Graham's Magazine, Vol. XL, No. 2, February 1852 (2024)

GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

Vol. XL. February, 1852. No. 2.

Contents

Transcriber’s Notes can be found at the end of this eBook.

GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

Vol. XL. PHILADELPHIA, FEBRUARY, 1852. No. 2.

Our engraving presentsa view of the Navy-Yard,taken from a pointof view below the city of Philadelphia. From thisyard have come some of the best sailing and steam-vesselsthat have ever been built for Uncle Sam.The largest vessel that ever floated upon our waters,“The Pennsylvania,” was built here. She is useless,and is most scandalously given over—we believe, asa sort of “receiving ship,” and is rotting ingloriously.She should have been sent to the “World’s Fair”by Congress, filled with American products, and theArts of Peace. But Congress was busy—talkingabout the “dissolution of the Union”—Pshaw!—andhad no time for national business.

We have no inclination to talk much about Navy-yardssince we read the following. We give youthe picture, reader—but give us a cheaper postageupon Newspapers and Books, and fewer Soldiersand Naval Commanders.

“Victor Hugo estimates the annual cost of maintainingthe standing armies of Europe at five hundredmillions of dollars. This outlay would, in avery few years, pay off every national debt ofEurope. In a few years more it would, if wiselyexpended, so equalize the population of the globe,by a great system of emigration, that every manmight have a fair opportunity to earn a competenceby his labor. Mr. Upham, in his ‘Manual of Peace,’thus classifies the causes of the wars of Europe sincethe age of Constantine the Great—that is, since theChristian religion became the prevailing one: warsof ambition, forty-four; of plunder, twenty-two; ofretaliation, twenty-four; of honor, eight; of disputedterritory, six; of disputed titles to crowns,forty-one; of alliances, thirty; of jealousy, twenty-three;of commerce, five; civil wars, fifty-five; ofreligion, twenty-eight: total, two hundred andeighty-six. The national debt of England, causedby wars alone, is equal to about one-ninth of thewhole property of the United Kingdom. The costof maintaining the war establishments of Europeand the United States is fifty-four per cent. of thewhole revenue of the nations. Of the revenue ofthe Austrian government, thirty-three per cent. isexpended in maintaining the army and navy; France,thirty-eight per cent.; Russia, forty-four per cent.;Great Britain, seventy-four per cent.; the UnitedStates, eighty per cent.” Uncle Sam should take afresh look at his figures.

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BY ELIZA SPROAT.

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ON HER OWN EYES, AND HER SISTER LESBIA’S.

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BY G. McC. M.

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BY MARY HOWITT.

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BY THOMPSON WESTCOTT.

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Like auriferous deposits in common quartz, thereaders of Graham, the precious ore amidst dullerliterary encompassment, brighten the continent fromCanada even to California. A few rich veins are tobe found in large cities, but the valuable aggregateis scattered through the more rural portion of thecountry, where the free air whistles by, uncontaminatedby the smoke of thousands of chimneys, andwhere night reigns in sable supremacy, and is notturned into decrepit day by blazing gas and brilliantilluminations. The great mass of Grahamites are,therefore, but slightly versed in the etiquette oftowns, and know little of city follies and city pride.

In farm-houses midst pleasant valleys, in log-cabinswhich dot clearings midst western prairies, even inthe unsubstantial tents of seekers in El Dorado, theyturn to its pages for amusem*nt, moral cultivationand instruction. These demands have been oftenattended to, though perhaps a trifle too gravely.The time has at length come, when the growingpublic taste bids us prepare to have a little fun.Human folly is the best and most natural subject forhuman ridicule. To laugh with the manes of theJolly old Grecian philosopher, is more agreeable thanto snivel with the lugubrious ghost of his weepingrival. We therefore must needs have a hearty guffawtogether, and as the most appropriate subject formirth, suppose we select that incarnation of vapidcreation, but that idol of self-esteem—a City Dandy.

The assertion made by the ancient sage Socrates,that “a dandy is like a jackass, because he wears hisSunday-coat every day,” would scarcely fit a modernexquisite, whose diurnal attire varies with each revolutionof the sun. The apothegm of Plato, that “amonkey owes his distinction to his tail and a fop tohis tailor,” is not thoroughly apt, because the humanape owes something (generally a considerable sum)to his hatter and boot-maker. The well-known assertionof Virgil, “in squirtibus nihil sed aquæ lactissimus”—insquirts you will find nothing but milkand water—has about it the usual license taken bypoets, inasmuch as if we examine our squirts, theywill be pronounced empty. Bacon’s celebratedmaxim in his Novum Organum, that “what are consideredpetty matters are often of importance, butthere is no importance in a petit maître,” will probablybe acquiesced in by common people, thoughthose implicated by the serious pun may think it uncommonlyimpudent. Newton’s position taken inthe Principia, that “in apples and men there ismuch specific gravity, but mushrooms and dandiesare of trifling lightness,” may be disputed by thelatter, who with some show might liken their weightto that of “some pumpkins.” Euclid’s celebratedrule, “a plane superficies is every where flat, e.g. adandy who is plainly superficial is a flat everywhere,” has long been a fixture in geometrical lore,which may be doubted, though dangerous to dissentfrom. We, therefore, seek in vain in the lessons ofancient science and wisdom for competent authorityto settle the question—“What is a dandy?” Hamlet,who being the “glass of fashion and the mouldof form,” was of course a fop, did on one occasionconfess that himself and some other leaders of theton at that time, yclept Horatio and Marcellus, were“fools of nature,” and horribly shook their dispositions“with thoughts beyond the reaches of theirsouls.” His candid admission that exquisites arenatural fools—“rather weak in the upper story,” andunable to stand the overpowering weight of gravethought—has long been admired as a fine picture ofthe mental condition of the dandies when somethingwas “rotten in the state of Denmark.” But eventhis idea of the immortal bard will scarcely assimilateto a proper notion of our modern bucks, becausethe foppery natural to a Hamlet would not be similarto that of a large City.

We therefore rummagethe books with little successin search for authoritiesupon this subject.We are constrained to abelief that Linnæus hasnot classified the generaor Buffon discriminatedthe species. If exquisites,by reason of theirsappiness, are vegetable,the Swedish naturalisthas passed over the variety—ifthey are animals,the Frenchman hasnot given them a properplace among the mammalia.The history,habits and peculiaritiesof these mandrakes, these“forked radishes,” thesenondescripts, who afflictthe south side of Chestnutstreet, Philadelphia, orthe west side of Broadway,New York, has not yet been written, but thesubject has latterly assumed an importance whichcan be no longer disregarded. If the comic dissector,with scalpel in hand, were to desire the fop for asubject, he would have to wait until he was defunct,but the dandy never dies; he is a living example ofthe verity of the adage, true whenever made—“thefools are not all dead yet”—and it is therefore impossibleto imagine the time when there will not be adandy. We cannot consequently dissect. We mayapply the stethoscope to the chest of the exquisite;we may feel his weak pulse, or examine his sillytongue. So may we make our diagnosis, and thoughwe cannot “minister to a mind diseased,” we may,at least, “hold the mirror up to nature,” for the benefitof all gazers. Therefore, in pursuance of thetask, come we to our first great inquiry:

HOW ARE DANDIES MADE?

This is a grave question, for fops are like veal pies—inthe opinion of the waggish Weller—the crustmay be rather respectable, but the making up of theinterior is “werry duberous.” Exquisites at thispresent writing, are a conglomeration of lanky legs,hairy heads and creamy countenances. Such aretheir natural peculiarities. But it is evident that inconsidering this subject, the great topic of inquiry is,What is a dandy sartorially? Here description willproclaim him to be a being stuck into tight trowsers,ditto coat and vest, ditto boots, not so much dittoovercoat, and crowned with a cylindrical structure offelt, which is called a hat. Mentally the subject ofdandyism offers little field for remark, because theweakness which distinguishes the unfortunate classof our fellow citizens now under consideration, iscaused by natural imbecility and want of commonsense.

It is a topic of inquiry worthy of the most acutephilosophical research whether buckishness is a naturalor acquired folly. Some who have argued uponthe matter have taken the ground, that all such vanitiesare the consequence of the great fall, and that asthe expulsion from Eden was followed by the assumptionof apparel, good Mother Eve was tempted andovercome by the fascinations of dress. For supportof this view of the subject it may be urged, that withthe fall came dress, with dress came fashion, andwith fashion came the Dandy. Others suggest thatsuch an argument as this, going back beyond theflood, is far-fetched, and they profess to be able toassign a much better cause for dandyism. Accordingto these philosophers every fop has “a soft placein his head,” which has been very beautifully describedby the poet as

They affirm that this weak portion of a skull otherwisethick, is the chosen place of the “organ of dandyism,”and controls the habits of its possessors. Ifthis were so, we might pardon a failing which cannotbe remedied, but, with Combe in our hands, wein vain run over the head to find this organ, which iscertainly not a hand-organ. None of the phrenologicalauthorities—it is a striking fact—give the localityof this bump.

No; “the milk of human kindness” which was“poured into Gall,” forbade him from making knownthe situation of the protuberance, and Fowler unfairlydodges the question.

Nothing is to be made out of this inquiry, and afterconsidering the matter with great gravity, we aredriven to the conclusion that Dandyism is like a badcold, caught nobody knows how, or when, or where,or why. Some may be afflicted because they have thepores of vanity open—others who sit in the draught ofaffectation, may suddenly be seized by a fashionableinfluenza—going suddenly from the warm room ofcommon sense into the cold air of ostentation, maygive the “grippe” to some—but with many it ischronic, having been acquired in childhood whentheir dear mammas tricked them out in fantastic velvetsand fine caps, with feathers, making them juveniledandies among the little boys of their neighborhood.

But all this may be tiresome to the reader who desiresto plunge at once in the middle of the subject.We must really get on with this important theme,and responding categorically to the inquiry, “howdandies are made?” respond: by eight honest mechanics,to wit, the tailor, hatter, boot-maker, linen-draper,haberdasher, glover, hosier and jeweler.Take away the articles fabricated by these men, whatis he but a helpless mortal, a mere man and terriblyunfashionable? We might once have added to thelist of dandy manufacturers the barber—but our modernexquisites have so little to do with that artistthat the claims of Figaro to the distinction would bestrongly controverted.

An inspection of a buck in this month of February,anno domini eighteen hundred and fifty-two, willconvey to the mind of the spectator ideas of a pairof very thin legs, surmounted by a very short specimenof an overcoat, with monstrous buttons and widesleeves—a cravat with a bow about six inches wideand three inches broad, with fringes at the ends—astanding shirt collar, running up to a very sharp point—somethinglike a face, covered with hair overwhat, in Christians, are the chin, cheek and upper-lip—anda hat thereon. Simile fails in ability toconvey any adequate notion of this figure. Twopipes, bowl downward and stems upward, mightgive an idea of the lower extremity of the dandy.We will carry out the nicotian metaphor by placingon the upper portions of the stems a paper of “Mrs.Miller’s best”—the short-cut, oozing from the top ofthe torn paper, will do very well for the hair on theface—a tobacco-box placed on the whole, will givesome idea of a figure, which, if greatly magnified,would in the outline much resemble a modern fop.

The clothing of an exquisite is a work of time andscience. We can imagine how much of the laboris done. But there are two subjects, in the makingof a fop, that have long been considered puzzles.One of these questions is—how does he manage totie those huge bows in his cravat, which stand outjust below his chin, giving him thereabout the appearanceof a cherubim, all head and wings? Whata work of fixing must there be before he gets theknot exactly right! What gazing into the mirror—whatpulling of ends—what twisting of folds—whattying and untying! Every thing must be just so.There must be no wrinkles—all must be smooth and“ship-shape,” or the dandy so remiss upon thissubject would be avoided forever by his associates.It has been asserted that a smart exquisite is able totie his cravat in half an hour, but the general averageof time is believed to be an hour and a half. Thereis a melancholy instance on record, of a fop whoonce took three hours to fix the bow of his cravat.The sad occurrence took place on what should havebeen his wedding-day. He commenced the workat seven o’clock in the morning and had “a niceknot” at ten. Unfortunately, the hour of the weddingwas fixed at nine. The anxious intendedwailed impatiently at the altar for her expectedlord, for half an hour, and then concluding that hemeant to insult her, went away in a huff, so that theunfortunate dandy, by being too particular as totying a nice knot, lost the opportunity of fastening anicer knot, and worse still, a bride “worth a hundredthousand.”

This inquiry into the time occupied at the cravat,though very interesting, must yield in importance toanother, to wit:—How do dandies get into theirboots?

In former years this puzzling topic could not havearisen. Loose trowsers gave plenty of room to bootswhich were wide in the legs. There was no difficultyin getting heels into them, and though theremight have been some screwing and stamping, itwas certain that eventually the articles would bedrawn on the feet. Then, too, the tightness was onlyin the foot part of the boot. It required considerablemuscular exertion to coax the five toes into the closeprison designed for them, but by pulling one moment,working the foot the next, and then screwing theface into ugly contortions, considerable progress wasusually effected. The power of the human countenanceover upper leather is one of those extraordinarypsychological facts which dabblers in animal magnetismhave failed in accounting for satisfactorily.Yet that it does exist, is vouched for by all experience.Tight boots have always been susceptibleto this influence. History herself cannot pointto an instance where a new leathern foot-envelopewas drawn on the walker with a countenance“calm as a summer’s morning.” It is notoriousthat no boot of character ever yielded until it saw,from the knitting of the eyebrows, the puckering oflips, and the distortion of muscles, that the putter-onwas in absolute earnest. And how stubbornly theleather yields when it comes under the influence—howit relaxes with stiff dissatisfaction, and at lastcreeps over the part assigned, with an air of unwrinkleddisgust. The philosophy of this subject isstrange, and should be investigated by some modernMesmer of sole and upper leather.

But really this is a digression, which the importanceof the correlative subject has drawn us into.“Let us return to our—mutton.” (We might havesaid our veal, were it not that the idea of dandies’legs and calves are incongruous and unnatural.)It is an inflexible rule in the making up of an exquisite,that there shall be no calves to his legs.The mere osteological peculiarities of that part ofthe frame are to be preserved, and the epidermismust clasp the attenuated limb, without embracinga superfluity of muscle similar to that which we seein the lower limbs of the statues of Hercules.Hence it follows that the heel of a true dandy is expectedto protrude an inch at least beyond what,under happier circ*mstances, would be the calf ofhis leg. There is really no difference between theformation of the lower pedalities of a pure dandy,and those of a pure Ethiopian. In this anatomicalfact lies the great difficulty in the way of modern“squirts.” The heel unfortunately requires a greateropening at the top of the boot than can be filled upby the upper part of the leg when the article is uponthe foot. This is a very distressing difficulty. Thepantaloons are expected to hug the leg as tightly aspossible, so that the thinness of the “trotters” maybe revealed in all their natural beauty. But an obstacleexists in the shape of an inch or two of superfluousleather at the top of the boot, which willhave a tendency to give the limb an appearance ofgreater circumference than nature or fashion permits.This trouble is really of disgusting importance. Howdo the dandies manage, then, to produce those thinlegs, the slightness of which is so strikingly graceful?The world has long wondered over this subject,and it was not until lately that a true philosopherrevealed the mystery. He asserts that after fopsget into boots and unmentionables, they turn up thelatter until they get a fair purchase on the leatherinconveniencies. Then, with broad bandages theyswathe their legs and the upper part of their bootsquite carefully, until the superfluous leather is boundtightly down, and there is a comparatively smoothsurface all the way down the limb. After havinggot his trowsers pulled down, the fop is ready for apromenade upon Chestnut street, or a conquest in adrawing-room. In the former exercise he gets alongas well as can be expected, being very careful in hismincing steps lest an unlucky rip should damagethe integrity of his apparel. In the latter situationhe is often put to great inconvenience. When sittingdown, the unwhisperables are, by the dispositionof his body, drawn a considerable distance abovethe ankle. To get them down again is a matter whichno thorough dandy can accomplish. If he were tobend to do it, the consequence would be disastrous.He therefore takes his leave of the ladies with pantaloonshalf-way up to the knee, and, stopping in theentry, exclaims—“Wait-ah! wait-ah! hea-ah, fell-ah,assist me! Come hea-ah and pull down mypants! Really, ah, they-ah have risen until theyare quite uncomfortable.”

Thus much for the present division of our task,from which we draw the deduction that every exquisitehas his troubles like plainer people. One dayhe may be in agonies because his cravat is not decentlytied. On another he may be in torture because,notwithstanding all his efforts, his legs seemthick. These and other ills are occasional misfortunes.It is not considered by him that althoughthese griefs come once in a while, he is at all timesin manners a puppy, and in mental strength only aninny.

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BY CORNELIA B. BROWNE.

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OR THE TALBOTS IN TEVIOTDALE.

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BY FRANK FORESTER.

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[SEE ENGRAVING.]

“Tayho! Tayho!”[1]

And straightway to the cry responded the long-drawn,mellow notes of the huge French-hornswhich were in those days used by every yeomanpricker, as the peculiar and time-honored instrumentof the stag-hunt, the mots of which were as familiarto every hunter’s ear, as so many spoken words ofhis vernacular.

It was the gray dawn of a lovely summer morningin the latter part of July, and although the moor-co*ckswere crowing sharp and shrill from everyrocky knoll or purple eminence of the wild moors,now waving far and wide with the redolent luxurianceof their amethyst garniture, for the heather wasin its full flush of bloom, although the thrush andblack-bird were caroling in emulous joy, at the verytop of their voices, from every brake and thicketwhich feathered the wild banks of the hill-burns, thesun had not lifted a portion of his disc above thehuge, round-topped fells which formed the horizonto the north and westward of my scene. That scenewas the slope of a long hill—

The hills above and somewhat farther off to thesouthward and eastward, are clothed and crownedwith oak woods of magnificence and size so unusual,and kept with such marked evidences of care andculture that no one could doubt, even if it were notproved by the gray turrets of an old baronial manorand the spire of a tall clock-house shooting up highover the tops of the forest giants, that they were theappendages and ornaments of some one of those ancienthomes of England, which, full of the eleganciesand graces of the present, remind us so pleasantly ofthe ruder, though not less homely, hospitalities of thepast.

The immediate summit of the slope I have mentionedis bare, yet conspicuous for a single tree, theonly one of its kind existing for many miles in thatdistrict—a single white pine, tall enough for the mastof some huge admiral, and as such visible, it is said,from points in the four northern provinces of England,and the two southernmost of Scotland—whenceit is known far and wide, in many a border lay andlegend, as the one-tree hill on Reedswood.[2] Belowthe bare brow of this inland promontory, for such indeedit is, which is covered with beautiful, short,mossy grass, as firm and soft as the greensward of amodern race-course, and used as one vast pasture oftwo hundred acres, lies a vast tract of coppice, principallyof oak and birch, but interspersed with expansesof waving heather, where the soil is too shallowto support a larger growth, and dotted here andthere with bold, gray crags which have cropped outabove the surface, and amongst these, few and farbetween, some glorious old, gnarled hawthorns,which may well have furnished May-wreaths to theyellow-haired daughters of the Saxon before themailed-foot of the imperious Norman had dinted thegreen turf of England. This coppice overspread thewhole declivity and base of the hill, until it meltedinto the broad, rich meadows, which, with a fewscattered woods of small size, and here and there apatch of yellow wheat, or a fragrant bean-field, filledall the bottom of the great strath or valley, down tothe banks of a large stream, beyond which the landrose steeply, first in rough moorland pastures, dividedby dry stone walls, then in round heatheryswells, then in great, broad-backed purple fells, andbeyond all, faintly traceable in the blue haze of distance,in the vast ridges of the Cheviots and the hillsof Tevydale. Along the base of the hill-side, parting itfrom the meadows, ran a tall, oak park-paling, made ofrudely split planks, not any where less than five feet inheight, through which access was given to the valleyby heavy gates of the same material, from two orthree winding wood-roads into the shadowy lanes ofthe lovely lower country.

Such was the scene, o’er which there arose beforethe sun, startling the hill echoes far and near, andsilencing the grouse-co*cks on the moors, and thesong-birds in the brake and thicket by their tumultuousdin, the shouts and fanfares that told the huntwas up.

“Tayho! Tayho!”

Tarà-tarà-tara-tantara-râ-taratantara-tantara-rà-rà-râh.Which being interpreted into verbal dog-talkis conceived to say—“Gone-away! gone-away!gone-away! away! away! away!” and is immediatelyunderstood as such not by the well-mountedsportsmen only, but by what Scott calls, himself nounskilled woodsman, “the dauntless trackers of thedeer,” who rush full-mouthed to the cheery clangor,filling all earth and ether with the musical discordsof their sweet chidings.

The spot whence the first loud, manly shout “Tayho”resounded, was almost within the shadow of theone tree, where, as from a station commanding thewhole view of the covert, which a powerful pack ofthe famous Talbot blood-hounds, numbering not lessthan forty couple, were in the act of drawing, a gaygroup was collected, gallantly appareled, gallantlymounted, and all intent, like the noble steeds theybestrode, eyes, ears and souls erect on the gallantsport of the day.

Those were the days of broad-leaved hats andfloating plumes, of velvet justaucorps, rich on theseams with embroideries of gold and silver, of themartial jack-boot and the knightly spur on the heel,and the knightly sword on the thigh, and thus wereour bold foresters accoutred for such a chase as isnever heard tell of in these times of racing houndsand flying thoroughbreds, when the life of a fox iscounted by the minutes he can live with a breast-highscent before the flyers, and the value of a hunterby the seconds he can go in the first flight with adozen horseman’s stone upon its back.

Things then were otherwise, the fox was unkenneled,or the stag unharbored at daybreak, andkilled if the scent lay well, sooner or later, beforesunset—runs were reckoned by hours, hounds pickedfor their staunchness not their fleetness, horsesbought not for their speed but for their stoutness, andthe longest, steadiest last rider, not the most daringor the foremost won the palm of the chase, were itbrush or antler, when the game fox was run into, orthe gallant stag turned to bay.

The gentlemen, who were gathered on the broad,bare brow of the one-tree hill, were in all, twelve orthirteen in number, all at first sight men of gentleblood and generous education, although as there everis, ever must be in every company, whether of menor of inferior animals, there was one to whom everyeye, even of the unknown stranger or the ignorantpeasant, would have naturally turned as evidentlyand undoubtedly the superior of the party, both inbirth and breeding; he mingled nevertheless with therest on the most perfect terms not of equality only,but of intimate familiar intercourse and friendship.No terms of ceremonial, no titles of rank or territorialinfluence, but simple Christian names passedbetween those gay and joyous youths; nor was thereany thing in the habit of the wearers, or the mountingof the riders, to indicate the slightest differencein their positions of social well-being and well-doing.One youth, however, who answered to the name ofGerald, and sometimes to the patrimonial Howard,was so far the handsomer both in form and feature,the statelier in stature, the gracefuller in gesture, themanlier in bearing, the firmer and easier of seat andhand on his hunter, that any one would have beenprompt to say almost at a glance, there is the manof all this gentle and generous group, whom, if warwakes its clangor in the land, if external perilsthreaten its coasts, or internal troubles shake its state,foreign war or domestic strife will alike find theforemost, whether in his seat with the senate, or inhis saddle on the field, wielding with equal forceand skill the stateman’s, scholar’s, soldier’s eye,tongue, sword—all honored him, indeed, and he deservedthat all should honor him.

I have omitted, not forgotten or neglected, to mentionas first and fairest of that fair company, a bevyof half a dozen fair and graceful girls—not like thegentlemen, all of one caste, but as was evident, notso much from the difference of their grace andbeauty—though in these also there was a difference—asfrom the relative difference of position whichthey maintained, four remaining somewhat in therear of the other two, and not mingling unless firstaddressed in the conversation, and from some distinctionin the costliness and material of their attire.

A mounted chamberlain, with four or five grooms,who stood still farther aloof, in the rear of the ladiesin waiting, and two or three glittering pages standinga-foot among the latter, in full tide of gallantryand flirtation, their coursers held by the grooms inattendance, made up the party. From which mustalways be excepted the huntsman, the verdurer, andeight or ten yeomen prickers, in laced green jerkins,with round velvet caps, like those worn by thewhippers-in of the present day, and huge French-hornsover their left shoulders, who were seen fromtime to time appearing, disappearing, and reappearingin the glades and dingles of the hill-side covert,and heard now rating the untimely and fallaciouschallenge of some wayward and willful puppy, nowcheering the earnest and trusty whimper of some redoubtedveteran of the pack, as he half-opened on ascent of yester-even.

The hounds had been in the coppice above anhour, and two-thirds of its length had already beendrawn blank—the gentlemen were beginning to exchangeanxious and wistful glances, and two or threehad already consulted more than once or twice theirponderous, old-fashioned repeaters—and now theelder, shorter and fairer of the two damsels, givingthe whip lightly to her chestnut palfry, cantered upto the side of Gerald Howard, followed by her companion,whose dark redundance of half-dishevelednut-brown tresses fell down from beneath a velvetcap, with a long drooping plume, on each side of aface of the most exquisite oval, with a high brow,long, jet-black eyelashes, showing in cold reliefa*gainst her pure, colorless cheeks, for her eyes weredowncast, and an expression of the highest intellect,which is ever found in woman mingled with all awoman’s tenderness and softness. She was somethingabove the middle height, with a figure of rareslenderness and symmetry, exquisitely rounded, andsat her horse at once most femininely and mostfirmly, without the least indication of manliness inher seat or demeanor, yet with a certain of-at-homenessin her position and posture, that showed shecould ride as well, perhaps as boldly, as the best manamong them.

“Ah! Gerald, Gerald,” said the elder girl, laughingly,as she tapped him on the arm with the silver-buttof her riding-whip, “is this your faith to fairladies, and especially to this fairest Kate, that youdeluded us from our soft beds at this untimely hour,with promise to unharbor us a stag of ten within somany minutes, all for the pleasure of our eyes, andthe delectation of our hearts, and here have we beensitting on this lone hill-side two hours and upward, tothe great craving of our appetites and the faintnessof our hearts, yearning—as the queen’s good Puritanswould have it—after creature comforts—out onyou! out on you, for a false knight, as I believe not,for my part, that there is one horn or hoof from theeast to the west on the hill-side—no, not from the‘throstle’s nest’ to the ‘thorny brae.’ ”

“Ah! sister mine, art so incredulous—but I willwager you or ere the Talbots reach that great graystone, with the birch boughs waving over it like theplumes, as our bright Kate would say, of a deadwarrior’s helmet over his cold brow, we will havea stag a-foot—ay, and a stag of ten.” And instantlyraising his voice to a quicker and clearer note—“Seenow!” he cried, “see now!” as a superb, dark-coloredanimal, not lower than a yearling colt at theforehand, leaped with a bound as agile as if he wasaided by wings, on the cope-stone of the dry stonewall which bounded the hither side of the hill coppice,with vast, branching antlers tossed as if in defiance,and a swan-like neck swollen with pride andanger. He stood there an instant, self-poised, self-balanced,“like the herald Mercury new lighted ona heaven-kissing hill”—uttered a hoarse, belling cry,peculiar to the animal in his season, and then sailingforth in a long, easy curve, alighted on the springyturf, whose enameled surface he scarce dinted, andthen swept up the gentle slope almost toward theadmiring group on the brow, but in a diagonallycurved line that would carry him in the long run tothe south-west of them, at the distance of perhaps ahundred yards.

“Tayho! Tayho!” burst in a clear and cheeryshout from the excited lips of Gerald Howard.

And instantly from every part of the hill-side fromeast to west, from the throstle’s nest to the “thornybrae,” from ten well-blown French-horns burst thewild call Tarà-tarà—tara-tantara-ra—tara-tantara-tantara—ra—ra—rah—“Goneaway—gone away—goneaway—away—away!” and the fierce rally ofthe mighty Talbots broke into tongue at once throughthe whole breadth and length of the oak coppice, asthey came pouring up the hills, making the heatherbend and the coppice crash before them like thosefamed Spartan hounds of Hercules and Cadmus,

As fifty separate spots they leaped the wall nearlyabreast, but four were it may be a spear’s length theleaders, and they laying their head right at the noblequarry, which was still full in view, came strainingup the hill, making all ring around them with theirdeep-mouthed thunder. The rest topped the wallone by one, in view too, and on a breast-high scentat once came streaming up the rich grass slope onconverging lines, so that as they passed the attentivegroup to the westward within a hundred yards, thepack had got all together within, perhaps, anotherhundred yards of his haunches, running so that alarge carpet might have covered the whole fortycouple, and raving with such a din of harmoniousdiscords, such shrill and savage trebles of the fiercefleet bitch hounds, such a deep diapason of the oldveteran dogs, such sweet and attuned chidings ofthe whole, that not an ear but must have listenedwith delight, not a heart but must have bounded withrapture at the exulting sounds.

And ever and anon there rang up from the wildwood,the deep, mellow blasts of the French-horns,blent with the jangled cries of the Talbots into astrange and indescribable clangor and crepitation, atonce most peculiar and most entrancing.

