the same figure, and, as it chanced that night, similarly\nattired. The eclat of this mistake, added to the departure of the lady,\ntook him to France, where information of De Haye\u2019s joining the\ncommandant induced him to enlist under the same knight\u2019s pennon, in\npursuance of his vengeful purpose, and the young blood-hound was of\ncourse nothing molified by the remonstrance of his enemy to De Chaste on\nshipboard, which Carlo repeated with some little exaggeration, to be\nexpected from the mouth of so affectionate a friend.\n\nThe heavy, cunning, ex-free-captain was brow-beaten and domineered over\nby his former prot\u00e9g\u00e9 in a truly surprising manner to one not in the\nsecret. It was wonderful how much he bore, how assiduously followed at\nthe heels of his junior when off duty, uneasy at losing sight of the\nlatter. The truth was, the captain having gambled and squandered himself\ninto poverty again, looked to the money to be derived from Hilo\u2019s\nfortune for a means of reputable living, as he said.\n\n\u201cI was an honest soldier till I met that Hilo!\u201d was his lament years\nafter, while awaiting the hour of his execution. And it was the obduracy\nof the same young gentleman, aided by his own failure to win the\nheiress, which had reduced him to the necessity of relying upon Hilo\u2019s\nattaining his twenty-fifth year and sole right of property; a fib, by\nthe way, of the party interested, which the captain was by this time too\nnear gone not to catch at with proverbial eagerness.\n\n\u201cIf I can only keep him in sight,\u201d he used to think fifty times a day\nwith an oath, \u201cuntil I get back my ducats, I\u2019ll take pay for my dog\u2019s\nlife;\u201d and at nights he would wake muttering the words and feeling the\nedge of his weapon, when Hilo would exclaim\u2014\u201cCan\u2019t you leave off\ngrinding your tusks in that savage fashion, you Dutch boar!\u201d\n\nThe captain saw how a little misadventure in the shape of his dear young\nfriend\u2019s decease, might deprive him of all chance of restoration, and no\nmother could be more precious of her charge: Hilo might involve himself\nin difficulties and be slain in a brawl; it was this worthy soul\u2019s chief\nbusiness to guard against such a mishap, or extricate him when fairly\nin: or he might fly into an ungovernable rage and harm himself, or tempt\nthe captain into doing so; so the latter eschewed all cause of\ncontention, and humbled himself where humility became a necessity. For\nCarlo\u2019s phlegmatic temperament was incapable of fear, and nothing would\nhave gratified him more than a bout with the young gentleman\u2014who,\nseeing his advantage, or from mere recklessness, tried his ability to\nbear and forbear to the utmost limit.\n\n\u201cWait till I get my ducats back!\u201d Wolfang consoled himself with\nmuttering under his breath on such occasions, champing his jaws and\nkeeping his fingers stalwortly from his dagger-hilt.\n\nThe pair were standing over the body of the ma\u00eetre-de-camp, Carlo with\nthe papers in his hand taken from the breast of the dead lieutenant\u2019s\ndoublet, when Hilo cried:\n\n\u201cHark! the camp is in motion yonder above. Come, Wolf, stir your clumsy\nlegs before we are missed.\u201d\n\nAnd Wolfang trotting after his master thrust the crumpled missives into\nhis own doublet\u2014\u201cIt\u2019s no use to throw away any thing in the dark,\u201d he\nsaid; \u201cI did a note of hand once so, and somebody else got the good of\nit; one of these days I\u2019ll find time to spell it out\u201d\u2014where they\nremained many days, now and then taken out and returned, without much\nprogress made in their elucidation, for the warlike captain was not much\nof a scholar, and found opportunity for only cursory examinations.\n\nA destination very different was the captain\u2019s pocket, it may be\nremarked, from that designed by the writer, Don Pedro, who, about the\ntime Carlo pocketed the letters, was conversing with Se\u00f1or Inique as to\ntheir efficiency in De Haye\u2019s hands.\n\nNo man is absolutely penitent at the start; some fear for character,\npersonal safety, or the like, is the prime mover, after which\u2014it may be\nmoments or years after\u2014enters in a godly sorrow for sin committed. Sift\nyour motives, exemplary reader, and satisfy yourself for once, your\nconscience is not the tender prompter to your most virtuous deeds you\nimagine: something to the effect, what it, or the world, or the church,\nor your wife at home will think, has its due influence. Human nature is\nnot to be taken to task on this account; we are all more selfish than we\nchoose to admit even to ourselves, or there would be an end straightway\nof all murders, thefts and villanies great and small and of every kind;\nand there is so little native good in us it is best not to cavil at the\nsource of any redeeming trait, whatever it may be.\n\nSo Don Augustino after ten years\u2019 penitence of fear, made confession for\nthe first time of the same; not with the best conclusion or purpose in\nview, it may be objected, but the honest knight\u2019s expressions of opinion\nwere scarcely adapted to producing a better feeling at the beginning.\nSir Pedro thought as much himself when he reviewed the conversation, and\nhis after arguments were such as the mild expression of his fine gray\neyes lent effect to, a thing they very seldom did when his speech was\npointed with sarcasm. The soldier was first molified, then thoroughly\nsubdued, and in the end inclined to adopt the counsel of his ancient\ncompanion-in-arms, who now, as always, took the shortest available\ncourse to the doing away of a bad deed by substitution of a good. Not\nthat all this ripening of virtue in the veteran sinner\u2019s breast was much\nhastened by the knight\u2019s eloquence; it was mainly by the inexplicably\nswift thaw after the ice has been broken through with throes of\ndissolution, and something the knight\u2019s words may have done at the\nbeginning to aid the breaking up, something at the end to temper the\nfreshet. What he saw when he entered the inner cabin of Inique\u2019s ship,\nof that blank face and imbecility, I have nothing to relate; let the\ndoor remain shut upon him as it was in Inique\u2019s time, and all likeness\nand constraint of the unhappy inmate be left to the imagination.\n\nEntire restitution of name and property on one side, and public avowal\nof his paternity on the other, was what the straight-forward adviser\nurged, and Inique consented ultimately to perform. Avowed penitence\nstrangely humbled the misshapen pride of the man. Once he said:\n\n\u201cYou were right, Padilh; I was a coward from first to last. I begin to\nperceive there are two sorts of courage, one infinitely superior to the\nother, and God alone knows how much braver than I this poor boy might\nhave proved.\u201d\n\nThe main obstacle now to be overcome was the will of the supposititious\nHilo, whose rage at finding himself heir to nothing would be likely to\nexceed all bounds.\n\n\u201cIt must be opened gently,\u201d said the knight. \u201cThe boy has an ill name\nfor violence, and some gain must be shown as an equivalent for so much\npecuniary loss; which last, I fear, will be the chief occasion of regret\nwith him.\u201d\n\n\u201cI have some little property of my own remaining,\u201d answered the other,\n\u201cand would gladly relinquish it in his favor, but for the claims of my\nother child. As for me, I am sick of this world\u2019s honors\u2014\u201d\n\n\u201cPooh!\u201d cried Padilh cheeringly, \u201cis this your new-found bravery? Look\nhow you retreat before the enemy, and hope to shelter yourself behind a\nwall with monks. And as for your blue-eyed daughter, have no concern at\nall, for by this time I am sure that motherless countess of mine would\nstand a siege rather than surrender her unconditionally: we have more\nthan we want in property and less in children, so you and I can each\nsatisfy the other\u2019s need and our own pleasure, which will be stealing a\nmarch at the start.\u201d\n\nThe man of care and crime was sensibly touched by this offer.\n\n\u201cMany thanks!\u201d was all he said, but he took his associate by the hand\nwith a grasp that would make you or I wince.\n\n\u201cI think with you; he must be appealed to indirectly at first, that his\nsuspicions may not be awakened too soon,\u201d Don Pedro said shortly after,\nin answer to Inique. \u201cIn the French camp is a gentleman whose honor is\nunquestionable, and who entertains such friendship for me, he would not\nhesitate to undertake the service. If you do not oppose the design, I\nwill write him a short narrative of the events, leaving the manner and\ntime of communication to his judgment to determine. Until his jealousy\nof your present purpose is overruled, we may scarcely hope to meet the\nwretched boy in person, and I can see no better way of gaining our end.\u201d\n\n\u201cLet it be so, I oppose nothing honorable,\u201d replied the ma\u00eetre-de-camp.\n\n\u201cI am not referring to my old scale of honor,\u201d he added presently, with\nsomething like a blush. There is hope for the man, thought Padilh\nthereupon; which was true enough.\n\nThe knight wrote the letter in accordance with this agreement, a brief\nrecapitulation of the events of Inique\u2019s life and his own, many of which\nDe Haye already knew, urging that cavalier to use his discretion in\nacquainting the false Hilo de Ladron with so much of the truth as would\nsuffice to induce an interview, by assuring him of no harm being plotted\nagainst his person, but rather some gain intended. Which letter Don\nPedro contrived to have placed in De Haye\u2019s hands the night before the\nbattle in which the latter fell by the arquebuse of the boy whose cause\nhe had at heart; for very nearly the last thought of this generous\nfellow, forgetting the enmity of Hilo, and perhaps rather careless of\nhis rivalry even when disencumbered of the Se\u00f1orita Inique, was that,\nafter the day\u2019s work was over, he would play the ambassador to what\npurpose he might: but it was Capt. Carlo that returned to camp with the\nletter instead.\n\nThe gallant captain hurrying back with his gay companion, found\npreparations making for a night attack, which were, however,\ncountermanded before the column began the descent. The men had had their\nfill of fighting for the day, and turned in again wondering and\ngrumbling at the useless disturbance. Meanwhile the commandant and the\nviceroy were discoursing of what had best be done, in the former\u2019s tent.\nSenhor de Torrevedros, after the battle, had arrived with about a\nthousand of his countrymen, and one fourth or so the number of cows.\n\n\u201cThe viceroy has brought milk for his babies at last,\u201d the French\nsoldiers said sarcastically; and the officer on duty who announced the\narrival to De Chaste, prefixed an epithet to the count\u2019s title by no\nmeans delicate or complimentary.\n\n\u201cIn the devil\u2019s name, sir count,\u201d the commander exclaimed, with a red\nspot in either sallow cheek, \u201cdo you fetch these cattle to mount your\ncuirassiers or feed our troops?\u201d\n\n\u201cNeither, at present, Senhor Commander,\u201d the unabashed viceroy replied;\n\u201cfor in neither way could they so much benefit you as in their present\ncondition.\u201d\n\n\u201cSpeak your mind freely, we are friends here, sir count,\u201d the commandant\nanswered coldly.\n\n\u201cOur valor is too well known to be questioned\u2014second only to that of\nthe French nation,\u201d the count said braggartly, lifting his plumed cap by\nway of salute; \u201cand I bring you, Senhor Commander, what no man may cavil\nat, a thousand men brave as lions and pledged to fall in defense of\ntheir king\u2019s honor.\u201d\n\nAt which speech a sarcastic smile passed round the group of attentive\nofficers.\n\n\u201cBah!\u201d cried one to his comrade, \u201cthe fellow\u2019s talk sickens me. Let\u2019s go\nto sleep again, there will be nothing but gabble to-night.\u201d And the two\nstrode away. \u201cStay,\u201d whispered the more curious, \u201cwe must hear the end\nof this bull story.\u201d\n\nRegardless of all which the viceroy continued.\n\n\u201cYet, sir, on the word of a knight, these long-horned cows you affect to\ndespise are more to be relied on as allies than twice the number of men\nI bring.\u201d\n\n\u201cDoubtless,\u201d the veteran rejoined, stroking his grizzled beard.\n\n\u201cI understand your double meaning, Senhor de Chaste,\u201d Torrevedros said,\nslightly disconcerted. \u201cBut had you been present at a former descent of\nthe Spaniards, when we routed five hundred infantry by driving half the\nnumber of wild cows upon them, you would not scoff at my design.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat! prove ourselves boors, and go to battle behind a herd of cattle\nwith goads for lances!\u201d here broke in the commandant with great\nindignation. \u201cBy St. Dennis and the devil, sir count, sir viceroy, you\nmake my old blood boil to hear you talk. And I tell you once for all\nbefore these gentlemen here present, whose scornful laughter, as you may\nsee, is only restrained by their good-breeding, that your offer in no\nrespect suits the style of warfare practiced by knights and Frenchmen,\nalthough it may serve the purpose of cowards and Portuguese.\u201d\n\n\u201cTake care! sir commandant,\u201d cried the governor threateningly, stung to\nanger; \u201ctake care what you say in the hearing of a knight of that\nnation.\u201d\n\n\u201cI have said my say,\u201d the sturdy soldier answered shortly, turning his\nback on the speaker and stalking into his tent, where the other followed\nhim after some consideration.\n\nThere the two commanders conversed at length, and with rather more\nharmony than the beginning promised; for De Chaste was not apt to bear a\ngrudge long, and the smooth Portuguese would have kissed the other\u2019s\nshoes if no other way offered for saving his precious life and limbs.\nThe former, apart from his chivalric prejudices, and weighing the\nproposal simply as an expediency, refused to permit the employment of\nthe horned reinforcement.\n\n\u201cThey might as readily be turned against our battalions,\u201d he justly\nremarked, \u201cas Philip of Macedon\u2019s elephants were, in some battle I\u2019ve\nforgotten the name of.\u201d\n\nThe commandant probably meant Pyrrhus, but his vocation being arms, not\nletters, he need not be undervalued by recent graduates who know better.\nOne thing was now clear, the French had only themselves to look to,\nsince the long expected recruits of the viceroy turned out to be a herd\nof cows, and a night attack was secretly ordered, which recalled the\ncaptain and Hilo to camp, but which the return of the count and his\nexpostulations caused to be abandoned.\n\n\u201cYou can learn nothing of the force and real position of the enemy, what\nobstacles lie between, nor who can guide you,\u201d urged the alarmed\ngovernor plausibly; \u201cand as for my men, I know not one who will be\nbribed or forced into a position so perilous.\u201d Which appeared so\ntruthful that the fiery Frenchman, with as bad a grace as any of his\nsubordinates, betook himself to bed again after personally making the\nround of the Portuguese camp. All these swore by all the saints to stand\nto their posts. They were terrible fellows, fire-eaters and the like, at\ntheir own showing; but the commander was scarce asleep when Torrevedros\nreappeared with a confused air and the information that the entire\ndivision had stolen off and dispersed. Where the French general\nconsigned his allies need not be repeated to polite ears, and I think\nhis confessor, if he had one, should by no means have ordered a severe\npenance for what he said under provocation so grievous. A council of the\nchief cavaliers was immediately called. Alas! the most chivalric of them\nall lay at the foot of the hill without a word to offer.\n\nThe count spoke first, and strongly advised retreat to a higher\nmountain, by which the approaches to the interior might be readily\ndefended, and an abundance of ammunition and provisions could be carried\nthere, with cannon enough to maintain the position.\n\n\u201cRather let us throw ourselves into the fortress of Angra,\u201d cried\nDuvick, \u201cWhere, with our handful of Frenchmen, we can defy the whole\nSpanish army, backed by every Portuguese in the Azores.\u201d\n\nThis speech drew a murmur of assent from the council, but the viceroy\nanswered with his usual treacherous suavity.\n\n\u201cThere is nothing to fear from my countrymen on that score, Messires.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, by the Mass!\u201d cried half a dozen voices, with some sardonic\nlaughter; and the count turned to the commandant again, biting his lip\nwith suppressed rage.\n\n\u201cDo as you please, Senhor de Chaste,\u201d he said, with as much calmness as\nhe could assume. \u201cYou are all masters here, I perceive, but I warn you\nfairly beforehand, that the walls of Angra are no better than a\nnut-shell, and the cannon of the marquis will bring them down upon your\nhot heads in less than twelve hours. Moreover, the place can contain not\nmore than two hundred soldiers, as Heaven is my witness.\u201d\n\nWhich was as great a fib as ever knight told, but quite as excusable as\nmany, you ladies, are in the habit of telling by proxy at all hours of\nthe day and at your front doors. I cannot see, for my part, how the\nCount de Torrevedros could possibly have acted otherwise under the\ncircumstances, which approached as nearly as any military predicament\nmay a civil, the not at home of mesdames out of toilette. In short, the\ncount had that same night sent the keys of Angra by a trusty messenger\nto the Marquis of Santa Cruz, with his complimentary offer of services;\nan errand which the astute ambassador acquitted himself of to\nadmiration, by leaving out the count and assuming the credit: and at the\nsame moment the viceroy was giving his disinterested advice, no less a\npersonage than Don Augustino Inique was marching in with five hundred\nmen through the wide-open gates of the fortress.\n\nThis the commandant learned by daybreak the next morning, at which early\nhour he was pushing for the mountains in accordance with the advice of\nTorrevedros, who had gone ahead, as people say taking French leave. At\nthe village of Nostre Dame Dager de Loup, they heard further that the\ngovernor had put off in a boat from the coast; and the French army,\ndebarred from the sea on one side and Angra on the other, and now openly\ndeserted by the Portuguese, occupied the little town and began\nimmediately to throw up intrenchments before the arrival of the\nSpaniards.\n\n\u201cWe must not think longer how best to live, but most honorably to die,\u201d\nDe Chaste answered a few of his young officers who grumbled at the want\nof necessary stores. A fine, heroic answer, which stopped the mouths of\nthose high-spirited gentlemen, but was less efficient in the case of the\nsoldiery. It must be confessed the estimable pair Hilo and the serjeant\nwere not a little responsible for this discontent; hard work agreed with\nneither of their constitutions, and before nightfall they had found\nopportunity to exchange their views on the subject.\n\n\u201cI\u2019d as lief be a galley-slave and be done with it,\u201d the serjeant\nmuttered to Hilo, who was helping him lift a load of sand out of the\nditch.\n\n\u201cCaptain,\u201d returned the other, \u201cyou speak my mind; and things are\ngetting in such a state here the sooner we draw our necks out of the\nnoose the better.\u201d\n\n\u201cGood,\u201d replied Carlo, \u201cbut how is that to be done, look you? The\nmarquis will hang us up for spies if we go over to them, and the count\nthey say has gone off in the last boat on this coast.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut what if most of these Frenchmen went out with us?\u201d\n\n\u201cThat alters the case,\u201d cried the captain with his old grin.\n\nAnd somewhere about midnight the commandant was roused by an uproar\nround the officers\u2019 quarters, which shewed what willing soil the\nringleaders had found to sow sedition in.\n\n\u201cKill your captains! I\u2019ll begin with mine,\u201d the serjeant was roaring\nwith a volley of oaths, and menacing Captain Curzon with his halbert.\nThe fellow had found drink somewhere, and was raging like a worried\nbull, his prominent bloodshot eyes sustaining the resemblance.\n\nCurzon parried the thrust and would have cut him down, when the voice of\nthe commandant overtopped the clamor.\n\n\u201cWhat!\u201d he exclaimed, \u201cdo you plot to follow our Portuguese allies! Go,\nevery man of you who chooses; we want none but brave men here, and will\nbear with no others.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat may do for you to prate about, general mine,\u201d answered Se\u00f1or de\nLadron scoffingly, the seditious talents of that young gentleman causing\nhim to be chosen captain of the insurgents, \u201cbut it wont deceive men\nwith their eyes open, hark ye! We all know you\u2019re only waiting a chance\nto escape with your brave officers, and leave us to pull an oar apiece\nin the Spanish galleys. Ha, ha! M. de Chaste! Begone while you\u2019re\nallowed, for you see you\u2019re outwitted.\u201d\n\n\u201cInsolent dog, to your quarters!\u201d the knight cried, advancing upon the\nspeaker and striking him with his sheathed sword.\n\nBut Hilo, instead of falling back, foaming with rage, seized a halbert\nwith both hands, and was as promptly fastened on by a dozen embracing\narms.\n\n\u201cNo, by St. Dennis! the general shan\u2019t be harmed!\u201d as many more voices\nexclaimed. \u201cOnly we\u2019ll be ahead of him and go first.\u201d\n\n\u201cFriends,\u201d answered De Chaste, with some indignation in his voice, \u201cyou\nhurt me more by your suspicions than if you ran a sword through my body;\nand I take Heaven to witness, I will be the last man to quit this\nisland, and will die rather than abandon any of you to the mercy of the\nmarquis, whose countrymen gave such instance of their treatment of the\nFrench last year in the Floridas. Let fifty or a hundred of you surround\nmy house yonder, and insure my stay: it will be time enough to dishonor\nyourselves and nation when I set the example.\u201d\n\nWhich the mutineers did for the present, despite the taunts of their\nleader-elect, who, struggling furiously with his captors, had all the\nwhile been calling to the others to fall upon the officers, or loose him\nand he would give them example. The commandant was a favorite with the\ntroops.\n\n\u201cWe will wait until to-morrow,\u201d they agreed among themselves, \u201cand\ngeneral or no general, he is a dead man if he lifts a finger to betray\nus.\u201d\n\nSe\u00f1or Hilo de Ladron, for his part, came to the conclusion, after this\nfailure, that the French camp was no place for him, and communicated his\nviews to his faithful Damon.\n\n\u201cI\u2019d like to have split his head open, he hadn\u2019t so much as a cap on to\nsave it,\u201d he said to Wolfang, \u201cand then we might have done as we pleased\nwith the rest. But, hang it, you\u2019re such a liar, the men only half\nbelieved the story from the first, and letting him talk upset their\nresolution altogether. It\u2019s his turn now, and we must get out of this\nhornet\u2019s nest before daylight.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhere to go?\u201d the captain asked.\n\n\u201cIf you are born to be drowned, you can stay behind, you wont be safe\notherwise,\u201d Hilo answered indifferently. \u201cI\u2019m for the mountains at\nfirst, and who knows but I may find it to my interest in the end to\nvisit the marquis with the count for sponsor.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, if you keep such good company,\u201d the captain returned, with a\ngrotesque bow and grin showing his comprehension of Hilo\u2019s plans, \u201cI\u2019m\nyour excellency\u2019s humble servant!\u201d And in an hour\u2019s time these fast\nfriends had slipped through the line of sentries, scaled the\nbreast-work, and sat down to wait for light a mile or two from camp.\n\nThe impossibility of hearing ordinary discourse at that distance will\ncause the finale of this story to be very different from what it might\nhave been under more favorable circumstances. For a herald, or courier,\nor valet, had just then arrived from the camp of the marquis, at the\nintrenchments, bringing a letter to the Commandant de Chaste, who\npresently sent through the village to find Don Hilo, as we all know now,\nwithout success.\n\n                                                  [_To be continued._\n\n                 *        *        *        *        *\n\n\n\n\n                           CHARLOTTE CORDAY.\n\n\n                      BY MRS. ELIZABETH J. EAMES.\n\n\n    \u201cAmong the victims put to death by Marat was a young man of\n    noble and imposing mien, renowned for virtue and bravery, and\n    said to be the betrothed of the martyred Charlotte Corday.\u201d\n\n             This clearly chiseled face\u2014\n         So full of tender beauty and meek thought\u2014\n             This head of classic grace,\n         These delicate limbs, in sculptured pureness wrought,\n     These fingers, fairy small, could _these_ belong to thee\u2014\n     Once merriest girl in France, the proud, the fond, the free?\n\n             Methinks thy slender form\n         Seems with a proud, commanding air to rise;\n             And wondrous power to charm\n         Dwells in the midnight of those thoughtful eyes:\n     While on thy curved lip, and lofty marble brow\n     Sitteth the high resolve, that suits thy purpose now!\n\n             Did not thy woman\u2019s heart\n         Thrill with emotions never felt before?\n             Didst thou not shrink, and start\n         To stain thy fair hand with the purple gore?\n     Hadst thou no chilling fear, O, self-devoted maid!\n     Of the dark doom that soon must fall upon thy head?\n\n             Yes! for _one_ moment thou\n         Didst struggle with youth\u2019s natural dread of death!\n             One moment didst thou bow\n         Thy woman\u2019s heart\u2014then, with firm step, free breath,\n     Didst thou approach the bath of the terrific man\n     With whom the fearful \u201cReign of Terror\u201d first began!\n\n             How deep the avenging steel,\n         With fatal aim, pierced through his guilty breast!\n             While \u2019mid the mortal chill\n         His starting eye the demon-soul expressed!\u2014\n     Until it closed forever, and the blood\n     Made dark the waters where the ruthless monster stood!\n\n             So, \u2019neath this fragile form\n         Dwelt the _resolve_ that made thy country free\u2014\n             And this fair, feeble arm\n         Performed a deed of immortality!\n     But, oh! _thy_ strength, _true love_! for _him_ \u2019twas done\u2014\n     Well didst thou avenge the death of thy heart\u2019s cherished one!\n\n                 *        *        *        *        *\n\n\n\n\n                                SONNET.\n\n\n                         TO ARABELLA, SLEEPING.\n\n\n                            BY R. T. CONRAD.\n\n\n        When the world wearieth, then the sun doth set,\n          And the dew kisseth sweet _good-night_ to earth;\n        When the soul fainteth, and would fain forget,\n          Then sleep, the shadow of God\u2019s smile, comes forth,\n        Gently, with downy darkness, and the dew\n          Of thoughts from Heaven, and with the quickening rest\n        That lightly slumbers\u2014star thoughts beaming through\n          The dreamy dimness on the rippling breast.\n        Soft be that dew upon thy breast to-night!\n          Gentle thy dreams as zephyr to the flower!\n        Pure as the prayer that riseth as I write,\n          To hover round thee through the midnight hour!\n        Till Morning wake\u2014as if for thee alone\u2014\n        And meet a brow as bright\u2014\u2019tis lovelier than his own!\n\n                 *        *        *        *        *\n\n\n\n\n                         NETTLES ON THE GRAVE.\n\n\n                           BY R. PENN SMITH.\n\n\nStrolling through a cemetery, I beheld within one of the enclosures a\nwidow who had buried her only child there, some two years before. I\naccosted her, and tendered my assistance. \u201cThank you,\u201d she replied, \u201cmy\ntask is done. I have been pulling up the nettles and thistles that have\novergrown little Willie\u2019s grave, and have planted mnemonies, heart\u2019s\nease, and early spring flowers in their place, as more fitting emblems\nof my child; and though they may fail to delight him, they will remind\nme that there is a spring time even in the grave, and that Willie will\nnot be neglected by _Him_ who bids these simple flowers revive. But is\nit not strange how rank nettles and all offensive weeds grow over the\nhuman grave\u2014even a child\u2019s grave?\u201d\n\n\u201cI remember you mourned grievously at losing him, but trust time has\nassuaged affliction.\u201d\n\n\u201cIts poignancy is blunted, but memory is constantly hovering around my\nchild. Duty and reason have taught me resignation; still I seldom behold\na boy of his age, but fancy pictures to me how he would have appeared in\nthe various stages of his progress toward manhood. And then again I see\nhim like his father\u2014and myself a proud and happy mother in old age.\nTrue, you may call it an idle, baseless dream; and so it is, but I\ncannot help indulging in it.\u201d\n\n\u201cDream on! the best of life is a dream.\u201d\n\nWe walked a few steps, and paused before an inclosure where reposed the\nremains of a worthy man, with nothing more than his unobtrusive name\ninscribed upon a marble slab to designate his resting-place. He was\nrespected for his integrity and energy; beloved for his utility and\nbenevolence. Here was no lying inscription, making the grave gorgeous,\nas if monumental mendacity might deceive Divinity. His record was\nelsewhere, traced by unseen fingers.\n\n\u201cThere are no nettles on that good man\u2019s grave,\u201d said the widow. \u201cI knew\nhim well; weeds would wither there; nothing but flowers should cover his\nashes.\u201d\n\nA few young men at the time were idly passing. They paused, when one\ntearing a weed from the pathway, hurled it among the flowers,\nexclaiming, \u201cLet him rot there with weeds for his covering.\u201d The\nslumbering dust thus spurned had long sustained the ingrate who now\nvoided his venom upon the benefactor who had fed him until there was no\nlonger faith in hope. The widow sighed; \u201cAnd this is on the grave of the\ngood and just!\u201d\n\n\u201cHad Willie lived, he might have been such a man, and such would have\nbeen his harvest.\u201d\n\nIn the next tomb a brave soldier mingled his ashes with the red earth of\nAdam. In his early career he was placed in a position where daring\nenergies alone could command success. He succeeded, and was rewarded by\na nation\u2019s approbation. No subsequent opportunity occurred to acquire\npeculiar distinction; and when he died, a shaft was erected\ncommemorating the most remarkable action of his life. His tomb attracted\nthe attention of some visiters who read his epitaph. \u201cCharacteristic of\nthe age!\u201d exclaimed one, throwing a pebble at the inscription, \u201cto swell\na corporal to the dimensions of a C\u00e6sar. It was the only action of a\nprotracted life, worthy of record, and here it is emblazoned for the\npride of posterity.\u201d Had the thoughtless scoffer of the unconscious dead\noccupied his position, which gained renown, history possibly might have\nperpetuated disgrace, instead of a tombstone record of gallant\nservices\u2014the patriot\u2019s sole reward.\n\n\u201cYou knew the soldier?\u201d\n\n\u201cFor years, and well. A brave and worthy man. The current of his useful\nlife flowed smoothly on, without being ruffled by the breath of\ncalumny.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd yet nettles cover his grave already!\u201d\n\n\u201cSuch might have been your child\u2019s destiny\u2014but that matters little;\npraise or scorn are now alike to the old soldier.\u201d\n\nWe passed to a spot where a gay party was leaning on a railing. A young\nwoman had plucked some of the gayest flowers from the enclosure, and was\nlaughing with her merry companions. As we approached, she threw the\nbouquet already soiled and torn, on the grave; and they went their way\nwith some idle jest upon their lips. The widow paused, and struggled to\nsuppress her emotion.\n\n\u201cDid you know the tenant of this grave?\u201d\n\n\u201cFrom his childhood. He loved that woman, and struggled to acquire\nwealth to make her happy. He succeeded, and when she discovered that he\nwas completely within her toils, she deceived and left him hopeless.\nThere are men whose hearts retain the simplicity of childhood through\nlife; and such was his. Without reproaching her, or breathing her name\nto any one, he suddenly shrunk as a blighted plant, and withered day by\nday, until he died. Like the fabled statuary, he was enamored of the\ncreature his own mind had fashioned, and in the credulity of his nature,\nhe made her wealthy, trusting that time would infuse truth and vitality\ninto the unreal vision of his youthful imagination. The world of love is\na paradise of shadows! The man beside her is now her husband; the wealth\nthey revel in, this grave bequeathed them.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe fool! to die heart-broken\u2014for a dream. But great men have at times\ndied broken-hearted. I should not call him fool. It is a common death\namong good men.\u201d\n\n\u201cGreat men! But women, sir, have pined away to death.\u201d\n\n\u201cIn poetry, the bill of mortality is a long one; in real life the\npatients seldom die, unless they chance to be both vain and poor. Did a\nrich widow ever grieve to death for the loss of the noblest husband?\nWealth is a potent antidote to the malady, and teaches resignation;\nwhile poverty, with the first blow of his iron sledge, will make his\ncold anvil smoke with the heart\u2019s blood, for he is buried who for years\nhad withstood the blow.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat woman did not cast nettles on his grave.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo nettles, but faded roses which she tore from it\u2014blooming when she\ncame there. Better cast stones and nettles than those withered flowers.\nYour boy has escaped this poor man\u2019s destiny\u2014the worst of deaths! His\nwas the happiest! he died\u2014smiling\u2014on his fond mother\u2019s bosom! But\nthere is a grave around which weeds grow more luxuriantly, than about\nthe sepulchre where mortal dust reposes. Daily watchfulness is required\nto prevent the bright creations therein buried, from being so over-run\nuntil nothing is seen to designate the beautiful tomb, where we had\ncarefully embalmed them, as if in amber.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat grave, sir, do you refer to?\u201d\n\n\u201cThe human mind. A mighty grave wherein we daily bury crushed hopes and\nbrilliant ephemerons, too fragile to survive the chill atmosphere of a\nsolitary day. Keep the weeds from growing there and smothering their\nmemories. They are the progeny of the soul, and should not be allowed to\nperish. Shall the joyous and beautiful creations of childhood be\nforgotten in age; must the noble aspirations of the vigor of manhood\npass away without even an epitaph, because crushed in their vigor!\nRather contemplate them hourly; plant flowers beside them, though they\nbloom but briefly and fade, they will send forth perfume even in decay,\nand inevitably revive in due season, bearing refreshing fruit; and old\nage, with palsied hand, will readily gather up the long account of his\nstewardship, and as he glances over the lengthened scroll that must\nbecome a record in the archives of eternity, may rejoice that he hath\nnot been an ingrate and idler in the heat of the harvest-field, but hath\ndiligently labored to make the entrusted talent yield the expected\nusage. Tear up the weeds that are incessantly growing there, ere he who\nwas placed little lower than the angels, becomes an empty cenotaph\u2014a\nstranger\u2019s grave\u2014mouldering and mingling with his mother earth unheeded\nand unknown.\u201d\n\n                 *        *        *        *        *\n\n\n\n\n              FAMILIAR QUOTATIONS FROM UNFAMILIAR SOURCES.\n\n\n                             BY A STUDENT.\n\n\nMany of our readers have undoubtedly been asked during the past month\nfor information touching the whereabouts of some trite quotation, the\nlocality of which the whole neighborhood has not been able accurately to\ndecide. We have often thought it would be a commendable service if some\nindustrious student would make a complete collection of the every day\nsayings, and print them side by side with the author\u2019s names. As no one,\nhowever, has seen fit to pioneer in the attempt, we here make a\nbeginning, confident that the plan is worthy to be carried out more\nfully. At some future period, if no one else seems willing to continue\nthe undertaking, we hope to find leisure and opportunity for other\nspecimens in \u201cGraham.