At the same moment the sun burst into full viewabove the eastern hills, and pouring down a greatflood of golden lustre over the whole glowing scene,kindled up every thing into light and life—tingingwith ruddy light the dappled sides of the noble beastas he swept by them now within fifty yards—for hehad circled round them wantoning and bounding toand fro, perfectly unconcerned by the nearer presenceof his pursuers, and seemingly desirous todisplay the miracles of his speed and beauty to thefair eyes that admired him—enlivening the dappledhides of the many-colored glossy pack—burnishingthe sleek and satin coats of the noble coursers, tillthey glowed with almost metallic splendor—flashingupon the rich laces, the bright buckles, and thepolished sword-hilts of the hunters, and gilding thebridle-bits and brazen horns of the verdurers andyeomen prickers, until the whole hill-side was glitteringwith a thousand gay hues and salient lights,filling the mind with memories of faëry land andmagic marvels.

Hitherto the little group on the brow of the one-treehill had stood motionless, while the gay, animatedscene revolved around them, a glitteringcircle wheeling around the stationary centre; butnow, when the servants of the chase, huntsman andverdurer, prickers, all streamed up the long hill attheir best pace, all wheeled around the tree and itsgay company, swelling the din with the flare andbraying of their horns, the gallant stag appeared tocomprehend that a fresh band of enemies wereadded to his first pursuers—for he half turned hishead to gaze on them, half paused for a moment tosnuff the air, with nostrils pridefully dilated, andflanks heaving, not with weariness as yet, but withcontempt and scorn, then with a toss of his antlers,and a loud snort of indignation, set his head fair tothe north-west, full for the hills of Scotland, and wentaway at long sweeping bounds that seemed to dividethe green slope by leaps of eight yards each, soaredback again over the rough stone wall, and wentcrashing through the thickets straight for the talloak palings and the river, as if he were bound forsome distant well-known point, on a right line asthe crow flies it.

And now for the gentlemen the chase was begun,and Gerald Howard led it, like their leader as hewas in all things, and the rest followed him likemen as they were, and brave ones—but to the ladiesit was ended so soon as they had breathed theirpalfries down the slope to the stone wall and thewood-side at an easy canter; and they returned tothe hill-top, where they found viands and refreshmentsspread on the grass; and long they lingeredthere watching the hunt recede, and the sounds ofthe chase die away in the far distance. But it waslong ere the sights and sounds were lost all andwholly to their eyes and ears—for the quarry stilldrove on, as straight as the crow flies, due northward—duenorthward the chase followed.

They saw the gallant stag swoop over the oak-palesas if they were no obstacle—they saw theyelping pack crash and climb after him; then theysaw Gerald Howard on his tall coal-black barb soarover it unhindered—but all the rest turned right andleft to gate or gap, or ere they might follow him.The valley was crossed as by a whirlwind—theriver swam by hart, hound, and hunters, unhesitatingand unheeding—and far beyond up the green moorlandpastures, over the stone walls, now disappearingover the hill-tops into the misty hollows, nowglinting up again into light over some yet more distantstretch of purple heath, and still the chiding ofthe hounds, and still the wild bursts of the French-hornsfell faintly on the ears, as the wind freshenedfrom the westward—but at length sound and sightfailed them, and when silence had sunk still andsolitude reigned almost perfect over the late peopledslope of thorny brae and the one-tree hill, the gaybevy of dames and damsels returned homeward,something the more serious if not the sadder for theparting, to await the gathering of their partners tothe gay evening meal.

Long they awaited—late it grew—the evening mealwas over—the close of night had come—the lightsin bower and hall were kindled—the gates werelocked and barred—long ere the first of the belatedforesters, returned soiled and splashed, way-wornand weary, with the jaded and harassed hounds, andhorses almost dead from the exertion and exhaustionof the day. At midnight, of the field all the mensave one were collected, though two or three camein on foot, and yet more on borrowed horses—theirown good steeds left in the morass or on the moorland,to feed the kites and the hill-foxes—of the packall save two mustered at the kennel-gates in suchplight as the toil they had borne permitted.

The man missing was Sir Gerald Howard, themaster of the pack, the two hounds were its twoleaders, Hercules and Hard-heart, of whom no riderhad ever yet seen the speed slacken or the heartfail.

The old verdurer, who gave out the last, reportedGerald Howard going well, when he saw him last,with the stag and two Talbots of all in full view—andthis many miles into Scotland within thepleasant vale of Teviotdale, with the great Scottishhills grim and gray, towering up before him, and thenight closing fast on those dim solitudes.

It was late on the next day when Sir GeraldHoward was seen riding up the road on the samesteed he had backed so gallantly, still weary andworn, though recruited—with the huge antlers athis saddle-bow, but no brave Talbots at his heel.

He had ridden far into the darkness, still guidedby the baying of the staunch hounds; and when hecould see to ride no longer, had obtained timelysuccor and refreshment from a stout borderer ofTeviot-side. At daylight remounted a fresh horse, agarron of the country, to renew the chase; but it wasnow soon ended. Scarce had he gone a mile on thestraight line they had run throughout ere he foundHard-heart stiff and cold on the mountain heather,and not a hundred yards yet onward, ere the greatstag lay before him, not a hair of his hide injured,and Hercules beside him, with his head upon hishaunches, where he had breathed his last, powerlessto blood the brave quarry he had so nobly conquered.

Sixty miles had they run on that summer’s dayfrom point, they had died together, and in theirgraves they were not confounded, for a double tombwas scooped in the corrie or hollow of the mountain-side,wherein they were found, and above it waspiled a rough, gray column, whereon may be seenrudely sculptured this true epitaph,

For, reader mine, this is a real and true tale, andI, who tell it you, have sat upon the stone, and temperedmy cup of Ferintosh from the little rill besideit, with the wild peak of the Maiden’s Pass beforeme, the dark Cheviots at my right, the blue heightsof the Great Moor looming away almost immeasurablyto the westward, and no companions nearme save the red grouse of the heather, and thecurlew of the morass, nothing to while away thetime that my weary setters slept in the noonday sun,save this old-time tradition.

Winter is here—Jeremy! Desolate winter! andthe white fields are shivering in the sunlight—the oldwoods are solemn and sad—the voices of the air arehushed, and a quiet, save the moan of the wind, tellsus that nature is passing through the dark valley, typicalof death. We know that she will burst the sternfetters, and rising from her sleep, shall laugh againwith infant glee in all her brooks; and spreading hermotherly arms over the earth, will shower with parentalliberality her treasures into our laps oncemore. Yet still we feel her silence—we are sad becauseof her desolation.

Winter is here—Jeremy! The long nights havecome—the long, dark winter nights; and we drawthe heavy curtains, and sit down in our warm parlors,carelessly to ponder and to dream. The lighthas gone out of the starry skies which bended overus in youth, and the dun clouds surge up from thehorizon, and grow heavier and blacker as we muse—thePresent is dreary! We turn back with memory,and over all the Past we wander. We remember thesnug cottage nestled in the hills—the crackling fa*ggotson the old hearth-stone—they have their youngvivacity now, and the whole picture of our youthfulhome in this beautiful cloud-land rises graduallyand expands before us. Faces all rosywith the light of the Immortals appear andvanish—bright wings of angels flash and fadeto the view—and as the scene swells to ourmental vision, the old familiar tones of the oldfamiliar lips ring out their silver syllables again.We listen to the joyous laugh, as to the gushingof music, and almost feel the presence of softhands in ours. The glad, beaming face of theyoung creature we first worshiped, with all theinnocence of love’s first delusion, sparkles withthe radiant beauty of those happy hours. Themother in that quiet chamber, with the dimlamp and the snowy curtains gleaming outfrom the corner, where we knelt at her sideand uttered the evening prayer, lifts her whitehands to our brow again, and says, “God blessand keep thee, my boy!” God help us now—howhave we wandered since our souls felt thatearnest benediction!

Winter is here! and the long, stormy nightshave come, Jeremy—the nights of dread anddesolation to the poor. The roar of the tempesthas the voice of a demon out there! Do themoan and the howl, which sound so fearfullynow, stir in the heart a thought of the perishingones, who, in the midst of this splendid city,sit shivering, ragged, and starved? The palebrow and the hollow eye of the consumptivemother, sitting desolate amid her famishing ones,grow paler and sadder as the storm rolls on!Does her low wail of agony reach the ears of angelsto-night? If not—God help her!

Scores of Christian churches stand grandly out inthe storm, and bravely defy the tempest. Theyare tenantless, now, of the rosy lips and bright eyeswhich have looked appealingly to Heaven, and mutteredprayers for the poor. Are willing hands employedto-night in confirmation of the Sunday’ssincerity? Or do cards, the piano, or the dance, lenda sorry confirmation of the utter hollowness ofwords? Is all the wealth and splendor of Gothicsteeples and stained-glass—the majestic column—thelordly porch, and the sweeping aisle, but themagnificence of delusion?—mere monuments ofthe wickedness of man endeavoring to cheat theCreator with tinsel—with show, not worth—withwords, not deeds! God help the homeless,Jeremy, where this is true! And help the disciple,too, who prays, but never thinks! God bless thehumble Christian, who labors and cares for THEPOOR!

G. R. G.

———

BY G. P. R. JAMES, ESQ.

———

(Continued from page 11.)

FIRST LOVE.

The poor little girl by my side made no struggleto quit me, no effort to return to her mother, but ranalong holding my hand, with perfect docility andconfidence, weeping bitterly, it is true, and neveruttering a word. It was a strange situation for aboy of twelve years of age, and yet I felt a certainsort of pride in it—in the trust which was reposed inme—in the right, and, as I fancied, the power ofprotecting. I would have fought for that little girlto the death, if any one had attempted to molest her;and although I had never at that time heard of paladinsand knights-errant, I was quite as valiant in myown opinion as any one of them ever was. I wasnot very hard-hearted at that time—youth seldomis—and I felt greatly moved by the poor child’sgrief.

After we had gone about a mile, at a very quickpace, I began to slacken my speed, and to try andcomfort my little companion. At first she appeared inconsolable,but by trying hard, I at length made someimpression—won her mind away from the terrors andsorrows of her situation, and got her to speak a wordor two in reply to my question. She told me thather name was Mariette, and that she had walked someway that day—that her mother had rushed into theroom where she was playing, all covered with blood,as I had seen her just before—had caught her up inher arms, and rushed out of a château where theylived, by a back way, plunging at once into the wood.They had then walked a long distance, she said, hermother sometimes carrying her, sometimes lettingher run by her side; and I could perceive that, delicatelynurtured and unaccustomed to hard exercise,the poor little thing was already considerably tired.I was a strong, big boy, and so without more ado, Itook her up in my arms and carried her. Aftersome way, I put her down again, and she walked onrefreshed, and then I carried her again, and then wesat down upon a bank and rested; and I got herwater from the stream in the hollow of my hand, andtried to amuse her by telling her stories. But I neverwas a good story-teller in all my life, and I did notsucceed very well. All this occupied time, however,and when we arrived within half a mile of thetown, light was fading fast. This alarmed me; notthat I had any fear of darkness, but it was goodJeanette’s custom, in the gray of the evening to walkout through our little garden in the tower, down thestair-case, the door of which lay on the left-handside, and lock the door below. I did not like togo in by the great gates of the town, both becausethe distance was greater, and because I thought somequestions might be asked about Mariette; and I resolved,at all events, to attempt our private entrancebefore I yielded to necessity. I encouraged mylittle companion to hurry her steps, by pointing outthe town rising before us, and telling her that if shemade haste, she would in a few minutes be withFather Bonneville, and he would be so good andkind to her she could not think. I told her, also, ofgood Jeanette, and what a nice creature she was,and I succeeded in engaging her attention and leadingher on much faster than before. We soon reachedthe foot of the hill, climbed the steep little path whichled to the door at the foot of the tower, and withgreat joy and some surprise I found it open.

“Now come in, Mariette,” I said, “and don’t beafraid of the dark; for this stair-case leads to ourgarden, and the garden to the house.”

She said she was not at all afraid of the dark; thather papa often made her walk with him in the dark;and she followed me quite readily, holding tight bymy hand, however.

In the garden above we found good old Jeanette,with her snow-white cap, and her mittens. I foundthat she had become anxious at my long absence,and had abstained from locking the door lest I shoulddetermine to come in that way. Her surprise to seemy little companion, and the state of grotesqueagitation and bustle into which the sight threw her,I shall never forget. My explanations soon banishedsurprise by other emotions. I told all I knew of poorMariette’s story as simply as I could, and the goodcreature’s heart was instantly touched; the tearsgathered in her eyes, and taking the poor little girlin her arms, she said, “Come with me, my child—comewith me. Here we will make you a homewhere you will be as happy as the day is long.”

“I can’t be happy without papa and mamma,” repliedMariette, bursting into tears again, and Jeanette,weeping for company, carried her off into the house,while I ran down the stairs to lock the door of thetower. When I entered the house again, I foundthat Father Bonneville was out visiting some sickpeople, and had been absent for several hours.Mariette wanted no kind of tendence, however, thatwas not given to her by good Jeanette. She put herpretty little feet in warm water; she gave her a cupof the thin chocolate which usually formed the goodpriest’s supper, and she endeavored, with far greaterskill than mine, to wile away her thoughts from allthat was painful in memory, or her new situation.Mariette soon began to prattle to her, and leaningher head upon her shoulder, said she loved her verymuch; but then, after a few minutes, the brightyoung eyes closed, the little head leaned heavier, andJeanette, moving her gently, carried her away tomy small room, and placed her gently in my bed,“to sleep it out,” as she said.

About half an hour after, good Father Bonnevillereturned, and his face showed evident traces ofsorrow and perplexity. But still my story was to betold, and it seemed to perplex him still more.

“Do you know her name?” he asked.

“Mariette, Father,” I replied.

“But what more, besides Mariette?” he asked;and as I could give him no information, he mademe describe, as accurately as I could, the appearanceof the lady I had seen. I spoke of herbright and beautiful eyes, and I described her as verypale; but the good priest inquired whether shewas tall.

“Oh yes,” I replied; “a good deal taller thanJeanette.”

The good priest smiled; for Jeanette was a gooddeal below the height of the Medicean Venus, andshe is no giantess.

“It must be Madame de Salins,” he murmured,after a moment’s consideration. “Holy father, havemercy upon us! Killed Monsieur de Salins, havethey, before his poor wife’s eyes? A better youngman did not exist, nor one who has done more good,both by his acts and his example.”

“Wouldn’t you know Mariette, if you saw her,Father?” I asked; and Jeanette coming in from theroom where the child was at the moment, led thegood Father away to see her. When he came back,he said no more for some time, but sat thinking, withhis head bent forward, and his eyes half closed.Then he called Jeanette, and somewhat to my surprise,gave very strict orders for concealing the factof the little girl’s residence in our house. My littleroom was to be assigned to her; a large, wide, rathercheerful, long uninhabited room, up stairs, was toreceive a table, and a few chairs from somewhereelse, and to be made a sort of play-room for her, andI and Jeanette were to do the very best we could tomake the little prisoner happy, while her existencewas to be kept secret from every one but our threeselves. At the same time he laid the strongest injunctionsupon me to abstain from even hinting toany one the adventure I had met with in the wood,and never to call the child Mariette de Salins, butmerely Mariette, or Mariette Brun.

And now began a new sort of existence for me.Mariette became, as it were, my property—at leastI looked upon her almost as such. I had carried herin the forest. I had led her along by the hand. Ihad brought her there. She was my little foundling,and my feelings toward her were as strange as evercame into the breast of a boy of thirteen. Therewas something parental about them. I could almosthave brought myself to believe that I was herfather; and yet I looked upon her very much in thelight of a toy, as grown-up parents will sometimesdo in regard to their children. I was with Mariettethe greater part of every day, playing with her,amusing her, devising all sorts of games to entertainher. She soon became very fond of me, and quitefamiliar; would sit by the hour with her arms roundmy neck, and would tell me little anecdotes of herown home. A pleasant home it seemed to havebeen till the last fearful events occurred, full of harmony,and peace, and domestic joy. Continuallyshe seemed to forget the present, in pictures ofbrighter hours gone by, but from time to time—especiallyat first—a torrent of painful memories wouldseem to burst upon her, and the end of the little talewould be drowned in tears.

Two months passed over in this manner, and littleMariette seemed quite reconciled to her situation.With the elasticity of childish hope, she had recoveredall her spirits, and no two young, happy,innocent things were ever gayer than we were. Herstate of imprisonment, too, was somewhat relaxed;for, in our own town at least, a lull had come uponthe political storm, which, as every one knows,came up sobbing, as it were, in fits and starts, like asouth-westerly gale, till the full hurricane blew andswept every thing before it. After some hesitation,Father Bonneville permitted her to go out with meinto the garden, and there to play amongst theshrubs, now, alas! destitute of flowers, for an houror two before she went to bed. In the town she wasnever seen, and with a sort of prescience, whichwas, perhaps, not extraordinary, the good Fatherexplained to me that it would be wiser to use, aslittle as possible, the way out of the town by thegarden and the tower. He treated me with a degreeof confidence and reliance on my intelligence anddiscretion, which made me very proud. The agitatedand terrible state of the country, he said, and theanarchical tendencies which were visible throughoutsociety in France, had induced a number of the mostwealthy and influential people to seek a refuge inother lands. Those who had got possession ofpower, he continued, were naturally anxious to puta stop to this emigration, and a system of espionage,which was well-nigh intolerable, had been establishedto check it. The advantage we possessed ofbeing able to go in and out of the town when wepleaded, without passing the gales, might be lost tous by the imprudent use of it; and although two orthree other citizens, whose houses abutted upontowers of the old wall, had the same facilities, heknew them to be prudent and well-disposed men,who were not likely to call attention to themselvesby any incautious act.

Although the door below was unlocked andlocked every morning and evening, it may well besupposed that I adhered strictly to the good Father’sdirections, and always when I wanted to get out ofthe city took the way round by the gates. This wasnot very often, indeed, for I had now an object ofinterest and entertainment at home, which I hadnever had before, and Mariette was all the world tome for the time. Good Father Bonneville in speakingof her to me used to call her with a quiet smile“Tu fille”—thy daughter—and pleasant was it forme to hear him so name her. Certain it is, whatbetween one thing and another—the little vanity Ihad in her—the selfish feeling of property, so strongin all children—the pleasant occupation which shegave to my thoughts, and her own winning and endearingways, (for she was full of every sort of wild,engaging grace,) together with her real sweetness ofdisposition, which had something more beautiful andcharming in it than I can describe—certain it is, Isay—I learned before a month was over to love nothingon all the earth like her. Nay more, amongstall the passions and objects and pursuits of life I canrecall nothing so strong, so fervent, so deep, as thatpure, calm, boyish love for little Mariette de Salins.I could dwell upon it, even now, for ever, and frommy heart and soul I believed she returned that affectionas warmly. Two months and a fortnight hadpassed by: heavier clouds than ever were beginningto gather on the political horizon: menaces of foreigninvasion to put down the disorderly spirit which hadmanifested itself in the land, roused the indignationboth of those whose passions refused correction, andthose who loved the independence of their country.The very threat swept away one of the few safeguardsof society which remained in France. Therewas a great body of the people who disliked thethought of anarchy; but a short period of anarchyseemed to them preferable to the indefinite dominationof foreign soldiers in the land, and multitudes ofthese better men were now driven to act with orsubmit to the anarchists.

I could see that Father Bonneville was very muchalarmed, and in much agitation and distress of mind.I twice saw him count over the money which I hadbrought him from Madame de Salins, and lookingup in my face, he said, with a thoughtful air:

“I suppose I ought to send her away—the time ispast—but I know not really what to do—wherecould I put her in England?—who could I send withher?—how could I let her mother know where sheis to be found? This is a small sum, too, to supporther for any time in England. A hundred and forty-sevenlouis! England is a dear country—a verydear country, as I know. Every thing is thrice theprice that it is here.”

Youth always argues from its wishes. They formthe goal to which, whatever turns the course maytake, the race is always directed in the end. FatherBonneville’s words were very painful to me, and Iventured to strive to persuade him that it would bebetter to wait a little: that Mariette was well whereshe was: that something might have occurred todelay Madame de Salins.

The good Father shook his head, with a sigh, andhe then took a little drawer out of a cabinet, andcounted some forty or fifty gold pieces that werewithin. I could see, however, that there were, atleast, three little rolls of thin white paper diaperedby the milling of the coin within, and I knew bytheir similarity and size with the one which I hadmyself received, that each must contain somewhereabout a hundred louis. To me this was Peru; butFather Bonneville, who knew better, sighed over it,and put it back again.

One very stormy night the wind blew in sharp,fierce gusts against the front windows, and the rainpattered hard. The streets were almost deserted,and utterly unlighted, as they were in those times,they offered no pleasant promenade on such a nightas that. Suddenly the bell rang, as I was sitting byFather Bonneville reading, when Mariette wassound asleep up stairs, and Jeanette was workingaway in her kitchen.

“Who can that be?” said Father Bonneville,turning a little pale. “Stay, Jeanette, stay for amoment;” and he put away one or two things thatwere lying about, and locked the door of the littlecabinet.

Now, it might seem a cruelty to keep any onewaiting at the door even for a minute or two in thepitiless pelting of the shower; but I forgot to mentionin describing the house, that it, and a neighboringhouse, which bent away from the main into aside street, formed a very obtuse angle, and that betweenthe two there was a little arched entranceovershadowing a flight of steps which led to thegood Father’s door. Thus, any visitor was as muchsheltered from the rain on the outside, as if he hadbeen in the house itself.

Jeanette had, at length, permission to go to thedoor, and to tell the truth, both Father Bonnevilleand I peeped out to see who was the applicant whomade so late a call.

“I wish to see Father Bonneville,” said a woman’svoice, marvelously sweet and pleasant.

“Is your business very pressing, madam?” askedJeanette, adding, “it is late, and just the good Father’stime for going to bed.”

“Life and death!” said the visitor. “I must seehim, and see him alone.”

“Well, madam, come in,” was the reply, and atthe same moment Father Bonneville said in a lowtone, but it seemed to me with a happy air, “Leaveme, François. Go to bed, my son.”

I obeyed at once, and in moving across the passageto the kitchen for a light, I crossed the visitor,nearly touching her. All I could see, however, wasthat she was tall, dignified in carriage, dressed indeep black, and wrapped up in a large mantle with aveil over her head.

I felt sure that it was Mariette’s mother, and hurryingaway to my new room, which was over thelittle archway sheltering the entrance, I shut the doorand gave myself up to a fit of despair. I fanciedthat she had come to take my little pet away, toseparate her from me forever, to deprive me of myproperty, and I cannot describe in any degree whatI felt. The anguish of that moment was as greatalmost as I ever experienced in life. All I did withinthe next ten minutes I cannot tell, but one thing Iknow I did, which was to sit down and cry like agreat baby. I would have given worlds to haveknown what was passing; but I did not listen thoughI might have done so easily from the top of my littlestairs. But good Father Bonneville had so early,so well, and so strongly impressed upon my mindthe duty of avoiding any meanness, that eaves-droppingseemed to me in those days almost as great acrime as murder. Indeed it was in somewhat ofthat shape that the good Father placed it before myeyes. “What right,” he said, “has one man to robanother of his secrets any more than of his money?They are both his property, and if they are notgiven they are stolen.”

I was not very long kept in suspense, however,for by the time I had got my little coat off, and wasstill sitting on the edge of the bed crying, I heardthe lady quit the good Father’s little study, and hisvoice speaking as he escorted her toward the door.I knew that Mariette could not have been awakened,dressed, and carried off in a quarter of an hour,and I went to bed and slept with a heart relieved.It was only a respite, however. Four days afterthat good Father Bonneville took an opportunitywhen Mariette and I were at play of telling herthat she was that night to go away with her mamma,and take a long journey. He advised her thereforenot to tire herself, but to keep as quiet as possibletill the evening came, even if she could not liedown and take a little rest during the day.

The poor child’s agitation was extreme. Theidea of seeing her mother evidently gave her greatdelight, but the thought of going away from a housewhere she had been made so happy, and from acompanion who loved her so much, seemed notexactly to qualify her joy, but to tear her betweentwo emotions. Her face was, for an instant, allsmiles and radiant with satisfaction. The next instant,however, she burst into tears, and snatchingFather Bonneville’s hand she kissed it once ortwice. Then pointing to me, she said, “Cannot Itake him with me?”

The good priest shook his head, and soon after leftus to pass the time till the hour of separation cameas best we might. I do not think he knew, and indeedit would be difficult to make any one comprehend,who has left the period of early youth far behindhim, what were the feelings of Mariette andmyself. I am very much inclined to believe frommy own remembrances, that the pangs of childhoodare much more severe than most grown persons willadmit.

Day wore away; night came. Little Mariettewas dressed and prepared, and about nine o’clockthe bell rang. In a moment after the poor child wasin her mother’s arms, and weeping with joy and agitation.Madame de Salins hardly sat down, however,and there was a look of hurry and anxiety as well asof grief in her face which told how much she hadsuffered, and how much she expected still to encounter.

“I am somewhat late,” she said, speaking to FatherBonneville; “for there were two men walkingup and down before the house in which I have beenconcealed, and I dared hardly venture out. Let uslose no time, good Father. Who will show us theway?”

“Louis, my son, get the lantern,” said the goodFather; and turning to Madame de Salins he added,“He will show you the way.”

These words first seemed to call the attention ofthe lady to myself, and advancing toward me sheembraced me tenderly and with many thanks for thecharge I had taken of her little girl in a moment ofdanger and of horror. I felt gratified, but I do not knowthat I altogether forgave her for coming to carry offmy little companion, and I was also struggling withall my might not to show myself so unmanly as toshed tears; so that I replied somewhat ungracefullyI am afraid. I went away for the lantern, howeverand by the direction of good Father Bonneville,lighted Madame de Salins and Mariette through thegarden, and down the stair-case in the tower. I thenproceeded to open the door for them, almost hopingthat the key might be rusted in the lock so as to preventtheir going. It turned easily enough, however, andwhen I opened the door I was startled at seeing thefigure of a man standing at the top of the little pathwhich led down to the foot of the hill. Madame deSalins, however, accosted him at once by his name,and he told her that Peter and Jerome were waitingdown below. The parting moment was now evidentlycome, and it seemed as bitter to poor little Mariette asmyself. She threw her arms around me. She held metight. She kissed me again and again, and her tearswetted my cheek. At length, however, she was drawnaway from me, and her mother holding her hand ledher down the hill while the man followed. I lookedafter them for a moment or two, till they were nearlylost in the darkness. Then locked the door, andturned sadly toward the house.

——

THE FLIGHT.

Oh, how dull and tedious was the passing of thenext month to me. There was a vacancy in all mythoughts which I cannot describe, a want of objectand of interest, which nothing seemed to supply.But the dullness of the calm was soon to be succeededby the agitation of the storm. The populace, particularlyof the suburb, was becoming more fierce andunruly every hour. If at any previous period therehad been such a thing as tyranny in France—of whichI knew, and had felt nothing—it must have been thetyranny of one, far removed from the humble or eventhe middle stations of life, and much less terrible thanthe tyranny of many, which now came to the doorof every house in the land. There was a butcherliving in the lower part of the town, the terror of hisneighbors, and an object of abhorrence to all goodmen. Fierce, licentious, and unprincipled, his courage—theonly good quality he possessed—was thecourage of a tiger. On more than one occasion informer years good Father Bonneville had had to reprovehim, and it would seem he had not forgotten it.

One day, about a month after Mariette had left us, Ihad walked out into the town during Father Bonneville’sabsence from home, and was crossing thesquare in front of the great church. On one side ofthe square was the best inn in the place, and uponthe steps of that inn were standing several officers ofa dragoon regiment which had lately been quarteredin the town. In the midst of the square, I saw a greatcrowd of people moving to and fro, and apparentlybusy and agitated. There were muskets amongst thecrowd; for in those days the more ragged and poverty-strickena man was, the more certain was heof having some weapon of offense in his hand; andamongst the rest, with a red night-cap on his head, andhis shirt sleeves tucked up to the elbow, I could perceivethe great stalwort figure of the butcher I havementioned. I saw also, however, other garmentsthan those of the mere populace. There was theblack gown of a priest in the middle of the crowd,and as I approached with a faint and fearful heart, Inot only saw that the mob were dragging along apriest by the arms, but also that he was good FatherBonneville. I heard shouts too of “up with him!Hang him up, hang him up! To the spout withhim, to the spout!”

The officers I have mentioned were standing quietlylooking on, laughing and talking with two or threeof the more respectable citizens. But at the first impulseI ran toward them, caught the hand of one ofthe young soldiers, who seemed to bear a high rankamongst the others, and whose face was a kindlyone, and with eager and terrified tones exclaimed—

“Oh, save him, sir, save him. They are going tokill the best man in all the town.”