\u201d Meantime, here are a few of the more common\n_lines_ in \u201ceverybody\u2019s _mouth_.\u201d\n\n        No line which dying he could wish to blot.\n\nIt stands thus in the original:\n\n        Not one immoral, one corrupted thought,\n        One line which dying he could wish to blot.\n             LORD LYTTLETON.      _Prologue to Thomson\u2019s Coriolanus._\n\n        To err is human, to forgive divine.\n             POPE.      _Essay on Criticism._\n\n        The perilous edge of battle.\n             MILTON.      _Paradise Lost, Book First._\n\n        God made the country and man made the town.\n             COWPER.      _The Task._\n\n        No pent up Utica contracts your powers,\n        But the whole boundless continent is yours.\n             J. M. SEWALL.      _Epilogue to Cato, 1778._\n\n        And thereby hangs a tale.\n             SHAKSPEARE.      _As You Like It._\n\n        And man the hermit sighed till woman smiled.\n             CAMPBELL.      _Pleasures of Hope._\n\n        And snatch a grace beyond the reach of art.\n             POPE.      _Essay on Criticism._\n\n        He whistled as he went for want of thought.\n             DRYDEN.      _Cymon and Iphigenia._\n\n        The feast of reason and the flow of soul.\n             POPE.      _Satires. To Mr. Fortescue._\n\n        Woman, last at the cross and earliest at the grave.\n             E. S. BARRETT.      _Woman: A Poem._\n\n        When Greek meets Greek then comes the tug of war.\n             NAT LEE.      _Play of Alexander the Great._\n\n        Music has charms to soothe a savage breast.\n             CONGREVE.      _The Mourning Bride._\n\n        The old man eloquent.\n             MILTON.      _Tenth Sonnet._\n\n        One touch of nature makes the whole world kin.\n             SHAKSPEARE.      _Troilus and Cressida._\n\n        Great wits to madness surely are allied,\n             DRYDEN.      _Absalom and Achitophel._\n\n        Even in our ashes live their wonted fires.\n             GRAY.      _The Elegy._\n\n        God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb.\n             STERNE.      _Sentimental Journey._\n\n        The devil may cite scripture for his purpose.\n             SHAKSPEARE.      _The Merchant of Venice._\n\n        She walks the waters like a thing of life.\n             BYRON.      _The Island._\n\n        Thoughts that breathe and words that burn.\n             GRAY.      _The Progress of Poesy._\n\n        On the light fantastic toe.\n             MILTON.      _l\u2019Allegro._\n\n        Give ample room and verge enough.\n             GRAY.      _The Bard._\n\n        A little learning is a dangerous thing.\n             POPE.      _Essay on Criticism._\n\n        And even his failings leaned to virtue\u2019s side.\n             GOLDSMITH.      _The Deserted Village._\n\n        O wad some power the giftie gie us\n          To see oursel\u2019 as others see us.\n             BURNS.      _Address to a Louse._\n\n        Brevity is the soul of wit.\n             SHAKSPEARE.      _Hamlet._\n\n        Westward the course of empire takes its way.\n             BISHOP BERKLEY.\n\n        Hills peep o\u2019er hills and Alps on Alps arise.\n             POPE.      _Essay on Criticism._\n\n        The observed of all observers.\n             SHAKSPEARE.      _Hamlet._\n\n        And made a sunshine in a shady place.\n             SPENSER.      _Fairy Queen._\n\n        A breath can make them as a breath has made.\n             GOLDSMITH.      _The Deserted Village._\n\n        Heaven lies about us in our infancy.\n             WORDSWORTH.      _Ode on Immortality._\n\n        Man wants but little here below,\n        Nor wants that little long.\n             GOLDSMITH.      _Edwin and Angelina._\n\n        Just as the twig is bent the tree\u2019s inclined.\n             POPE.      _Moral Essays._\n\n        Throw physic to the dogs.\n             SHAKSPEARE.      _Macbeth._\n\n        Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased.\n             _Ditto._\n\n        My way of life is fallen into the sere, the yellow leaf.\n             _Ditto._\n\n        I\u2019ll make assurance doubly sure.\n             _Ditto._\n\n        Shouldered his crutch and showed how fields were won.\n             GOLDSMITH.      _Deserted Village._\n\n        Domestic happiness, the only bliss\n        Of Paradise that has survived the fall.\n             COWPER.      _The Task._\n\n        Let who may make the laws of a people, allow me to\n        write their ballads, and I\u2019ll guide them at my will.\n             SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.\n\n        For winter lingering chills the lap of May.\n             GOLDSMITH.      _The Traveler._\n\n        Rolled darkling down the torrent of his fate.\n             DR. JOHNSON.      _Vanity of Human Wishes._\n\n        The man forget not, though in rags he lies,\n        And know the mortal through a crown\u2019s disguise.\n             AKENSIDE.      _Epistle to Curio._\n\n        Whatever is, is right.\n             POPE.      _Essay on Man._\n\n        The proper study of mankind is man.\n             _Ditto._\n\n        Man never is but always to be blest.\n             _Ditto._\n\n        Pleased with a rattle, tickled with a straw.\n             _Ditto._\n\n        And to party gave up what was meant for mankind.\n             GOLDSMITH.      _Retaliation._\n\n        Superfluous lags the veteran on the stage.\n             JOHNSON.      _Vanity of Human Wishes._\n\n        Rides in the whirlwind and directs the storm.\n             ADDISON.      _Lines to the Duke of Marlboro._\n             Also POPE.      _The Dunciad._\n\n        To teach the young idea how to shoot.\n             THOMSON.      _The Seasons. Spring._\n\n        \u2019Tis distance lends enchantment to the view.\n             CAMPBELL.      _Pleasures of Hope._\n\n        Or like the snow-fall in the river,\n        A moment white, then melts forever.\n             BURNS.      _Tam O\u2019Shanter._\n\n        Nothing extenuate, nor set down ought in malice.\n             SHAKSPEARE.      _Othello._\n\n        Exhausted worlds and then imagined new.\n             DR. JOHNSON.      _Prologue at the opening of the_\n                 _Drury-Lane Theatre, 1747._\n\n        Assume a virtue though you have it not.\n             SHAKSPEARE.      _Hamlet._\n\n        Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.\n             BURNS.      _Tam O\u2019Shanter._\n\n        Curses not loud but deep.\n             SHAKSPEARE.      _Macbeth._\n\n        Who shall decide when doctors disagree.\n             POPE.      _Epistle to Bathurst._\n\n        By strangers honored and by strangers mourned.\n             POPE.      _Elegy on an Unfortunate Lady._\n\n        Where ignorance is bliss\n        \u2019Tis folly to be wise.\n             GRAY.      _Ode on Eton College._\n\n        And swift expires a driveller and show.\n             DR. JOHNSON.      _Vanity of Human Wishes._\n\n        Order is Heaven\u2019s first law.\n             POPE.      _Essay on Man._\n\n        Honor and shame from no condition rise.\n             _Ditto._\n\n        An honest man\u2019s the noblest work of God.\n             _Ditto._\n\n        Plays round the head but comes not to the heart.\n             _Ditto._\n\n        But looks through nature up to nature\u2019s God.\n             _Ditto._\n\n        With all my imperfections on my head.\n             SHAKSPEARE.      _Hamlet._\n\n        The undiscovered country, from whose bourn\n        No traveler returns.\n             _Ditto._\n\n        Lay not that flattering unction to your soul.\n             _Ditto._\n\n        The time is out of joint.\n             _Ditto._\n\n        A saint in crape is twice a saint in lawn.\n             POPE.      _Moral Essays._\n\n        Who never mentions hell to ears polite.\n             POPE.      _The Epistles._\n\n        From seeming evil still educing good.\n             THOMSON.      _Hymn._\n\n        There\u2019s a divinity that shapes our ends,\n        Rough hew them how we will.\n             SHAKSPEARE.      _Hamlet._\n\n        On her white breast a cross of gold she wore,\n        Which Jews might kiss and infidels adore.\n             POPE.      _Rape of the Lock._\n\n        At every word a reputation dies.\n             _Ditto._\n\n        And wretches hang that jurymen may dine.\n             _Ditto._\n\n        In wit a man; simplicity a child.\n             POPE.      _Epitaph on Gay._\n\n        The mob of gentlemen who write with ease.\n             POPE.      _Imitations of Horace._\n\n        Even Palinurus nodded at the helm.\n             POPE.      _The Dunciad._\n\n        I lisped in numbers, for the numbers came.\n             POPE.      _Prologue to the Satires._\n\n        Wit that can creep and pride that licks the dust.\n             _Ditto._\n\n        Bear, like the Turk, no brother near the throne.\n             _Ditto._\n\n        Damns with faint praise.\n             _Ditto._\n\n        To point a moral or adorn a tale.\n             DR. JOHNSON.      _Vanity of Human Wishes._\n\n        Good wine needs no bush.\n             SHAKSPEARE.      _As You Like It._\n\n        A little round fat oily man of God.\n             THOMSON.      _The Castle of Indolence._\n\n        None but the brave deserve the fair.\n             DRYDEN.      _Alexander\u2019s Feast._\n\n        Doubtless the pleasure is as great\n        Of being cheated, as to cheat.\n             BUTLER.      _Hudibras, canto 3, part 2, lines 1 and 2._\n\n        And bid the devil take the hindmost.\n             DO. _Canto 2, part 1, line 633._\n\n        And count the chickens ere they\u2019re hatched.\n             DO. _Canto 3, part 2, line 924._\n\n        He that complies against his will\n        Is of his own opinion still.\n             DO. _Canto 3, part 3, lines 547-8._\n\n        And look before you, ere you leap.\n             DO. _Canto 2, part 2, line 503._\n\n                 *        *        *        *        *\n\n\n\n\n                          TWO CRAYON SKETCHES.\n\n\n                           FROM LIFE STUDIES.\n\n\n                             BY ENNA DUVAL.\n\n\n                           1.\u2014\u201cCHILD\u2019S PLAY.\u201d\n\n            Napoleon!\u2014years ago, and that great word,\n              Compact of human breath in hate and dread\n              And exultation, skied us overhead\u2014\n            An atmosphere whose lightning was the sword\n            Scathing the cedars of the world.\n                             \u2014\n            That name consumed the silence of the snows\n              In Alpine keeping, holy and cloud-hid!\n              The mimic eagles dared what Nature\u2019s did\n            And over-rushed her mountainous repose\n            In search of eyries; and the Egyptian river\n            Mingled the same word with its grand\u2014\u201cFor Ever.\u201d\n                                          ELIZABETH BARRETT.\n\n       \u2019Tis but a child\u2019s play, friend, pass on, nor wait\u2014\n        Take heed, that childish play foretells the future fate.\n                                                           ANON.\n\n\nIt was a beautiful summer afternoon. The high trees cast long shadows on\nthe grass, and the glorious golden sunlight beamed richly over the\nlandscape. In a thickly wooded park, whose long, winding walks were\nbordered by the rhododendron, and overshadowed by forest-trees, were\nseveral young girls. They were simply dressed, and quite young, at the\nseason of early girlhood\u2014thirteen, fourteen, and fifteen might have\nbeen their ages\u2014certainly not older. They were all graceful, delicate\nlittle creatures\u2014American girls and women almost always are, as\nforeigners have remarked. Two or three only, however, were decidedly\npretty.\n\n\u201cI am tired of walking,\u201d said one; \u201clet\u2019s stop here a little while, and\nplay something.\u201d\n\nThe girl had well chosen the spot, for it was beautiful enough to have\ntempted the fa\u00ebrys\u2014if any there be\u2014to make of it, a play-ground. The\nwood skirted a stream, rising from its shores in little undulating\nhills, and the owner had availed himself of this, in arranging the walks\nin his wood, so that by slightly assisting Nature, these walks seemed\nterraced. The place selected, was where one of the walks widened a\nlittle\u2014the hilly terrace rose gently behind it, forming a turfy bank\nthat served for seats, and forest-trees crested the little summit of\nthis hill. Beneath the walk, the ground-swell shaded by trees, sloped\ndown to the stream-side, and between the foliage could be seen the\nglittering wavelets, dancing along in the golden atmosphere shed around\nthem by the glorious setting sun.\n\nHad these little rambling girls been a shadow older, or breathing a more\npoetic imaginative atmosphere than their sunny American home, they might\nhave sat and dreamed romances, out of \u201cold Poesy\u2019s Myths,\u201d and fancied\nthat,\n\n        \u201cThat spring head of crystal waters,\n         Babbled to them stories of her lovely daughters,\n         The beauteous blue-bells and the lilies fair.\u201d\n\nBut no! the influences of their associations in their home-lives,\nrendered their imaginations\u2014for imaginations they had\u2014less dreamy,\nless poetical.\n\nThis work-day atmosphere in which we striving, success-seeking Americans\nlive and breathe, deprives even our childhood\u2019s day-dreams of romance\nand po\u00ebsy, and who can say whether it be well or not? The mysterious\nvoice of the Past says, \u201cAll that is permitted is needed,\u201d therefore,\nlet this American Judaic spirit roll on, the Nineteenth Century needs\nit, to perform her part of the world\u2019s development.\n\nIf we return to our little wood-ramblers and listen to their gossip, we\nshall see how tangible and real were the subjects of their day-dreams,\nthough quite as improbable, apparently, as the old imaginings of\nEnchantment and Fa\u00ebry Land.\n\n\u201cOh,\u201d lisped a little coquettish thing, the pet evidently of the group,\nwhose light, floating ringlets threw faint shadows over her round, white\nshoulders, \u201clet\u2019s play that I\u2019m a duchess, and you are all come to visit\nme at my ducal palace. These are my grounds, and some of you shall be my\nladies.\u201d Thereupon the little witch threw her fa\u00ebry form on the turfy\nbank, in a languishing position, and prepared to take upon her little\nself, all the state and dignity of a duchess.\n\n\u201cNot I for one,\u201d said the tallest of the group, although the rest seemed\nhalf disposed to enter into the proposed play. \u201cIf there\u2019s to be any\nduchess playing, I\u2019ll be the titled lady. Yes, I will be your princess,\nand hold here my regal court.\u201d\n\nIf princesses have a divine right to beauty, the girl might have been\none of the most royal. She had, for so young a girl, a presence and\nbearing remarkable for dignity, and her form gave promise of fine\ndevelopment. Her head was well placed on a beautiful neck and drooping\nshoulders. Her rich, dark hair was cut short and brushed back from a low\nMedicean brow, and it clustered in thick, close curls around the back of\nher well-shaped head and white neck. Although her brow was low, and her\nchin almost voluptuously full, her keen, black eyes, arched eye-brows,\nthat in some moods almost met over a nose that was delicate and handsome\nin shape, and whose nostrils trembled and dilated with every shadow of\nfeeling, and a mouth well shaped, but firm in expression, all told that\nthe girl had a haughty, imperious spirit, one such as a princess might\nhave; and she carried herself as though she would have said, as Marie\nAntoinette did, when some one remarked her erect bearing,\n\n\u201cWere I not a queen, I suppose, people would call me insolent.\u201d\n\n\u201cDuchess and princess indeed!\u201d exclaimed one of the girls,\ncontemptuously. \u201cHow absurd to talk such nonsense. Who ever heard of\nsuch duchesses and princesses as you\u2019d make?\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd why not, mademoiselle?\u201d asked the would-be princess.\n\n\u201cNow Caro is grand,\u201d laughed one of the girls; \u201cdon\u2019t you take notice,\ngirls, she always calls us mademoiselles, when she wants to take state?\u201d\n\nBut the girl repeated her question, haughtily, without heeding the saucy\ninterruption. Her manner seemed to intimidate the other, and pleased\nwith her apparent victory, she continued, drawing herself up to her full\nheight, and looking even more stately.\n\n\u201cYes, I will be a princess. Why should I not be? My grandmother was a\nqueen, and my great uncle an emperor. I will give you all grand titles,\ntoo. You, Lina, I will make a countess, for you are too little and\ndelicate, pet-bird, to be a duchess\u2014that sounds too matronly for you;\nbut as for you, Mademoiselle Helen, you shall only be a simple maid of\nhonor, and may be, lady of the bed-chamber after awhile, if you stop\nsneering at my rank.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh Caro and Lina,\u201d said Helen, impatiently, \u201cdon\u2019t be so silly; it is\nridiculous. You are always spoiling our walks with these foolish\nmake-believes.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat do you mean, Mademoiselle Helen?\u201d asked Caro, with flashing eyes,\nand nostrils dilating with unrepressed indignation.\n\n\u201cI mean just what I say, Caro; that you always make yourself absurd and\ndisagreeable by wanting us to play such vain, silly plays; and you do\nLina no good either, for her little head is filled now with nothing else\nbut nonsensical notions that will give her a great deal of trouble. I am\na year or two older than you, Miss, and can see the folly of all this;\nbut even if I were not, I hope I should not be such a silly little fool\nas to try to imagine I was something grander than I was not, and what is\nmore, never will be.\u201d\n\nCaro\u2019s face grew crimson, and she bit her full, red lip until the rich\nblood nearly started from it while she listened to this irritating\nspeech. When it was concluded, she threw up her head and exclaimed in a\nvoice choked with passion,\n\n\u201cThis comes of associating with plebians.\u201d\n\n\u201cPlebians, indeed!\u201d said Helen, indignantly.\n\n\u201cYes, plebians, mademoiselle,\u201d answered Caro, looking steadily and\nhaughtily at her. \u201cYou are a plebian when compared with me, for my\ngrandmother was a crowned queen, and my uncle the great Emperor\nNapoleon; am I not, then, a princess of most regal descent? And you,\nLina, darling,\u201d she continued, putting her arm patronizingly around the\nlittle creature, \u201cI only hope I may be as my grandmother was, a throned\nqueen, then I would do more than put grand notions in your head. I would\nput great titles to your name, and brave retinues to back them.\u201d\n\n\u201cMadame, your mother, most royal princess,\u201d said the annoying Helen,\nwith provoking coolness, \u201chas the misfortune, however, at present, to be\nthe instructress of the daughter of a plebian country lawyer.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is a misfortune, mademoiselle,\u201d answered Caro.\n\nThe girls drew together a little frightened; they knew a crisis was\ncoming, for many times before had they witnessed similar \u201cpassages at\narms,\u201d between the two girls, but never such a threatening one.\n\n\u201cNever mind Caro,\u201d said little Lina, \u201clet\u2019s leave Helen; she\u2019s always so\ncross, and says such ill-bred things. We\u2019ll go and play by ourselves.\nYou _shall_ be our queen, and I will be your little countess, or any\nthing you want me to be. The girls will go with us, too; wont you,\ngirls?\u201d\n\n\u201cHa! ha!\u201d laughed the now irritated Helen, for she saw that most of the\ngirls were disposed to take Caro\u2019s part. \u201cThis is amusing, truly, to see\nthe daughter of a plain American country store-keeper playing countess,\nand the granddaughter of a French inn-keeper taking state and royal airs\nover simple republicans.\u201d\n\nHelen\u2019s tantalizing expressions might have caused one thing royal\u2014a\n\u201cbattle royal\u201d\u2014for, although they were little young ladies, they were\nsometimes apt to forget the rules of good breeding daily enjoined upon\nthem\u2014but fortunately they were interrupted. Some ladies joined\nthem\u2014mothers and elder sisters of the girls; for this park-like wood\nwas a favorite afternoon resort for the inhabitants of the little\nvillage of B\u2014\u2014. The angry retort trembled on Caro\u2019s tongue, and\nfrowning glances were exchanged between them; for awhile their quarrel\nwas suspended\u2014but only for awhile; the next day would be sure to renew\nthe scene. After a little talk with the ladies, Caro and Lina withdrew\nto another part of the grounds, followed by their adherents, which we\nmust confess, comprised the greater number of the school; and the sturdy\nlittle republican, Helen, was in the minority, for only two or three of\nthe older girls espoused her cause. As they left, one of the remaining\ngirls whispered to Helen, with a merry laugh,\n\n\u201cSee, Caro and Lina are going off to hold their Court. Had we not better\nset up a rival one? We will elect you lady president, or cabinet\nofficer\u2019s lady, or senator\u2019s wife. You would not, I suppose, take any\nless republican title from us, and, of course, it would be hardly safe\nor proper to send you ministress plenipotentiary to adjust difficulties\nbetween the two governments.\u201d\n\nHelen laughed contemptuously, as if she thought the whole affair too\nchildish to be noticed. But her little heart was not much, if any,\nbetter than Caro\u2019s and Lina\u2019s. Like theirs it swelled with anger and\npride, and although she was a good, sensible girl, she many times\npermitted her temper and a spirit of envious rivalry that had\nunconsciously sprung up between her and Caro, to master her, and make\nher forget the gentle courtesy and good-breeding which should\ncharacterize every woman, whether republican or aristocrat\u2014because she\nis a woman.\n\n\n                         2.\u2014\u201cFORTUNE\u2019S PRANKS.\u201d\n\n           Napoleon! he hath come again\u2014borne home\n             Upon the popular ebbing heart\u2014a sea\n             Which gathers its own wrecks perpetually,\n           Majestically moaning. Give him room!\n           Room for the dead in Paris! welcome solemn!\n           And grave deep, \u2019neath the cannon moulded column!\n           \u2014\u2014Napoleon! the recovered name\n             Shakes the old casements of the world! and we\n             Look out upon the passing pageantry,\n           Attesting that the Dead makes good his claim\n           To a Gaul grave\u2014another kingdom won\u2014\n           The last\u2014of few spans\u2014by Napoleon!\n           I think this nation\u2019s tears poured thus together,\n           Nobler than shouts!\n           This funeral grander than crownings\u2014\n           This grave stronger than thrones.\n                                          ELIZABETH BARRETT.\n\nThere\u2019s a lady\u2014a prince\u2019s daughter; she is proud and she is noble;\nAnd she treads the crimsoned carpet, and she breathes the perfumed air;\nAnd a kingly blood sends glances up her princely eye to trouble,\nAnd the shadow of a monarch\u2019s crown is sweeping in her hair.\n                                                     ELIZABETH BARRETT.\n\nCarriages rolled through the crowded streets of Paris, and a gay crowd\nthronged to the residence of the republican prince\u2014the new French\npresident. A stately levee was to be held, and Josephine\u2019s grandson\ninherited Napoleon\u2019s popularity! Time had avenged _her_ wrongs, and\nFortune, which had played such curious, elfish pranks with this great\nfamily, had set them once more aloft, but at their head she placed with\nstrange justice the representative of the dethroned, divorced empress.\n\nIt was a brilliant sight. Ladies were there in gorgeous costume,\nglittering with diamonds, and gentlemen in full court-dress decked with\norders. Near the President stood a group of beautiful women\u2014the women\nof his family\u2014his cousins, once, twice, and thrice removed. Among them\nwas a lady who attracted the admiring gaze of more than one passer-by.\nShe had a majestic presence, though still quite young\u2014in the first\nflush of early womanhood. Her face was as beautiful as her form, which\nwas faultless in its proportions. She had a clear, rich skin\u2014eyes by\nturns flashing and serene, under \u201c_level fronting eye-lids_\u201d\u2014a\nbeautiful mouth, with the full lips gently and sweetly parted, and a\nNapoleonesque chin, that told her Buonaparte descent, with a lovely\ndimple denting its centre. Her thick, glossy hair was dressed with\nclassical severity, for they told her, her head was like the Princess\nPauline\u2019s, and made her bind it with a broad coronet, woven of her own\nrich hair. She was beautiful enough to have inspired another Canova to\nsculpture her also as a Venus.\n\nA buzz was heard, while the Russian Ambassador presented a gentleman and\nlady with much consideration to the president. The young cousin of the\npresident started, and a brilliant flush crimsoned her cheek\u2014whose only\nfault, if fault it could be, was its delicate pallor\u2014as she looked at\nthe lady newly presented, and heard her title\u2014the Countess O\u2014\u2014.\n\nThe countess was a fair young creature with a delicate sylph-like\nfigure, and her hair fell in soft, brown ringlets, as if wishing to\nburst from the confinement of the jeweled comb and costly bandeau, in\norder to shade her timid beauty. Many remarked the purity and simplicity\nof her style, and low murmurs told the inquiring stranger, that though\nbearing a foreign name and title, she was said to be an American.\n\nThe crowd increased, and the circle around the president gradually\nseparated, making room for the throng of _nobodys_ who wished to be\npresented. The hum of conversation grew louder, and though the new\npresident exacted much ceremony, it was plain to be seen that etiquette\ndid not forbid the merry laugh, nor the sparkling _repart\u00e9e_.\n\nA little group of ladies and gentlemen stood near a window, laughing and\nchatting with all that sprightliness with which the French people of\nsociety know so well how to enliven conversation. Some of the company\npassed by, promenading. A lady of the group at the window, lifted her\narm\u2014it must have been unconsciously, certainly it was done gracefully,\nand in so doing, entangled her magnificent diamond bracelet in the\ncostly lace _berth\u00e9_ of a lady passing by.\n\nThe owner of the offending bracelet was the cousin of the President, the\nlady of the _berth\u00e9_ the fair Russian countess. The first bent over as\nif to disentangle the sparkling clasp from the delicate meshes of the\nlace, and her manner, repulsed all offers of assistance from those\nstanding by. It seemed a difficult task, however, and she had quite time\nenough to say more than the mere apologies required, and surely she did\nsay more than those standing near them heard, for the mere \u201cPardonnez\nmoi Madame je vous prie,\u201d could not have caused the slight start which\nthe pretty little countess gave, nor the delicate flush that tinged her\nfair temples, when the French lady\u2019s glowing cheek rested near hers, in\nbending down to disentangle her ornament.\n\n\u201cLina,\u201d said the president\u2019s cousin, in a low, laughing tone, that\ngurgled up like the melody of foam-bells in a stream, \u201cwho would have\nthought when Helen Morris used to laugh at us in America, that our\nchildish imaginings would come true? Why, darling, you are not only a\ncountess, but you are wedded to the first and oldest blood of Europe;\nand I, dear one\u2014yes, I\u2014if not an acknowledged princess, will yet be a\nqueen.\u201d\n\nThe bracelet was disengaged\u2014the _berth\u00e9_ released. The French lady made\na low courtesy to the countess, with her eyes bent upon the ground\u2014and\nthey parted.\n\nFortune is a capricious goddess, and surely the wildest, most improbable\nromances ever imagined, could not surpass, scarcely equal, the strange\nreverses the blind goddess of the wheel has brought to the family of the\ngreat \u201cWorld-Actor of the Nineteenth Century,\u201d NAPOLEON.\n\n                 *        *        *        *        *\n\n\n\n\n                       QUAIL AND QUAIL SHOOTING.\n\n\nBY HENRY WILLIAM HERBERT, AUTHOR OF FRANK FORESTER\u2019S \u201cFIELD SPORTS,\u201d \u201cFISH\n                           AND FISHING,\u201d ETC.\n\n\n[Illustration: THE AMERICAN QUAIL, OR VIRGINIA PARTRIDGE.\n(_Ortyx Virginianus._ _Perdix Virginianus._)]\n\nNovember is upon us\u2014hearty, brown, healthful November, harbinger of his\nbest joys to the ardent sportsman, and best beloved to him of all the\nmonths of the great annual cycle; November, with its clear, bracing,\nwestern breezes; its sun, less burning, but how far more beautiful than\nthat of fierce July, as tempered now and softened by the rich, golden\nhaze of Indian summer, quenching his torrent rays in its mellow, liquid\nlustre, and robing the distant hills with wreaths of purple light, half\nmist, half shrouded sunshine; November, with its wheat and buckwheat\nstubbles, golden or bloody red; with its sere maize leaves rustling in\nthe breeze, whence the quail pipes incessant; with its gay woodlands\nflaunting in their many-colored garb of glory; with its waters more\nclearly calm, more brilliantly transparent than those of any other\nseason; November, when the farmer\u2019s toils have rendered their reward,\nand his reaped harvests glut his teeming garners, so that he too, like\nthe pent denizen of swarming cities, may take his leisure with his gun\n\u201cin the wide vale, or by the deep wood-side,\u201d and enjoy the rapture of\nthose sylvan sports which he may not participate in sweltering July, in\nwhich they are, alas! permitted by ill-considered legislation, in every\nother state, save thine, honest and honorable Massachusetts.[2]\n\nIn truth there is no period of the whole year so well adapted, both by\nthe seasonable climate, and the state of the country, shorn of its\ncrops, and not now to be injured by the sportsman\u2019s steady stride, or\nthe gallop of his high-bred setters, both by the abundance of game in\nthe cleared stubbles and the sere woodlands, and by the aptitude of the\nbrisk, bracing weather for the endurance of fatigue, and the enjoyment\nof manful exercise, as this our favorite November.\n\nIn this month, the beautiful Ruffed Grouse, that mountain-loving, and\nman-shunning hermit, steals down from his wild haunts among the giant\nrhododendrons, and evergreen rock-calmias, to nearer woodskirts, and\ncedar-brakes margining the red buckwheat stubbles, to be found there by\nthe staunch dogs, and brought to bag by the quick death-shot, \u201cat morn\nand dewy eve,\u201d without the toil and torture, often most vain and vapid,\nof scaling miles on miles of mountain-ledges, struggling through\nthickets of impenetrable verdure among the close-set stems of hemlock,\npine, or juniper, only to hear the startled rush of an unseen pinion,\nand to pause, breathless, panting, and outdone, to curse, while you\ngather breath for a renewed effort, the bird which haunts such covert,\nand the covert which gives shelter to such birds.\n\nIn this month, if no untimely frost, or envious snow flurry come,\npremature, to chase him to the sunny swamps of Carolina and the\nrice-fields of Georgia, the plump, white-fronted, pink-legged autumn\nWoodcock, flaps up from the alder-brake with his shrill whistle, and\nsoars away, away, on a swift and powerful wing above the russet\ntree-tops, to be arrested only by the instinctive eye and rapid finger\nof the genuine sportsman; and no longer as in faint July to be bullied\nand bungled to death by every German city pot-hunter, or every pottering\nrustic school-boy, equipped and primed for murder, on his Saturday\u2019s\nhalf holyday.\n\nIn this month, the brown-jacketed American hare, which our folk _will_\npersist in calling _Rabbit_\u2014though it neither lives in warrens, nor\nburrows habitually under ground, and though it breeds not every month in\nthe year, which are the true distinctive characteristics of the\nRabbit\u2014is in his prime of conditions, the leverets of the season, plump\nand well grown; and the old bucks and does, recruited after the breeding\nseason, in high health and strength, and now legitimate food for\ngunpowder, legitimate quarry for the chase of the merry beagles.\n\nIn this month especially, the Quail, the best-loved and choicest object\nof the true sportsman\u2019s ambition; the bird which alone affords more\nbrilliant and exciting sport than all the rest beside; the bravest on\nthe wing, and the best on the board; the swiftest and strongest flyer of\nany feathered game; the most baffling to find, the most troublesome to\nfollow up, and when followed up and found, the most difficult to kill in\nstyle; the beautiful American Quail is in his highest force and feather;\nand in this month, according to the laws of all the States, even the\nmost rigorous and stringent in preservation, killable legitimately under\nstatute.\n\nIn New York, generally, the close-time for the Quail ends with October,\nand he may not be slain until the first day of November; in New Jersey,\n_ortygicide_ commences on the 25th of October, in Massachusetts and\nConnecticut on some day between the 15th of the past and the first of\nthe present month; in Pennsylvania, Delaware and Maryland, where they\nare something more forward, as breeding earlier in the season than in\nthe Eastern States, on the first of October; and in Canada West, where\nthey are exceedingly abundant, on the first of September; which is, for\nmany reasons, entirely too early, as hereafter I shall endeavor to\ndemonstrate.\n\nIn my own opinion, the first of November, and even the middle of\nOctober, are too late for the termination of the Quail\u2019s close-time,\ninasmuch as five-sevenths of the broods in ordinarily forward seasons\nare full-grown and strong on the wing, as well as all the crops off the\nground, by the first of October; and although the late, second, or third\nbroods may be undersized, they are still well able to take care of\nthemselves in case the parent birds are killed; whereas, on account of\ntheir immature size, they are safe from the legitimate shot; and, on\naccount of their unsaleability in market to the restaurant, from the\npoaching pot-shot also.\n\nI should, therefore, myself, be strongly inclined to advocate the\nadoption of one common day, and that day the first of October, for the\nclose-time of all our upland game; the English Snipe alone excepted.\nTouching the reasons for postponing the day of Woodcock-shooting, a\nnotice will be found in our July number, and an extended discussion in\nmy Field Sports, vol. I. pp. 169 to 200. Of the Quail, in regard to this\npoint, I have said enough here, unless this; that, in my opinion, there\nis far more need to protect them from the trap during the wintry snows,\nthan from the gun in the early autumn; the latter cannot possibly at any\ntime exterminate the race; the former not only easily _may_, but\nactually _does_ all but annihilate the breed, whenever the snow falls\nand lies deep during any weeks of December, during the whole of which\nmonth the pursuit and sale of this charming little bird is legal.