“Who are they going to hang, boy?” asked oneof the citizens in a tone of assumed indifference; forfew persons ventured in those days to show anysympathy with the victims of popular fury.

“Father Bonneville,” I answered, “Oh it is FatherBonneville—Save him, save him—pray makehaste!”

“He is, indeed, one of the best men in the world,”said the gentleman, with a look of deep distress.

The young officer, however, without more ado,ran down the steps and plunged into the crowd.One or two of his companions followed, I saw a suddenpause in the mob, and heard a great outcry ofvoices; some apparently in persuasion, others inmere brute clamor. A moment after, however,while the parties seemed still disputing, a squadronof dragoons came into the square, and their appearance,though they took no part in what was going on,seemed to have a great effect upon the mob. Anumber of the ragged ruffians dropped off every moment,some walking away down the street, singingribald songs, some coming up to the soldiers, andspeaking a word or two to them as if to show thatthey were not afraid, but walking away in the end.At length, however, I had the satisfaction to see theyoung officer emerge from the little crowd that remained,holding Father Bonneville by the arm,while another of the dragoon officers walked on thegood priest’s other side. The only one who followedthem was the butcher, and he continued pursuingthem with execration and abuse till they reachedthe steps of the inn, in which they lodged the goodFather for the time. The young officer made no replyto all the ribald language with which he was assailed,except on the inn steps, where he turned, andsaid in a calm tone—

“It may be all very true, but proceed according tolaw. If he has refused to take the oath required, hecan and will be punished for it, but you are not to bethe judge, and shall not break the law while I am incommand of this town.”

Thus saying, without waiting for any answer, hewalked into the inn, and I ran after Father Bonneville.The good old man was somewhat out ofbreath with the rough handling he had received, butI could not perceive any traces of fear or great agitationeither in his face or manner. As soon as theyoung officer and I entered the back-room in whichhe had taken refuge, he held out his hand kindly tome, but addressed his first words to the other.

“I have to thank you much, my son,” he said.“I do believe if you had been two minutes laterthose poor misguided people would have hangedme.”

“I do believe they would,” replied the officer,with a smile; “but you have to thank this good ladfor my coming as soon as I did. I did not perceivewhat they were about till he told me.”

“Thank you, Louis, thank you,” said FatherBonneville. “I have had a narrow escape, my son.Although, God knows, I have never done these peopleany harm, and have tried to do them good, yetthey seemed resolved to have my blood. Do youthink it will be safe for me to go now, sir? I havesome sick people to attend upon.”

The young officer besought him however to staytill the town was more completely quieted, and advisedhim even then to betake himself to his ownhouse, and remain concealed and quiet for a day ortwo.

I knew quite well that Father Bonneville wouldnot follow this counsel implicitly, and he did not.He got safely home two or three hours after, and remainedwithin till nightfall; but then he went outto visit the sick persons he had named, and on thefollowing morning was pursuing his usual avocationsas if nothing had happened. It was not long, however,before he became convinced that such conductcould only lead to martyrdom, without being of theslightest benefit to his flock. Death would have beennothing in his eyes, if by it he could purchase goodto others, but that was not a period at which such sacrificeswould be at all available.

One day while he was out, a Sister of Charitycame to the house, and talked long and earnestlywith good Jeanette in the kitchen. I was not presentat their conference, but when the Sister wentaway again I saw that the old housekeeper was ina state of the utmost consternation and grief. Theexpression of these passions took a curious formwith her. It seemed as if she could not be still forone moment. She bustled about the kitchen, as if itwere too small for her energies, took down and putup again every pot, kettle, saucepan, and spit, at leasta dozen times, gazed into the frying-pan with an objectlesslook, and seemed only anxious to spend thesuperfluous activity of her body upon something,while her mind was equally busy with somethingelse. When Father Bonneville returned, however,she had a long conference with him, and he seemedvery thoughtful and anxious. At night the Sister ofCharity again returned, and this time she bore a letterwith her. I only know what took place betweenher and the good Father by the result; for as soonas she was gone, he called me into his study, whereJeanette had been all the time, and I at once sawthat my good old friend and instructor had made uphis mind to some great and important step.

“My dear Louis,” he said, with a calm but verygrave face, “we have heard very evil news. A persecutionis raging against the ministers of religion,which must soon reach me if I remain here. Theyhave already commenced in a town not very far distant,a practice of tying priests and nuns together,and drowning them in the river, adding, by the termthey apply to these massacres, impiety to murder.This good creature and Sister Clara, who has justbeen here, both urge me strongly to fly. I shouldhave hesitated to take such a step, but I find that itis necessary that you should be removed to anothercountry as soon as possible. I have no one to sendwith you, and I trust I am not biased from my dutyby any mere fears for my own life when I determineto accompany you myself. I shall still be fulfillingat least one of the tasks which I have undertaken toperform, and I sincerely believe it is the one in whichthe remains of my life can be most serviceable.”

He then went on to explain to me that he had determinedto pass the next day in the town, and tomake his escape at night. Disguise, he added witha sigh, would be necessary. But good Jeanette undertookto procure what was fitting for the occasion,and good Father Bonneville retired to rest that nightgrave and sad, but, apparently, in no degree agitated.On the following day, a few minutes before noon, agreat mob passed up the street, carrying a bloodyhuman head upon a pole. They stopped opposite tothe good priest’s house, shouting for him to showhimself, and with a quiet and undismayed air hewalked to an upper window, and looked out. Hewas instantly assailed with a torrent of abuse, and Ido not feel at all sure that the mob would not havesacked the house and put him to death, if it had notbeen so near the tiger’s feeding-time. All the lowerclasses dined at twelve, and Father Bonneville retiringfrom the window as soon as he had shownhimself, the crowd marched on again down thestreet with their bloody ensign at their head.

Nothing that I remember worthy of notice occurredduring the rest of the day, though Jeanette was in agood deal of bustle, and went in and out more thanonce. Several persons came to see Father Bonneville,and talked with him for some time; but the daypassed heavily with me, although I will acknowledgethat I felt a good deal of that eager and pleasantexpectation with which youth always looksforward to change.

At length night fell; the outer door of the housewas carefully locked; Father Bonneville retired tohis own sleeping-room; I assisted Jeanette to bringdown a pair of somewhat heavy saddle-bags, the onemarked with black paint L. L., the other J. C.Shortly after I heard a step upon the stairs, and agentleman entered the room, whom I did not at firstrecognize—and could hardly, for some time, persuademyself that it was Father Bonneville. Soutaneand bands, and small black cap, and co*cked-hatwere all gone, and he appeared in a straight-cut blackcoat, with a small sword by his side. His thin,white hair, powdered and tied behind, and a roundhat, with a broad band and buckle, on his head. Theeffect of this change in costume was to make himlook very much smaller than before. He had seemeda somewhat portly man in his robes, but now helooked exceedingly lank and spare, and even hisheight seemed diminished. He looked strange andill at ease, but showed no indecision, now that hismind was made up.

“I thought of burning my papers,” he said, speakingto Jeanette, “but I don’t know, ma bonne, thatthey contain any thing unworthy of a good Christianor a good citizen. I shall therefore leave them asthey are, to be examined by those who may take thetrouble. You understand all, Jeanette, that I havesaid, and what you are to do, and where I am tohear from you.”

Jeanette comprehended every thing; but the feelingsof the good creature’s heart were at this timesurging up against her understanding with greaterand greater force every minute. At length, when allwas ready for our departure, she fell upon her kneesat good Father Bonneville’s feet, weeping and kissinghis hand, and begging his blessing. The old manput his hand upon her head, and with an air ofsolemn affection, called down the blessing of Godupon her. Then embracing her kindly, he said,“You have striven, I know, Jeanette, to be as gooda servant to God as to a mere mortal master. Hedeserves more and better service than any of us cangive, but he is contented with less than any of us require,if it be rendered with a whole heart. Farewell,my Jeanette—farewell for the present! Weshall meet again soon—I trust—I believe.”

The good Father took one of the saddle-bags, andI took the other; Jeanette loading me, moreover,with a large paper parcel of which she bade me takegreat care, hinting at the same time that it containedsustenance for the good Father and myself whichmight be very needful to us on our first night’s journey.She followed us in tears through the garden inthe tower, and down the stairs to the foot. Thereshe hugged and kissed me heartily, but she had nopower to speak, and by this time, all the pleasantfancies in regard to setting out to see new scenes,and to find new enjoyments, which I had entertainedfor a moment or two, had passed away, and nothingremained but sorrow and regret. We made ourway, not without difficulty, down the little path tothe valley; for the night was as black as crime, andthen walked on along the road by the stream, which,however, we were obliged to quit soon, in order toavoid a party of men who had a sort of guard-housewhere the two roads met. This was easily done,however. The river was not very full; for the airwas frosty, but dry, and neither snow nor rain hadfallen for two or three days. Some large stonesserved us as well as a bridge, and crossing the meadowson the other side, we reached the high roadfrom the town toward Paris without going throughthe suburbs. About a quarter of a mile farther uponthis road, we found an elderly man standing withtwo horses; and although I could hardly see his face,I recognized in him an uncle of good Jeanette, whowas accustomed every fortnight to bring poultry tothe house, and who, to say the truth, looked a gooddeal younger than his niece. Few words passed betweenhim and us; the saddle-bags were arrangedon the horses’ backs nearly in silence. Father Bonnevillemounted one, and the good farmer helped meto mount the other. I had never been upon a horse’sback in my life before, and the animal upon whichI was perched, though somewhat less than that whichcarried Father Bonneville, seemed to me a perfectelephant. I was awkward enough, and uncomfortableenough, no doubt, at first, but I soon got accustomedto my position, and took rather a pleasurein the ride than not, till we had gone someeight or nine miles, when I began to feel the usualinconveniences to which young horsem*n are subject.

A good deal of apprehension was entertained bothby my reverend companion and myself, lest ourflight should be discovered, and immediate pursuittake place. But we found afterward that such fearswere quite vain, the minds of the people of the town,especially of the anarchists, were turned by variousevents in a direction quite different from FatherBonneville. They had their mayor to guillotine, andtwo or three of the principal inhabitants to throwinto prison, which occupied them satisfactorily forseveral days. Father Bonneville’s absence wasnever noticed by any but his own immediate parishioners,who wisely forbore to talk about it tillJeanette, with a bold policy which did her credit,judging that our escape had been safely effected,went up to the municipality, and begged to knowwhat she was to do, as her master had gone awayseveral days before, and had not returned.

In the meanwhile we rode on through that live-longnight, neither directing our course straight towardParis, nor to the sea-side. When morningdawned I was terribly tired and sleepy, and saw allsorts of unreal things in the twilight—the mere effect,I suppose, of exhaustion. Father Bonneville hadtalked to me from time to time, giving me directionsfor my general conduct and demeanor towardhimself. I found that it was his intention to assumethe name of Charlier, and that I was to pass for hisnephew, still retaining the name of Lacy, deprivedof its aristocratic prefix of dé. The name, however,soon got corrupted by the people of the innsas we went along, and I passed as young citoyenLassi throughout the whole of the rest of our longjourney.

At daylight, after the first night’s march, we haltedon a piece of uncultivated ground at the side of awood, and suffering our horses to crop the grass, ofwhich they stood in some need, we seated ourselveson a dry bank under the trees, and made free withthe food which good Jeanette had provided for us.After I had satisfied my keen appetite, and drunksome wine out of a flask, I fell into a sound sleepbefore I was at all aware what was coming uponme, nor did I wake till Father Bonneville shookme gently by the arm, at about one o’clock inthe day.

We then resumed our journey, having to take thefirst very dangerous step after quitting the town, inentering the busy haunts of men, and exposing ourselvesto the eyes and inquiries of strangers.

A tall church-tower was soon seen rising beforeus, at a considerable distance, and Father Bonnevilletook the opportunity of a peasant woman, passingus on the road, to ascertain the name of the townto which the church belonged. This gave him thekey to his topography, which he had lost during thenight, and as the town was still full fifteen miles distant,he determined to stop at any village he founda few miles ere we reached it, in order to avoid thestricter examination which was likely to be enforcedin a city. Upon calculating as nearly as our knowledgeof the country enabled us to do, we found thatwe had made five-and-thirty miles during the night,and ten or twelve miles more would put what mightbe considered a sufficient distance for the time betweenourselves and our enemies. We jogged onquietly then, encountering a good number of thepeasantry who were returning from market or fair.For a part of the way we rode by the side of an oldman who was journeying in the same direction withourselves. He had a shrewd, thoughtful, but quieteye, and a bland, easy smile, which perhaps mighthave made a man well versed in the world doubt hisperfect sincerity, notwithstanding his tall, broadforehead, and a certain dignity of air that did not bespeaklow cunning. He addressed good Father Bonnevilleat once as “Monsieur L’abbé,” but lookedat him several times before he said more.

At first my old companion did not seem to noticethe epithet he bestowed upon him, but after a fewmore words had passed, he inquired somewhat abruptly,“What made you call me ‘Abbé,’ citizen?”

“Your dress,” replied the countryman, “yourmanner, and your look. The aristocrat is proud,because he has always commanded, and thinks hehas a right to command. The peasant is vain, becauseGod has implanted in every French breast thenotion that each man is equal to his neighbor, whetherhe be a fool or a wise man, a scholar or a dunce,a brave man or a poltroon, a good man or a knave.But the teacher of religion has a different look. Hehas been accustomed to guide and to exhort, and heknows that it is not only his right but his duty so todo. There is, therefore, in him a look of confidenceand authority, very different from the haughtinessof the one or the vanity of the other I have mentioned.”

“You must have thought and studied more thanmight have been expected,” said Father Bonneville,examining him closely.

“There is no reason why any man should notstudy, and still less why he should not think,” repliedthe other. “I have done both, I acknowledge.There are more sins committed in France every daythan that.”

“And pray where do you live?” asked FatherBonneville.

“Come and see,” replied the stranger. “Yourhorses seem tired, and I have still some nine milesto go, but we can ride slowly, and at this next turnwe shall quit the high road, which will be a convenience.”

Father Bonneville agreed to the proposal, and werode on by the side of our inviter in desultory conversation,pointed occasionally by references to passingpolitical events, but generally referring to subjectsaltogether indifferent. I was dreadfully tired,I confess, before we got to the end of our long, slowjourney. At length after two hours’ quiet ride, thestranger said, “We are coming to my home, whereyou will be very welcome, and it is as well for youto stay there to-night; for there is a grand fête ofLiberty going on in most of the villages round, andthat lady, like most other pagan deities, is very fondof human sacrifices. Now it does not much matterwhether one is crushed under the wheels of Juggernaut,or burned by Druids in a basket of wicker-work,or made to pass through the fire like the childrenof those obedient and docile Israelites of old,or have one’s head chopped off on a little platformin a public square, before the image of a monstrouswoman, in a red night-cap, and with a spear in herhand. It does not much matter, I say; but all aredisagreeable, and all are to be avoided by every reasonablemeans. You will therefore be better in myhome there, than in any inn in the neighborhood.”

“Where?” asked Father Bonneville, gazing onbefore him, in expectation of seeing a farmer’shouse.

“There,” replied the stranger, pointing to a magnificentchâteau upon a rising ground near. “Youmarvel, I see, and I can guess your inquiry—how Ihave contrived to keep possession of my own, whenthe universal war-cry through all France is, ‘Warto the Castle, Peace to the Cottage.’ I have nottime for long explanation; but sufficient may be toldbriefly. You see this coat of coarse gray cloth. Itis the sign, the key, of my whole life. I too wasbred an ecclesiastic. The death of three elder brothersput me in possession of that thing upon thehill. I have unfrocked myself, but I retain my earlyhabits, and respect my voluntary vows. I remainin two or three little chambers, while very oftenboors revel in the halls of my ancestors. But theyhave a shrewd notion that if I were gone they wouldnot have the means of revelry to as great an extentas at present—that if my property was confiscated,it would fall into the hands of worse men than myself;and so long as I, the master of it, act but as thesteward of it, they are well contented to leave mealone in my office without bringing my head to theguillotine, which would be of no use at all to anyone, and without seizing upon my lands, it wouldbe a great embarrassment to themselves. Moreover,I have once or twice threatened to resign allmy possessions into the hands of the Commune, andthe very lowest of the people have been those to beseechme the most earnestly to refrain, knowingvery well that they get a better part of the spoil nowthan they otherwise would. Thus I have got a certaincommand over them, and I do what I like withoutfear of any buzzing rumors, or public denunciations.The man who denounced me would verysoon find his way to the lantern, and as it is unpleasantto occupy in darkness the place of a light, witha rope round one’s neck, people abstain. There area hundred people in yonder town who could hangme to-morrow; but my death would be sure to hanga hundred of themselves, and therefore I have themajority on my side. But come, let us go in throughthe gates.”

We entered the château, leaving our horses in thecare of a laboring man in the court, who seemed nota bit less respectful to the master of the house thanthe servant of any old noble in the ancient days.This was in itself an anomaly in those times; forthe vain desire of equality had completely pervertedmen’s judgments, and they sought not alone to sweepaway the differences created by a long establishedsocial system, but even those fundamental differencesproduced by the will of God. I believe, inthose days—amongst a great mass of the people atleast—as much jealous hatred was felt toward superiorintellect as toward superior wealth or superiorstation.

On passing the doors of the building we foundsome ten or twelve men seated in the eating-roomdrinking and talking. The master of the housepassed through, nodded to them, called them citizens,and said, “Make good cheer of it. There ismore where that comes from.”

A cheerful, good-humored laugh was the reply,and he walked on up the stairs, leading us to a littlesuite of apartments which he reserved for himself,and where his privacy was respected even by therude men who surrounded him. There he left us,and went out to procure some refreshment for us,part of which he brought in himself. The rest, witha considerable quantity of plate, which he seemed tothink in perfect security, notwithstanding open doorsand strange visitors, was brought in by a servant ofthe old school, but not in livery. When the manwas gone we ate and drank and refreshed ourselves,and a conversation, not only of interest but of importance,occurred between our entertainer and FatherBonneville. The former seemed to comprehendour situation, or at least as much of it as was necessary,without any explanation; and he gave a greatdeal of very good and minute advice as to our conductwhile traveling through France. He advisedthe good Father, strongly, to put on a brown coat,saying that the reputation of an abbé was worse thanthat of a priest. He advised him also to give up theplan of traveling on horseback, and betake himself toa chaise de poste.

“I don’t ask where you are going, or what youintend to do, but by coming with post-horses, andlodging at the post-house, wherever they entertainthere, you gain favor with one class of the communitywhose assistance is of great importance to travelers.”

Father Bonneville ventured to tell him that therewere difficulties in the way of posting, as we werenot furnished with those papers which were sometimesinquired for at post-houses.

“Oh, I will manage that very soon for you,” saidour host. “The mayor shall furnish you with thenecessary passports.”

“But he knows nothing of us,” replied FatherBonneville.

“He knows me,” replied the other, with a significantnod of his head, “he wont refuse me. It israther a painful state of things when each man’s lifeis in another man’s power. There are plenty tomisuse the advantage, and I have never seen why Ishould not employ it to better purposes. The mayorwill probably be guillotined in six months. He calculatesit will be longer, but I think he makes amistake. However, he knows I could have himguillotined in six days, and is therefore very compliable.”

“And pray,” said Father Bonneville, with asomewhat rueful smile, “how long do you contemplatekeeping your own head where it is?”

“It is hardly worth consideration,” replied theother; “for I say of my head, as a friend of minesaid of his house which was likely to fall about hisears, ‘It will last my time.’ In truth it is of verylittle use to any but myself, or I dare say they wouldhave taken it long ago. The same worthlessnessmay or may not protect it for a month, a year, oreven till these evil times pass away; for you are notto suppose, my good friend, that this state will lastfor ever. It is a mere irruption of human vanity.We Frenchmen are the vainest people upon earth,the whole nation is vain, and every individual isvain. This vanity makes each man unwilling to seeany other a bit higher, richer, or in any respect betteroff than himself; but there are certain fundamentallaws of order which man may overturn for a time,but which always resume their power. The wiserule in the end. Industry and talent raise themselvesin spite of resistance, forethought and careproduce wealth, and if you were to take every acreof land throughout France, and every louis d’or,and divide them equally amongst the whole people,so that there should not be the difference of a sous,before fifty years had passed you would find the differencesall restored, some men rich, other men poor,some men ruling, other men obeying, some enjoying,others laboring. Nay more, my belief is, thatwithin the same time, you would find rank, titlesand distinctions restored also.”

Father Bonneville shook his head.

“I am very sure of it,” replied the other, in answerto the doubtful shake. “There are manycountries in which a pure democracy might exist—perhapsin England—but certainly not in France.Our very blood is feudal and chivalrous. History,which is the memory of nations, is filled with nothingbut feudal and chivalrous facts. We are toolight, too vain, too volatile to do without distinctionfor any length of time, and we have not a sufficientspirit of organization in our character to do withouta king in some shape or other. I think it must bean absolute shape; but take my word for it, Francewill never be forty years at any one time withoutcounts, barons and marquises, dukes, peers, stars andribbons. You might as well attempt to make usQuakers as real republicans. A lion may perhapsbe taught to dance like a monkey for an hour ortwo, but take my word for it, in the end he will eathis dancing-master; and you might as well attemptto change a lion’s nature as a Frenchman’s. However,you shall have the passports to-morrow, or I donot know the mayor. He is a very excellent person,but has an over-strong regard for the integrityof his neck.”

“I wish I possessed your secret of living so muchat ease amidst such scenes, and exercising so muchinfluence over such men,” said Father Bonneville.

“Mystery, mystery!” said our host with a smile.“That is the whole secret. No one knows what Iam going to do next. No one knows why I amgoing to do it. Whenever there is any great questionagitated in regard to which I am forced to takea part, I give a full and complete explanation of myviews, in terms which not a man who hears me cancomprehend. I use the language of the times, thecant words and pet phrases of the multitude, andgenerally I go one little step before any of the movementsI see coming; for where millions of peopleare running a race, as we are in France, the manwho stops even to buckle his shoe is certain to beknocked down and trampled to death. But now Iwill show you your sleeping place. You will findthe beds good. May you never have worse.”

Our host was as good as his word in all respects.Before we woke in the morning the passports hadbeen procured, containing a very tolerable descriptionof Father Bonneville under the name of CitoyenJerome Charlier, and of myself under that of LouisLassi. Our horses were sold to no great disadvantageby the intervention of our entertainer, a littlepost-chaise bought from the post-master himself, atabout five louis more than it was worth, and atabout eleven o’clock in the day we set out on thedirect road for Paris, in a manner which suited memuch better, I confess, than that which we had previouslypursued. I have little doubt that the goodFather, too, who had not ridden for twenty years,was in the same predicament. I will only dwellupon our farther journey toward the capital so faras to state that it passed easily, and without interruption,which we attributed to the fact of havingcut across the country, in such a direction as to benow traveling upon a line of high road totally differentfrom that which led from Paris to the place ofour previous residence.

——

THE CAPITAL.

My remembrance of the journey to Paris, and theconversations which took place upon the road, ismore perfect than of any other of the events whichtook place at that time. But it is, perhaps, in somedegree a factitious memory; for I have talked aboutit so frequently since, that I hardly know which arethe facts supplied by my own mind, which thoserelated to me by others. I recollect clearly and distinctly,however, our entrance into Paris on a darkand stormy night, our detention at the gates, and theexamination of the carriage by lantern-light. I shallnot, I think, ever forget the impression producedupon my mind by the long, tortuous streets of thatgreat capital, with the dim lanterns swinging onchains stretched across from house to house, theenormously tall buildings on every side, and themultitude of people who thronged the streets evenat that hour, and in that weather. I thought the journeythrough Paris would never have come to an end,but at length the chaise de poste drove into the courtof a second-rate inn, in the Rue des Victoires, notfar from the hospital of the Quinze-vingts. Ourarrival created no sensation. No active porters, noready waiters were there to welcome or assist.The house rose dark and gloomy, on the four sidesof the court-yard, up to an amazing height in thesky, leaving us, like Truth, in the bottom of a well,and as good Father Bonneville knew not much moreof the ways of Paris than I did myself, I do notknow what would have become of us if it had notbeen necessary to pay the postillion. It was toodark in the court to see the money, and as he didnot choose to take it upon trust, he said he wouldgo and fetch the concierge and his lantern. Accordingly,he dug out of a den, at the side of the port-cochere,a very curious, antiquated specimen ofhumanity, with a broad belt over his shoulder, verymuch like one of those in which the beadles of oldFrench churches used to stick their useless swords.He held the lantern while the money was countedout, and then was kind enough, though somewhatslowly, to lead us up a very dark and narrow stair-caseto the first floor of the house, where the hotelin reality began. I never discovered what was donewith the ground floor; for there were no shops in it,and it seemed to be left entirely to take care of itself.The mistress of the house—she had a husband,but poor little thing, he never presumed to interferein any thing—was an enormously tall, and tolerablyportly woman, apparently of five or six and thirtyyears of age, very fresh, good-looking and good-humored.She was a Fleming by birth, and bore evidenttraces of her origin in her fair hair, blue eyes,and brilliant complexion. She was enchanted tosee us, she assured us, would provide for our accommodationas no other people had ever been providedfor before, ordered some supper for us immediately,and in the meanwhile, took us to see our rooms,which were a story higher. There was a great,large, gloomy chamber, tesselated with brick wellwaxed, a bed in an alcove, two small closets oneach side of the alcove, and a fire-place big enoughto burn a forest. This was for Father Bonneville.My own room was about the size of the alcove andits two closets, and close by the side of the goodFather’s chamber. To my young eyes it lookedmore snug and comfortable than his. But we wereeach contented it would seem. The bags werebrought up, the post-chaise put in the remise, andmy little store of clothing being placed in my room,I washed away the dust of travel, brushed theyoung, unfrosted hair which then curled so thicklyover my head, and feeling somewhat solitary in thegreat world around me, found my way to the chamberof my good preceptor, who was sitting with hisfeet, one upon each andiron, contemplating withdeep interest, as it seemed to me, the blazing logsas they fizzed and crackled on the hearth. Poorman, his thoughts, I fancy, were very far away, andhe took no notice of me for a minute or two, while Imeditated on the intense smell of roasting coffee andveal ragout which seemed to form the atmosphereof the house.

Father Bonneville had just wakened from his reverie,and was speaking a word or two as the commencementof a conversation, when a waiter camein to announce that our supper was ready, with asdiscreet and deferential an air as if we had been twoaristocrats living under the ancien regime.

“Go down with him, Louis,” said Father Bonneville,“and I will join you directly.”

I followed the waiter down the stairs which I wasnow happy to find lighted by a single lamp, and enteredthe salle à manger. How can I describe thedinginess of that strange room? It was long andnot very large, with a good-sized table down themiddle, and a fire-place with a broad mantlepiece inone corner. Three windows, which were supposedto give it light in the day time, but which, as theylooked into the narrow court, never caught onegenuine, unadulterated ray of the sun, now lookedas black as ink upon the wall, although, sooth to say,that wall itself was of a hue little less sombre. Whowas the inventor of painting panneling in oil, I reallydo not know, but I cannot imagine that any handbut his own could have so decorated that wall, orthat a brush of any kind could ever have touched itafterward. I believe that there were nymphs dancing,represented on the spaces between the windows, butthey certainly looked like Hottentots dancing in thedark. The furniture of the room was very scanty,consisting of nothing but the long dining-table, andchairs enough to fit it, but over the end of the tablenearest the fire-place, was spread a beautifully whitedamask cloth, on which appeared two candlesticks,two napkins, a number of knives and forks andplates, and no less than eight dishes, from which exhaleda very savory odor, I mechanically walked uptoward the fire, when suddenly, to my horror andconsternation, a voice addressed me from the mantlepiece,exclaiming, “Petit coquin, petit coquin!” andthe next instant there was a whirr, and I felt somethingbrush my cheek and fall upon my shoulder.On examination, it proved to be a bird of a kindwhich I had never seen before, and which, in thisindividual instance, I probably should not have recognized,if I had seen a thousand of its species. Itwas a co*ckatoo, which had thought fit to moult inthe midst of the winter, and had done it so completely,that though warmly enough robed in a coveringof fine down, not a feather was to be seen uponits body, except the pen feathers of the wings, thoseof the tail, and a long yellow crest on the head. Icall it yellow, because that is the color it ought tohave been, but, to say sooth, its fondness for thechimney-corner had so completely smoked my newfriend, that the general hue of its whole body was adull but most decided gray.

It seemed an amiable and affectionate bird, however,although with its yellowish crest, and unfeatheredform, it looked very much like one of thosemeagre dowagers whom we see at parties withdresses a great deal too much cut down for the satisfactionof the beholders. It continued repeating ina playful and endearing tone, “petit coquin, petitcoquin!” as if it imagined the epithet to imply thegreatest tenderness. While the words were yet inits beak, however, and before any regular conversationhad begun between us, the party was augmentedby another gentleman carrying in his hand around hat with three broad bands, which was generallyone of the signs or symbols of a man well providedin official situations.