\n\nCould I have my way, the close-time for Quail should end on the last day\nof September; and the shooting season end on the twenty-fourth day of\nDecember; before which date snow now rarely lies continuously in New\nJersey, Southern New York, or Pennsylvania. Why I would anticipate the\ntermination of the close-time, in reference to the Ruffed Grouse, I\nshall state at length, when I come to treat of that noble bird, in our\nDecember issue; to which month I have attributed it, because it is then\nthat it _is_, though in my opinion, _it ought not to be_, most\nfrequently seen on our tables. While on the topic of preservation, I\nwill mention a fact, which certainly is not widely, much less generally\nknown, among farmers; namely, that this merry and domestic little bird\nis one of his best friends and assistants in the cultivation of his\nlands. During nine or ten months of the year he subsists entirely on the\nseeds of many of the most troublesome and noxious weeds and grasses,\nwhich infest the fields, more especially those of the ragwort, the dock,\nand the briar. It is believed, I might almost say ascertained, that he\nnever plucks any kind of grain, even his own loved buckwheat when ripe,\nfrom the stalk, but only gleans the fallen seeds from the stubbles after\nharvest, so that while he in nothing deteriorates the harvest to be\ningathered, he tends in the highest degree to the preservation of clean\nand unweeded fields and farms; indeed, when it is taken into\nconsideration that each individual Quail consumes daily nearly two gills\nof weed-seed, it will be at once evident that a few bevies of these\nlittle birds, carefully and assiduously preserved on a farm, will do\nmore toward keeping it free of weeds, than the daily annual labor of a\ndozen farm-servants. This preservation will not be counteracted or\ninjured by a moderate and judicious use of the gun in the autumnal\nmonths; for the bevies need thinning, especially of the cock-birds,\nwhich invariably outnumber the hens, and which, if unable to pair, from\na want of mates, form into little squads or companies of males, which\nremain barren, and become the deadly enemies of the young cocks of the\nfollowing year, beating them off and dispersing them; though, strange to\nsay, they will themselves never mate again, nor do aught, after\nremaining unpaired during one season, to propagate their species. The\nuse of the trap, on the contrary, destroying whole bevies at a swoop,\nwhere the gun, even in the most skillful hands, rarely much more than\ndecimates them, may, in a single winter\u2019s day, if many traps be set,\ndestroy the whole stocking of a large farm for years, if not forever. I\nhave myself invariably remarked, since my attention was first called to\nthe fact, that those farms which are best stocked with Quail, are\ninvariably the cleanest of weeds; and a right good sportsman, and good\nfriend of mine, working on the same base _per contra_, says that, in\ndriving his shooting-cart and dogs through a country, he has never found\nit worth his while to stop and beat a district full of weedy and dirty\nfarms, as such never contain Quail.\n\nIf this may lead our farmers to consider that every live Quail does far\nmore good on the farm, than the shilling earned by his capture in the\n_omnivorous_ trap; and therefore to prohibit their sons and farm-boys\nfrom exterminating them at their utmost need, when food is scarce, and\nshelter hard to find, my words will not have been altogether wasted, nor\nmy object unattained.\n\nWere I a farmer, I would hang it over my kitchen fireplace, inscribed in\ngoodly capitals\u2014\u201cSpare the Quail! If you would have clean fields and\ngoodly crops, spare the Quail! So shall you spare your labor.\u201d\n\nAnd now, in a few words, we will on to their nomenclature, their\ndistinctive marks, their regions of inhabitation, seasons, haunts, and\nhabits; and last, not least, how, when, and where lawfully, honorably,\nsportsmanly, and gnostically, you may and shall, kill them.\n\nI will not, however, here pause long to discuss the point, whether they\nought to be termed Quail or Partridge. Scientifically and practically\nthey are neither, but a connecting link between the two _subgenera_.\nTrue Partridge, nor true Quail, very _perdix_, nor very _coturnix_,\nexists at all anywhere in America. Our bird, an intermediate bird\nbetween the two, named by the naturalists _Ortyx_, which is the Greek\nterm for true Quail, is peculiar to America, of which but one species,\nthat before us, is found in the United States, except on the Pacific\ncoast and in California, where there are many other beautiful varieties.\nOur bird is known everywhere East, and everywhere North-west of\nPennsylvania, and in Canada, as the Quail\u2014everywhere South as the\nPartridge. In size, plumage, flight, habits, and cry, it more closely\nresembles the European Quail; in some structural points, especially the\nshape and solidity of the bill, the European Partridge. On the whole, I\ndeem it properly termed AMERICAN QUAIL; but whether of the two it shall\nbe called, matters little, as no other bird on this continent can clash\nwith it, so long as we avoid the ridicule of calling one bird by two\ndifferent terms, on the opposite sides of one river\u2014the Delaware. The\nstupid blunder of calling the Ruffed Grouse, Pheasant, and Partridge, in\nthe South and East, is a totally different kind of misnomer; as that\nbird bears no resemblance, however distant, to either of the two\nspecies, and has a very good English name of his own, _videlicet_,\n\u201cRuffed or Tippeted Grouse,\u201d by which alone he is known to men of brains\nor of sportsmanship. With regard to our Quail, it is different, as he\nhas no distinctive English name of his own; but is, even by naturalists,\nindiscriminately known as Quail and Partridge. The former is certainly\nthe truer appellation, as he approximates more closely to that\nsub-genus. We wish much that this question could be settled; which we\nfear, now, that it never can be, from the want of any sporting\n_authority_, in the country, to pass judgment. The \u201cSpirit of the\nTimes,\u201d though still as well supported and as racy as ever, has, I\nregret to say, ceased to be an authority, and has become a mere arena\nwherein for every scribbler to discuss and support his own undigested\nand crude notions without consideration or examination; and wherein\nthose who know the least, invariably fancying themselves to know the\nmost, vituperate with all the spite of partisan personality, every\nperson who having learned more by reading, examination of authorities,\nand experience than they, ventures to express an opinion differing from\ntheir old-time prejudices, and the established misnomers of provincial\nor sectional vulgarism.\n\nBut to resume, the American Quail, or \u201cPartridge of the South,\u201d is too\nwell known throughout the whole of America, from the waters of the\nKennebec on the East, and the Great Lakes on the North\u2014beyond which\nlatter, except on the South-western peninsula of Canada West, lying\nbetween Lakes Erie, St. Clair, and Huron, they are scarcely to be\nfound\u2014is too well known, almost to the extreme South, to need\ndescription. Their beauty, their familiar cry, their domestic habits\nduring the winter, when they become half civilized, feeding in the\nbarn-yards, and often roosting under the cattle-sheds with the poultry,\nrender them familiar to all men, women, boys and fools throughout the\nregions, which they inhabit. It is stated by ornithologists, that they\nabound from Nova Scotia and the northern parts of Canada to Florida and\nthe Great Osage villages; but this is incorrect, as they rarely are seen\neastward of Massachusetts; _never_ in Nova Scotia, or Canada East; and\nrange so far as Texas, and the edges of the great American salt desert.\nThe adult male bird differs from the hen in having its chaps and a\nremarkable gorget on the throat and lower neck, pure white, bordered\nwith jetty black; which parts, in the young male and the adult female,\nare bright reddish-yellow; the upper parts of both are beautifully\ndashed and freckled with chestnut and mahogany-brown, black, yellow,\ngray, and pure white; the under parts pure white, longitudinally dashed\nwith brownish red, and transversely streaked with black arrow-headed\nmarks. The colors of the male are all brighter, and more definite, than\nin the female.\n\nEverywhere eastward of the Delaware the Quail is resident, never\nrambling far from the haunts in which he is bred. Everywhere to the\nwestward he is in the later autumn migratory, moving constantly on foot,\nand never flying except when flushed or compelled to cross streams and\nwater-courses, from the west eastward; the farther west, the more marked\nis this peculiarity.\n\nThe Quail pairs early in March; begins to lay early in May, in a nest\nmade on the surface of the ground, usually at the bottom of a tussock or\ntuft of grass, her eggs being pure white, and from ten to thirty-two in\nnumber, though about fourteen is probably the average of the bevies. The\nperiod of incubation is about four weeks, the young birds run the\ninstant they clip the shell, and fly readily before they have been\nhatched a fortnight. So soon as the first brood is well on the wing, the\ncock takes charge of it, and the hen proceeds to lay and hatch a second,\nthe male bird and first brood remaining in the close vicinity, and the\nparents, I doubt not, attending the labor of incubation and attending\nthe young. This I have long suspected; but I saw so many proofs of it,\nin company of my friend and fellow sportsman, \u201cDinks,\u201d while shooting\ntogether near Fort Malden, in Canada West\u2014where we found, in many\ninstances, two distinct bevies of different sizes with a single pair of\nold birds, when shooting early in September of last year\u2014that we were\nequally convinced of the truth of the fact, and of the unfitness of the\nseason.\n\nIn October, with the exception of a very few late broods, they are fit\nfor the gun; and then, while the stubbles are long, and the weeds and\ngrasses rank, they lie the best and are the least wild on the wing. The\nearly mornings and late afternoons are the fittest times for finding\nthem, when they are on the run, and feeding in the edges of wheat and\nrye stubbles, or buckwheat patches bordering on woodlands. In the middle\nof the day they either lie up in little brakes and bog-meadows, or bask\non sandy banks, and craggy hill-sides, when they are collected into\nlittle huddles, and are then difficult to find. As soon as flushed, they\npitch into the thickest neighboring covert, whether bog-meadow,\nbriar-patch, cedar-brake, ravine, or rough corn-stubble, they can find,\ntheir flight being wild, rapid, and impetuous, but rarely very long, or\nwell sustained. As they unquestionably possess the mysterious power,\nwhether voluntary or involuntary, of holding in their scent, for a short\ntime after alighting, and are difficultly found again till they have\nrun, I recommend it, as by far the better way, to mark them down well,\nand beat for another bevy, until you hear them calling to each other;\nthen lose no time in flushing them again, when they are sure to\ndisperse, and you to have sport with them.\n\nMyself, I prefer setters for their pursuit, as more dashing, more\nenduring, and abler to face briars\u2014others prefer pointers, as steadier\non less work, and better able to fag without water. Either, well broke,\nare good\u2014ill broke, or unbroke, worthless. Still give me\nsetters\u2014Russian or Irish specially! Quail fly very fast, and strong,\nespecially in covert, and require the whole charge to kill them dead and\nclean. At cross shots, shoot well ahead; at rising shots, well above;\nand at straight-away shots, a trifle below your birds; and an oz. \u00bc of\nNo. 8, early, and of No. 7, late, will fetch them in good style. And so\ngood sport to you, kind reader; for this, if I err not, is doomed to be\na crack Quail season.\n\n-----\n\n[2] A law was passed, during the spring of the present year, in that\nrespectable and truly conservative State, by which the murder of\nunfledged July Woodcock, by cockney gunners was prohibited; and the\nclose time judiciously prolonged until September. The debate was\nremarkable for two things, the original genius with which the Hon.\nMember for Westboro\u2019 persisted that Snipe are Woodcock, and Woodcock\nSnipe, all naturalists to the contrary notwithstanding; and the\npertinent reply to the complaint of a city member, that to abolish July\nshooting would rob the _city sportsman_ of his sport\u2014viz., that in that\ncase it would give it to the farmer. Marry, say we, amen, so be it!\n\n                 *        *        *        *        *\n\n\n\n\n                THE SPECTRE KNIGHT AND HIS LADYE-BRIDE.\n\n\n                        A LAY OF THE OLDEN TIME.\n\n\n                           BY FANNY FIELDING.\n\n\n           Lady Margaret sits in her father\u2019s ha\u2019\n             Wi\u2019 the tear-drop in her een,\n           For her lover-knight is far awa\u2019\n             In the fields o\u2019 Palestine.\n\n           Now the rose is fled frae her downy cheek,\n             An\u2019 wan is her lily-white hand,\n           An\u2019 her bonnie blue e\u2019e the tear doth dim,\n             For her knight in the Holy Land.\n\n           His banner it is the Holy Cross,\n             But it gars her greet fu\u2019 sair,\n           As she meekly kneels and his lo\u2019ed name breathes\n             At _Our Mother\u2019s_ shrine in prayer.\n\n           \u201cO, hae ye a care, sweet Mother fair,\n             O\u2019er the lion-hearted king,\n           But send me back Sir Hildebrande safe,\n             Abune a\u2019 ither thing!\u201d\n\n           \u2019Tis Hallowe\u2019en, and twelve lang months\n             Hae i\u2019 their turn passed round,\n           An\u2019 \u2019twas Hallowe\u2019en when Sir Hildebrande marched\n             For Palestine\u2019s holy ground.\n\n           The castle clock tolls midnight\u2019s hour,\n             An\u2019 the ladye bethinks her now\n           Of her lover\u2019s words at the trysting-tree\u2014\n             His fervent and heartfelt vow.\n\n           \u201cO, ladye fair,\u201d said the gallant Hildebrande,\n             \u201cWhen twelve lang months shall flee,\n           Come ye then through the mossy glen\n             Adown by the trysting-tree.\n\n           \u201cWhen the wearie year brings Hallowe\u2019en\n             Ance mair to this lo\u2019ed land,\n           An\u2019 if thou wilt come at midnight\u2019s hour\n             Thou shalt hear of thine own Hildebrande.\u201d\n\n           O, the wintry wind blaws sair and chill,\n             An\u2019 it whistles fu\u2019 mournfully,\n           As the ladye strolls, at the witching hour,\n             To the glen adown the lea.\n\n           The maiden draws her mantle close,\n             For the night is dark an\u2019 drear,\n           An\u2019 now that she nears the trysting-tree\n             Her heart it quails wi\u2019 fear.\n\n           O, louder and hoarser blaws the blast,\n             An\u2019 darker grows the sky,\n           An\u2019 the clattering tramp of a courser\u2019s hoof\n             Grows nigh, an\u2019 yet more nigh!\n\n           The coal-black steed doth slack his speed\n             An\u2019 halt at the ladye\u2019s side,\n           An\u2019 a red light gleams in flickering beams\n             Around her far and wide.\n\n           A mail-clad knight doth now alight,\n             So ghastly pale an\u2019 wan\n           That the ladye cries, wi\u2019 tearfu\u2019 eyes,\n             \u201cWhere is my lover gane!\u201d\n\n           A voice like the hollow, murm\u2019ring wind\n             Replied to the high-born dame\u2014\n           \u201cO, thy lover sleeps on the battle-field\n             Among the noble slain\u2014\n\n           \u201cBut the soul that vowed to be true to thee\n             Will be true whate\u2019er betide,\n           An\u2019 returns from the land of chivalrie\n             To claim thee for his bride!\u201d\n\n           This said, he stretched forth his bony hand\n             To his well-beloved bride,\n           An\u2019 now he mounts the coal-black steed\n             Wi\u2019 the ladye by his side.\n\n           But hist! the moor-cock crows fu\u2019 shrill\n             Alang the dreary way,\n           An\u2019 goblin, elf, nor wand\u2019ring ghaist\n             Can face the light o\u2019 day.\n\n           The phantom steed doth champ his bit\n             An\u2019 flash his fiery eye\u2014\n           An\u2019 away they speed o\u2019er hill an\u2019 dale\u2014\n             O\u2019er rock an\u2019 mountain high!\n\n           Lang years hae passed since Sir Hildebrande came\n             Frae the fields o\u2019 Palestine,\n           To claim fair Margaret for his bride,\n             But on every Hallowe\u2019en,\n           When the castle clock tolls midnight\u2019s hour,\n             As on that night of yore,\n           The ladye and knight are seen to sweep\n             Adown the drearie moor.\n           The coal-black steed doth champ his bit\n             An\u2019 flash his fiery e\u2019e,\n           But he slacks his speed at the knight\u2019s command\n             As he gains the trysting-tree.\n\n                 *        *        *        *        *\n\n\n\n\n                        TO L\u2014\u2014. WITH SOME POEMS.\n\n\n                          BY GRACE GREENWOOD.\n\n\n            I know these lays will come to thee\n              Like flowers along thy pathway strown\u2014\n            And wear to thy young, generous eyes\n              A grace and beauty not their own.\n\n            Thou know\u2019st they spring where deepest shade\n              And blinding sunlight are at strife\u2014\n            Faint blooms and frail, yet bringing thee\n              Sweet breathings from my inmost life.\n\n            Or come like waters, leaping out\n              From shadowy places to the day,\n            To catch heaven\u2019s brightness on their waves,\n              And freshen earth along their way.\n\n            A streamlet laughing in the sun\n              Is all a busy world may hear\u2014\n            The deepest fountains of my soul\n              Send up their murmurs to thine ear.\n\n            There are to whom these lays shall come\n              Like strains that sky-larks downward send;\n            But ah, no higher than thy heart\n              They sing to thee, belov\u00e9d friend!\n\n            For in thy manhood pure and strong,\n              With thy great soul, thy fresh, young heart,\n            Thou _livest_ my ideal life,\n              And what I only dream thou _art_.\n\n            The Grecian youth whose name thou bear\u2019st,\n              Who nightly with the billows strove,\n            And through the wild seas cleaved his way\n              To the dear bosom of his love,\n\n            Ne\u2019er bore a braver soul than thine,\n              When yawned great deeps and tempests frowned,\n            Nor lifted up amid the waves\n              A brow with loftier beauty crowned.\n\n            The poet\u2019s rare and wondrous gifts\n              In thee await their triumph-hour\u2014\n            There sleep within thy dreamy eyes\n              The mighty secrets of his power.\n\n            Thy heart, with one high throb, can rise\n              His fair, heroic dreams above\u2014\n            There breathes more passion in thy voice\n              Than in a thousand lays of love.\n\n            Ah, know\u2019st thou not, the while thou deem\u2019st\n              The poet\u2019s mission most divine,\n            Life\u2019s grand, unwritten poetry\n              Goes out from natures such as thine?\n\n            What though it falleth brokenly,\n              And faintly on the world\u2019s dull ear\u2014\n            Though clamorous voices cry it down,\n              To God it rises, pure and clear!\n\n            It cometh as a service glad\u2014\n              A music all as full and sweet,\n            As though the stars hymned forth their joy,\n              And rolled their anthems to His feet.\n\n            When, like the Grecian youth, thou see\u2019st\n              The midnight tempests gather round\u2014\n            When storm-clouds seem to flood the heavens,\n              And all the starry lights are drowned;\u2014\n\n            Upborne by angel-hands, may\u2019st thou\n              Through life\u2019s wild sea right onward sweep,\n            To where Hope\u2019s signal lights the night,\n              And Love stands watching by the deep.\n\n                 *        *        *        *        *\n\n\n\n\n                              WORDSWORTH.\n\n\n                           BY WM. ALEXANDER.\n\n\n          Another bard of Albion is no more,\n            Who erst with folded arms, oft, calmly stood,\n            Nature\u2019s contemplative\u2014the great and good\u2014\n          Let every hill and valley him deplore,\n          Whose hand hath ceased to wake the tuneful lyre\u2014\n            \u2019Mid earthly landscapes, and o\u2019er mountains old,\n            He walked in sweet Excursion, to behold\n            \u201cThe Rainbow in the Sky.\u201d Nature\u2019s great Sire\n            Hath taken him\u2014\u201chis heart leaps up\u201d to see\n              The emerald-colored bow about the throne,\n              Where sits the King of kings and Lord alone.\n            Sweet Wordsworth! poet of true purity!\n          Thy hand upon a nobler lyre doth rest\u2014\n          A lyre of glory in the land of those forever blest.\n\n                 *        *        *        *        *\n\n\n\n\n                          REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.\n\n\n    _The Prelude; or Growth of a Poet\u2019s Mind. An Autobiographical\n    Poem. By William Wordsworth. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol.\n    12mo._\n\n    _The Excursion. By William Wordsworth. New York: C. S. Francis &\n    Co. 1 vol. 12mo._\n\nIt was known as long ago as 1814, that Wordsworth had written the\npresent poem, and that it would not be published until after his death.\nIt now appears that it was commenced as far back as 1799, and was\nfinally completed in 1805. The purpose of the poem is to exhibit the\ngradual growth of the poet\u2019s mind, from its first development of\nimagination and passion, to the period when he conceived he had grown up\nto that height of contemplation which would justify his attempt to\nrealize the great object of his life\u2014the production of a philosophic\npoem on Man, Nature, and Society. \u201cThe Prelude,\u201d is addressed to\nColeridge, the poet\u2019s intimate friend; and the egotism of the narrative\nis much modified, by its being thus seemingly intended, not for the\npublic, but for the poet-metaphysician into whose single heart and brain\nits revelations are poured. The character of the poem is essentially\npsychological, the object being to notice only those events and scenes\nwhich fed and directed the poet\u2019s mind, and to regard them, not so much\nin their own nature, as in their influence on the nature of the poet.\nThe topics, therefore, though trite in themselves, are all made original\nfrom the peculiarities of the person conceiving them. His childhood and\nschool-time, his residence at the university, his summer vacation, his\nvisit to the Alps, his tour through France, his residence in London and\nFrance, are the principal topics; but the enumeration of the topics can\nconvey no impression of the thought, observation, and imagination, the\neloquent philosophy, vivid imagery, and unmistakable _Wordsworthianism_,\nwhich characterize the volume.\n\nIt must be admitted, however, that \u201cThe Prelude,\u201d with all its merits,\ndoes not add to the author\u2019s great fame, however much it may add to our\nknowledge of his inner life. As a poem it cannot be placed by the side\nof The White Doe, or The Excursion, or the Ode on Childhood, or the Ode\non the Power of Sound; and the reason is to be found in its strictly\ndidactic and personal character, necessitating a more constant use of\nanalysis and reflection, and a greater substitution of the metaphysical\nfor the poetic process, than poetry is willing to admit. Though intended\nas an introduction to \u201cThe Excursion,\u201d it has not its sustained richness\nof diction and imagery; and there is little of that easy yielding of the\nmind to the inspiration of objects, and that ecstatic utterance of the\nemotions they excite, which characterize passages selected at random\nfrom the latter poem\u2014as in that grand rushing forth of poetic impulse,\nin the Fourth Book:\n\nOh! what a joy it were in vigorous health,\nTo have a body (this our vital frame\nWith shrinking sensibility endued,\nAnd all the nice regards of flesh and blood,)\nAnd to the elements surrender it\nAs if it were a spirit! How divine,\nThe liberty, for frail, for mortal man\nTo roam at large among unpeopled glens\nAnd mountainous retirements, only trod\nBy devious footsteps; regions consecrate\nTo oldest time! and, reckless of the storm\nThat keeps the raven quiet in her nest,\nBe as a presence or a motion\u2014one\nAmong the many there; and while the mists\nFlying, and rainy vapors, call out shapes\nAnd phantoms from the crags and solid earth\nAs fast as a musician scatters sounds\nOut of an instrument; and while the streams\n(As at a first creation, and in haste\nTo exercise their untried faculties)\nDescending from the region of the clouds,\nAnd starting from the hollows of the earth\nMore multitudinous every moment, rend\nTheir way before them\u2014what a joy to roam\nAn equal among mightiest energies;\nAnd haply sometimes with articulate voice,\nAmid the deafening tumult, scarcely heard\nBy him that utters it, exclaim aloud,\n\u201cBe this continued so from day to day,\nNor let the fierce commotion have an end.\nRuinous though it be, from month to month.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe Prelude\u201d has many fine descriptions of nature, but nothing which\nrises to the beauty and sublimity of the following passage from \u201cThe\nExcursion\u201d:\n\n                        \u2014when a step,\nA single step, that freed me from the skirts\nOf the blind vapor, opened to my view\nGlory beyond all glory ever seen\nBy waking sense or by the dreaming soul!\nThe appearance, instantaneously disclosed\nWas of a mighty city\u2014boldly say\nA wilderness of building, sinking far\nAnd self-withdrawn into a wondrous depth,\nFar sinking into splendor\u2014without end!\nFabric it seemed of diamond and gold,\nWith alabaster domes, and silver spires,\nAnd blazing terrace upon terrace, high\nUplifted; here, serene pavilions bright,\nIn avenues disposed; there, towers begirt\nWith battlements that on their restless fronts\nBore stars\u2014illumination of all gems!\nBy earthly nature had the effect been wrought\nUpon the dark materials of the storm\nNow pacified; on them, and on the coves\nAnd mountain-steeps and summits, whereunto\nThe vapors had receded, taking there\nTheir station under a cerulean sky.\nOh! \u2019twas an unimaginable sight!\nClouds, mists, streams, watery rocks and emerald turf,\nClouds of all tincture, rocks and sapphire sky,\nConfused, commingled, mutually inflamed,\nMolten together, and composing thus,\nEach lost in each, that marvelous array\nOf temple, palace, citadel, and huge\nFantastic pomp of structure without name,\nIn fleecy folds voluminous, enwrapped.\nRight in the midst, where interspace appeared\nOf open court, an object like a throne\nUnder a shining canopy of state\nStood fixed; and fixed resemblances were seen\nTo implements of ordinary use,\nBut vast in size, in substance glorified;\nSuch as by Hebrew prophets were beheld\nIn vision\u2014forms uncouth of mightiest power\nFor admiration and mysterious awe.\nBelow me was the earth; this little vale\nLay low beneath my feet; \u2019twas visible\u2014\nI saw not, but I felt that it was there.\nThat which I _saw_ was the revealed abode\nOf spirits in beatitude.\n\nNot only do we see the superiority of \u201cThe Excursion\u201d in such passages\nas these, but the didactic thought is more assured, is more colored by\nimagination, and melts more readily into soft, sweet, melodious\nexpression. Take the following, for instance:\n\nWithin the soul a faculty abides,\nThat with interpositions, which would hide\nAnd darken, so can deal, that they become\nContingencies of pomp; and serve to exalt\nHer native brightness. As the ample moon,\nIn the deep stillness of a summer even\nRising behind a thick and lofty grove,\nBurns, like an unconsuming fire of light,\nIn the green trees; and, kindling on all sides\nTheir leafy umbrage, turns the dusky veil\nInto a substance glorious as her own,\nYea, with her own incorporated, by power\nCapacious and serene: like power abides\nIn man\u2019s celestial spirit; virtue thus\nSets forth and magnifies herself; thus feeds\nA calm, a beautiful, and silent fire,\nFrom the encumbrances of mortal life,\nFrom error, disappointment\u2014nay, from guilt;\nAnd sometimes, so relenting justice wills;\nFrom palpable oppressions of despair.\n\nIf \u201cThe Prelude\u201d has thus fewer \u201ctrances of thought and mountings of the\nmind\u201d than \u201cThe Excursion,\u201d it still bears the marks of the lofty and\nthoughtful genius of the author, and increases our respect for his\npersonal character. The books devoted to his residence in Cambridge, his\ntour to the Alps, and to the influence of the French Revolution upon his\ngenius and character, are additions to the philosophy of the human mind.\nWe believe that few metaphysicians ever scanned their consciousness with\nmore intensity of vision, than Wordsworth was wont to direct upon his;\nand in the present poem he has subtily noted, and firmly expressed, many\nnew psychological laws and processes. The whole subject of the\ndevelopment of the mind\u2019s creative faculties, and the vital laws of\nmental growth and production, has been but little touched by professed\nmetaphysicians; and we believe \u201cThe Prelude\u201d conveys more real available\nknowledge of the facts and laws of man\u2019s internal constitution, than can\nbe found in Hume or Kant.\n\nWe have not space for many extracts from the poem. Its philosophical\nvalue could not be indicated by quotations, and we shall content\nourselves with citing a few random passages, illustrative of its general\nstyle and thought. The following lines exhibit the tendency of\nWordsworth\u2019s mind, when a youth at college:\n\nI looked for universal things; perused\nThe common countenance of earth and sky:\nEarth, nowhere unembellished by some trace\nOf that first Paradise whence man was driven;\nAnd sky, whose beauty and bounty are expressed\nBy the proud name she bears\u2014the name of Heaven.\nI called on both to teach me what they might;\n_Or turning the mind in upon herself,_\n_Pored, watched, expected, listened, spread my thoughts_\n_And spread them with a wider creeping; felt_\n_Incumbencies more awful_, visitings\nOf the Upholder of the tranquil soul\nThat tolerates the _indignities_ of Time,\nAnd from the centre of Eternity\nAll finite motions, overruling, lives\nIn glory immutable.\n                   \u2014\nTo every natural form, rock, fruit, or flower,\nEven the loose stones that cover the high-way,\n_I gave a moral life_: I saw them feel,\nOr linked them to some feeling! _the great mass_\n_Lay bedded in a quickening soul, and all_\n_That I beheld respired with inward meaning._\n\nIn the following stern description, he records his condemnation of life\nas he found it at the great English university of Cambridge:\n\n                      For, all degrees\nAnd shapes of spurious fame and short-lived praise\nHere sat in state, and fed with daily alms\nRetainers won away from solid good;\nAnd here was Labor, his own bond-slave; Hope,\nThat never set the pains against the prize;\nIdleness halting with his weary clog,\nAnd poor misguided Shame, and witless Fear,\nAnd simple Pleasure foraging for Death;\nHonor misplaced, and Dignity astray;\nFeuds, factions, flatteries, enmity, and guile\nMurmuring submission, and bold government,\n(The idol weak as the idolater)\nAnd Decency and Custom starving Truth,\nAnd blind Authority beating with his staff\nThe child that might have led him; Emptiness\nFollowed as of good omen, and meek Worth\nLeft to herself unheard of and unknown.\n\nThe most remarkable line in the poem, a line almost equal to Milton\u2019s\n\u201cThoughts that wander through eternity,\u201d is that which concludes the\nfollowing passage on the statue of Newton at Cambridge:\n\nAnd from my pillow, looking forth by light\nOf moon or favoring stars, I could behold\nThe antechapel where the statue stood\nOf Newton with his prism and silent face,\nThe marble index of a mind forever\n_Voyaging through strange seas of thought, alone_.\n\nWith the lingering, mysterious music of this line sounding in our ears,\nit would be an impertinence to continue these loose remarks on \u201cThe\nPrelude\u201d any further; and we close by commending the poem to the\nthoughtful attention of thinking readers.\n\n                 *        *        *        *        *\n\n    _Christian Thought on Life: In a Series of Discourses. By Henry\n    Giles, Author of Lectures and Essays. Boston: Ticknor, Reed &\n    Fields. 1 vol. 16mo._\n\nThe author of this beautiful volume is a born orator, whose written\nstyle instinctively takes the form of eloquence, and whose strong and\ndeep emotions are at once the inspirers and guides of his pen. He has\ngiven us here a dozen discourses, full of living thoughts and winged\nwords, and with not a page which is open to the charge of dullness or\ntriteness. When his theme compels him to introduce common thoughts he\navoids commonplaces, and we cannot recognize the old acquaintance of our\nbrain in the fresh and sparkling expression in which it here appears.\nMr. Giles, indeed, is so thoroughly a thinker, and his mind is so\npervaded by his sentiments, that where he lacks novelty he never lacks\noriginality, and always gives indications of having conceived every\nthought he expresses. Nobody can read the present volume without being\nkindled by the vivid vitality with which it presents old truths, and the\nsuperb boldness with which it announces new ones. Among the many\neloquent and impassioned discourses in the volume, that entitled \u201cThe\nGuilt of Contempt\u201d is perhaps the sharpest in mental analysis, and\nclosest and most condensed in style. It will rank with the best sermons\never delivered from an American pulpit. Another excellent and striking\ndiscourse is on the subject of spiritual incongruities as illustrated in\nthe life of David. The five discourses on the Worth, the Personality,\nthe Continuity, the Struggle, the Discipline, of Life, are remarkable\nfor their clear statement of Christian principles, and the knowledge\nthey evince of the inward workings of thought and emotions. Prayer and\nPassion is a sermon which securely threads all the labyrinths of\nselfishness, and exposes its most cunning movements and disguises.\n\nWe will give a few sentences illustrative of Mr. Giles\u2019 mode of treating\nreligious subjects, and the peculiar union of thought and emotion in his\ncommon style of expression. Speaking of the Psalms of David, he\nsays\u2014\u201cThey alone contain a poetry that meets the spiritual nature in\nall its moods and in all its wants, which strengthens virtue with\nglorious exhortations, gives angelic eloquence to prayer, and almost\nrises to the seraph\u2019s joy in praise. . . For assemblies or for solitude,\nfor all that gladdens and all that grieves, for our heaviness and\ndespair, for our remorse and our redemption, we find in these divine\nharmonies the loud or the low expression. Great has been their power in\nthe world. They resounded amidst the courts of the tabernacle; they\nfloated through the lofty and solemn spaces of the temple. They were\nsung with glory in the halls of Zion; they were sung with sorrow by the\nstreams of Babel. And when Israel had passed away, the harp of David was\nstill awakened in the church of Christ. In all the eras and ages of that\nchurch, from the hymn which first it whispered in an upper chamber,\nuntil its anthems filled the earth, the inspiration of the royal prophet\nhas enraptured its devotions and ennobled its ritual. And thus it has\nbeen, not alone in the august cathedral or the rustic chapel. Chorused\nby the winds of heaven, they have swelled through God\u2019s own temple of\nthe sky and stars; they have rolled over the broad desert of Asia, in\nthe matins and vespers of ten thousand hermits. They have rung through\nthe deep valleys of the Alps, in the sobbing voices of the forlorn\nWaldenses; through the steeps and caves of Scottish highlands, in the\nrude chantings of the Scottish Covenanters; through the woods and wilds\nof primitive America, in the heroic hallelujahs of the early pilgrims.\u201d\n\n                 *        *        *        *        *\n\n    _Specimens of Newspaper Literature. With Personal Memoirs,\n    Anecdotes, and Reminiscences. By Joseph T. Buckingham. Boston:\n    Little & Brown. 