He was a stout and self-important, but evidentlya very keen personage. He was one of those forwhom trifles have much importance, not from anypeculiar capacity for dealing in details, but becausea natural tendency of the mind of man to attach acertain degree of magnitude to all he observes himselfhad not been properly corrected in his youth.The bird was still rhyming, “petit coquin, petitcoquin,” and advancing at once toward me with anair of jovial frankness, he caught me by the arm,saying, “Ah, little rogue, the bird knows you, itseems. Now, you are some young aristocrat, I willwarrant.”

Now it so happened, that I made the exact answerwhich was required under the circ*mstances.Let it be understood that I had received no instructionswhatever; that Father Bonneville hadnever even touched upon the subject of politics inhis own house; that while deploring excesses, andexcited and alarmed by the crimes, which he sawgoing on every day around him, he had never evenhinted an opinion upon any of the great questionswhich agitated the public mind at the time. But inmy walks through the town and the country, I hadbeen so much accustomed, for the last twelve monthsor more, to hear the name of aristocrat applied toany one who wore a better coat than his neighbor,that I gradually learned to look upon that term asimplying the basest, meanest, and most pitiful of allthings. My cheek flushed, my brow contracted withan expression of anger which could not be assumed,and I replied, sharply, “No, citizen, no! Neither I,or any one I know, are aristocrats. You insult us bycalling us so.”

My passion was ridiculous enough; for I had notthe slightest idea in the world what the word aristocratmeant. Nevertheless, it had its effect, althoughthat might have been lost for want of witnesses, hadnot Madame Michaud entered the room at the moment,to see that everything was properly providedfor her honored guests.

“There, Monsieur Le Commissaire,” she said, “Ithink you have got your answer. You do not expectto find aristocrats in my house, I suppose.”

“I have found one,” answered the commissary,nodding his head; “and he will find soon that he isdiscovered. Shake hands, citizen, if you are reallyand truly a lover of your country and the rights ofman. But mind, you don’t presume to touch myhand if you are only shamming a love of freedom.”

I placed my hand in his boldly, and shook itwarmly; for I had as little idea of that in whichtrue freedom consists as most of his patient followersin the political career, who, with very rare exceptions,were devout worshipers of words, with a veryindefinite notion, indeed, of things.

He was satisfied, it seemed, and sat down to takea cup of coffee and drink a glass of liqueur withMadame Michaud—without paying for them. Indeed,he seemed upon very amicable terms with thelady, and I strongly suspect that it was good policyin all hostesses of Paris, not to refuse any thing thatcommissaries of police might think fit to demand.

Shortly after, Father Bonneville made his appearance,and although he answered all civil interrogatories,he played his part so discreetly, that no suspicionseemed to be aroused.

The commissary quitted the room in jovial good-humor,and the rest of the evening passed withoutany thing remarkable.

About this time, the images which memory presentsin her long looking-glass, are somewhat vague,and ill-defined—perhaps I have not had the opportunityof refreshing my remembrance as to the minutedetails, and many a scene stands out in strong relieffrom a picture generally dark and obscure. Onlyone of those scenes will I notice here, before I go onto matters more immediately affecting myself.

There was what is called a table d’hôte at theinn where we stayed—a great accommodation to travelers—whichis now very common, though in thetime I speak of, it was more customary to lodge inwhat is called an hôtel garni, and to obtain one’s foodfrom without. One day, I know not whether it wasthe second or third after our arrival, we were seatedat the dinner-table in the hall, when the same commissaryof police I have mentioned, entered theroom, and slowly looked round the guests. I couldsee many a changing countenance at the table—somerosy faces which became white, and warm, glowinglips, which partook of on ashy paleness. The commissioner,however, fixed his eyes upon one particulargentleman, a man, perhaps, of fifty-seven orfifty-eight years of age, who had been one of thelightest and gayest of the guests. He saw the peculiarlook of the officer, and probably understood itsmeaning completely; but he staid to finish quietly thejoke which hung upon his lips, and then asked withthe laugh still ringing around him—

“Mister commissary, is your business with me?”

The commissary slowly nodded his head, and ourfriend who was sitting next to Father Bonneville onthe right, instantly rose, saying with a jocund smile—“Ianticipated great things from the second course,but I must resign it, and do so with the self denial ofa hermit. Ladies and gentlemen, there are threethings greatly to be desired in life: a pleasant hopefulyouth; a warm and genial middle life; and a short,unclouded, old age. The two first I have obtained, bythe mercy of God—or of the Gods—or of any God thatyou like, Monsieur Commissaire—the third is verylikely to be granted to me likewise. I will thereforeonly drink one more glass to the good health of allhere present, before I drink another draught little lessacceptable, and infinitely more tranquilizing.”

Thus saying, he raised a glass of wine already filled,toward his lips, bowed gracefully round the table,drank the wine, and walked out of the room withthe commissary of police.

The next day, at noon, we heard he had just beenguillotined.

——

OLD ACQUAINTANCES RENEWED.

Why we lingered in Paris I never knew, or haveforgotten. It is very probable, there were difficultiesin the way to the frontier, which good Father Bonnevillefeared to encounter—or, perhaps, he was sensibleof the approach of severe illness, and feared toundertake the journey in such a state of health.The fatigues of our flight had been too much for theold man, and although he never appeared upon theway half as tired as I was, yet, after our labors wereover, while I rallied and became as brisk and activeas ever in four-and-twenty hours, he remained languidand feeble, and unwilling to stir out of his room.He would not confine me, however, to the hotel,but suffered me to visit various parts of Paris, whereobjects worthy of attention were to be seen. I thusacquired a tolerable knowledge of the principal leadingthoroughfares of the town, and could find myway from one part of the city to another, with perfectease.

For some time, I shut my eyes to the fact that myold friend and protector was really ill; but when wehad been in Paris about a fortnight, the change whichhad taken place in his appearance, his pale and haggardface, and the thinness of his always delicateand beautiful hands, awoke me to a sense of his realstate.

“I fear you are not well, my Father,” I said, as Isat by his side, while he leaned back in his greatchair, with his feet to the fire.

Father Bonneville shook his head mournfully, andI urged him to let me go for a physician.

“I believe you must, Louis,” he answered; “forI do feel very ill, and I would fain recover strengthenough at all events, to place you, my son, in safetybefore I die.”

“There is a physician lives close by,” I said, “Ican run for him in a minute.”

“No, no,” cried the good priest, “that will notdo. There was a physician here in Paris, whom Iknew in days of old—a good and a sincere man, whowould not betray us, but on the contrary, would giveus aid and advice in other matters, besides those ofmere health. Do you know the Place Du PetitChatelet, Louis?”

I replied, that I knew it well, and Father Bonnevillewrote down the name of a physician, and thenumber of his house, saying in the desponding toneof sickness—

“Very likely he may be dead, and then I know notwhat we shall do.”

Without any loss of time, I sallied out into thestreets of Paris, in search of Dr. L——. It was afine, clear, cold afternoon, with the snow lying piledup at the sides of the streets, the fountains all frozen,and the chains of the street-lamps covered with glitteringfrost. The wind was keen and cutting, andfew people, especially of the lower orders, were inthe street; for though sans culottism may be a verygood thing, it is by no means warm, and the worthyrulers of the destinies of France at that moment, hadnot great-coats enough amongst them to render themindifferent to a north-east wind. I could thus pursuemy way rapidly, uninterrupted by the crowds whichusually thronged the streets of the French capital,and though doubtless I did not take all the shortestways, I soon reached the place I was seeking. Thehouses were tall, dirty, well-smoked, and ever opendoors round the whole place, gave entrance to innumerablestair-cases which led up to the dwellings oflow advocates, notaries public, physicians, artists,poor men of letters, and all that class who scrape aprecarious existence from the faults, the follies, themisfortunes, the miseries of others. But now I hada very puzzling calculation to make. Father Bonnevillehad written down, after the name of Dr.L——, number five, Place du Petit Chatelet, but nota house was to be seen which had a number on it,and I was obliged to guess at which corner the numerationcommenced. I was evidently wrong in myfirst essay, for no Doctor L—— could I find in thehouse which I fixed upon; and short and snappishwere the answers I got at the various doors whereI applied.

That could not be number five, and so I turned tothe other side of the square, and began in the oppositedirection. As I was counting the houses fromthe corner, I saw a little girl coming from a streetnearly in face of me, with a basket in her hand, andpoorly dressed. She turned suddenly into one of thedoor-ways, and I sprang after her, running as fast aspossible and nearly overturning an old woman, whowas roasting chestnuts in a tin kettle—for which Ihad my benediction. Little cared I, however; formy heart beat wildly, and the only thing I feared atthat moment, was, that I should lose sight of thatlittle girl with the basket; for I had taken it into myhead at once that she was Mariette de Salins. Shehad gone up the stairs, however, when I reached thedoor, and without pausing for an instant I ran upafter her, just in time to see her enter an apartmenton the second floor, the door of which was closing asI approached. I knocked sharply, without a moment’sconsideration, when an elderly man, with thinand powdered white hair, and a pleasant, thoughgrave expression of countenance, presented himself,asking who I wanted.

A moment’s consideration had shown me that itmight be dangerous to mention the name of Mariette;nor must it be supposed that such discretionwas at all marvelous in a boy of my age at thattime; for those were days of constant peril, whenevery act was to be thought of, every word weighed,and the habit of caution and reserve was inculcatedas a duty upon even mere children. On the spur ofthe occasion, then, I replied that I was seeking Dr.L——, still keeping my eyes fixed upon a door whichstood ajar heading into a room beyond.

“My name is Doctor L——,” replied the old man.“What is it you want with me, my son? And whyare you looking so earnestly in there?”

“I want you to come and see a gentleman whois sick,” I replied, “in the Hotel de Clermont, closeby the Quinze-vingts.”

“Is he very ill?” asked the doctor. “What ishis name?”

But before I could answer either of his questionsthe inner door I have mentioned was drawn back,the beautiful little face peeped out, and in a momentafter Mariette was in my arms.

“I thought it was you, dear Mariette,” I cried,kissing her tenderly, while she seemed never tiredof hugging me. “Where is your mother? How isshe?”

“Hush, hush!” said the old doctor, closing theouter door; “no questions or answers of any kindhere, except medical ones. Mariette knows wellthat she must be silent, and answer no inquiries—andso,” he continued, after having thus stopped allexplanations between us, “I suppose I am to conclude,my son, that this story of the sick man is afiction, and that your object was to catch your littleplayfellow here.”

“No indeed,” I replied, with some indignation,“I have not been taught to speak falsehoods, sir.The gentleman I mentioned, does wish to see you,and is very ill. His name you will know when yousee him; for you have met before—not that I meanto say I did not want to see Mariette, and indeedyou must let her tell me where I can find her; forit is a long, long time since I have seen her.”

“That cannot be,” said the doctor, gravely; “shemust learn to keep counsel—are you of the sametown, then?”

“Oh, she lived with me for a long time,” I replied;“and the gentleman whom I want you tocome and see is the same who was so kind to herthere.”

“I should like to see him very much,” said Mariette,looking down.

“Well, well, I will go to him,” said the doctor,gravely, “and if it be proper that you two childrenshould meet again, I will bring it about. Now you,Mariette, go in and empty your basket as usual.You, my son, go back to your friend, and say I willbe with him in an hour.”

Thus saying, he led me gently by the arm to thedoor and put me out, and I hastened back with allmy intelligence to Father Bonneville, asking him ifit were not strange that I should find Mariette justat the house of Doctor L——.

“Perhaps not,” replied the good priest, with afaint smile. “The doctor is a native of our ownprovince, and known to many of the good and thewise there.”

He said no more upon the subject, and made noinquiries, but remained somewhat listlessly in hischair gazing into the fire, till at length came a gentleknock at the door, and the physician entered, dressedwith somewhat more care than he had been an hourbefore, with a three-cornered hat on his head, and agold-headed cane in his hand. He approached FatherBonneville with an unconscious air, and withoutthe slightest sign of recognition, till the old priestheld out his hand to him, saying—“Ah, my friend,do you not remember me? You have not changedso much as I have, it would seem.”

Doctor L—— started back; for the sweet, silverytones of the voice seemed to wake up memory, andhe exclaimed—“Is it possible? my good friend,Bonneville!—Nay, nay. You are too much changedfor time to have done it all. You must be really ill.Leave us, my young friend, I doubt not we shallsoon set all this to rights.”

I retreated into my little room where it was coldenough, for there was no fire-place, and waited thereshivering very tolerably for nearly an hour, whileDr. L—— and the good priest remained in consultation.At the end of that time Dr. L—— came andcalled me back, and when I re-entered Father Bonneville’sroom, held me by the arm at a little distancefrom him, gazing very earnestly in my face,and seeming to scrutinize every line.

“Yes,” he said at length, turning to my old friend;“yes, he is very like him—Poor boy, what a fate!—Well,my young friend,” he said, suddenly changingthe subject. “We must get good Citizen Charlierhere, to his bed as soon as possible. He will be wellsoon, and would have been well by this time if hehad sent for me before. But we must try and makeup for lost time. I will not send him to the apothecary’s,”he said, “for drugs, for we are never sureof them at those places—one man acknowledged theother day that during twenty years he had never soldone genuine ounce of rhubarb. I have two othervisits to pay; but let him come to my house in anhour and a half, and I will send what will do yougood. Perhaps I may see you again to-night.”

“Shall I find Mariette with you?” I asked, lookingup in the doctor’s face.

The good man shook his head, and then turning toFather Bonneville, said with a smile—“I think thesetwo children are in love with each other; but littleMariette is so discreet that she would not even tellme who he was or who you were. She has hadbitter lessons of caution for one so young—perhapsyou may sometimes see her at my house, my son;but you must imitate her discretion, and neither askany questions, nor answer them if put to you bystrangers.”

“Oh, Louis is growing very discreet,” said FatherBonneville; “for we have had warnings enoughsince we have been in this house to prevent us fromtaking the bridle off our tongues for a moment—fareyou well, my good friend, I shall be glad tosee you again to-night if you can contrive to come;but yet I do not think it is needful for my health thatyou should take such trouble.”

“We will see, we will see,” replied the doctor,and shaking him by the hand he left the room.

The good Father, then, with my assistance, undressedand went to bed, where, to say sooth, hewould have been much better three or four days before;and at the appointed hour I went for the medicineswhich had been promised, but saw no oneexcept an old female servant, who gave me two bottlesaddressed to Citizen Charlier.

As I returned, I met a furious mob coming up thestreets with a bloody head upon a pike, and perhapsI was in some peril, though I was not aware of it atthe time. My dress, though very plain, was neatand whole, and I was seized as I attempted to passthrough the mob, by a gaunt, fierce-looking man,with hardly one untattered piece of clothing on hisback. He called me a cursed little aristocrat, andmade the man who bore the head upon the pike,lower the bloody witness of their inhuman deeds tomake me kiss it. They brought it to the level ofmy head, and thrust its dark, contorted features intomy face. But I stoutly refused to kiss it, saying Iwas not an aristocrat; and why should I kiss a headthat they told me had belonged to one.

“If you can make me out an aristocrat,” I exclaimed,“I will kiss it.”

“What have you got here in your hand?” criedthe sans-culotte, snatching the bottles from me.

“Only medicines for a sick man,” I replied.

He tore off the paper, however, opened one of thebottles and put it to his mouth, then spat upon theground with a blasphemous oath, exclaiming—“Heis only a garçon apothecaire. Let him pass, let himpass! He will kill as many sacre aristocrats withhis cursed drugs as we can with the guillotine.Let the imp pass. His is a trade that should be encouraged.”

Thus saying, he marched on, and his fierce andmalignant companions followed. I cannot say thatI was in reality at all frightened. Every thing hadpassed so quickly that I had not had time to becomealarmed; but I felt bewildered, and paused for a momentto gather my senses together after the mob hadpassed into the Place du Petit Chatelet which wasclose at hand. I was still standing there when Iheard a voice saying, “Louis, Louis.”

I looked round, but could see nobody, and the onlyplace from which the sound could proceed, appearedto be one of those open doors so common in Paris atthe time, with a dark passage beyond it.

“Louis, Louis,” said the voice again; “come inhere, I want to speak to you.”

It was not the tongue of Mariette certainly; forher sweet, child-like tones I should have known anywhere; and I hesitated whether I should go in ornot. I resolved not to seem cowardly, however,and walked into the passage. I could then seefaintly, a tall, and as it appeared to me, gracefulfigure move on before me, and I followed into a littleroom quite at the back of the house, to which thelight was admitted from a little court behind.There the figure turned as I entered, and I beheldMadame de Salins.

The room itself presented a painful picture ofpoverty. It could not have been above ten feetsquare, and in one corner, without curtains, or anyshelter from the wind, was the bed of Madame deSalins herself, and close by it a little bed for herdaughter. The latter, indeed, was fenced roundwith a shawl hung upon two chairs, which only leftone in the room vacant. A table, a broken looking-glass,a few cups and glasses, with a coffee-potstanding by the fire, seemed to form all the otherfurniture of the chamber. I had very little time tolook round me; for Madame de Salins at once beganto inquire after the health of Father Bonneville.

“I saw you from a front window,” she said, assoon as I had answered her first questions, “andfeared that those men would maltreat you; for theyhave the hearts of tigers, and spare no one.”

A sudden fear seized me, lest Mariette should beeven then coming from the house of good DoctorL——, and encounter the ruffians whom I had justescaped.

“Is Mariette at the Place du Chatelet?” I asked,eagerly. “Let me go and see that no harm happensto her.”

“No, no,” replied Madame de Salins. “She ishere with the old lady in the front room, who lets ussometimes sit with her, as a relief from this dark, dismalhole. You are a good, brave boy, however, Louis,and for every kind and generous act you do, dependupon it you will have your reward. Mariette, thankGod, is quite safe, and she has learnt whenever shesees a crowd to avoid it. But tell me more aboutFather Bonneville. Does Doctor L—— think he isin danger?”

I was not able to give her any satisfactory answer,for I really did not know what was the physician’sopinion of my good preceptor’s case.

“Tell him,” said Madame de Salins, “that I willcome to see him if I can do so secretly; but I amunder surveillance, and all my movements, I fear,will be watched till some new change takes place inthis ever-shifting government. I have several thingsto say to him, and could wish to see him much.”

She spoke in an anxious and thoughtful tone, anddoubtless had many matters of deep and painful importancepressing upon her mind at the moment.Boy-like, however, my attention was directed principallyto the more obvious inconveniencies whichshe suffered, and I said, “I am afraid you must bevery badly off here, madame.”

The lady smiled. “Badly enough, my dear boy,”she replied. “But yet we might be very muchworse—nay, we have been much worse in mind, ifnot in body. But I will not keep you now. TellMonsieur de Bonneville what I have said, and addthat if he has any thing to reply, he can communicateit to me through Doctor L——.”

When I reached the inn, my first task was to givegood Father Bonneville the medicine prescribed forhim, and then to tell him of my interview withMadame de Salins. He seemed greatly interested,and repeated once or twice, “Poor thing! poorthing! I hope she will be successful; but I can’thelp her—I can do nothing to help her. I know toolittle to give her advice, and have no power to giveher assistance.”

I did not press the subject upon him, nor make anyinquiries, but sat for a long time by his bed-sidereading to him both in Latin and in French. Englishwas by this time quite forbidden between us, andwe had no English books.

In the evening, toward nine o’clock, Doctor L——came again, and felt his patient’s pulse with a cheerfulair.

“The good woman of the house,” he said, “waylaidme on the stairs, to ask if you were likely todie, my good friend, and to suggest that in that caseit would be as well to send you to the hospital. Ihave spared you that journey, however, by assuringher that in a week or ten days you will be wellenough to go to the opera, if by that time they haveleft any singers with their heads on. They guillotinedpoor Benoit this morning. I ventured to suggestthat they would not get such another tenor in ahurry; and so they made him sing before they puthim into the cart, to try, I suppose, how they likedit. Whether he sang too well or too ill to pleasethem, I don’t know, but they drove him off to theguillotine, while I was seeing another prisoner.”

Father Bonneville gave a shudder; but sickness isalways more or less selfish, and though naturally oneof the most unselfish men in the world, his thoughtsspeedily reverted to himself. “I trust,” he said,“that there will be no necessity for sending me to thehospital. Did you quite satisfy the good woman?”

“Quite,” replied Doctor L——. “I told her thatI would be answerable for your not giving occasionto a funeral from her house, which is what all thesegood aubergiste fear. I told her, moreover, thatwhen your daughter and your granddaughter arrivedfrom the country, you would very speedily rally.”

“My daughter,” said Father Bonneville, with afaint smile. “I have no daughter but spiritualdaughters, my friend.”

“Perhaps we may find you one for the occasion,”said Doctor L——, laughing. “But I will tell youmore about it to-morrow; for although you must be,of course, consulted whether you will have a childor not, yet in this case, out of the ordinary course ofnature, the child must first be asked whether shelikes to be born. In short, I have a scheme in myhead, my good friend; but it requires maturing, andthe pivot upon which it all turns is your rapid recovery.So take care of yourself; cast care fromyour mind for the present, and you will speedilybe both well and strong again.”

Thus saying, he left him, and for two or three daysno event of any importance occurred, except thegradual improvement of Father Bonneville, underthe kind and zealous treatment of the good physician.

——

A PERIOD OF CHANGES.

At the period I speak of there were changes inParis every day. True, one horror was only succeededby another, and one fierce tyranny but madeplace for a tyranny more fierce and barbarous. Thecondemnation of the king, and his death, which followedshortly after, occupied for a time all thoughts,and filled many a bosom which had previously feltthe strongest, nay, even the wildest aspirations forliberty, with gloom, and doubt, and dread. The moment,however, the head of the good king fell uponthe scaffold the death-struggle began between theMountain and the Gironde, and in the many heavesand throes of the contending factions, many personsfound opportunity to escape from perils which hadpreviously surrounded them. Although a mere boyat the time, I was quite familiar with the daily historyof these events; for they were in every body’smouth, and I might even greatly swell this littlememoir, by narrating minutely the various scenes,some terrible, some ludicrous, which I myself beheld.The most terrible was the death of the king,of which, jammed in by the multitude, without apossibility of escape, I was myself present, andwithin a few yards of the instrument of death. Butit is my object to pass as lightly as possible overthese young recollections, though many of them weretoo deeply graven on memory ever to be effaced. Ishall never forget, as long as I live, the face of a tall,gaunt man, who was close to me at the momentwhen the king attempted to speak to the people,and the drums were ordered to beat, to drownthe voice of the royal martyr. Rage and indignationand shame were written in every line, and I heardhim mutter between his teeth, “Oh, were there butan hundred men in Paris true to France and tothemselves!”

My own belief is, that a very few acting at thatmoment in concert, and fearless of their own safety,might not only have saved the effusion of the king’sblood, but might have given a different direction tothe revolution, and saved the lives of thousands.However that might be, I went away from the scenewith horror, and shut myself up for the rest of theday with good Father Bonneville, who was nowable to rise. The physician saw him twice duringthe day, and once I was sent out of the room for ashort time. Doctor L—— spoke jokingly more thanonce in my presence, of the good priest’s daughterand granddaughter, and though I did not see thepoint of the jest, I imagined it was one way he hadof amusing himself.

Father Bonneville, however, seemed to me tohumor him strangely, answering him in the samestrain, and inquiring when he thought his daughterwould arrive.

“I really cannot tell,” replied the physician. “But,of course, you will have a letter from her before shecomes.”

Three days afterward a letter was brought fromthe post-office, and Father Bonneville examined theseal with a smile. It had not been considered inviolable,that was clear; for either at the post-officeor in the hotel, they had thought fit to open the letterwithout even taking the decent precaution of resealingit again. The contents of the epistle I saw,and they certainly puzzled me a good deal when firstFather Bonneville gave the paper into my hand.

The letter began, “My dear Father,” and wenton in the usual strain of a child writing to a parent,telling him how much grieved she was to hear thathe had been sick in Paris, expressing fears that hehad over-fatigued himself in seeking for news of herdear husband, and informing him that she would soonbe in Paris herself, with her little girl, to pursue theinquiry. The letter throughout was filled with agreat number of the cant expressions of republicanism,then common, and it ended with declaringthat if the writer’s dear husband was dead, she couldconsole herself with the thought that he had died indefense of his country, though she could not bear theidea that he might be lingering ill of his woundswithout any affectionate hands to tend him. Theletter was addressed to “Citizen Jerome Charlier,”was dated from a provincial town in Poitou, andwas signed “Clarisse Bonfin.”

Father Bonneville smiled as he marked the expressionof my face in reading the letter; and whenI had done, he asked me if I knew who these relationsof his were. I replied in the negative, and heanswered, nodding his head, “Some whom you knowvery well; but you must remember, Louis, you areonly to know them as my daughter and granddaughter,and as your own aunt and cousin. Callthe lady ‘Aunt Clarisse,’ or ‘Aunt Bonfin,’ and thelittle girl, ‘Mariette Bonfin.’ ”

The last words threw a ray of light upon thewhole affair—and I was delighted. There is nothing,I believe, that children love so much as alittle mystery, especially boys of thirteen or fourteen;but I had the additional satisfaction of having to playa part in the drama—a task always charming to achild brought up in France. I acted my characterrather well, I flatter myself; and when FatherBonneville, well knowing that the letter had beenread before it reached him, sent me to talk to ourgood hostess about rooms for our expected relations,I gave the buxom dame quite enough of Aunt Bonfinand Cousin Mariette, and described them both so accurately,that she could have no doubt of my personalacquaintance with these supposed connections.She thought it best, however, to deal with CitizenCharlier himself in regard to the apartments to beengaged, and visited him in his room for that purpose.

The old gentleman was very taciturn, and seemedto think it a part of his character to drive a hard bargain.

“His daughter,” he said, “was not rich: she hada great deal of hard-work and traveling before her tofind out what had become of her husband, who hadbeen wounded if not killed at Jenappes, and shecould not afford to throw her money away in inns.”There was a good deal of skirmishing on thesepoints, and a good deal of laughter and jest upon thepart of our hostess, who seemed as well contented,and as comfortable as if there were no such thing asa guillotine in the world, though her table d’hôterather suffered from time to time, in consequence ofher guests being deprived of the organs of masticationamongst others. The whole, however, wassettled at length, and two days afterward, I was informedthat Madame Bonfin had arrived with herdaughter in a little post-chaise.

The good priest was not yet well enough to quithis room, but I ran down the dingy stair-case intothe court-yard, and as I expected, found Madame deSalins and Mariette just getting out of a dirty littlevehicle, with a wooden apron, which bore the nameof a cabriolet. Madame de Salins embraced mekindly, and I did not forget to call her Aunt Clarisse,while Mariette literally sprang into my arms, and Ithought would have smothered me with caresses.If there had been any doubts previously in the mindsof the people of the inn, they were all dissipated bythe tenderness of this meeting, and Madame de Salinsand her daughter followed me up stairs to theroom of good Father Bonneville. One of the waitersaccompanied us, but there the meeting was conductedas naturally as it had been below, and thewords, “my daughter” and “my father,” passed habituallybetween the good priest and the high-bornlady without any pause or hesitation.

Her own apartments were next shown to Madamede Salins, and her baggage was brought up from below,when I remarked that every thing had beencarefully marked with the initials C. B., to signifyClarisse Bonfin.

Oh what actors every body in Paris became at thatperiod! Some were so by nature; for very nearlyone half of the world is always acting a part. Othersdid it because it was the tone of the day; and theseformed the heroic or tragic band, who did every thingwith Roman dignity and firmness, and carried thefarce of representation into the very last act of thetragedy. Others were driven to act parts which didnot belong to them, by the perils or necessities oftheir situation; and amongst these, was Madame deSalins, who, dressed somewhat in the mode paysanne,was out frequently, went boldly to police offices,and to military authorities, inquiring diligentlyafter her husband, John Bonfin, and demanded intelligenceregarding the state and condition of a manwho had never existed. A change in the directionof civic affairs, and the decapitation of two or threegentlemen, who had watched her diligently while inher lodging near the Place du Petit Chatelet, hadnow set her comparatively free, and she used herpowers of persuasion, and her liberty, so well, thatshe obtained letters of recommendation to the medicalofficers of the armies of Dumouriez and Kellerman,with a satisfactory pass for herself, and her father,with two children. Upon what pretence shemade her traveling party so large, I do not know;but she certainly carried her point. She was outmore than once at night, too, and I remarked thatMariette was now sent daily to the house of DoctorL——, to bring the bottles of medicine which werestill required by Father Bonneville—a task, which Ialways previously fulfilled.

As the distance was considerable, and the waysomewhat intricate, I was permitted to accompanyand guide my little companion, as far as the streetleading into the Place du Chatelet, but was directedto go no farther, and wait there for her return. Ihad learned by this time to ask no questions, but Icould not help thinking that Mariette often stayed along time.

I do not know that I was of a very observing disposition,or inclined to be particularly censorious,but one thing I remarked which surprised me a gooddeal, and I recollect, quite well, that it gave me uncomfortablefeelings. In my first interview with Madamede Salins, she had appeared overwhelmed withgrief and terror, her clothes stained with her husband’sblood, and a look of wild, almost frantic horrorin her face, which was never to be forgotten.Now, however, she had not only completely recoveredher composure, but was generally cheerful,and sometimes even gay. Clouds of anxiety, indeed,would occasionally float over her beautiful brow,and she would fall into deep fits of thought; but itoften seemed to me very strange that she should haveso soon and so completely forgotten the husband, forwhom she had seemed to mourn so sincerely. Indeed,there is nothing which so shocks—I mightsay, so terrifies, the earnest heart of youth, as to perceivehow transient are those feelings of which tothem life is made up, in the bosoms of persons older,of more experience, and more world-hardened thanthemselves. I loved Mariette, however, and Marietteloved me, and that was a feeling which I thenfondly fancied could never decay or alter.

At length, one day, Father Bonneville declaredhimself strong enough to go out, and as there was aslight lull at the time in the political storm, we wentto see—that is he and I—some places of public interest.I recollect an elderly gentleman coming upand joining in conversation with us, in a very mildand placable tone. The good Father was very muchupon his guard, however, and in answer to somequestions, said he had been very ill since he hadcome to Paris, and had enjoyed no opportunity ofseeing the sights of the capital till the time of his staywas nearly expired. Whether the old gentlemanconsidered us as very stupid or not I do not know,but he soon left us, and we found afterward that hewas one of those worthy public denunciators, who atthat time brought so many heads under the axe of theguillotine. He lived to a good old age, and I sawhim afterward in London, playing at cards withgreat devotion, and furnished with a handsome diamondsnuff-box.

This little incident, which I have only mentionedas characteristic of the times, had no result that Iknow of upon our fate. Three days afterward, thetwo post-chaises were got in order, horses werebrought from the post-house, and to my infinite satisfactionwe all rolled away together out of that grimcity of Paris, which will ever remain associated inmy mind with memories of blood and crime. It wasa fine day—one of those days in February whichcome as if to bid us prepare for summer, long eresummer is near, and which I think are more beautifuland striking in France, than in any other countryI know. The sunshine lay softly upon the face ofthe country, and on the top of a tall, bare tree, nearthe post-house, where we first stopped to changehorses, a thrush was pouring forth its evening song,and making the air thrill with melody. I got out ofour own little post-chaise to call Mariette’s attentionto the bird, but when I looked into their cabriolet, tomy surprise I saw that Madame de Salins was weepingbitterly. The post-master approached and lookedin likewise; but she had great presence of mind, andinstantly beckoning the man up, she asked him somequestions regarding the movements of the armies,and whether he could give her any news of CitizenBonfin, who commanded a company in Davoust’svolunteers. The man, who seemed to compassionateher greatly, replied that he could not, and asked ifshe had any apprehensions regarding him. She answeredthat the last she had heard of her husband,was, that he had been very severely wounded, butthat careful nursing might yet save his life. Thegood post-master was not a Parisian, nor a litterateur,and so without affecting atheism, he prayed God tobless her endeavors, and we rolled on upon ourway.

We went on for two or three hours after dark, andlodged as we found it expedient, at a post-house somelittle distance from Clermont. There, however,our landlord, the post-master, proposed a change inour arrangements, which was a very agreeable one tome. He laughed at four persons of one family travelingin two post-chaises, assured us that it wouldbe much more convenient for us to go in a larger vehicle,having one to dispose of which would exactlysuit us, and that we should save a good deal of moneyby the number of post-horses. His arguments seemedquite conclusive both to Father Bonneville and Madamede Salins, although he demanded two hundredlivres, and our two carriages, for the one he intendedto supply, which was not worth two hundred livresin itself. I was surprised at their acquiescence; forI did not believe they had much money to spare; butI rather imagine that they were afraid to oppose anything he thought fit to suggest, and that if he hadknown their exact situation, he might have taxedthem still more largely. By one contrivance or another,however, the papers of the family had been putinto such good order, that no suspicion seems to havebeen excited any where. Perhaps, indeed, we weretoo insignificant to attract much attention, and at theend of a four days’ journey, we found ourselves rapidlyapproaching the frontiers of France, somewhatto the right of our then victorious army. This was,perhaps, the most dangerous point of our whole expedition,and at a spot where two hours more wouldhave placed us in security beyond the limits ofFrance, we paused for the night, in order to considercarefully the next step, lest we should lose the fruitof all our exertions at the very moment that it seemedwithin our grasp.

——

A BOY’S MANŒUVRE.

It was decided to drive right toward the frontier,beyond which the advance of the French army hasalready been considerable. All the country, almostto the banks of the Rhine was virtually in the handsof France; but no general system of administrationhad been thought of. The people were foreign, monarchicaland anti-Gallican, and were ready enoughto give every assistance to fugitives from a systemwhich they hated and condemned.

This decision was taken, like all desperate ones,upon the calculation, right or wrong, of the chances.I was in the room when all points were discussedbetween Father Bonneville and Madame de Salins.Mariette lay sleeping in a corner of her mother’sbed, looking like a cherub; but I, more anxious perhaps,and more alive to the real perils of our situationthan any one of my age could have been, notdisciplined by the scenes which I had gone throughduring the last two months, was still up, and listeningeagerly for every word. The order was givenfor the post-horses to be put to, the next morning,and as was necessary, the route was stated.

The post-master showed some little hesitation,saying that the road we proposed to go was directlythat to the head-quarters of the army, and that wewere none of us military people.

“But I am the wife of a soldier,” replied Madamede Salins, at once, and with a tone of dignity, “andthese letters are for the surgeons-general of thatarmy, to whom I must deliver them.”

She laid her hand upon the packet of letters whichshe possessed, as she spoke, and the post-master repliedin a more deferential tone—“Very well, citoyenne,I dare say it is all right, and I can send youto the frontier; but whether you can get horsesbeyond or not, I can’t tell. Mind, I am not responsiblebeyond the frontier.”

The next morning at the hour appointed the horseswere put to the carriage. They were three in number—wehad previously had four—and they wereharnessed, as was very common then in France, andis now, abreast. The postillion, instead of gettinginto his great jack-boots, as I had always previouslyseen, got upon the front seat of the carriage, gatheredup the reins, and with the crack of a long whip setout toward the frontier. He was a sullen-looking,dull, uncommunicative person of that peculiar racefound in the neighborhood of Liege, and called Walloons;and I, who was sitting with my shoulderclose to his, though with my back toward him, andwith nothing to intercept our communication—forthe carriage was open in front—endeavored in vainto make him speak a word or two, addressing himfrequently but obtaining no reply.

At first I supposed that he could speak no French,and at last gave up the undertaking. But I soonfound that he could speak French enough when itsuited his purpose.

We drove along for about seven miles withoutmeeting a single human being, and seeing very fewcultivated fields; for as frontier districts generallyare, the land was left nearly untended, nobody caringmuch to plant harvests that they were never sure ofreaping.

We at length came to a rude stone pillar, upon asbleak and desolate a spot as I ever remember to haveseen. The ground was elevated, but sloped gentlydown to the neighboring country both before andbehind us. At least three miles of desolate marsh,which retained its moisture, heaven knows how,swept around us on every side, and the only objectwhich denoted human habitation was the outline ofa village, with some trees, seen at the distance ofsome four or five miles on the plain which lay a littlebelow us in advance. When we reached the rudesort of obelisk I have mentioned, the driver drew inhis reins, and the horses stopped to breathe, as Isupposed, after climbing the hill: but the next momentthe man got down from the front seat, and approachingthe side at which Father Bonneville sat,demanded his drink-money.

“I will give it you when we reach the next post-house,”said Father Bonneville.

“This is the only post-house I shall take you to,”replied the man sullenly, but in very good French,“I am not bound to go an inch beyond the line.”

The good priest remonstrated mildly, but the postillionanswered with great insolence, threatening totake out the horses and leave us there.

Father Bonneville answered without the slightestheat, that he must do so if he pleased; that we wereat his mercy; but that he was bound, if possible totake us to the next post-house.

Seeing that this menace had produced no effect uponthe quiet and gentle spirit of the good old man, thepostillion now determined to try another manœuvre,and grumbled forth that he knew very well we werearistocrats, seeking to fly from the country, and thattherefore, like a good citizen, he should turn hishorses round, drive us back, and denounce us at themunicipality.

I had listened anxiously to the conversation, witha heart beating with the fear of being stopped, andindignation at the man’s conduct. At length a suddenthought struck me—what suggested it I do notknow—nor how it arose, nor whether indeed thoughthad any thing to do with it, though I have called ita thought. It was more an impulse—an instinct—asudden determination taken without reason, whichmade me clamber with the activity of a monkeyover the back of the seat on which I was sitting, andsnatch up the reins and the whip which the postillionhad laid down upon the foot-board. I was determinedto be out of France at all events, whoever staid behind;and I cut the horses on either flank withoutwaiting to give notice or ask permission. I had onceor twice driven a cart, loaded with flour, from themill by the banks of the stream, up to Father Bonneville’shouse and back again. I had not theslightest fear in the world; Father Bonneville cried,“Stop, stop!” but I drove on.

Madame de Salins gave a timid cry of surprise andfear, but I drove on. The postillion ran shoutingand blaspheming after the carriage and tried to catchthe reins; but I gave him a tremendous cut over theface with the whip, and drove on.

I know not what possessed me; but I seemed asif I was suddenly set free—free from the oppressiveshackles of everlasting fear, and forethought andanxiety. The frontier of France was behind me. Iwas in a land where there were no guillotines—nospies, as I thought—no denouncers—no sans-culotteswith bloody heads upon their pikes. I was free—toact, and to think, and to speak, and to come, and togo, as I liked. The cold, leaden, heavy spell of terrorwhich had hung upon me was broke the momentI passed that frontier line, and the first use I madeof my disenchantment was to drive the horses downthat hill like a madman. Father Bonneville heldtight on by the side of the carriage. Madame deSalins caught up Mariette, and clasped her tightly inher arms; but still I drove on without trepidation orpause; not that I disregarded the commands of mygood preceptor: not that I was insensible to thealarm of Madame de Salins; but a spirit was upon methat I could not resist. I had no fear, and thereforeI saw not why they should have any. The courseI was pursuing seemed to my young notions to offerthe only chance of safety, and therefore I thoughtthey ought to rejoice as well as myself; and on Iwent, making the dry dust of a March day fly upinto clouds along our course, and leaving the unhappypostillion, cursing and swearing, far, far behindus.

Happily for me, the horses were docile, and hadbeen long accustomed to run between the two post-houses.If they had had a will of their own, andthat will had been contrary to mine, I am very muchafraid the majority of heads and legs would havecarried the question; but they comprehended theobject of which I aimed, and though unaccustomedto the hand that drove them, yielded readily to itsdirection—which was lucky—for about half-waydown the hill there was an enormous stone in themiddle of the road, which would have inevitablysent us rolling down into the middle of the valley ifeither of the off wheels had come in contact with it.The third horse puzzled me a little; but it did notmatter. They had but one way to go, and we gotto the bottom of the hill without accident.

“Stop them, stop them, Louis,” cried FatherBonneville, when all danger was in reality passed.

“I cannot just yet, Father,” I replied, tugging alittle at the reins, “but they will go slower in amoment themselves;” and for nearly a mile we wenton at a full gallop. Then the good beasts fell easilyinto a canter, with the exception of one, who shookhis head and tugged at the rein when I attempted tobring him in, but soon yielded to the influence ofexample, and was reduced to a trot as speedily asthe other two.

When our pace was brought to a speed of abouteight miles an hour, I looked round joyously intothe carriage, saying—“We have left that rogue farbehind.”

“Louis, Louis, you should not have done this!”exclaimed Father Bonneville, shaking his head.

But Madame do Salins put her hand on his arm,saying, “He has saved us, Father. Do not—do notcheck such decision and presence of mind. Rememberhe is to be a man, and such qualities will beneedful to him.”

I was very proud of her praise: got the horseseasily into a quiet, ordinary pace, and drove directlyinto the village which we had seen from above, andwhere, as I had expected, the post-house was to befound.

The horses stopped of their own accord at thedoor, and we soon had two or three people roundus. Thanks to Father Bonneville’s peculiar skillin acquiring languages, the people who seemedgood and kindly disposed, were soon made acquaintedwith as much of our story as was necessary to tell.They entered into our cause warmly; but the post-master—orrather the post-mistress’s son—a little inawe of the French army, some thirty or forty milesdistant, strongly advised that we should proceedwithout delay, lest our French postillion should comeup, and embarrass the authorities by demanding ourapprehension.

The advice was very palatable to us all; theFrench horses were unharnessed in a few minutes;four fresh ones—somewhat fat and slow, indeed—wereattached to the carriage; and Father Bonnevilleconscientiously deposited with the post-masterthe “pour boire,” or drink-money, for our abandonedpostillion, with a couple of livres additional for thelong walk he had to take.

It mattered little now whether we went fast orslow; for we were in a hospitable country, andamongst friendly people, and ere nightfall we weremany miles beyond pursuit.

[To be continued.

A LEGEND OF THE MOHAWK.[3]

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BY MRS. MARY O. HORSFORD.

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(SUGGESTED BY A TILE FROM THE ALHAMBRA—THE GIFT OF THOMAS H. HYATT, ESQ., LATE CONSUL-GENERAL TO THE BARBARY STATES.)

———

BY WILLIAM H. C. HOSMER.

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LAMENT FOR GRENADA.

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BY JOHN S. DWIGHT.

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This masterpiece of Mozart must always stand asthe highest type of musical drama. Yet most personswho go to this famous opera for the first time, and lookover the libretto, are disappointed in a worse sensethan the travelers who complain of the first unimposingview of Niagara. It seems to them a waste of somuch fine music, to couple it with the mere story ofa desperate rake, (a young cavalier estremamentelicenzioso, as he is set down in the list of characters,)who, after running a most extravagant career, isbrought to judgment in a marvelous way; namely,by his inviting in jest the statue of an old man whomhe had murdered, the father of the noble lady he hadsought to ruin, to sup with him; and by being surprisedin the midst of his feast by the statue in goodearnest, with the whole posse comitatûs of the netherworld rising to claim him! We are at a loss at firstto account for the charm of so vulgar and grotesquea tissue of absurdities. Yet there is a meaning in itthat concerns us all.

Don Juan is one of the permanent, traditional typesof character; and Mozart’s music sympathetically,instinctively, rather than with any conscious philosophicalpurpose, brings out the essence of it. Thegay gallant, magnetic disturber of every woman’speace that comes within his sphere, is not intendedfor that vulgar sensualist, that swaggering street-rake,which caricatures the part in most performanceswe may have seen. The true conception of Mozart’sDon Juan is that of a gentleman, to say the least, andmore than that, a man of genius; a being, naturallyfull of glorious passion, large sympathies, and irrepressibleenergies; noble in mind, in person, and infortune; a large, imposing, generous, fascinatingcreature. Dramatically he is made a little more thanhuman, yet in a purely human direction. He is suchas we all are, “only more so,” to borrow an expressivevulgarism. Remarkably is he such as Mozarthimself was. He is a sort of ideal impersonation of twoqualities, or springs of character, raised as it were tothe highest power, projected into supernatural dimensions—whichis only the poet’s and musician’s wayof truly recognizing the element of infinity in everypassion of the human soul, since not one ever findsits perfect satisfaction. Mozart in his own life knewthem too well, these two springs or sources of excitement!They are: (1.) the genial temperament, theexquisite zest of pleasure, the sensibility to everycharm and harmony of sense, amounting to enthusiasm,and content with nothing short of ecstasy;that appetite for outward beauty, which lends such avoluptuous, Titian coloring to his music. And (2.)as the crowning enthusiasm of the young, fresh soul,as the highest mortal foretaste of celestial bliss, thesentiment of sexual love—that sentiment which isthe key-note of every opera. In Mozart, music appearsas the peculiar native language of these passions,these experiences. His music is all fond sensibility,pure tranquillity of rapture, and most luxuriousharmony of soul and sense; and therefore in him wehave the finest development of the dramatic elementin music. The two together make the genuine Giovannicreed—the creed of Mozart and of Music—thenatural creed and religion of joy. This free and perfectluxury of passion and fruition, Mozart imaginesraised (as we have said) to the highest power, in thehero of the old tradition. His Don Juan is a grandbeliever in the passions and in pleasure; he is thesplendid champion and Titan of that side of the problemof life, a superb vindicator of the senses. Hestands before us in the glorious recklessness of self-assertionand protests against the soul-and-passion-starvingconventionality, the one-sided, frigid spiritualismof an artificial, priest-ridden, Mammon-worshipingsociety; opposing to those meshes of restraint hisown intense consciousness of being, (with a blind instinctthat it is good, divine at bottom, and onlyneeding to appear in its own natural language of aMozart’s music to prove this;) strong in the faith,against the world, that Joy, Joy is the true conditionand true sign of life; but blindly seeking to realizethis in the ecstatic lawlessness of love, which necessarilyinvolves sooner or later a proportional reactionof the outraged Law and Wisdom of the Universe.

Excessive love of pleasure, helped by a rare magnetismof character, and provoked by the suppressivemoralism of the times, have engendered in him areckless, roving, insatiable appetite, which each intrigueexcites and disappoints, until the very passionin which so many souls are first taught the feeling ofthe Infinite, becomes a fiend in his breast and driveshim to a devilish love of power that exults over woman’sruin, or rather, that does not mind how manyhearts and homes fall victims to his unqualified assertionof the everywhere rejected and snubbed faithin Passion. The buoyant impulse, generous andgood in the first instance, goes on thus undoubtingly,defying bounds, till it becomes pure willfulness, andthe first flush of youth and nobleness is hardening toSatanic features. The beauty and the loveliness ofwoman have lost to him now all their sacredness;they are mere fuel to the boundless ambition of a passionwhich knows no delight beyond the brief excitementof intrigue and sensual indulgence. He becomesthe impersonation and supernatural genius ofone of the holiest springs of human sentiment perverted,because denied; and he roams the earth abeautiful, terrible, resistless, fallen angel, and victimafter victim are quaffed up by his hot breath of all-devouringpassion. And so he perseveres until Hellclaims its own in the awful consummation of thesupper scene. Art could not choose a theme morefraught with meaning and with interest. It is still theold theme and under-current of Opera: the Body andthe Soul;[5] the Liberty of passion, unmeet for itsown guidance, in conflict with the Law, intenselynarrowed down by social custom from God’s greatlaw of universal harmony.

The character of Don Juan, thus conceived, thissplendid embodiment of the free, perfect, unmisgivingluxury of sense and passion, would be no characterat all, but only an absurdity, an impossibility in thespoken drama. There is no prose about it; nothingliteral and sober; take away the exaltation, the rhythmicalnature of it, and it falls entirely to the ground.Only Music could conceive and treat it; Music,which is the language of the ideal, innermost, potentiallife, and not of the actual life. But music equallydoes justice to both sides of the fact. In this triumphantcareer of passion, inasmuch as it is among menand laws and sympathies and social customs, a fearfulretribution is foreshadowed. But not in him, notin this Titan of the senses, this projected imaginationof unlimited enjoyment and communion. It is throughthe music that the shuddering presentiment continuallycreeps. Through music, which in acknowledgingthe error, in laying bare the fatal discord, at the sametime symbolizes its resolution. Through music, inwhose vocabulary sin and suffering and punishmentare never final; in whose vivid coloring the greatdoom itself is but a vista into endless depths of harmonyand peace and unexclusive bliss beyond.

The splendid sinner’s end is rather melodramaticin the opera; and yet there is a poetic and a moraltruth in it; and the spectre of the Commendatore isa creation fully up to Shakspeare. No man ever literallycame to that; but many have come to dreadit. Beings, as we are, so full of energies and of exhaustlesspassional promptings to all sorts of unionand acquaintance with the rest of being; urged, justin proportion to the quantity of life in us, to seekmost intimate relationship all round, materially andspiritually, we dread the mad excess of our own pentup forces. Surrounded by set formulas; denied freechannels corresponding to our innate tendencies andcallings; plagued by traditions, and chafed by somesocial discipline, in which the soul sees nothing itcan understand, except it be the holy principle ofOrder in the abstract, do we not often start to seewhat radicalism lurks in every genuine spring of lifeor passion, in everything spontaneous and lovable?Who, more than the pleasure-loving, sympathy-seeking,generous, child-like, glorious, imaginative, sensitive,ecstatic, sad Mozart, would be apt to shudderin dreams, in the night solitudes of his over-worked,and feverish and wakeful brain, before the colossalshadow of what possibly he might become throughexcess of the very qualities that made him divinerthan common mortals? This allegory can certainlybe traced through “Don Giovanni.” The old governoror commander, whom he kills, personates theLaw. The cold, relentless marble statue, that stalkswith thundering foot-fall into the middle of his solitaryorgies alter him, is the stern embodiment of customand convention, which he defies to the end, andboldly grasps the proffered stony hand, from an impulsestronger than his terrors.

It is an old Middle-Age Catholic story. Undermany forms it had been dramatized and poetized asa warning to sinners, before Da Ponte[6] found it somuch to the purpose of Mozart, when he wanted todo his best in an opera composed expressly for hisdear and own peculiar public at Prague. Coarse asthe story seems, perhaps the conflict between goodand evil in the human soul was never represented ina better type. It was for Mozart’s music to showthat. That in adopting it for music he had any metaphysicalidea at all about it, there is no need ofsupposing. His instinct found in it fine sphere forall his many moods of passion and of music. Herehe could display all his universality of musical culture,and his Shaksperian universality of mind. Geniusdoes its work first; the theory of it is what anappreciating, philosophical observer must detect init when done. “They builded better than theyknew.” Love, if it was the ruling sentiment of Mozart’snature, was for that very reason his chief danger.If it was almost his religion and taught his soulits own infinite capacity, so also seemed the dangertherefrom infinite, raising presentiments and visionsof some supernatural abyss of ruin, yawning to receivethe gay superstructure of man’s volatile enjoymentshere in time. Life, power, love, pleasure,crime, futurity and judgment—and a faith left beyondthat!—what dream more natural, what circleof keys more obvious to modulation, to a soul, whosestrings are all attuned to love and melody, whose geniusis a powerful demon waiting on its will, andwhose present destiny is cast here in a world so falseand out of tune that, to so strong a nature, thereseems no alternative besides wild excess upon theone hand, or a barren sublimity of self-denial on theother.

In this old legend the worldly and the supernaturalpass most naturally into one another. Don Juan, giftedwith all the physical and intellectual attributes ofpower, urged by aspirations blind but uncontainable,full of the feeling of life, and resolved to LIVE, ifpossible, so fully as to fill all with himself and neverown a limit, (and this is only a perversion of the truedesire to live in harmony with all,) finds the temptingshadow of this satisfaction in the love of woman,and the poor bird flutters charmed and trembling towardhis fascinating glance. Imagine now the elegant,full-blooded, rich, accomplished and seductivegallant on his restless rout of pleasures and intrigues.At his side his faithful knave, droll Leporello, expostulatingwith his master very piously sometimes,yet bound to him by potent magnetism, both of metaland of character (for passion like Giovanni’s will beserved.) Leporello is the foil and shadow to hismaster, and adds to the zest of his life-long intoxicationby the blending of the comic with this exquisitewild fever of the blood. Throughout the whole heplays the part of contrast and brings all back toreality and earth again, lest the history should taketoo serious possession of us. He is the make-weightof common sense tossed into the lighter scale. Hejustifies its original title of “Don Giovanni, undrama giocoso;” for this opera is tragedy and comedyand what you please, the same heterogeneous yetharmonious compound that life itself is. He on theone side gives a dash of charlatanry to Don Juan,just as on the other side he borders on the supernatural.Mark the poetic balance and completenesshere: this passion-life of Don Juan has its outwardand its inward comment: on the one side Leporello,on the other the supernatural statue and the bodilyinflux of hell. On the one side it is comic, grotesqueand absurd; on the other, it is fearful. Seenin one light he is a charlatan, a splendid joke; seenin the other, he is an unfolding demon and a typeof doom; while in his life he is but the free developmentof human passion in human circ*mstances.Man always walks between these two mirrors! Oneshows his shadow, as of destiny, projected, ever-widening,into the Infinite, where it grows vagueand fearful. The other takes him in the act, andliterally pins down all his high strivings and pretensionsto such mere matter of fact, that he becomesridiculous.

We come now to the Opera itself, which we canonly examine very briefly and unequally, touchinghere and there. Were we to set about it thoroughly,our article would soon overflow all magazine bounds,since there is not a scene, an air, a bit of recitative,from the beginning to the end, that would not challengeour most critical appreciation.

And first the Overture, composed, they say, in thesingle night before the first public performance of theopera in Prague; his wife keeping him awake to hiswork by punch and anecdotes and fairy tales, thatmade him laugh till the tears ran down his cheeks;and only ready for the orchestra (which had not itsequal in all Europe) to play at sight without rehearsal.He may have written it that night, that is tosay, have copied it out of his head. It was his habitof composition; his musical conceptions shapedthemselves whole in his brain, and were carriedabout there for days until the convenient time to putthem upon paper; and it is not possible that his brainthat time could have been without an overture, sincethere the opera existed as a perfect whole, and inthat glowing and creative mood, the instrumentaltheme and preface to the same must have floatedbefore him as naturally as the anticipation of his audience.Moreover, the first movement of it, theAndante, is essentially the same music with thegrand and awful finale of the opera, and is properlyput first in the overture (whose office it is to preparethe hearer’s mind) as the grand end and moralof the piece. Accordingly it opens with three stern,startling crashes on the chord of D minor, the sub-bassdividing the measure into equal halves, but theupper parts syncopated; then a pause, and then thesame repeated in the Dommant—like the announcementof a power not to be trifled with. Then aseries of wild modulations, full of terror, enhancedby the unearthly brass and low reed tones, surgingthrough chromatic intervals, which make the bloodcreep, and presently overtopped by a pleading melodyof the first violins, while a low, feeble whimper ofthe second violins is heard all the time like themoaning of the wind about an old house. Then alternatesharp calls and low, tremulous pauses; theground quakes; the din becomes more fearful; themelody begins to traverse up and down all kinds ofscales, through intervals continually shifting, andexpressive of all manner of uncertainty, like thequick and fruitless runs in all directions of a beastsurrounded by the hunters. It is like the breakingup of the familiar foundations of things, that unsettlingof the musical Scale!—All this is brief, for it isbut a synopsis and foreshadowing of the last scenein the opera. The string instruments then dash off,in the major of the key, into a wild, reckless kind ofAllegro, than which there could not be a better musicalcorrespondence of the general subject, that is,of the restless, mischievous career of one outragingall the social instincts and defying all pursuit. Thisspends itself at leisure, softening at the close towardthe genial F natural, the key of nature and thesenses, where the overture is merged into the dramaticintroduction.

The curtain rises. Scene, a garden in Spain.Time, just before daybreak. Leporello, cloaked,with a lantern, paces watchfully to and fro before anoble villa, and sings with heavy bass of his drudgeriesand dangers in the service of his gracelessmaster; kindling half seriously at the thought howfine a thing it would be to play the gallant and thegentleman himself. The light and exquisite accompanimentof the instruments meanwhile is like thesoftness of a summer night, and seems to count themoments of pleasure. The dreams of the valet aresoon disturbed. Don Juan, his face hid by his mantle,rushes from the house, struggling from the graspof Donna Anna, who, pale and disheveled, clings tohim convulsively, and seeks to detain and to discoverthe bold, mysterious man, who has dared thus to invadeher privacy and her honor. Her hurried andaccusing melody, in these snatches of recitative, isfull of a dignity and a pure and lofty fire that characterizealike her person and the whole music of herport. With drawn sword in one hand, and a torchin the other, her old father, the Commendatore(commander of a religious order) rushes out andchallenges the bravo, who deals him a death-thrust.The startlingly vivid orchestral picture, which accompaniesand as it were guides these swordthrusts, is followed by a slow, mournful trio of bassvoices, in which are gloomily contrasted the scornfultriumph of Don Juan, the dying wail and warningof the old man, and the comic terror of Leporello.Nothing could be more thrillingly impressive; thatmusic could mean nothing else but death stalkingsuddenly into the very midst of life! Then comesthe passionate outpouring of the daughter’s grief, andthat inimitable scene of the most musical as well asmost dramatic dialogue in the whole range of thelyric drama. It is the perfection of recitative.What exquisite tenderness and sincerity of sorrowin that violin figure which accompanies her inquiryfor her father, (padre mio,) when she first recoversfrom her swoon! How sweet and comforting thatfall of the seventh, where Ottavio tells her: Haisposo e padre in me (Thou hast husband and fatherin me!) And how fiery and grand the passagewhere she inspires the tame lover with that sublimelysolemn oath of revenge, and the hot, scouringblast of their swift and wonderful duett which followsit. In all this there is no delicate touch of feeling,no spiritual token of great passion and great purpose,possible to voice or instruments, omitted; no noteomissible or of slight significance. Here is an openingof most pregnant import. One scene of moderatelength has impressed us, as by the power of fate, tothe seeing through of the profoundest drama of life.Here we have witnessed, as it were, the first reactionof the eternal Law, the first hint of destiny inthis splendid libertine’s thus far irresistible career.Already is this almost superhuman pleasure-hunt ofgenius past its climax, and the dread note of retributionis already sounded.