2 vols. 12mo._\n\nThe author of these volumes has been long extensively known as one of\nthe leading editors of the country; and his age and experience\npeculiarly qualify him to do justice to the subject he here undertakes\nto treat. His own recollections must extend back some sixty years; and\nduring that period he has been constantly connected with newspapers,\neither as printer\u2019s apprentice, journeyman, or editor. He knew\nintimately most of the editors and writers for the press, who took\nprominent parts in the political controversies at the formation of the\ngovernment, and during the first twenty years of its administration, and\nhe is thoroughly acquainted with all the New England newspapers which\nappeared before the Revolution and during its progress. The work,\ntherefore, is a reflection of the spirit of old times, giving their very\n\u201cform and pressure,\u201d and exhibiting, sometimes in a ludicrous light, old\npolitical passions in all their original frenzy of thought and form of\nexpression. The specimens given of newspaper literature, in verse and\nprose, are all interesting either for their folly or wisdom, and some of\nthem are valuable as curiosities of rhetoric and logic. Not only is the\nwork valuable to the antiquary, the historian, and the members of \u201cthe\ncraft,\u201d but it contains matter sufficiently piquant to stimulate and\npreserve the attention of the general reader.\n\nThe author of these volumes is a marked instance of that inherent\nstrength of character which pursues knowledge under difficulties, and is\nvictorious over all obstacles which obstruct the elevation of the\nfriendless. Without having received even a school education, and passing\nthe period that boys usually devote to Lindley Murray in a printing\noffice, he is one of the most vigorous and polished writers in New\nEngland, and in thorough acquaintance with classical English literature\nhas no superiors. Every thing he writes bears the signs, not merely of\nintellect and taste, but of forcible character; and we believe that a\nselection from his newspaper articles would make a volume, which for\noriginality of thought, and raciness of expression, would be an addition\nto our literature.\n\n                 *        *        *        *        *\n\n    _Songs of Labor, and Other Poems. By John G. Whittier. Boston:\n    Ticknor, Reed & Fields. 1 vol. 12mo._\n\nWhittier\u2019s popularity, great as it is, must be increased by these Songs\nof Labor. In them, the Ship-Builders, Shoemakers, Drovers, Fishermen,\nHuskers and Lumbermen, are gifted with vigorous and melodious utterance,\nin songs whose chime is the very echo of their occupations. The other\npoems of the collection are of a merit as various as their themes. The\nbest is the poem entitled \u201cMemories,\u201d one of the most exquisitely\ntender, thoughtful and imaginative poems in our literature. \u201cPious IX.\u201d\nand \u201cElliott,\u201d are essentially battle-pieces, and the rhymes clash\ntogether like the crossing of swords. Fierce and hot as the invective of\nthese poems is, we still think the business of wrath is much better done\nin \u201cIchabod,\u201d in which rage and scorn take the form of a dirge, and\nsmiting sarcasms are insinuated through the phrases of grief. Throughout\nthe volume we are impressed with the great nature of the author, and the\nsuperiority of the man to any thing he has yet produced. He unites, in a\nsingular degree, tenderness with strength, delicate fancy with blazing\nimagination, sensitive sentiment with sturdy character; and his most\nexhilarating and trumpet-voiced lyrics have the air of impromptus. In\nthe following lines, for instance, from a poem in the present volume on\n\u201cThe Peace Convention at Brussels,\u201d he extemporises as good heroic verse\nas Campbell\u2019s:\n\n        Still in thy streets, oh Paris! doth the stain\n        Of blood defy the cleansing autumn rain;\n        Still breaks the smoke Messina\u2019s ruins through,\n        And Naples mourns that new Bartholomew,\n        When squalid beggary, for a dole of bread,\n        At a crowned murderer\u2019s beck of license, fed\n        The yawning trenches with her noble dead;\n        Still, doomed Vienna, through thy stately halls\n        The shell goes crashing and the red shot falls,\n        And, leagued to crush thee on the Danube\u2019s side,\n        The beamed Croat and Bosniak spearman ride;\n        Still in that vale where Himalaya\u2019s snow\n        Melts round the corn-fields and the vines below,\n        The Sikh\u2019s hot cannon, answering ball for ball,\n        Flames in the breach of Moultan\u2019s shattered wall;\n        On Chenab\u2019s side the vulture seeks the slain,\n        And Sutlej paints with blood its banks again.\n\n                 *        *        *        *        *\n\n    _Rural Hours. By a Lady. New York: George P. Putnam. 1 vol.\n    12mo._\n\nTo judge from the dedication, the authoress of this goodly duodecimo\nmust be the daughter of Cooper, the novelist. She has much of her\nfather\u2019s remarkable descriptive power, but is happily deficient in that\nfretful discontent which disturbs the harmony of his later productions.\nThe volume will be found a delightful companion both to the denizen of\nthe city and country. The writer wins upon the reader\u2019s sympathies with\nevery page. Her intelligence is clear and quiet, enlarged by intimacy\nwith nature and good books, and elevated by a beautiful and unobtrusive\npiety. We hope this will not be her last production.\n\n                 *        *        *        *        *\n\n    _Sleep Psychologically Considered with reference to Sensation\n    and Memory. By Blanchard Fosgate, M. D. New York: George P.\n    Putnam. 1 vol. 12mo._\n\nThis thin volume is devoted to a subject which, though its discussion\ninvolves a consideration of topics properly metaphysical, has more\ngeneral interest than any other in the science of metaphysics, because\nits phenomena stimulate the curiosity of all who, like Richard the\nThird, are troubled with dreams. The author supports, with great power\nof illustration and argument, three propositions, viz., that during\nsleep the mental faculties are as active as during wakefulness; that\nmemory is no criterion by which to judge the mind in sleep; and that the\nmind is dependent upon the integrity of the organs of external sensation\nfor a remembrance of what transpires during this state. The discussion\nof these topics is enlivened by many curious examples.\n\n                 *        *        *        *        *\n\n    _Europe, Past and Present. By Francis H. Ungewitter, LL. D. New\n    York: George P. Putnam. 1 vol. 12mo._\n\nThis is a thick volume of some seven hundred pages, completely crammed\nwith facts relating to the history, geography, and present condition of\nevery state in Europe. The index, containing ten thousand names, will\nconvey an idea of the amount of matter which the author has compressed\ninto his volume. Though a work of vast labor, we presume that its value,\nas a work for constant reference, will amply repay the expense of\ncompiling it. Every man who reads European news should possess the book,\nprovided he desires to read news intelligently. It gives accurate ideas\nof the relative importance of the various States, by exhibiting their\nfinancial condition as well as their territory, population, and\nproductions.\n\n                 *        *        *        *        *\n\n    _Chronicle of the Conquest of Grenada. (Irving\u2019s Works, vol.\n    14.) New York: George P. Putnam. 1 vol. 12mo._\n\nEvery lover of the romantic and picturesque in history will heartily\nwelcome this re-issue of Irving\u2019s charming Chronicle. By assuming the\nposition of a contemporary, he is enabled to exhibit the prejudices of\nthe time with almost dramatic vividness, and to give events some of the\ncoloring they derived from Spanish bigotry without obscuring their real\nnature and import. The beautiful mischievousness of the occasional irony\nwhich peeps through the narrative, is in the author\u2019s happiest style.\nThe book might easily be expanded into a dozen novels, so rich is it in\nmaterials of description and adventure. In its present form it is\nreplete with accurate history, represented with pictorial vividness.\n\n                 *        *        *        *        *\n\n    _Domestic History of the American Revolution. By Mrs. Ellet,\n    Author of the Women of the American Revolution. New York: Baker\n    & Scribner. 1 vol. 12mo._\n\nThe theme which Mrs. Ellet has chosen is an important one, and\nabsolutely necessary to be comprehended by all who wish to understand\nthe American Revolution as a living fact. The great defect of most of\nour national histories and biographies is their abstract character,\nneither characters nor events being represented in the concrete, and\nbrought directly home to the hearts and imaginations of readers. The\nresult is, that most of us, when we attempt to be patriotic, slide so\nreadily into bombast; for having no distinct conceptions of what was\nreally done and suffered by our forefathers and _foremothers_, we can\nonly glorify them by a resort to the dictionary. Mrs. Ellet\u2019s book is\ndevoted to those scenes and persons in our revolutionary history, in\nexhibiting which the novelist is commonly so far in advance of the\nhistorian; and she has performed her task with much discrimination in\nthe selection of materials, and no little pictorial power in\nrepresenting what she has selected.\n\n                 *        *        *        *        *\n\n    _The Vale of Cedars; or The Martyr. By Grace Aguilar. New York:\n    D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 12mo._\n\nThis is Grace Aguilar\u2019s last work, in the most melancholy sense of the\nword, she having died of consumption shortly after its completion. The\nstory is one of much interest; the sentiments beautiful and pure; the\nstyle sweet and pleasing. We have read none of her novels with more\nsatisfaction than this. At a period when romance writing has been so\nmuch perverted from its true purpose, it is delightful to find a\nnovelist who, to a talent for narrative, united a regard for the highest\nand purest sentiments of human nature.\n\n                 *        *        *        *        *\n\n    _Norman Leslie: A Tale. By C. G. H., author of the \u201cCurate of\n    Linwood,\u201d etc. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 12mo._\n\nThis novel, in title the same as one by Theodore S. Fay, is in matter\nand style very different. It is a historical novel of the period of the\nreligious wars in Scotland, and though not peculiarly excellent in\ncharacters, is filled with stirring events and attractive scenes. The\npublishers, without much increasing the price, have printed it in a\nstyle of much neatness. Large type and white paper are a blessing not\ncommonly vouchsafed to American novel readers.\n\n                 *        *        *        *        *\n\n    _Margaret Percival in America. A Tale. Edited by a New England\n    Minister, A. M. Boston: Phillips, Sampson & Co. 1 vol. 12mo._\n\n\u201cMargaret Percival,\u201d by Miss Sewall, has had a large circulation in this\ncountry, and it is but right that the present novel, which not only\nrepresents Margaret as a more tolerant Christian, but describes the\nprocess by which she became so, should be read by all who have been\ninfluenced by the English Margaret.\n\n                 *        *        *        *        *\n\n    _Life, Here and There: Or Sketches of Society and Adventure at\n    Far-Apart Times and Places. By N. P. Willis. New York: Baker &\n    Scribner. 1 vol. 12mo._\n\nThis thick and handsome duodecimo contains many of the most charming and\nsprightly of Mr. Willis\u2019s popular compositions, evincing that singular\ncombination of sentiment and shrewdness, of poetic feeling and knowledge\nof the world, in which he has no American rival. The style, airy,\ngraceful and fluent, is distinguished by a \u201cpolished want of polish,\u201d a\nfertility of apt and fanciful expression, and a gliding ease of\nmovement, which take the reader captive, and bear him on through \u201clong\nreaches of delight.\u201d\n\n                 *        *        *        *        *\n\n    _The Berber: Or the Mountaineer of the Atlas. A Tale of Morocco,\n    By William Starbuck Mayo, M. D., Author of \u201cKaloolah,\u201d etc. New\n    York: George P. Putnam. 1 vol. 12mo._\n\nThis novel has hardly the fresh, dashing, daring character of Dr. Mayo\u2019s\nfirst romance, but it still has sufficient raciness and audacity to\nserve for a score of common novels. The author has great tact in so\nchoosing his scenes and characters that the peculiar powers of his mind\ncan have free play. In \u201cThe Berber\u201d the incidents follow each other in\nsuch quick succession that we make no demands for originality or power\nof characterization. In respect to the latter, Dr. Mayo is so far\ndeficient, though he gives evidence of being capable of drawing\ncharacters as well as telling a story.\n\n                 *        *        *        *        *\n\n    _The Companion. After-Dinner Table-Talk. By Chetwood Evelyn,\n    Esq. New York: Geo. P. Putnam. 1 vol. 12mo._\n\nThe idea of this volume is capital. It consists of short and spicy\nselections from eminent authors, and anecdotes of distinguished men, of\na character very different from those which form the staple of\njest-books. The principal source whence the editor has derived his\nbrilliancies, is that most gentlemanly of wits and humorists, Sydney\nSmith; and a fine portrait of him very properly adorns the title page.\nThe book would have been even better than it is, if the author had drawn\nhis matter from a wider circle of reading.\n\n                 *        *        *        *        *\n\n    _Reginald Hastings; a Tale of the Troubles of 164-. By Elliott\n    Warburton, Author of \u201cThe Crescent and the Cross,\u201d etc. New\n    York: Harper & Brothers._\n\nThis novel has been absurdly puffed in England, but it is nevertheless\nan interesting and well written one, worthy the pen which wrote \u201cThe\nCrescent and the Cross.\u201d The period in which its events and characters\nare laid, the Great Rebellion, so called, has not recently been treated,\nbut it has great capabilities for romantic and humorous\ncharacterization, which Warburton has employed, not indeed with the\nsagacity and genius of Scott, but with much skill and with dramatic\neffect.\n\n                 *        *        *        *        *\n\n    _Memoirs of the Life of Anne Boleyn, Queen of Henry VIII. By\n    Miss Benger. From the Third London Edition. With a Memoir of the\n    Author, by Miss Aiken. 1 vol. Philadelphia: A. Hart._\n\nIn some respects we prefer this memoir to that by Miss Strickland. The\nonly fault we have to find with Miss Benger, indeed, is that she is too\neulogistic. No one, in this age, doubts that Anne Boleyn was an innocent\nwoman, who fell a victim partly to political intrigue, partly to her\nhusband\u2019s fickleness; but it is useless to deny that she had ambition,\nand ridiculous to claim for her the character of a saint. She was, in a\nword, a witty, graceful, well-read, fascinating female, vain of\napplause, a little free in her manners, a fast friend, and a bitter\nenemy. She never loved the king, as she might have loved Percy, had not\nWolsey crossed her path, and converted her into a haughty, scheming,\nambitious woman; but she never, on the other hand, violated her vows\ntoward Henry, or failed in the discharge of any wifely duty. Her conduct\nduring the two years that the divorce was in progress is the most\ncensurable part of her life. We cannot forgive her for wringing the\nheart of the unoffending Catharine. Nor for her favor toward Henry at\nthis time can we esteem her as we would have wished. But from the period\nthat she became the lawful wife of the king her character visibly\nimproves. She was affable to the low, courteous to the high, charitable\nto the needy, just to all. As her sorrows increase her character rises\nin loveliness; her frivolity is cast aside, the haughtiness departs, and\nthe true nobleness of her heart shines forth. Nothing in history is more\npathetic than the story of her arrest, trial, and execution. In a court\nwhere she had scarcely a friend, she bore herself with the fortitude of\na martyr, asserting her innocence with an earnestness that carried\nconviction even to those who condemned her; and on the scaffold, though\nher over-wrought nerves occasionally found vent in hysterical gayety,\nher lofty and heroic soul triumphed over the terrible spectacle of the\naxe, the block, the gaping crowd. Her closing career, indeed, has all\nthe grandeur of a tragedy. We read of it with eyes dim with tears, and\nwith a heart execrating her murderers.\n\nThe volume is beautifully printed, and embellished with a portrait,\ncopied from the celebrated picture of Holbein.\n\n                 *        *        *        *        *\n\n    _Lynch\u2019s Dead Sea Expedition. A new and Condensed Edition. 1\n    vol. Philadelphia: Lea & Blanchard._\n\nThe original edition of this work was printed on such costly paper, and\nillustrated with so many engravings that hundreds of persons, who\ndesired to purchase it, were withheld by the necessarily high price. To\nmeet the wishes of this class, the present cheap edition has been\nissued. There has been no material change in the letter-press; the few\nalterations that have been made are for the better; but the engravings\nare omitted; the volume is printed on poorer paper, and the page is not\nquite so large. On the whole we think this edition more desirable than\nthe first. So much valuable information is embraced in the narrative of\nLieutenant Lynch, that persons curious respecting the Holy Land, and\nespecially respecting the Dead Sea, will find themselves amply repaid by\na perusal, and even a re-perusal of this work. Numerous popular fables\nrespecting the Jordan, the Sea of Galilee, and the dread Lake of\nGomorrah are exploded in this volume; and a mass of instructive evidence\nimparted respecting the geographical character of Palestine, its former\nfertility, and the general habits of its inhabitants. It is impossible\nto read this work without obtaining new light in the understanding of\nScripture.\n\n                 *        *        *        *        *\n\n    _Life and Correspondence of Andrew Combe. M. D. By George Combe.\n    1 vol. Philadelphia: A. Hart._\n\nAndrew Combe was almost as universally celebrated for his works on\nphysiology as his brother, George, is for his writings in connection\nwith phrenology. The present biography is a tribute, by the elder\nbrother, to the usefulness of the younger. As the story of a life, made\nbeneficial to the human race through a compassionate and wise heart, and\nthis amid constant ill-health, it is one of the most valuable offerings\nof the century to biographical literature. Apart from this, however, it\nhas a merit in the narrative of Dr. Combe\u2019s protracted illness, and the\nmeans used successfully by him to prolong life. An early victim to\nconsumption, he arrested the progress of disease, and protracted his\nexistence for more than twenty years, during which period all of his\nbest works were written. The volume teaches two important lessons: the\nfirst, that in the study of physiology, alleviation may be found for\nmuch of human suffering; the second, that, even in sickness and sorrow,\nit is possible, instead of remaining entirely a burden to others, to be\na benefactor of our race. We have read this work with deep interest, and\nbelieve it will afford equal satisfaction to others.