The next scene introduces us to one of the personifiedreproaches of Don Juan’s better nature. Asthe Don and his man are plotting new adventures, alady passes, in hat and feathers, with excited air,and, as they retreat into the shade to note her, shepours out her most musical complaint against thetraitor who has played falsely with her heart. Theintroductory symphony or ritornel, in E flat major,by its bold and animated strain indicates the high-spiritedand passionate nature now before us, whosesong of ever constant though wronged love, to wordsthat would fain threaten terrible revenge, commencesthe Terzetto, mainly solo, to which the mocking by-playof the Don and Leporello, accompanied by amocking figure of the instruments, supplies the othertwo parts. As he steps up to offer consolation tothe lady, he recognizes his own simple, loving, poordeserted mistress, Donna Elvira, and while the samemocking instrumental figure leaves the song hangingin the air, as it were, without any cadence orany close, he slips away and leaves the task of explanationto the disconcerted servant. There is anardent, passionate yearning in this as in all of Elvira’smelodies, which climb high and are perhapsthe most difficult in the opera. The character isseldom conceived truly by the actress. Interpretedby its music, its intention is distinct enough. Elvirais no half-crazed, foolish thing; but one of the highestmoral elements in the personnel of the opera; next indignity, at least, to Donna Anna. However she mayappear in the libretto and in the common usage ofthe stage, Mozart in his music makes her the soulof ardent and devoted love and constancy, still fondlyhoping in the deeper, better self of the man who hastrifled with her; like a sweet, genuine ray of sunshine, always indicating to Don Juan a chance ofescape from the dark labyrinthine fatality of crime inwhich he goes on involving himself; always offeringhim true love for false.

Let her not listen then (like the silly girl we commonlysee upon the stage, half-magnetized out of aweak sorrow into a weaker involuntary yielding tothe ludicrous) to the exquisitely comic appeal ofLeporello, when the vain-glorious fellow unrolls histremendous list of his master’s conquests among thefair sex, enumerating the countries, ranks, styles ofbeauty, etc. The melody of this “Catalogue Song”is altogether surpassing. It is the perfection of buffo,as we have before had the perfection of serious recitative.After naming the numbers for Italy, Germany,etc., when it comes to the climax (Elvira’sown land): Ma in Espagna mille e trè, [But inSpain one thousand and three,] it is ludicrouslygrave; the orchestra meanwhile has chopped themeasure into short units, alternate instrumentsjust touching different points of height and depth,till they seem at last to count it all up on the fingers,first downward in the tripping pizzicato scale of theviolins, then upward in gruff confirmation in thebasses. In the slow time, where it comes to thespecification of the different qualities of beauty, thegrande maëstosa, the piccina, etc., the melody isone of the most beautiful and pathetic that could beimagined. One wonders how Mozart could haveexpended such a wealth of melody upon so light atheme; it seems as lavish a disproportion of meansto end, as when we read of travelers roasting theireggs in the cinders of Vesuvius. But such was themusical fullness and integrity of Mozart; the genialvein, once opened, would run only pure gold; and hismelodies and harmonies are not merely proportionedto the specialities of the subject, but are at everymoment moulded in the style and spirit of the wholework. Besides, the comedy consists here in thecontrast of a pathetic melody with a grotesquethought. Moreover the whole thing is truer in thefact, that not only Leporello’s, but Don Juan’s ownmelodies, as indeed the very nature of music, seemmournfully to rebuke the desperado. In the mostcomic and most bacchanalian strains, the musicsaddens with a certain vague presentiment of thefearful dénouement of the drama.

The Don’s next adventure is the meeting of a gaygroup of peasants at a wedding festival, where heattempts to seduce away the pretty bride, Zerlina,whose naïve and delicious songs, right out of a simple,good, loving heart, a little coquettish withal,are among the purest gems of the piece, and havemingled their melody with the civilized world’s conceptionsof truth and nature and the charm of innocence.Those of our readers who have enjoyedwith us the privilege of hearing and seeing a worthy,indeed a perfect personation of Zerlina, by thatrefined and charming artist, Signora Bosio, willneed no words to give them a just conception of thecharacter, and of its music, which is as individualas that of Anna or Elvira. Suffice it to say, that thesimplicity, the tenderness and the coquetry of thispretty peasant, have the natural refinement of asuperior nature. Mozart must have been in lovewith the part. The rustic chorus opening this scene,in which the bridal pair lead off, is one of perfectsimplicity, (Allegro, 6—8 time,) and yet inimitablebeauty. The Duett, La ci darem la mano, in whichDon Juan overcomes the hesitation of the dazzled,spell-bound girl, breathes the undoubted warmth ofpassion; few simple souls could be proof againstsuch an eloquent confession. Indeed the sincerityof all this music is a great part of its charm; it hasnever the slightest symptom of any striving foreffect, and yet it is consummate art; it flows directlyout of the characters and situations and the dramatictendency of the whole. The poor girl is rescuedthis time by the entrance of an experienced guardianangel, who sees through the case at once. It isDonna Elvira, who, just as she is tripping away withthe fascinator to the gay, consenting tune of Andiam,(let us go,) snatches the bird from his hands. Hersong of warning to the simple one, Ah! fuggi ’ltraditor, is a strangely elaborate Handelian aria, sodifferent in style from the rest of the opera that it isnever performed. As if all things conspired to confoundthe traitor, Donna Anna and her lover alsoenter, (Zerlina having withdrawn,) and here ensuesthat wonderful Quartette, Non ti fidar, in whicheach voice-part is a character, a melody of a distinctgenius, and all wrought into a perfect unity. Elvirawarns Anna and Ottavio against confiding in thisgenerous-looking Don, whose aid they have unwittinglybespoken in their search for the murderer ofthe first scene (namely himself;) Don Juan declaresthat she is crazy, and not to be minded; the othersare divided between pity for her and respect forsuch a gentleman; and all these strands are twistedinto one of the finest concerted pieces in all opera.It is one of those peculiar triumphs of opera whichmake it so much more dramatic than the spokendrama; for here you have four characters expressingthemselves at once, with entire unity of effect,yet with the distinctest individuality. The musicmakes you instantly clairvoyant to the whole ofthem; you do not have to wait for one after the otherto speak; there is a sort of song-transparency of allat once; the common chord of all their individualitiesis struck. Especially is this achieved in theconcerted pieces, the quartettes, trios, and so forth,of Mozart, which are beyond comparison with mostof those in the Italian opera of the day, since theharmony in them is not the mere coloring of onethought, but the interweaving of so many distinctindividualities.

Zerlina is saved, but by arrangement with herprotectors agrees to go up to the Don’s palace,whither Leporello has conducted the whole weddingparty, and even coaxed along the jealous bridegroom.A scene ensues between Donna Anna andher lover. The orchestra, in a few startling andalmost discordant shrieks, indicates the intense excitementof her mind, for, as Don Juan took hisleave, she recognized the look and voice of onewhom she had too much cause to remember; andin impassioned bursts of hurried recitative, alternatingwith the said spasmodic bits of instrumentation,she exclaims, Quegli è il carnefice del mio padre,(this man is my father’s murderer,) and in the samegrandly lyric style, rising higher and higher, shetells Ottavio the story of her outrage. Havingreached the climax, this magnificent recitative becomesmelody, and completes itself in the sublimeAria, Or tu sai, “Now thou knowest who attemptedmy honor,” etc. There can be nothing greater, moreMinerva-like in dignity and high expression of thesoul of justice outraged, and at the same time fullof all feminine tenderness and beauty, in the wholerange of opera or drama. And it is Music, it isMozart that has done it all. We have here the characterof Donna Anna in its most sublime expression;a character that transcends mere personal relations,that bears a certain mystical relationship with thehigher power beginning to be felt in the developmentof this human history. In this song she rises,as it were, to the dignity of an impersonation of themoral principle in the play, and this high sentimentof hers is like a foretaste of the coming fate and supernaturalgrandeur, which are to form the never tobe forgotten finale of the piece. Elvira is entirely inthe sphere of the personal; she loves Don Juan tothe last, and like the simple good humanity that stillappeals to him though still rejected. But Anna issuperhuman and divine; she reveals the interworkingof the Infinite in all these finite human affairs;to Heaven, rather than to Ottavio, is her appeal; andfrom beyond this life she looks to see the vindicatorof her cause appear. The loftiness of the music justconsidered, and the stately trumpet-tones of theorchestra, which always herald the entrance ofDonna Anna and her party, connect her unmistakablywith the marvelous elements of the drama; sheis Feeling prophesying Justice; she is Faith in theform of woman; and the singer who could perfectlypresent Donna Anna would be worthy to sing Handel’ssong, “I know that my Redeemer liveth.”

From one extreme we pass to its opposite. Instrongest possible contrast with the high moral passionof this last, is what now follows. We have asong embodying the very frenzied acme of DonJuan’s zest of sensual pleasure. He directs Leporelloabout the feast, and trolls off, like one possessed,his famous champagne song, Finch’an del vino,whose rapidity and glorious abandon are too muchfor almost all the baritones; those, in whose draggingutterance it does not become commonplace, areapt to give it with a swaggering glibness, and acoarseness that has nothing of the fine champagneenthusiasm about it. In this song and that last ofDonna Anna’s the two electric poles, as it were, ofthe whole play, have met. And now for the prettyepisode of peasant life again; the inimitably sweet,insinuating, loving song in which repentant littleZerlina seems to invite chastisem*nt from her offended,jealous lover, Batti, batti, O bell’ Masetto,(beat me, beat me, dear Masetto!). With whatsoft tendrils of melody, enhanced by the deliciousinstrumentation, she steals around his senses and hisheart! And to what unaffected rapture (to say nothingof a little coquettish triumph) the strain changeswhen he forgives her, as she knew he would! Thisseems a very simple song, but it is the perfection ofart. O that Mozart could go into ecstasies with hisown pet Zerlina, hearing Bosio sing this!

We have now reached the musical Finale of thefirst act, though there is much shifting of scenes andcharacters before the last grand ensemble, which isthe ball in the Don’s palace. But these only suspend,to wonderfully enhance, the final stroke. We canonly enumerate the delicious series of ever new andcharacteristic musical ideas preliminary to the feast:(1.) Masetto urging Zerlina to hide herself—how fullof the bustle of approaching splendors is the musicduring this little hurried duett! (2.) The Don’svoice stimulating the peasants to the coming mirth,with their responsive chorus. (3.) Then his discoveryof the shy bird and half reclaimal of her love,with his blank surprise (so perfectly depicted in thesudden modulation of the music) as he leads her offonly to meet the watchful bridegroom: Masetto si,Masetto! (during all which the light twitteringphrases of the accompaniment make the whole atmosphereinstinct with joys expected.) (4.) Then,as the instruments suddenly change to a cautious,half-hushed, tip-toe melody, unflagging in its speed,yet in the minor mood, (for these have no festivityin their hearts that now come) the entrance ofDonna Elvira, Donna Anna, and Don Ottavio, inblack dominos, and masked to the outward eye,though each betrayed by a distinctive style of melody.(5.) Then the sounding (from within the house) ofthat stately minuett, a strain which everybody knowsand loves, and still as fresh as when first written,here introduced as a mere foretaste of itself, and ofthe ball, and made the musical ground-work of lordlycourtesy and hospitality to the salutations of Don Juanand Leporello, who appear above at the window,and invite the maskers in. (6.) The surpassing Trio,in which the three, lingering on the threshold, invokeHeaven’s protection to innocence ensnared.Can any other opera show such an exuberance ofmusical ideas in the same space? And it is all en passant,all incidental to what follows, to what now burstsinstantly upon the view as the back scene is withdrawn,and you see all the crowd and splendor ofthe ball-room, and are transported by the indescribablyrich Finale, that ever climbing, wideningcrescendo and accumulation of all musical effects,till the climax is reached in a general storm and inundationof harmony. The simple, gay, continuoussix-eight melody, to which the whole brilliant spectaclemoves at first, is the very soul of festivity.Suddenly there is a full chord in C from the wholeorchestra, with trumpets, and a stately, march-likestrain, preluding the entrance of the three in masks,with the lordly welcome of the Amphytrion. Hewill have no time lost, however, for into this onehigh hour he has concentrated all the delights andharmonies of sense—short, bright and strong be theblood-quickening chorus, Viva la liberta! and nowlet the dance go on. And now are crowded into abrief but most capacious moment, the reintroductionof the Minuett in a bolder key than before, to whosegrave, deliberate measure the more elegant companybegins to move in antique, solemn steps; then presently,commingling with the Minuett, but not disturbingit, two other tunes, to other rhythms, namely,a rustic contra-dance, and a most rapid waltz, inspiringthe heels of the peasants; the droll attemptsof Leporello to make Masetto dance, while hismaster has bespoken the arm and ear of the prettybride, to win whom he has planned this whole array;the indignant observation of this game by DonnaAnna, with difficulty moderated until due time byher companions; the piercing shriek of the music asDon Juan whirls Zerlina away out of the dance; thecry for aid; the general rush to the door whencethe sounds proceed, and when it is broken in, thegrotesque brief diversion of the Don dragging Leporelloby the ear, and trying to fasten his own crimeon him; the incredulous and accusing phrase, inwhich the voices of the trio, now unmasked, confronthim successively in Canon style; and the out-burstingof the general tempest of wrath upon theexposed deceiver, heightened, too, by the sweepingwind and hissing lightnings of an actual physicalstorm that is supposed to be passing without. Thestrength of the accusing chorus is splendidly terrific,and like the rush of a whirlwind, where all the voicesin unison swiftly traverse up and down several timesthe first five notes of the scale. But he of the dauntlesswill and the magnetic eye, with one sword awesback and penetrates the maddened mob, escapingwith a loud laugh of defiance.

Our very slight and hasty sketch has already grownto considerable length, and yet we have examinedonly one act of the three, into which “Don Giovani”is usually divided in the performance. Oneact was enough to show (if that were all our object)how this opera wells up as from an exhaustlessfountain of musical ideas, all of which are of the inspired,enduring quality; we have listened to materialsenough already for some twenty of the fashionableoperas of our day. We must glance morehastily at the remainder.

Act II. opens with one of those half humorous,half serious conversations between the Don and Leporello,which ever and anon relieve the story. Theservant, stung by the ungrateful and outrageous conductof his master in the ball-room explosion, announceshis determination to quit him; but they aretoo essential to each other, and the Don soon coaxes,laughs, and bribes him out of that notion. Thisduett is in real Italian parlando style, a syllable toevery note, quick and brief as it is comically expressive;for this enemy of woman’s peace has newbusiness on hand; the unlucky night is not too fargone to try one more adventure. So here followsthe summer warmth and beauty of the serenadescene under Donna Elvira’s window, who sits abovethere, pouring out her nightingale complainings underthe stars, in a melody of ravishing sweetness andtenderness, forming the upper part of a Terzetto, inwhich the sotto voce dialogue of the Don and hisman below grotesquely blends. He changes garmentswith Leporello, and lending his own voice,while Leporello gesticulates, in strains of feignedrepentance and returning love, entices the too easilypersuaded lady down into the arms of his counterfeit,while he takes up his guitar to serenade, notElvira, but Elvira’s maid, now that the field is clear,in that most graceful little serenading air, whichseems so easy and so off-hand, with its light arpeggioaccompaniment by violins alone: Deh vieni allafinestra. But the fortunate stars of our all-seducinghero seem this night to have forsaken him; againhis business is balked. Mirth and melody, funand sentiment are strangely mingled in this scene,and, indeed, in this whole act. The serenade getsfinished; the tree, as it were, is climbed; but beforethe fruit can be gathered, the game is interrupted byMasetto and the peasants armed, hot from the ball-roomscene, in search of the splendid scoundrel.Masetto gets the worst of it; and here we have oneof the world’s three or four very choicest and purestgems of melody, Zerlina’s exquisitely tender andcomforting song to her poor, bruised, and beatenbridegroom, Vedrai carino; so beautifully simple,in the homely key of C natural; so innocently voluptuous;so full of blissful love; so like the balsam(un certo balsamo) of which she hints with fond andarch significance! And as she makes him placehis hand upon her heart at the words, sentilo battere,(feel it beat,) you seem to hear its glad and honestbeating in the music. We cannot forbear insertinghere the following interpretation of this song, whichwe have read since our analysis of the opera wasmade. It is from the pen of an intelligent Russiangentleman, who has written in French and Germanan admirable Life of Mozart, with a critical examinationof his works. We translate from the Germancopy:

“Vedrai Carino is, like so many pieces of ouropera, super-dramatic music. When we hear it, weforget the text, we forget the person. There is nolonger any Zerlina or Masetto. Something infinite,absolute, and verily divine announces itself to thesoul. Is it perhaps nothing but love, representedunder one of the countless modifications by whichit is distinguished in each individual, according tothe laws of his nature, and the peculiar vicissitudesof his fortune? No; the soul feels rather a directeffluence of the principle itself, from which allyouth, all love, all joy, and every vital reproductionflows. The genius of the Spring’s metamorphoses,he namely, whom the old theosophists called Eros,who disembroiled chaos, who fructified germs andmarried hearts; this genius speaks to us in thismusic, as he has so often spoken in the murmuringsof the brook that has escaped its icy prison, in therustling of the young leaves, in the melodious songsof the nightingale, in the balmy odors which pervadethe eloquent and inspiring stillness of a Maynight. Mozart had listened to and firmly held thisground-accord of this universal harmony; he arrangedit for a soprano voice with orchestral accompaniment,and made of it the nuptial air of a young bride.Zerlina sings, surrounded by the shadows of themarriage night, while just about to cross the threshold,at which virginity pauses with prayer andtrembling, expecting the confirmation of the holytitle of wife. In this place the Aria becomes a genuinescena of love, the source of life and of eternal rejuvenescencefor all nature—of love, the spring-timeof souls, and the most unstinted revelation of theall-goodness of the Creator. It is a marriage-songfor all that loves, conceived in the same spirit withthe ‘Ode to Joy’ by Schiller, allowing for thedifference of tone and style between a Dithyrambicand an Eclogue. The theme, the image of the purestbliss, betrays none the less that inexplicable andseldom justified exaltation, which, in the fairestpoetic hours of our existence, leads us to that unknowngood whereof all other goods of earth areonly shadows and foretastes. A rhythm withoutmarked accent; a harmony without dissonances; amodulation which rests in the Tonic, and forgetsitself, as if held fast there by a magic spell; a melodywhich cannot separate itself from its ineffaceablemotiv; this tranquil rapture, this soft ecstasy, fillout the first half of the air. After the pause, hostsof nightingales begin to sing in chorus in the orchestra,while the voice, with exquisite monotony,murmurs, Sentilo battere, toccami quà. Then thesame words are again uttered with the expression ofpassion; the heart of the young woman beatsstronger and stronger; the sighs of the orchestra areredoubled, and the last vocal phrase, which bearsthe impress of chaste devotion, shows us the wife asshe sinks softly upon the bosom of her husband.Mozart seems to have anticipated the desire of theear, in that he lets the orchestra repeat the wholemotiv and the enchanting final phrases once again.He knew that the piece would be found too short, asit actually is the case.”

Good-night, then, to this happy couple, whom weleave, to trace the sequel of the comic vein justopened in that ‘Sartor’-ian exchange of personalitybetween the master and the servant; but also at thesame to receive still more distinct and solemn intimations(all the more significant for this very contrastof the comic) of the supernatural reaction that is preparingsoon to burst upon the head of the magnificentlibertine and outlaw. The Sextette which now followsis altogether unique and unrivaled among concertedpieces in opera. The music of this Sextettecovers such an ever-shifting variety of action, andso much of a scene, that one may hear it once withoutthinking of its wealth and admirable structure asmusic. Yet for every point in all this action, andfor all shades of relation between the persons, as wellas for each separate personality, there is a correspondencein the music. The scene has changed toa bujo loco, or dark place, (the libretto says, a porchto Donna Anna’s palace.) First appear the counterfeitGiovanni and Elvira, who is too happy to walk withhim to the end of the world, if need be; while he,(Leporello,) tired of imitating his master’s voice, isgroping about to find an exit. In an Andante melody,in the same key, and of a kindred character with thatby which we first knew her (Ah! chi mi dice mai,)she utters her fear of being left alone in this bujo loco.Just as her companion finds the door, the groping,cautious music brightens into the bold key and trumpet-stylewhich always heralds Anna and Ottavio,who enter amid blaze of torches. Sweet is the consolingappeal of the tenore to his grief-stricken Anna,whose response, less fiery and commanding, but notless sublimely spiritual than her last great solo, evenhints of death as the only solution of life’s riddle forher. Meanwhile the first two, who have lurked unnoticed,are just making good their exit, when Zerlinaand Masetto appear, who thinks that now hehas the briccone at his mercy; the bluster of Masetto,the surprise of Anna and Ottavio at the sight ofthe supposed Giovanni, the grotesque, crouchingplea of the valet, the intercession of still deceivedElvira for “her husband,” then their recognitionof her, then a new brandishing of Masetto’sclub, and then the ass throwing off the lion’s skin,and begging mercy, all are made thrice expressiveby the music, which varies instinctively each moment,and yet ceases not to weave the unitary complexwhole. At last all the six voices join in aswift and wind-like Allegro, in which Anna’s voicetakes the highest and most florid part, Zerlina’s thesecond, Elvira’s the third, and so on, and in whichthere is now and then a wild Æolian-harp-like passageof harmony, which seems the fore-feeling of thehigher powers which henceforth are to take part inthe drama.

But first we have the masterpiece and model ofall tenor solos. In it Ottavio commends his Il miotesoro to the care of these friends, and in it he proveshimself the truest, tenderest, most devoted and mostreligious of lovers, if Heaven has reserved it to astronger force than his to crush the mighty sinneragainst whom he has taken such an oath of vengeance.But the opera could not rob itself of thestatue, and its last scene, and its whole sublimity, tomake him a hero, when it was enough that he shouldknow how to love a Donna Anna.

Passing over a duett between Leporello and Zerlina,rarely sung, in fact an after-thought of the composer,which he is said to have added to conciliatethe lower taste of a Viennese manager or audience;and passing over (for we must be brief) a truly transcendentsolo for Elvira: Mi tradi quell’ alma ingrata,in whose fluid, ever-modulating melody hermusing, sad soul seems dissolved in reverie, wecome to the marvelous church-yard scene. Hereglimmers the white equestrian statue of the murderedcommander in the back-ground; and here theDon and Leporello seek a rendezvous after their newdiscomfiture, to re-exchange hats and mantles, and soforth. Their loud levity is suddenly hushed by avoice of warning from the statue, accompanied instrange chords by the unearthly tones of the trombones(which instruments, instead of being lavishedin Verdi fashion, upon all the strong passages, havebeen entirely kept back till now for this supernatural“beginning of the end,”) mingled with the low reedtones. Di rider finirai, etc. (“Thou shalt ceaseto laugh before dawn!”) A short old choral strain,in which the voice ends, spectral-like, upon the Dominantof the key (A minor), struck with the majorThird. This is a church cadence; it belongs to eternity,which knows no Minor, no such type of “earthlyun-rest.” It freezes to the heart of Don Giovanni,who starts dismayed, but only for a moment; andsoon the marble lips break silence once more to rebukehis mockery. So far it has been introductoryrecitative; but now the orchestra is all life and melodyagain, for the luscious music of the duett inwhich Giovanni compels the trembling servant atthe sword’s point to salute the statue and invite himto sup with him. There is no more exquisite fairy-workin the whole opera than the instrumentationof this scene. It were hard to tell whether the impressionleft by it partakes most of the comic, of thesupernaturally terrible, or of the beautiful. All theseelements are grotesquely blended in it, yet withoutseeming incongruity. The beauty of the music harmonizesand idealizes the action; it lends its singularfascination to the marvelous; it makes the terrordoubly real, by expressing the vague charm whichevery terror has after all to the soul, glad (even in itsterror) of the excitement of something altogetherstrange and infinite. Mozart knew better than tofreeze the blood up here entirely, with unearthlytones of horror, except during those brief utterances ofthe marble rider; that he reserved for the end, ofwhich this is but the beginning. He has lavishedall the luxury of melodic invention upon the instrumentationof this duett; the music in the main stillgushes warm and genial and human, and hence youfeel the supernatural all the more inwardly and powerfully,when shudders of strange awe cross occasionallyits placid, sparkling flow. O statua gentillissima—cheerilyand bravely the beautiful strainsets out, in the rich key of E major; but as the knaveshrinks back in terror, crying padron! mirate! etc.,the deprecating expression of his voice droppingthrough the interval of a Seventh, with the instrumentsaccompanying in unison, is alike droll andmarvelous. Still the cheerful melody goes on, inspite of ghosts, until the statue nods acceptance,when the unearthly modulation and tremolo of themusic, falling with sudden emphasis upon Leporello’sAh! — —h! che scena! (Ah! what a sight!), givesthe whole scene for the time the superstitious coloringof his soul. But when he comes to tell his masterhow the spectre nodded, and when his master repeatsthe strain and gesture with him, the fear hasbecome subordinate to the charm of adventure, andthe music takes the gay and reckless tone of Giovanni.Life shall be all a feast, is his creed, ghostsand miracles to the contrary; and festally the brightstrain dies away, softer and softer, as they depart, tothe tune of Andiamo via di qua (let us quit thisplace), to which the servant’s voice chimes in as secondvery heartily.

Here the curtain usually falls, closing a secondAct, although the composer covers the homewardflight of the pair, fatigued and hungry with that night’sadventures and discomfitures, and the preparation ofthe supper, by a beautiful and elaborate recitativeand aria of Donna Anna, addressed to her devotedOttavio, whose urgent plea for the consummation oftheir union she tenderly puts off, as with a presentimentthat her love is to know no earthly consummation,and that her life is already too much of theother world. This song: Non mi dir, bloomed oneof the heavenliest and purest in the wreath of JennyLind.

Act Third is the grand Finale, with its tremendousmusic, its apparition, its supernatural vindication ofthe Law, and the splendid sinner’s doom. Remember,day has not dawned yet since that otherFinale, to the First Act; their supper that time wasstormily broken off, and they have had little rest inthe mean time. But they have got home at last, andGia la mensa è preparata: now the supper is prepared;a smart and animated strain of full orchestrain the bold key of D. The Don has shut himself inby himself with all the harmonies of sense and appetite;it is the pure feast of egoism; there are noguests, but his own appetites and riotous imaginations,for whom all things are provided; and littlethinks he of the guest whom he has invited!Droll Leporello, now all appetite, is in attendance,devouring furtive morsels of the rich dishes, and uncorkingthe champagne, (a situation commonly tootempting to our buffo, who makes the fun excessivelyand disgustingly broad,) and making broad allusionsto the barbaro appetito of his master. There is aband of wind instruments, too, from whom all thewhile proceed the most enlivening appeals to compositeenjoyment, in a succession of rare morsels ofmelody from well-known operas of the time, forwhich both master and man show an appreciatingear. The last of these is the famous Non piu andrai,from Mozart’s own “Nozze di Figaro,” to whichLeporello may well exclaim: “That I know toowell.” Through all this the Titian-like, voluptuousquality of Mozart comes out afresh. It is the musicof pure, unalloyed sensuous enjoyment; not a shadowof aught serious or sentimental comes over itsharmony, until once more his better nature makesone final appeal, entreating him to repentance, in theperson of poor, constant Donna Elvira, who suddenlyrushes in and kneels at his feet. But the Donlaughs at her simple lecture, and preaches up to herhis bacchanalian gospel.

Here mark a fine point in the action, a fine touchof poetic truth, worthy of Mozart’s genius. It is she,his better nature, as we have said, his own rejectedtruer self, who loves him better than he loves himself;it is she, Elvira, who, as she leaves the stage,is the first to meet the fearful apparition and by hershriek give warning. That shriek, thrown into themusic, has suddenly changed its smooth, sparklingsurface into fierce boiling eddies, and stirred up thewhole sea of harmony from its profoundest depths.The musicians on the stage have vanished. No timenow for their toy melodies! Every chord nowcleaves the dark veil of the supernatural, like lightningsin the blackest night; the syncopated rhythmtells of vague and wonderful forebodings. Che gridoè questo? (What noise is this?) And Leporello issent out to see. Wilder and heavier grows the music,as he returns white and speechless, and only ablein his half-wittedness of terror to imitate with hisfeet the heavy ta, ta, the approaching foot-fall of theman of marble, who has descended from his chargerin the grave-yard. It requires the master’s hardihoodto open the door for him, and amid those solemn andterrific crashes of the orchestra, with which the overturecommenced, the strange guest stalks into themiddle of the scene.