\n\n                 *        *        *        *        *\n\n    _Picturesque Sketches of Greece and Turkey. By Aubrey de Vere. 1\n    vol. Philadelphia: A. Hart._\n\nThe author of this volume is known, in England, as a poet of some merit.\nIn the present work he has attempted a new _role_, and has succeeded in\nit, we are free to confess, in the very best manner. Mr. De Vere is at\nonce a scholar and a gentleman. The former qualification renders him a\npeculiarly fitting traveler on the classic soil of Greece; the latter\nenables him to depict what he has seen in a manner not offensive to good\ntaste. We have had so many cockney books on Greece, we have seen\nflunkeyism so rampant even in Constantinople, that it is refreshing to\nfind a work like the present, in which the knowledge of the man of the\nworld, the stores of the student, and the enthusiasm of the poet are all\ncombined. The volume first arrested our attention by its elegant\nappearance, and, having once begun it, we could not lay it aside till we\nhad finished it. There is much in the book, it is true, which a\nwell-read man will recognize as old; but then the style makes even this\nhave an air of freshness. On the other hand the work really contains a\ngood deal that is new.\n\n                 *        *        *        *        *\n\n    _The Phantom World; or the Philosophy of Apparitions, Ghosts,\n    etc. By Augustus Calmet. With Introduction and Notes by the Rev.\n    Henry Christmas, M. A. 1 vol. Philadelphia: A. Hart._\n\nA pleasant, perhaps instructive book, though this last is as people view\nit. For our part we hold that the way to make folk believe in ghosts is\nto cram them, especially in childhood, with stories of apparitions.\nPersonally, we have little faith in phantoms. However \u201c_chacun \u00e0 son\ngout_;\u201d and therefore, to those who like speculating about ghosts, we\nrecommend this work.\n\n                 *        *        *        *        *\n\n    _Reminiscences of Congress. By Charles Marsh. 1 vol. New York:\n    Baker & Scribner._\n\nWe have here a number of lively and trustworthy sketches of public men,\nwritten in a style that reminds us of Grant\u2019s sketches of The English\nParliament. We had intended devoting some space to the work, as one\npeculiarly deserving consideration, but for want of room, are obliged to\ndefer, and perhaps abandon our purpose.\n\n                 *        *        *        *        *\n\n    _Extraordinary Popular Delusions. By Charles Mackey. 2 vols.\n    Philadelphia: Lindsay & Blackiston._\n\nThis is a readable book, especially at this crisis, when Rochester\nknockings, Clairvoyance, and other wonders fill the public mind. The\nauthor has compiled a history of all the popular delusions, with which\ndifferent generations have been misled; nor has he confined himself\nmerely to mysteries like the knockings, but has discussed the South Sea\nBubble, the Mississippi Scheme, and other vagaries of a similar\ncharacter.\n\n                 *        *        *        *        *\n\n    _Echoes of the Universe; or the World of Matter, and the World\n    of Spirit. By the Rev. H. A. Christmas, M. A. 1 vol.\n    Philadelphia: A. Hart._\n\nThe publisher characterizes this work as a companion to the \u201cVestiges of\nCreation;\u201d but he might, more justly, have described it as an antidote\nto that skeptical volume. We cordially recommend the book.\n\n                 *        *        *        *        *\n\n    _A Modern History, from the Time of Luther to the Fall of\n    Napoleon. By John Lord, A. M. Philadelphia: T. Cowperthwait &\n    Co. 1 vol. 12mo._\n\nThe author of this work is well known as an accomplished lecturer on\nhistory in the principal cities of the Northern and Middle States. The\npresent work shows great power of compression as well as wealth of\ninformation. Though the work is designed for colleges and schools, it\nwill be found of much value to the general reader as a guide to\nhistorical studies.\n\n                 *        *        *        *        *\n\n    _History of the Polk Administration. By Lucian B. Chase, a\n    Member of the 29th and 30th Congresses. New York: Geo. P.\n    Putnam. 1 vol. 8vo._\n\nThe author of this volume, though a political supporter of the late\nPresident, has written an interesting account of the important events\nwhich occurred in his administration. The partisan character of the work\nprevents it from coming properly under the name of \u201chistory,\u201d but it\ncontains a well arranged statement of a vast mass of facts, valuable\nboth to the intelligent Whig and Democrat.\n\n                 *        *        *        *        *\n\n    _The American Quarterly Register and Magazine. Conducted by\n    James Stryker. December, 1849. Vol. III., No. 2. Philadelphia:\n    Published by the Proprietor._\n\nThe second number of the third volume of this work is now before us.\nThat which Judge Stryker undertook to perform he has faithfully complied\nwith, and the public are now secure in the permanent existence of a\nperiodical which will prove a treasury of information, and which was\nlong since needed. The deficiency is now supplied, and ably supplied;\nand we can safely predict that it will command a liberal and generous\nsupport.\n\n                 *        *        *        *        *\n\n\n\n\n                               EDITORIAL.\n\n\n                     TO REV. RUFUS WILMOT GRISWOLD.\n\n\nMY DEAR PARSON,\u2014I knew you would be gratified with my friendly notice\nof you in the March number of \u201cGraham\u201d\u2014and your pleasant start of\nsurprise, to express your ignorance of the writer, was well\nconceived\u2014you wicked wag. People who do not know your ways might almost\nthink you were honest for once in your life,\u2014but I, who have seen you\nin your happy moods, understand what an exquisite point to your wit a\nfalsehood imparts, and what a choice bit of clerical drollery you\nconsider it, to offer to _swear_ to an untruth.\n\nYou have adjusted, now, your long score with poor Poe, to _your own_\nsatisfaction, I hope; for ignorant people will say, that this settlement\nof accounts after the death of your friend may be honest\u2014and\u2014_may not\nbe_. You see it lays you open to suspicion, and may soil the surplice\nyou wear. Your clerical mantle, like Charity, may cover a multitude of\nsins, but you should not wear it _too_ unguardedly. Charity for the\nerrors of the dead, you know, is allowable in funeral sermons, even over\nthe cold remains of those the world scorned and spurned as its veriest\nreprobates. Even _you_ will not class your friend\u2014who you say was\nreconciled to you before he died\u2014with outcasts who forfeit even the\nlast offices of humanity. You would give even him a Christian burial.\n\u201cDust to dust\u2014ashes to ashes,\u201d methinks, should bury all animosities.\nYou would not pursue your victim beyond the grave, and in the same hour\npray, \u201cForgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass\nagainst us.\u201d This would be horrible.\n\nNow it will not do, my dear parson, to attempt to carry off this\ndeparture from Christian practice, with an affectation of great equity,\nin the performance of duty. \u201cGive the devil his due\u201d may be a very\northodox maxim, but you seem, in adopting it, to have started with the\nhypothesis that you had a devil to deal with; yet in the exercise of\njustice thus liberally, it would seem but fair to meet even this\nPersonage face to face, that he might dispute the account if he felt\naggrieved at your estimate. This last point, I think, you have a fair\nchance of attaining. Nor will it do to affect courage and great devotion\nto truth. It is very well to say, that vice should be held up that its\ndeformity may be seen, so as to startle and deter others. You should be\nsure that the vice of your brother is not his misfortune, and that the\nsin which taints your own fingers, may not turn crimson in contrast\nbefore the eyes of the gazers. Courage, my dear parson, is a relative\nterm. You may think it great courage, and a duty you owe to truth, to\nassail your friend for wishing to evade a matrimonial engagement, yet it\nwould be the veriest weakness and wickedness\u2014if you had set the worse\nexample of evading your marital duties after the solemnization. He who\nsacrifices at the altar should have clean hands.\n\nThe jewels which sometimes ornament the remains of beauty or worth have\ntempted, before now, gentlemen of hardy nerve, but I do not remember\nthat these have ever taken rank in the annals of knight-errantry. And,\nmy dear parson\u2014I am talking somewhat freely with you, but you must\npardon me\u2014the feat that you have performed with so much unction, the\ndespoiling of the fame of a man who intrusted it to you as a jewel of\ninestimable value to him, has not received the applause of a single man\nof honor. Your _claqueurs_ themselves, feel that your performance is\ndamned. I have no doubt that some faint glimpses of the truth have\nreached even your mind. I would have you pray over this subject, my dear\nsir, for your feet stand upon slippery places. In all sincerity, I would\nhave you revise your creed and reform your practice; for you do not seem\nto get even the poor applause of the world, for wrong-doing.\n\n                                                      GEO. R. GRAHAM.\n  _Philadelphia, Sept. 20, 1850._\n\n                 *        *        *        *        *\n\nERRATA.\u2014Our first form having been worked off previous to the reception\nof the final proof of the leading article, the following errors will be\nfound:\u2014 On page 266, 1st column, 17th line from bottom, for \u201c_with_\u201d\nread _wrote_. Page 266, 2d col., 2d line from bottom, for \u201c_region_\u201d\nread _reign_. Page 267, 2d col., 30th line from top, for \u201c_physical_\u201d\nread _psychical_. Page 269, 1st col., 9th line from bottom for\n\u201c_profession_\u201d read _possession_.\n\n                 *        *        *        *        *\n\n[Illustration: Ana\u00efs Toudouze\n\nLE FOLLET     Boulevart S^{t}. Martin, 69.\n_Coiffures de_ Hamelin, _pass. du Saumon, 21\u2014Lingerie de la maison_\n  Schreiber, _r. Montmartre, 32\u2014Fleurs de_ Chagot, _ain\u00e9, r. Richelieu\n  73_.\n_Robes de M^{me}_ Verrier Richard, _r. Richelieu, 13\u2014Dentelles de_\n  Violard, _rue Choiseul, 4_.]\n\n                 *        *        *        *        *\n\n                       GREAT VOLUME OF \u201cGRAHAM!\u201d\n\n                      THE MAGAZINE OF THE UNION!!\n\n                         PREPARATIONS FOR 1851.\n\n                             80,000 COPIES.\n\n\nGRAHAM\u2019S MAGAZINE, unrivaled in splendor and excellence, will commence a\n  new volume with a\n\n                     MAGNIFICENT JANUARY NUMBER.\n\n    _Specimen copies of which will be ready December 1st, and will\n    be furnished to all who desire to make up Clubs for the coming\n    volume._\n\n    The original publisher of the work returns his sincere thanks\n    for the hearty welcome with which his return to this favorite\n    periodical has been hailed by the press and the public, and\n    promises his readers that the past six numbers have afforded but\n    a slight foretaste of the excellence and beauty _of what is in\n    store for the new volume_. Of the early numbers we shall print\n    EIGHTY THOUSAND copies, and stereotype the work for further\n    increase.\n\n                     STERLING ORIGINAL LITERATURE.\n\n    G. P. R. JAMES, _the celebrated novelist, has been regularly\n    engaged_, and will furnish several brilliant romances during the\n    year.\n\n    GEO. D. PRENTICE will write his exquisite poems exclusively for\n    this Magazine.\n\n                    HENRY W. LONGFELLOW,\n                    J. R. LOWELL,\n                    S. A. GODMAN,\n                    E. P. WHIPPLE,\n                    GRACE GREENWOOD,\n                    J. M. LEGARE,\n                    W. CULLEN BRYANT,\n                    MRS. A. M. F. ANNAN.\n\n                    WILL BE EXCLUSIVE CONTRIBUTORS.\n\n\n\n                A GALLERY OF LITERARY NAMES OF AMERICA.\n\n                       GRAHAM\u2019S UNRIVALED WRITERS\n\n    are re-engaged, and arrangements are perfected for a series of\n    most splendid articles, from such writers as the following:\n\n                  W. GILMORE SIMMS,\n                  GEORGE D. PRENTICE,\n                  ALFRED B. STREET,\n                  N. P. WILLIS,\n                  WM. CULLEN BRYANT,\n                  NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE,\n                  HENRY WILLIAM HERBERT,\n                  JAS. FENIMORE COOPER,\n                  RICHARD PENN SMITH,\n                  H. HASTINGS WELD,\n                  THEODORE S. FAY,\n                  T. BUCHANAN READ,\n                  H. C. MOORHEAD,\n                  HENRY B. HIRST,\n                  J. BAYARD TAYLOR,\n                  GEO. H. BOKER,\n                  R. H. DANA,\n                  ROBT. T. CONRAD,\n                  ROBT. MORRIS,\n                  EPES SARGENT,\n                  H. T. TUCKERMAN,\n                  C. J. PETERSON,\n                  R. H. STODDARD,\n                  T. S. ARTHUR,\n\n                  MRS. LYDIA SIGOURNEY,\n                  MRS. E. C. KINNEY,\n                  MRS. E. J. EAMES,\n                  MRS. ELIZABETH OAKES SMITH,\n                  MRS. JOSEPH C. NEAL,\n                  AMELIA B. WELBY,\n                  MRS. JULIET H. CAMPBELL,\n                  MRS. ANN S. STEPHENS,\n                  MRS. EMMA C. EMBURY,\n                  MISS L. VIRGINIA SMITH,\n                  MISS ENNA DUVAL,\n                  MISS GRACE GREENWOOD,\n                  MRS. SARAH H. WHITMAN,\n                  MISS MARY L. LAWSON,\n\n_with many more_, well known to the readers of the work, making this\n  Magazine\n\n                     THE ORGAN OF AMERICAN TALENT\n\n                     _in every department of Mind_.\n\n\n                      SPLENDID DEPARTMENT OF ART.\n\n    Our readers know well that Graham _is never beaten in spirited\n    designs and elegant engravings_.\n\n    THE JANUARY NUMBER will contain some of the most exquisite\n    productions of artistic skill, and the series then begun will be\n    continued through the year.\n\n    _Our artists in London, Paris, Italy and the United States, to\n    whom_ WE PAY CASH _for the best and freshest, promise us that_\n    GRAHAM SHALL NOT BE BEATEN! _however others may boast_.\n\n    _In the department of Fashion_ we shall excel _all that has ever\n    been attempted_ either in _the United States or Paris_. The\n    ARTISTS OF MONITEUR DE LA MODE _engage to furnish us with the\n    most splendid drawings_\u2014December and January numbers will\n    contain specimens. In a word, _wait for the January number\u2014then\n    compare and decide\u2014it will eclipse all others, or we shall\n    submit that we have not learned how a magazine of the most\n    brilliant description can be produced. It will be worth $3 of\n    itself._\n\n                        TERMS\u2014Single Copies $3.\n\n                        PRICE OF CLUBS FOR 1851.\n\n    All orders for Graham\u2019s Magazine, commencing with 1851, will be\n    supplied at the following rates: Single subscribers, $3; Two\n    copies, $5; Five copies, $10; and Ten copies for $20, and an\n    extra copy to the person sending the club of ten subscribers.\n    These terms will not be departed from by any of the Philadelphia\n    three dollar magazines.\n\n              All orders to be addressed to\n\n                           GEORGE R. GRAHAM,\n              _No. 134 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, Pa._\n\n\n\n\n                 *        *        *        *        *\n\nTranscriber\u2019s Notes:\n\nArchaic spellings and hyphenation have been retained as well as some\nspellings peculiar to Graham\u2019s. Punctuation has been corrected without\nnote. Other errors have been corrected as noted below. For\nillustrations, some caption text may be missing or incomplete due to\ncondition of the originals used for preparation of the ebook. Errata\nhave also been incorporated into the below noted corrections.\n\npage 266, with his Fairy Queen ==> wrote his Fairy Queen\npage 266, to the opening region ==> to the opening reign\npage 267, the debateable ground ==> the debatable ground\npage 267, the pirotal points of ==> the pivotal points of\npage 267, a complete physical age ==> a complete psychical age\npage 269, antiquity of profession ==> antiquity of possession\npage 269, to elude the clumsey ==> to elude the clumsy\npage 270, the apocalytic vision ==> the apocalyptic vision\npage 272, once again their came ==> once again there came\npage 274, blasphemy of the this fiendish ==> blasphemy of this fiendish\npage 275, could the the child get away ==> could the child get away\npage 278, zealous and and apparently ==> zealous and apparently\npage 281, listening, however inadvertant ==> listening, however\n  inadvertent\npage 287, buffetted against the ==> buffeted against the\npage 293, the bark\u2019s bright goal ==> the barque\u2019s bright goal\npage 297, _tu aimes_, _nous aimous_ ==> _tu aimes_, _nous aimons_\npage 300, flight was a long, ==> flight was long,\npage 304, beneath the waters\u2019s flow ==> beneath the waters\u2019 flow\npage 305, just now, wan\u2019t I ==> just now, wasn\u2019t I\npage 306, and at night\u2019s he ==> and at nights he\npage 311, They pause, when ==> They paused, when\npage 313, take the hinmost ==> take the hindmost\npage 314, arched eye-brow, that ==> arched eye-brows, that\npage 316, Napolean! he hath come ==> Napoleon! he hath come\npage 318, envious snow flury ==> envious snow flurry\npage 321, in thy mandhood pure ==> in thy manhood pure\npage 324, Melt\u2019s round the corn-fields ==> Melts round the corn-fields","title":"Graham's Magazine, Vol. XXXVII, No. 5, November 1850","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":64034}