With hard, ponderous, marble tones, like blows,falling whole octaves, the statue announces himselfas good as his word in accepting Giovanni’s invitation.The amazed unbeliever, trembling and yetsummoning up his whole pride of will, which neveryet forsook him, would fain prove as good as hisword, too, and orders Leporello, who has crawledaway under the table, to get ready another supper.But “not on mortal food feeds” this guest from theother world; “graver concerns” have led him here;and the instruments are again traversing those unsettledscales, whose wonderful effect we noticed in theoverture. Parla, parla: rings out the rich, freshbaritone of the dauntless Amphytrion, as much as tosay: “talk on, old fellow! I listen; you are a ghost,but I am a substance; I believe in myself, say whatyou will.” All very brave! but listen to the orchestra(as you cannot help listening) if you would knowhow nevertheless it goes with him in the inner workingsof his soul, in those mysterious depths of consciousnesswhich hitherto he has so wilfully refrainedfrom sounding. That heavy, muffled tread of thesub-bass in triplets, making the ground quake, meansmore than the “tertian ague” of poor Leporellothere, with head thrust out cautiously from underthe table, and voice, automaton-like, moving in unisonwith the basso profondo of the orchestra. Apause is filled with a monotonous beat of the basses,when the crashing diminished-seventh chords beginanew, and louder than before, while the spectreagain opens its marble jaws to tender the Don an invitationin its turn, which he, stout-hearted to thelast, in spite of Leporello’s trembling, grotesquewarnings, accepts. The statue asks his hand inpledge; he boldly gives it, starts as if an infinitepang and sense of death shot from the cold, stonyhand through all the marrow of his bones; with aninfinite audacity of will he refuses to repent; thespectre sinks through the ground; he is a doomedone; the flames of hell burst in on every side, withvisions of the damned; a chorus of spectres: vieni!(come!) is heard amid the infernal whirl and tempestof the music; he wrestles with the demons and dropsdead, the whole phantasmagoria vanishing, just asthe other characters of the piece come in search ofthe reprobate, who listen to Leporello’a chatteringstory, dispose of their several destinies after the approvedfashion of dramatic conclusions, and windup with chanting a solemn canon over the Dissolutopunito, to the words: “Such is the end of theevil-doer!”

It is usual, however, to terminate the performancewith the fall of Giovanni. The parts which follow,although admirable as music, are plainly superfluousto the action, as a poetic and artistic whole, andmust have been added by Mozart out of mere conformityto old dramatic usage, which assembles anddisposes of all the surviving characters of a piece inthe last scene.

There is great room for melodramatic nonsenseand diablerie in this judgement scene, in which thetheatres have used full license. But if the orchestrabe complete and efficient, there is no possibility oftravestying or perverting the sublime and terrible intentionof the music, which from the moment thatthe statue enters is enough to freeze one’s blood, andpreoccupies all avenues of sense or consciousnesswith supernatural and infinite suggestions. And yetdoes Music’s sweet and faithful prophecy of reconciliation,like the “still, small voice” out of the inmostheart of things, still reach us somehow throughit all!

The reader, who has followed us through this reviewof “Don Giovanni,” clinging always to themusical thread of interpretation, will find himself aslittle able as ourselves to sympathize with the regret,so frequently expressed, that Mozart should haveprostituted his genius in this composition, by thefalse marriage of so much divine music with an unworthysubject. We believe the marriage was atrue one. He did not merely cater to a low, licentioustaste, in the selection of this story. Never wasa choice made more heartily. Or, if he did not himselfchoose the plot, yet he fell in most heartily, andas it were, by a providential correspondence withthe invention of Da Ponte—as heartily as he afterwardfell in with the terrific images of the old Latinhymn, when he composed his own “Requiem,” inwriting a Requiem to order for another. In thesetwo works the life and genius of Mozart found theirhighest expression. “Don Juan” and the “Requiem,”in all their contrast, are alike true to thevery texture and temper of the man. “Don Juan,”written in the hey-day of his genial faculties, in hishour and scene of greatest outward success, in thecity of Prague, where he was understood and lovedas nowhere else, surrounded by devoted friends, andwith an orchestra and troup of singers worthy tobe his interpreters, represents his sunny side, hiskeen sensibility to all refined delights of sense andsoul, and his great faith in joy, in ecstasy, in all materialand sensual harmonies. The “Requiem”bears to “Don Juan,” as a whole, the same relationthat the last scene of that opera bears to the precedingparts; it expresses the religious awe and mysteryof his soul, his singular presentiment of death,his constant feeling of the Infinite. The opera, in itslast scene, rises to a sphere of music kindred withthe “Requiem;” there vibrated the same deepchords of his nature. It was the very subject of allothers for him to pour the whole warm life-tide ofhis soul and music into, and thus lift up and animatea poor old literal fiction, that somehow strangelykept its hold upon the popular mind, with all itsweight of grotesqueness, extravagance, vulgarity andtom-foolery, into a vivid drama of the whole impetuous,bewildered, punished, yet far-hoping andindomitable experiment of human life.

Here are the two elements which seem in contradiction.Here, on the one side, is this bold, generouspassion-life, with its innate gospel of joy, and transport,and glorious liberty; how well could Mozartunderstand it, and how eloquently preach it in thatsafe, universal dialect of Music, which utters onlythe heart-truth, and not the vulgar perversion of anysentiment! Here, on the other hand, is the sternMorality of being, frowning in conflict with theblind indulgence of the first. The first is false byits excess, by losing Order out of sight; while Order,sacred principle, in its common administration betweenmen, in its turn is false, through its blindmethod of suppression and restraint, blaspheming andignoring the divine springs of passion, which it shouldaccept and regulate. The music is the heavenly andprophetic mediator that resolves the strife.

Hence the music of “Don Giovanni” presents twosides, two parts in strongest contrast. Love, joy,excitement, freedom, the complete life of the senses,are the theme of the first part, represented in thekeen and restless alternation of the Don’s intrigues andpleasures—a downright, unmistrusting, beautiful assertionof the natural man—and you have it allsummed up to one text and climax, in the firstFinale, in the brief champagne sparkle and stormytransport of the little chorus, Viva la Liberta! Asthe burden of that part is Liberty, so the burdenof the last part, the counter-text and focus, isOrder, the violated Law; and as the centralfigure here stalks in the supernatural statue, stonyand implacable. It is the whole story of life, theone ever-repeated, although ever-varied drama ofdramas; and it is set forth here, both sides of it,most earnestly in this sincere and hearty music,which in its own exhaustless beauty hints the reconciliationof the two principles, and to the last istrue to the divine good of the senses and the passions,and to the presentiment of a pure and perfectstate, when these shall be, not dreaded, not suppressed,but regulated, harmonized, made rhythmicaland safe, and more than ever lifesome, and spontaneousby Law as broad and deep and divine usthemselves.

Do we defy the moral of the matter, when wefeel a certain thrill of admiration as Don Juan boldlytakes the statue’s hand, still strong in his life-creed,however he may have missed the heavenly methodin its carrying out, and somehow inspired with theconviction that this judicial consummation is not,after all, the end of it; but that the soul’s capacityfor joy and harmony is of that god-like and asbestosquality that no hells can consume it?

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BY MRS. E. C. KINNEY.

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BY A. J. REQUIER.

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BY E. ANNA LEWIS.

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A TALE OF THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY.

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BY JANE GAY.

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CHAPTER I.

The Lord Protector was seated beneath a royalcanopy in the lofty parliament-chamber of England.At his left stood Thurloe, his secretary, on his rightwas seated a part of the bold Puritan band who haddared affix their signatures to the death-warrant ofCharles Stuart. There was Bradshaw, the intrepidjudge who wrote his name first on that fatal paper;there was Ireton—the fiery-hearted Ireton—who hadcome up in defense of Protestantism fierce andraging “as a lion from the swelling of Jordan;”Goffe, and Whalley, and Dixwell, too, were there,whose ashes repose in our own quiet “City ofElms,” and many others of that fearless band of regicidesthat three years after were fleeing from homeand country, to escape the block or gibbet. Ambassadorsfrom every nation were there—princes andcourtiers, officers of the army, judges, petitioners,all helped to make up the illustrious ProtectorateAssembly of 1655.

Seated side by side, and discoursing in low tonesof the projected treaty, were Sir Matthew Hale andMilton, the world-renowned bard; and in a listeningposture near them, was the accomplished Lambert.No purple robe or kingly crown distinguished thechief of this august body, but nature had stamped aseal on him that could not be mistaken, for OliverCromwell bore in the parliament-hall the look andbearing of a man born to command, while at thesame time the most unconquerable determinationand the highest-wrought enthusiasm were traced onevery lineament of his face. But to our story.

A gentleman, in the splendid dress that distinguishedthe court of Louis Fourteenth, approachedthe Lord Protector, and bending low, presented apaper to his highness. It was Bordeaux, the Frenchambassador, and the treaty so long in contemplationbetween the two nations, was this day to receivethe seal of the Protectorate. The hand of Cromwellwas already on the paper, when some confusionnear the door arrested his attention, and a frownwas gathering on his brow, when his piercing eyedetected a youth with foreign air and aspect boldlystriving to make his way through the guards thatwere stationed near the entrance of the hall.

“Silence, guards!” shouted the deep, nasal voiceof the Protectorate, “stay not the boy; let him approachour presence if he have petition to offer.”

The guards gave way, and a slender but graceful-lookingyouth of some fourteen years came forward,and, knelt at the feet of the sovereign. Every eyewas fastened upon him, and a deep silence cameover the throng as he knelt there with clasped hands,his dark, earnest eyes fixed on the stern-looking,shaggy-browed Puritan in mute supplication—forno word fell from the boy’s lips. A heavy mass ofraven curls were gathered back from the snowyforehead of the strange youth, and fell in singularbeauty over his shoulders, and his simple peasantgarb, had forced the idea of some wandering minstrel-boy,but for the deep and earnest pleading ofthe eyes, which told of excitement and anguish toodeep for the utterance of the lips.

The silent but impassioned pleading of the pooryouth touched the susceptible heart of Cromwell,and he laid his hand kindly and caressingly on thelocks of the fair stranger, and said, in his gentlestaccents,

“Whence come you, my son, and how can theProtectorate aid you? Be calm,” added he, noticinga nervous tremor on his countenance, “you havenothing to fear here—speak your errand plainly.”

“I am come from the valley of Piedmont, mynoble lord,” replied the youth, “and the snow wasred with the blood of the poor Vaudois;” and acold shudder passed over his pale face.

“Hell and furies!” shouted Cromwell, in momentarywrath; “Are the cursed heretics on theirtrack again?” Then bursting into tears, he added,in a subdued tone, “Poor martyred saints of theMost High, ye shall wear a glorious crown, in spiteof your persecutors, and your blood shall not reddenthe Alpine snows in vain! If there is might in humanarm, your enemies shall be humbled, and knowthat the Lord of Hosts will avenge his elect.”

Then taking up the paper on which the sovereignseal was not yet fixed, he delivered it to the Frenchambassador, saying somewhat haughtily, “Take itback to your monarch, and tell him that OliverCromwell, Lord Protector of England, rejects thetreaty, until the King of France, and his prime minister,shall pledge their assistance in succoring thepersecuted Protestants of Piedmont! Until suchpledge shall be given, our negotiations are ended.”

Bordeaux reddened with resentment as he foldedthe rejected paper. “The war is then inevitable,”he muttered. “Shall I say, sire, that you refusethe treaty?”

“Say I will wage war with all Europe but thispersecution of Christians shall cease!”

“But the King of France can do nothing, mylord,” persisted Bordeaux. “The Duke of Savoymay make laws for his subjects as independently asyour highness; and no foreign force can be broughtto bear upon them in those mountain wilds.”

Cromwell stamped his foot with impatience.“My word has gone forth, and ‘the ships of Englandshall sail over the Alps,’ sooner than another hairof their heads shall perish! Tell both your mastersthat this is my decree.”

The Frenchman was indignant at this speech ofthe Lord Protector, for although every Frenchmanunderstood that Mazarin, the prime minister, wasthe real monarch, they could not endure to have itthus thrown in their teeth, and he angrily asked permissionto retire, which was readily granted; andthe parliament was soon after adjourned.

That same evening young Francois Waldo—forthat was the name of the Vaudois youth—sat in thepalace of Whitehall, with the Protector and hisfamily; and though but a simple peasant-boy, helooked with a calm indifference upon the courtlysplendor that surrounded him; for he had been bredamid the wild magnificence of the snow-cappedAlps, and they pictured to his youthful imaginationthe “everlasting hills,” of which he had earlybeen taught to sing, as he sat with the piousshepherds tending their flocks in the evening starlight.

It was a sad story he told of his poor, persecutedpeople, how, in the very heart of winter, six stout Catholicregiments had broken in upon their quiet homes,to overpower and destroy; how the innocent childrenhad been dashed from the icy pinnacles—the fathersand mothers beheaded—their villages burned to theground—and those who fled for safely to the mountain-caverns,were hunted like wild beasts by thePope’s minions; and Cromwell—the lion warriorand the dauntless regicide—the unflinching patriot,and the powerful sovereign, clasped the poor fugitiveto his heart, and loudly bewailed the fate ofthese martyred Christians.

“Had you parents, and were they victims of thisterrible slaughter?” weepingly inquired Mary Cromwell,one of the Protector’s daughters.

“Yes, lady—parents; and a sweet little blue-eyedsister, like the little girl by your side;” andhe pointed to a beautiful child that had beenlistening with a sorrowful face, and eyes brimfull,to his sad recital. “We called her our mountainviolet; but in one night I was left alone—forthey burned our cottage, and slew both parentsand child. I was away, but came next morning andsat awhile by the mouldering embers of my home,and then rose up determined to seek the shores ofChristian England, and plead for succor. I hidmyself among the rocks and cliffs by day, and atnight wandered, hungry and alone, until I reachedthe sea-coast, lest I should fall into the hands of thesoldiers, and none escape to carry aid to my sufferingnation.”

“You are a brave, blessed boy, and you shall not gohungry any more,” said little Anna Temple, forgettingher childish timidity; and going up close to him,she gazed earnestly and lovingly in his face. “Stayhere, and we will all love you, because you haveno sister—wont we, Mary?” said the child, in thewarmth and innocency of her heart.

“Yes, darling,” replied she, “and he shall go toschool, if he wishes, with you and Robert, andEugene.”

The heart of Francois Waldo was nigh to bursting,as the gentle accents of the child fell on his ear—solike the tones of his own Christine, which had sooften gladdened him in their happy home—and hebowed his head and wept for the first time since hisbereavement; and every member of that lordly householdwept in sympathy.

Months went by, and the Vaudois youth was stillan inmate of the Protector’s family—a calm, intellectual,devoted student, destined as a preacher ofthat faith for which his kindred had suffered martyrdom.He went not back to his native valley, forhere he might better fit himself for the work of theglorious mission he felt desirous of fulfilling; andCromwell had been true to his word—the arm ofoppression had been unnerved, and peace and plentysecured to the faithful survivors.

Anna Temple was the only earthly being thatwithdrew his thoughts for a moment from the prosecutionof his great and holy purpose; but when hersoft blue eyes pleaded, as they often did, with herlips, for an hour’s relaxation and amusem*nt in thepark or garden, he would sometimes unbind themental chain for a little space, and go forth withspirit unfettered and free. Then he would talk tothe fair child of his lost home—of the icy palaces ofthe Alps, pure as spirit-haunts—of the wild-flowersspringing from their rocky beds, and of the holy starlightof the mountains, until the enthusiastic creaturewould regard Francois as a being of purer mould,more spiritual and good, than any other person withwhom she held companionship.

And thus years passed; Francois still saw in thebeautiful Anna Temple, or fancied he saw, theimage of his lost Christine; and the young girl readin the large, soul-earnest eyes of the Vaudois student,the first mysterious leaf of womanhood—and theywere both happy.

Meantime a shadow was darkening the sky ofEngland—a storm-cloud, destined to shake from itsfoundation her political fabric, and place anotherStuart on the throne. Cromwell, the Protector—thehero of the seventeenth century, was summoned torepose! Bravely had he borne his armor on thegreat battle-ground of life, and his valiant heart hadnot fainted in the heat of the conflict. The humbleplebian had dared boldly to take up arms against hiscountry’s foes in defiance of his king; and subsequently,at the same country’s call, and in defenseof her liberties, with the Book of God in his hand,and a psalm on his lips, to affix his signature to thedeath-warrant of the sovereign traitor. Ever, whereduty called, was he found foremost in the ranks ofthe faithful, battling for the right; and when in thematurity of manhood the sun of glory brightened hisgray hairs with the splendor of royalty, he turnedcoldly away from the crown of a king, preferring thesimple title of Protector of the Commonwealth. Hissword was still girded against the Lord’s enemies,when a voice from above summoned him fromearthly glory to heavenly rest; and on the third ofSeptember, one thousand six hundred and fifty-eight,Oliver Cromwell stood girded for his last conflict.

Historians have recorded that as a fearful nightwhen the Lord Protector lay struggling with thefinal enemy. Wildly wailed the wind around thatearthly palace; but the eye of the dying was on theeternal mansion, and so amid the fury of the elements,the great spirit of Cromwell achieved itsfinal victory.

A loud wail burst from the whole army of Puritans,for well they knew there was none powerfullike him to cope with their adversaries. Themaster-spirits among their opponents would not reverencehis son, because the father had held themin check; and the inefficient Richard Cromwell hadnothing to claim for himself. He beheld the countryrent by faction, and having no power to quell insubordination,and, moreover, fearing the result tohimself, he quietly resigned his Protectorate, andall that had been gained to England by Cromwell’slife, was lost in his death. Whither would now fleethe fifty-nine judges who had decreed Charles Stuartto the scaffold, or where the friends of the Protectorfind safety?

——

CHAPTER II.

Not far from the shores of a sunny lake in thedepths of the American forest stood the rude log-hutof an emigrant. The site was one of surpassingloveliness—for nature here, in her unbounded domain,had done the work of ages, and the majesticoak towered in silent grandeur beside the gracefulelm and the drooping willow, making mockery ofart. Birds of glittering plumage sang all day in thiswildwood retreat—for, save this one log-cottage, formiles and miles around was no human habitation.The slight clearing, scarcely sufficient for a garden-patch,sloping down to the water-side, told of nohardy adventurer hunting fortune in the wildernessof the new world; and it would have puzzled evena Yankee of this present age to have guessed at thepursuit or object of the tenants of that forest home,so contradictory seemed they in outward aspect.

The family consisted of but four members—a tall,noble-looking man, a little past the meridian of life,with piercing eyes, and dark locks sprinkled withwhite, falling rather thinly over his broad forehead.His dress was of the plainest, coarsest drab cloth;indeed, there was nothing to distinguish it from thatof the negro servant who attended him, except thenatural grace and dignity imparted by the manlyform of the wearer. The other two occupants ofthis secluded abode were a young girl, who mighthave numbered seventeen summers, and an elderly female,who had once been her nurse, but who was nowa sort of housekeeper in general, inasmuch as therewas none other to superintend the domestic arrangements;but had you taken a peep into the interior ofthe cottage, you would have seen no lack of comfort,and even some faint show of taste, considering thedearth of material. A coarse carpet was thrown overthe rough log-door, and ranged around the sides of theapartment were rustic seats composed of branchesof trees, covered, sofa-like, with skins of animals,forming comfortable couches for sitting or reclining.Indian blankets, tastefully embroidered, served as apartition between this and a small room adjoining,which was fitted up for the young lady’s boudoir,and which was occupied in common by both females.Here, on a table of oak, covered with kid-skin, lay afew books, and a guitar, evidently the relics of otherdays. A large sea-shell served for a vase, and stoodon the rude table, filled with wood-flowers, the firstgift of summer. Perhaps, too, you might havenoticed some large, massive chests in either apartment,and wondered how such ponderous articleshad found place in so small a habitation; but wehave a key to the mystery, reader, and will give itthee, together with the secret of this secluded family.

Some eighteen months prior to the time ourchapter commences, a gentlemanly-looking residentof the new Quaker city, calling himself, JohnBrown, saw every where posted up, by order of thenew king, directions for the seizure and arrest of allpersons known or supposed to be implicated in thefate of Charles Stuart—with large rewards held outas an incentive, to those who should successfully aidthe king’s officers in their search.

It was an hour of darkness to many a poor fugitive,for disguises were no longer to be trusted, and life’slast hope lay in strict concealment in rocks or forests,or amid the haunts of the savages. Every tie of kindredwas now to be sundered—every communicationwith the world of mankind to be cut off, and thewanderer was henceforward to live with all thegolden threads of being rudely snapped by a tyrant.There was no time to be lost, for “blood for blood”was the royal watchword, and his legions were onthe track.

Brown was fully alive to his danger, but with thecool, undaunted heart of a man accustomed to warwith obstacles, he sat down calmly to meditate thebest course of procedure. To remain a day longerin the city he knew full well was madness, and everyhour was fraught with danger. Could he leavehere in a land of strangers, alone and unprotectedsave by one frail woman, the delicate blossom he hadcherished as “Love’s lost token,” and borne overthe waters to cheer his declining age? How couldhe talk of a separation of years, perhaps forever, fromthe gentle creature, whose life was all centered in his—howcould she bear this last stroke also? True, hehad wealth—treasures of gold and silver; wealthwould purchase friends, but dangerous friends, too,he thought, for a lonely orphan girl.

He sat deep in thought for a moment longer, thenreached his hand and touched a silver bell, exclaiming—“Itshall be as she wishes. I will abide herchoice at all events!”

The ring was speedily answered by a good-lookingman-servant.

“I here, Massa Brown,” said the ebony, makinga full display of ivory.

“Is Miss Anna in, Carle?” inquired the master.

“Do no! rudder tink she be, Massa.”

“Go then, and tell her I would see her. Be quick,Carle, and do you wait until I call, for I shall wantyou again soon.”

A moment after, a fairy-like creature boundedinto the presence of her father, and winding her armscaressingly around his neck, waited his pleasure.

“You are ill, dear father,” said she at length, observinghis pale forehead. “I have wasted all the morningon my pet birds, thinking you were out as usual.”

He kissed her cheek fondly, and replied—

“I did go out, my child, but quickly returned, forthere is danger abroad, and there is no more rest forthy father. ’Tis a mournful summons for thee, darling,but there is no time to be lost in revealing the truecause of it. I must flee speedily, or the new king’sofficers will soon bear me back to drop my head atWhitehall. Bear it bravely, Anna, you are myown daughter, and know well the happy daysof the Protectorate are ended. There is gold, morethan sufficient for all thy wants!”

“But, father, you are my wealth; all the treasureof this world to me! Whither would you flee, andwherefore leave me behind?”

“I know not, daughter—some secret hiding-placewhere the hand of a Stuart may not reach me, farfrom the abodes of civilized life. Every thing is tobe encountered—want in its worst forms, and you,who have been nurtured in a palace, could poorlycope with cold and hunger! Stay here, my child,amid ease and plenty, and let thy father go forth tomeet his fate alone.”

“No, father, Anna Temple is not the weak childyou suppose, if you can urge her to forsake her gray-hairedparent, because, perchance she must leave behindthe downy pillow on which she was cradled!There is no privation in going which I cannot readilyundergo, and who knows, father, but we may makeus a new home in the wilderness. At all events,wherever thou goest I will go, and thy lot shall bemine for ever!”

The noble Lord Temple—for the self-styled JohnBrown was no other than the friend and ally of Cromwell,clasped his child to his heart, and said—

“If this be your wish, Anna, I will see what canbe effected in a few brief hours. Carle must be summonedimmediately, and you may proceed to put inas small compass as possible your own treasures andyour mother’s relics, and provide yourself with plainQuaker apparel, for such must be our disguise. Judy,your old nurse must be let into the secret withoutloss of time, and I will inform Carle; the other servantsmust be kept in the dark.”

Anna departed with alacrity to obey the directionsof her father, for in her breast the fount of life stillsparkled with the delightful romance of youth;while her sire, who had seen bubble after bubble riseand break upon its surface, proceeded with emotionsentirely different to unfold to the faithful Carle theplan of procedure.

The trusty negro was directed to go and purchase anumber of suits of Quaker clothing for his master,with the broad-brim hat, to render the disguise ascomplete as possible, while he, himself made hasteto fill the large chests they had brought over sea withtreasure, and whatever they would be most likely toneed in their unknown resting-place; and in less thanthree hours every thing had been prepared for theirdeparture. John Brown, with his felt-hat and widelappel made a pattern Quaker, and Anna looked rogueishlyout from beneath her straight bonnet—thenarose the question when, and how they should depart.After some consultation, it was agreed theyshould wait until nightfall; when master and the ladiesshould set forward on foot, and walk on as fastas possible, and Carle should put the carriage-horsesinto an emigrant’s waggon, with boxes, chests, etc.,not forgetting a supply of axes and fire-arms, andmeet them at a spot designated a few miles from thecity.

There remained but one more apparent difficulty;the other servants of the household must be informedof their sudden purpose, as all efforts to conceal theirdeparture would be ineffectual, and the truth couldnot be confided to them with safety. The disguiseswere again thrown aside, the servants all summoned,and Lord Temple addressed them, thus—

“I have received an unexpected summons fromthe new king, and must depart immediately. I shalltake but Carle with the young mistress and hernurse, and leave the rest of you in charge of the houseuntil our return; but should any thing occur to preventmy coming back in the spring, you are one and allentitled to your freedom. Until then you will befaithful to the interest of your master!”

“Yes, massa. Lord bless good Massa Brown andyoung missey, too!” chimed in half-a-dozen voicesat once; for the refugee had maintained an independenthousehold, and lived as became a man of wealthand fashion. He had left England immediately afterthe death of Cromwell, foreseeing the probable issueof the Protectorate; and wishing to spend the residueof his days in peace, he dropped at once his nameand title, and was known only in the young city as aprivate gentleman of good fortune.

That night, when all was hushed in the good“City of Brotherly Love,” Lord Temple, with hisdaughter and nurse Judy, stole softly from their newand pleasant home, to seek some sheltering asylumfrom the merciless hand of persecution. Theywalked on in silence until they gained the outskirtsof the city, the young and delicate Anna clinging toboth her father and nurse; for the deep silence of thenight filled her heart with strange fancies.

“Your strength is not sufficient for your purpose,Anna,” said her father, noticing how nervously sheclung to him. “The way will be long and solitaryfor a tender child like you! Will not my daughterreturn now to a home, that will afford her still ashelter at least?”

“And would not the way seem longer and darkerto my father, if his only child were behind him?Think not because I tremble a little now at first thatmy heart is weak and cowardly. I have never beforewalked in the street at midnight, you know,and every rustle seems a king’s officer to me.”

“Bless you, my darling,” exclaimed her father.“The blood of the Temple’s is in your veins, warmand noble; I cannot bear to see it chilled by misfortune.”

“I have no regrets for the world we are leavingbehind save on your account, my dearest father; onthe contrary, I feel it will be charming to dwellalone in the great forest of the West, where the fettersof fashion, pride and ambition will cease to enthral,and we may learn of the great Creator by theinfinity of his works, instead of the multitude ofman’s words.”

Thus did the brave girl attempt to cheer the despondingspirits of her father as they moved forwardamid the darkness of their solitary way. Theydirected their course northward, and although theywere in the main road, the “woods of centuries”were all around them, and their giant shadowsseemed like some spectral army gathered in thegloom of night.

The morning dawned on the little band nearlyten miles from the city, and although they had twoor three times paused for a little rest by the wayside,it found them weak and weary; but the spot wherethey were to turn aside and wait for their wagonand refreshments was near, and they pressed forward.Their stopping-place was a few hundredyards from the road-side—a beautiful spot, by aspring of fresh water, where hunting parties oftenstopped to regale themselves with a dinner of game,or at least, to quaff a drink of water from the spring.Carle had often been there, and had described thespot so minutely it could not be mistaken; and whenat length they seated themselves, and Judy tookfrom her pocket some cakes, which, woman-like,she had been provident enough to bring along withher, their drooping spirits revived, and they ate themorsel cheerfully and drank from the spring, forthey were faint as well as weary.

It was a bright morning of early autumn! Thebreath of summer yet lingered in the air, though themists were on the hill-tops, and the forest wastinged with the faintest hue of red—the first presageof decay.

“O, father, is it not magnificent!” exclaimedAnna Temple, as she pointed to the boundless woodsrising like an ampitheatre on either hand! “Thisis like what I have read of the new world, onlymore sublime if possible. Positively there is moreof grandeur in this one scene than in all the courtsof royalty in the world. Why, just see—the Easternkings have never worn mantles more elegantlytinged with scarlet and gold, than these old patriarchtrees have put on. It really makes our Quakergarb look sombre, and I expect the very birds willbe theeing and thouing us as we pass on throughtheir territory.” And the happy-hearted creatureclapped her hands and laughed until the hills sentback an echo.

“Hush, hush, daughter; there is the rumbling ofwheels near—nearer than the main road, too, I fear!It may be some party of hunters who have madethis a place of rendezvous; it cannot be that foes arethus early on the track, I think.”

At the mention of foes the cheek of Anna waspale as clay, and she nestled close beside her father;but a moment afterward she started to her feet, andthe red blood again mantled her brow as she exclaimed:

“ ’Tis Carle, I really think—’tis only Carle, father!I know by the snap of his whip, for no otherperson ever snapped one like him. Why, Judy, hethinks it time you are making coffee, and has whippedup!”

It was indeed Carle, who came thus unexpectedlyupon them, two hours at least sooner than lookedfor by his master, who had recommended him tostay behind until they had got a fair start, lest somesuspicious eye should detect them, and the wholeplan be frustrated.

“He! he! he! You got here fust, anyhow,” saidthe darkey, as he brought his horses to a stand besidethem; “though I tried hard to catch up andgive young missy a ride. Guess we had better eatbreakfast in a hurry and be off, for some of demnigg*r ask a great many question last night ’spectingde big boxes we load in. But I guess I set ’em onde wrong track, any how. He! he! he!”

A flint was produced and fire struck, and shortlyafter the air was fragrant with boiling coffee,and a very comfortable breakfast was eaten on thegreen grass by the spring side; after which, thingswere quickly put in place, and the little companytook the seats arranged for them in the broad, emigrant’swagon, and sped on as ignorant of their destinationas the ancient patriarch journeying on to the“Land of Promise.”

For five long, tedious days they went forward asfast as the miserable state of the roads and the jadedcondition of the horses would allow, stopping occasionallyto refresh themselves by some pleasantstream that crossed their path in the wilderness.They occasionally fell in with some person whoquestioned them of their journey, and their replywas invariably, “Going north to settle;” but onereal Quaker was not thus contented.

“Thee lookest tired friend, wilt thou partake of abrother’s hospitality on thy way? Nay, no refusal,the young woman looketh sick and needeth a night’srest! Rachel will give her nursing right gladly,for no Friends have crossed our threshold formonths.”

It was the third day of their flight, and worn downwith fatigue and loss of rest, they could not resistthis pressing appeal of the good brother, and accordinglythe horses were allowed to stop in frontof a large log farm-house on the banks of the Susquehanna.

But the soi disant John Brown had some troublein sustaining the new character he had assumed, forhe not only made laughable blunders in the Quakerdialect, but when questioned of the prosperity andwelfare of his brethren in the good city, betrayed anignorance certainly unwarrantable in a brother; buthis host was a shrewd, sensible man, and soonguessed more of his guest’s secret than would haverendered his stay comfortable had he surmised it.But the secret was in safe keeping, and the poorfugitives were loaded with kindness and sent forwardon the morrow with the nicest provisions ofthe dairy for their future necessity.

“Beware of New England Friends,” said theirhospitable host, with a sly look, at parting, “or thegood Puritans there may send thee back with holesin thy tongue, or minus ears.”

The last two days of their journey were besetwith difficulties and dangers. They had forsakenthe public way, and their path was literally in thewilderness, and so thickly strewn with obstacles asto render every step tedious and toilsome; but deathwas behind, and the hope of life before, and so theywent forward steadily and patiently.

Near the close of the fifth day they came suddenlyinto a beautiful valley, sheltered on all sides by boldhills, and encircling in its bosom a clear, quiet lake.Not a vestige of human kind was discernible in thisspot, so charming that it seemed fresh from the handof its Creator.

“Is not this such a spot as we have been seeking,father?” inquired Anna, with a pleading look.

“Yes, daughter, if there is peace and safety onearth it must be in this Eden of the forest. Herewe will fix our dwelling-place, in the midst of thisromantic scenery. To-morrow, Carle, we must setto work to prepare a habitation; you are somethingof a carpenter I think?”

“O, yes, massa; me learn de trade in good oldEngland, but not wid such big log as dis.”

We have now traced the flight of the illustriousbut unfortunate Judge Temple from the Quakercity—his first resting-place in the Western world—tothe forest home introduced to our reader at thecommencement of the chapter. More than a yearand a half had passed since the wanderers had soughtrefuge in the friendly wild, whose shelter had affordeda safe retreat from friend or foe; for no whiteface had smiled or frowned on them in their newhabitation. They had lived alone! The forest andlake supplied them with food, and they had a littlegarden which furnished them with vegetables,having brought with them a variety of seed andutensils for the culture of the soil. They had a fewbooks, and Anna and her father read together, towhile away the long hours of winter; but in summerthey dragged not heavily; for there was life andbeauty around them, and in the warm breast ofAnna Temple was a perpetual fountain of sunlight.To her father she seemed as happy as the birds thatwarbled all day in gladness—and she was trulyhappy—happy in herself, in her only parent, and inevery thing bright and beautiful around her; stillher thoughts in their loneliness often reverted to herfirst home, and the blessed hours of her childhood.

But not for lost splendor did she dwell thus fondlythe memory of the past, it was for the lost companionsof those rainbow-tinted years, whose fateshe might never know. Scattered far and wideover the earth she knew them to be, but whoamong them had fallen victims, she vainly strove toconjecture.

And one among those whose images were linkedwith her dreams, was the dark-haired Vaudois student,who had taught her the Alpine shepherd songswhich she still loved to play at nightfall, as shewatched the stars peering out, with their angel-eyes,and she would sometimes weep as she thoughtthat pale-browed youth might even then be wearingthe golden crown he had so early sought towin.

It surely was a solitary life for an ardent youngcreature like Anna Temple to dwell thus apart fromthe world, shut out from every association of herearlier and happier years; still she was never for amoment discontented with her lot. A nest of youngbirds she fed and tamed, and every wild-flower ofrare beauty was transplanted in her garden-plot—soher loving heart had food for its impassioned yearnings.One human creature, too, had found a placein her affections even here in the wilderness. Thesummer after their arrival, a party of Indians froma neighboring tribe had sought, as was their custom,the shores of this sunny lake to fish. Among themcame the chief, with his only daughter, nearly thesame age as Anna.

Weetano was a most superb creature; gracefulas a fawn, with eyes clear and dark as a gazelle’s,and she burst upon them like a glorious vision—sounlike any thing they had seen, or even fancied.Her father, the old chief, seemed not at first wellpleased to find his summer retreat invaded by a paleface, but Lord Temple’s courteous address soonwon his favor, and he came with confidence to thecottage, where he was entertained with so manypresents and novelties, that he went and brought hisdaughter to see the “white squaw,” as he calledAnna, and hear her sing.

Anna took her guitar and sang with it to the infinitedelight of her visitors, who asked her if thecreature were alive, for they had learned a littleEnglish from the fur-traders. She then displayed tothe Indian maiden her treasures, and presented herwith a beautiful coral necklace, that had pleased herfancy better than any thing else. The chief lookedhighly gratified to see Anna clasp the trinket roundhis daughter’s neck, and he inquired with somepride—“Will the Pale-Lily sail in the canoe withRed-Bird?” for thus he called his daughter.

Anna was delighted with the novelty of the proposition,and hastened to accompany her new companionto the lake-side, leaving the old chief withher father at the cottage. She had never beforeseen a canoe like Weetano’s, it was befitting achief’s daughter, or a princess royal, with its snowymat of swan’s-down, and decorated with the quillsof the porcupine and feathers of every hue. TheIndian girl seized the paddles, and jumping into thefairy-looking bark motioned Anna to a seat on themat opposite, but with all the romance and enthusiasmof her nature, she hesitated; for the thingseemed all too frail for the burden of a humanweight on the dark waters.

“Does the white girl fear?” inquired Weetano, inmost musical accents. “Look how Red-Bird canguide a canoe.”

And quick as thought she dipped the oars, and theboat darted away like a bird on the wing. Roundand round she went in swift circles, and a more picturesquelooking creature could not be imaginedthan the beautiful forest-girl in the wild costume ofher tribe. Her richly beaded robe, clasped on theright shoulder, fell gracefully over a form of themost perfect mould, and was confined around theleft knee, leaving the arms and limbs entirely bare;while her long, raven hair floated wildly over herneck; but encircling her head was a fillet of beads,into which were woven feathers of the white-hawk—theinsignia of their tribe. Anna gazed with delightand astonishment on the glorious creature inher fantastic bark skimming the blue lake with amotion as light and graceful as we image afairy’s.

The Indian girl soon rowed to the shore again,and Anna now seated herself on the soft mat besideWeetano with delight, and away they went—thehigh-born daughter of Europe and the red forest-maidenin happy companionship; and though differingwidely in outward mien, each wore the seal ofbeauty and the air of nobility.

From that day there was an ardent attachmentbetween Anna Temple and the chief’s daughter.Every day found the little canoe moored at the pointof the lake nearest the cottage, and many a brightsummer hour was passed by them roaming thewoods, or sailing the fairy boat, before the chief andhis party were ready to depart. It was with realsorrow that Anna heard she was to lose her newcompanion, but Weetano told her they would comeagain the next summer, and Pale-Lily should havea canoe like hers.

Oliwibatuc was the chief of the Mohawks, andhis principal village was about thirty miles fromthe north shore of the lake. He was a powerfulchieftain, and held a stern body of warriors andbraves ready to do his bidding. His wigwam washung with the trophies of his own deeds and daring.He was now going back to sound the war-cry andseek revenge for the real or fancied injury done histribe by the French traders on the Canadian frontier.It was a dark passion and bloody would be itsfruits, but surely one less reprehensible in an unenlightenedsavage than in those who wear the garmentsof Christianity.

The second winter passed more fleetly with ourfugitives than the first, and at the time our chaptercommenced they had gathered around them manyconveniences and comforts in their forest home. Asthe season advanced, Anna began to watch with impatiencefor their summer visitors, for she longedfor something to disturb the monotony of her life,and Red-Bird’s visit would be sure to bring with itnew amusem*nts and pleasures.

One morning she descried a speck on the distantwater, and exclaimed with delight—“A canoe, father—itmust be a canoe! There is a speck on thelake; now another, and another—it must be the partyof Oliwibatuc with darling Red-Bird! O, I am sohappy! Hasten, and go with me, father, to theshore to meet and welcome them.”

It was indeed the party of the Mohawk chief, whohad come this season to encamp on the south shoreof the lake at a little distance from the emigrant’scottage. Their number was much greater than onthe summer preceding, and their dress and appearancefar more imposing. Every warrior wore thetuft of hawk’s-feathers, and a gay wampum-belt,and Oliwibatuc was borne down almost with hissymbolic decorations, among which the claws of theeagle were most conspicuous. They had come backfrom their last campaign victorious, and the savageand Christian victor must alike wear the regalia inthe hour of triumph.

Weetano had been true to her promise, andbrought the Pale-Lily a little canoe, the very counterpartof her own, and after she had gained a littleexperience in rowing side by side, they glided overthe smooth waters gathering white lilies in the shallowsto wreathe in their hair, or starting up thewild birds that often lay in multitudes on the bosomof the lake.

But Anna was not long in discovering that a changewas on her young companion. Weetano was notnow the glad, sunny-hearted creature she had knownin the year gone by. Her wild, musical laugh nolonger awoke the mountain echo, and her step hadlost its fleetness—for, the delicate white girl couldnow outstrip the forest-maiden who so lately outstrippedthe deer. She would sometimes sit silentand motionless in her canoe, gazing down into thedeep waters with an intensity that both surprisedand alarmed her companion, and once, when questionedby her, she replied—“She was listening forwhisperings of the Great Spirit.”

“Will the Lily teach Weetano to read the GreatBook of the white man?” inquired the Indian girl onemorning, as they were sitting alone in Anna’s littleroom. “She has a new brother in her father’slodge; he is a Book man, and will not take up thebow and tomahawk! He sings the songs of thespirit-land, but no war-song; and when Weetano wassick and dying, he pointed her to the blue home ofthe weary! Weetano has looked on the face of herpale brother, and the image of her Brave has fadedfrom her heart! The Huron’s spirit no longercomes to me in dreams! Owanaw should take awarrior maiden to his wigwam, and leave thedaughter of the Mohawk to dwell in peace! Teachme the Book then, but tell it not to Oliwibatuc.”

It has been already stated that the Mohawk chiefand his party had returned from their last campaignvictorious. The hair of many a scalp was braidedwith serpent-skins around their necks, and twelveyoung captives had been brought home to suffer inthe presence of the whole tribe. As they drew neartheir principal city, the captors sent up a savage yell,and prolonged it until the hills sent back the sound;but the aged warriors and the braves who remainedat home echoed it not. Wherefore came they notforth as was their custom, to greet their triumphantbrethren? The silence boded no good, and Oliwibatucled on his band with a sullen, down-cast eye.He approached his lodge with the prisoners and theirguard, and entered it in silence; but within, all wasnoise and distraction. Hideous outcries, mingled withstrange incantations saluted his ears, and there on alow couch lay the prostrate form of the chief’s daughter.The low moaning of the poor maiden was a sadwelcome for the old warrior, for Weetano had beenthe song-bird of his lodge, and the sunlight of herface had once been the sunlight of her mother’s. Hestood by her couch with stern composure, and thriceuttered “Weetano,” but the ear of his daughter wasdull to the voice of affection, and the haughty warrioruttered a deep groan, and bowed his head, for hispride was low.

There was one among the prisoners of Oliwibatucwho looked not unmoved on the mournful spectacle—one,whose faith taught “Love to enemies,” andwhose mission on earth was that of his Master—todo good. It was a youthful “soldier of the Cross,”that stood a captive in the lodge of the Mohawkchief. Torture and death he was expecting soon toreceive from the hands of his merciless captors, butthe light of his faith was clear and bright, and hislast deed should be one of mercy. He saw that thedisease had formed a crisis, and the poor suffererseemed rapidly sinking with exhaustion; but therewas still life, and a shadow of hope, and he approachedthe stricken chief, and laying his hand gentlyon his arm, said—

“The Great Spirit has given the Pale Face the artof healing; if it be not too late, I will restore thydaughter; but the tumult must first be hushed!”

There was gratitude in the old chief’s eye: for atone of sympathy falls never unheeded, no matterhow barren the heart; and with a motion of hishand the savage din was hushed.

“Yes, save her, and ye shall live, young PaleFace!” murmured the chief. “She is my onlychild—the last of the eagle’s nest! Save her, andye shall be as Olo, the son of Oliwibatuc, who fellby the great Lakes in battle!”

The captive knew that a flask of brandy was inpossession of one of the prisoners. The Indians hadnot then learned its use, though something of its abusethey had found out in their intercourse with the traders.He obtained this immediately, and diluting alittle with water, put it to the lips of the poor girl,who lay unconscious of all around her. She swallowedwith great difficulty, and he perceived an unearthlychill in the perspiration that damped her forehead.

“Blankets and fire, chief,” said the young man,with a trembling voice. “Soon, or it will be toolate! Set these prisoners to work,” added he, onlooking round and perceiving the lodge deserted saveby the chief and his captives. “Hot blankets mustbe had immediately!” And he set himself to work,chafing the cold hands of the poor moaning sufferer,with an activity that manifested the earnestness ofhis purpose.

Oliwibatuc went to the door of his wigwam, andsent up a cry, that immediately brought a dozen ofhis tribe at his feet.

“Fire and hot blankets must be had instantly,” saidhe, in the tone of one accustomed to command.“Where is the old woman, Zohah? Summon heragain—the maiden must not die!”

His directions were promptly obeyed. But the redmen looked sullen and displeased to see the youngcaptive employed in the service of their chief. Theold Indian nurse-woman, too, had come again, andseeing the preparations, she muttered—

“No good! No good! Bad Spirit will not submit,and Good Spirit has forsaken Weetano! Zohahhas used all healing herbs, but—bad, bad. Zohah’sarts cannot hush the voice from the far south-west!The maiden has heard the call! She will die!”

“Perhaps, not, mother,” said the young physician,soothingly. “The Great Spirit can hush thevoice. Will you not lend your aid, that the daughterof your chief may live?”

Thus addressed, old Zohah seemed pleased to followhis directions, and after the patient had beencarefully wrapped in the heated blankets, and a fewmore drops of the brandy put into her mouth, theysat down to watch for its effects, on the unconsciousgirl. Long, long seemed the moments of that wearywatch, and yet the anxious prisoner could discern nochange. He took her hand in his, and counted thefeeble pulsations—it was still chill and cold, yet hisheart encouraged him on in his ministry of mercy.

“Some herbs, good Zohah. Put some herbs onher feet—the long dock-leaves will do, if bruisedand withered. She must have some more of the liquid,too,” and for the third time the red beveragewas put to her lips. She now swallowed with lessdifficulty, and her breath was not so hurried andfaint; still there was no sign of consciousness, andher attendant relapsed again to his watch, still retainingthe wrist of the sufferer in his hand.

The old chief stood a little apart, gazing with aneagle-eye on every movement, but not a word hadescaped his lips since his first orders had been obeyed,and he betrayed no sign of weariness, though hehad not been seated since his long march.

An hour afterward, the low moaning had diedaway, and the voice of the captive youth whisperedin the ears of Oliwibatuc—

“She sleeps: thy daughter sleeps!”

“Seven suns have set, and this is the maiden’sfirst quiet sleep,” said old Zohah. “The Pale Facebrings witch-water.”

“Nay, nay, mother, thy good herbs and gentlenursing have aided the sufferer; but we must stillwatch, for on this slumber perhaps, depends herlife.”

The old chief approached his captive, and said ingrateful accents—

“Thy life is not sufficient; what boon wilt thouask at the hand of the Mohawk?”

“That thou wilt send my fellow-captives back totheir country, chief; and I will still be thy prisoner.They have homes there. I have neither countrynor home. I will stay and watch the recovery ofthy daughter, but let my brethren go without torture.”

It was a great request for an Indian to give up hisprisoners, and for a moment he seemed wavering—thenhe added—

“It is more than leagues of wampun—but it shallbe done. To-morrow, they shall go, and thou shaltstay in the lodge of Oliwibatuc—not my prisoner, butmy son, instead of Olo.”

All was silence again in that forest wigwam, andthe youthful captive held on his watch. Old Zohahwas snoring loudly on one hand, and the old chief hadat last spread his blanket, and laid down to rest afterhis weary march. The youth was alone. The deepshadows of the night hung a solitude over the wilderness,and as he sat there in the rude wigwam of thesavage, his thoughts took backward wing: he was achild again, climbing the mountain-path with theflocks—gathering wild grapes in the valleys, andreturning to a happy cottage-home at evening.Then a soft footstep was in his ear, and a gentle tone—theywere his mother’s! A little hand was nestledin his, as his sire took the Book of God and read thewords of wisdom from its holy pages; then cameback to his weary heart those home-voices minglingin the evening psalm, and his face brightened—butmemory was soon too faithful to the reality, and atear rolled down his cheek.

A new leaf was turned in his life-book! He wasa youth in a foreign land: strange objects werearound him—the tones of strangers in his ears. Thecottage of the Alps had been exchanged for a homein a kingly palace. Men of learning and science hadthere been his teachers, and his ardent heart had lovedand treasured up the words of wisdom. Gentle formshad floated around him, and the image of one sweet,youthful face, was yet a dew-drop on his spirit.

Another leaf—and he was again a wanderer!Another cloud had burst in storm over his head, anda wide ocean spread its stormy waves betwixt himand the land of his birth. He had come a fugitive overits waters, bearing the gospel seed, which he hoped erelong to see springing up in the boundless field of thewest; but a twelvemonth had scarcely passed, ere amerciless war-party had numbered him with its victims.Persecution and torture had no power to makehis youthful spirit quail, for men of iron purpose hadmoulded him for a martyr to his creed, and as he satthere that night in his lonely watch, he looked upwardto his home above, with a clear unshaken confidence,and forward into the dim, uncertain futurewithout a fear. He had been the happy instrument ofsaving a number of his fellow-beings from torturingdeath, and on the morrow they would be restored tohome and freedom. He had no home—had left behindhim no kindred, and here, perchance, was thevineyard which his Master had given him to plantwith the “Living Vine.”

Such were the thoughts that rapidly winged theirway through the mind of the young captive as he satlistening to the now low, soft breathing of the Indianmaiden, and his heart was happy in the consciousnessof its right and holy purpose.

There was a low murmur—he turned his headand the dark eye of the chief’s daughter was fixedupon him with a look of conscious scrutiny, but in amoment the lids were heavy again with slumber.He went cautiously to Zohah and awoke her, lest themaiden might fear finding herself with a stranger.Old Zohah took the cup, and bending over the couchsaid—

“Is Weetano thirsty? Here is drink.”

She opened her eyes again, and said—

“Is it you, good Zohah? I dreamed a Pale Facewas beside me. Has my father yet returned?”

“He sleeps weary with the war-chase. He spoketo Weetano, but she answered not. Will the maidensee her father?”

“No, let him rest until morning. The warrior isaged, and comes to his lodge weary.”

But the old chief was awake to the first tone ofhis daughter’s voice, and he bent over her couch caressingly,saying—

“Red-Bird is better now; she has a new brother,and he has saved her life! He must slumber now,for the march was long! He shall eat, hereafter, atthe board of Oliwibatuc.”

The captive came forward again, and gave somedirections to Zohah for the remainder of the night,and then gladly lay down as the chief desired, for thedanger was past, and he was sorely fatigued. Sweetwere his first slumbers in the lodge of the Mohawkchief, and his dreams like the waking vision, wereof the Alps; for as the reader has already imagined,the stranger was no other than Francois Waldo—theVaudois peasant-boy.

——

CHAPTER III.

As the summer wore on, the change in Weetanogrew more and more apparent to the watchful eyeof Anna Temple, and awoke in her loving heart anearnest anxiety for her safety. Her strength wasno longer sufficient to urge forward her canoe—andit rested like a bird on the water; and though shestill insisted on the daily ramble in the greenwood,she followed her companion with faltering footsteps,and each day their resting-place was some fallentrunk or mossy rock nearer home than on the daypreceding.

It was during these summer rambles that Annahad acceded to the earnest entreaty of her friend toinstruct her in the “Book of the Pale Face;” andthe avidity with which she gathered the words ofinstruction betrayed an ardent thirst for wisdom.She was soon able to read with a little assistance,and Anna presented her with a little Pocket-Bible,that had been the companion of all her wanderings,with her own name in gilt on the cover. It washer sole copy of the Scriptures—but the familyBible lay on the shelf, at their cottage; and shewisely thought her little volume would be of greaterworth to Red-Bird than to herself—and much causehad she afterward for joy that her gift of love wasthus bestowed.

As the season advanced, Weetano manifested ananxiety with regard to their return, and evidentlydreaded her father’s orders to depart—for she hadlearned a little of the tastes and habits of her whitefriends, and they seemed more congenial to her nowdelicate frame than the ruder customs of her tribe.There seemed, moreover, some secret care weighingdown her spirits; and although she, Indian-like,buried it for a time in her own bosom, and Annaforbore questioning, it at length found voice inwords. They were sitting by the lake-side onemorning, and Anna plucked a pretty blue flowerjust opening there, and gave it to Red-Bird.

“ ’Tis the first herald of autumn,” said Weetano.“The gentian opens for the corn-dance, and Oliwibatucwill soon go to his tribe. Would that Red-Birdmight stay in the lodge with Pale-Lily untilthe feast of the braves is over! She cannot dressthe lodge of the chief—Weetano is weary;” andthe Indian girl burst into tears.

“You are sick, darling Red-Bird,” said Anna,taking her hand in a caressing manner. “Tell mewhat is the matter, and I will nurse you, for youare all the sister I have here in this distant home.You are not afraid to trust me, Weetano?”

“No! Weetano love the pale face! Listen, shewill whisper all! Next moon the Mohawk chiefwill spread the corn-feast, and the Huron warriorswill come with their braves to smoke the pipe withour tribe, and bury the bloody tomahawk! ’Tis ahundred moons since our fathers took it up, but theyoung chief of the Hurons sent presents to the Mohawk’swigwam, and comes to seek his daughter;Oliwibatuc has sent back the belt of friendship, andWeetano must go to the lodge of Owanaw, to makesure the bonds of the warriors. She had sooner die,for the shadow of her pale brother will go with herto the land of spirits; but it will not follow her to awarrior’s wigwam—for he loves not the bow andtomahawk.”

“But your father will not force you to go, Weetano;why do you speak so mournfully?”

“His word was pledged more than twenty moonsago. A warrior breaks not his word! Weetano wasa gay child then, and loved the feast and the danceof the braves. But she has learned another lifenow—her new brother has awakened it, and shereads it in Pale-Lily’s book; but Oliwibatuc willshut his ears and be angry, and Weetano mustgo. She is the last of his race, and must wed awarrior.”

There was a mournful look of despair depicted onthe countenance of the Indian maiden as she utteredthese last words, that went to the heart of Anna—andshe sought to divert her from the unwelcometheme, by telling her stories of her first home overthe blue waters. After exhausting many a topic,she told her of the beautiful peasant-boy who hadbeen her companion for years, and the story of hispersecuted people, and of his little sister, whose fatehe had so often bewailed in her childish ears. Shethen told her she would sing her a song he hadlearnt her of his own wild hills; but before shehad proceeded far, Weetano stopped her with anexclamation of delight.

“My pale brother sings the Lily’s song at thesilence of nightfall in the lodge of Oliwibatuc! He,too, came over the great waters, but he speaks thewords of the French.”

A sudden thought flashed through the mind ofAnna, flushing her cheek with crimson at first, andthen leaving it paler than before. “Could it bepossible!” she thought; “but no, the idea was preposterous!The Canadians were all French—manyof them would, doubtless, sing the songs of theirown mountain peasantry!” The object of her youngimaginings had probably gone back to his nativevalley, if, indeed, he had escaped the hands of thenew Stuart: and so the thought was dismissed witha sigh.

Weetano was right in her conjecture that Oliwibatucwould soon return to his tribe, as his directionsnext morning proved; but the old chief readplainly in his daughter’s countenance a reluctanceto comply, which he attributed to the parting fromher white friend. “Red-Bird is the daughter ofwarriors;” said the old chief, reprovingly! “Dothshe carry a faint heart in her breast?”

“No,” she replied; “but Weetano is weary, andher way is in the mist! She can no longer lay thecouch for the warriors, or spread the cup for thebraves! Let her stay until the feast is over, for shehears the voice of spirits, and is no longer a mate forthe young eagle of the Hurons!”

There was stern pride in the look of the chief,but he only replied, “The maiden will go to herlodge with Oliwibatuc! The Pale-Lily will comethither to the corn-feast with her father!” No otherword was spoken—and the chief, with his party,went his way.

Lord Temple and his daughter were both highlypleased with the Mohawk’s invitation to be presentat the corn-dance, and witness the meeting of tribeslong hostile, at the feast of peace. Oliwibatuc hadpromised to send a convoy of braves to conductthem thither, but the anticipated pleasure could notremove from Anna’s mind the mournful tone ofRed-Bird, and the words still haunted her memory,“Weetano must dwell in the Huron’s lodge to makesure the bonds of peace. She would sooner die.”And she wondered much whether the poor girlwould really undergo so great a sacrifice. Couldnot her pale brother save her? Why had she notcounseled Weetano to make a confident of him?

From thoughts like these she was one day arousedby her father, who observed, “There is somethingon the lake that appears like a canoe; but it cannotbe the Mohawks, for it wants nearly two weeks ofthe time specified for our visit. They may be stragglersfrom some other tribe come to fish in theMohawks’ waters.”

“But is there no danger, father? In our longsecurity I fancied I had become a stranger to fear;but I find it revives upon the least suspicion of evil.I am really less courageous than I imagined!”

“There is no cause for alarm, Anna. We haveinjured none—have defrauded none. Moreover, anIndian will not harm a Quaker—and our garb atleast is true.”

They watched the boat, and half an hour afterwardsaw it approaching the cottage, when they recognizedthe hawk’s-feathers—the well-known badgeof the Mohawks, and they strove in vain to conjecturethe cause of their sudden appearance. Itgained the landing-place, and to their surprise, theresprang on shore a gentleman, clad in the garb oftheir own nation. He paused a moment, as if givingsome directions to those he left behind, and then advancedrapidly toward the abode of the emigrant.Lord Temple went forth to meet him, and Annastole a cautious peep at the stranger whom herfather had gone to welcome. There was somethingmysteriously familiar in that stranger’s look, as herfather’s greeting fell on his ears, and a faint smilepassed over his features; by that smile he was recognized.She had never seen but one like it—it wasthe same; and she sprang out, exclaiming, “Do younot know him, father! We knew him well in dearold England, and I know him even here! ’TisFrancois Waldo—my old playmate, and teacher,too;” and the next moment they were clasped ineach other’s arms—and Anna was shedding the happiesttears that had ever dimmed her eyes, whilsther father looked on in bewildered amazement,scarcely able to determine whether the scene wasreal, or one of the strange phantasms of slumber.

After recovering a little from his astonishment,however, he said, “Whence come you, my son, andhow in the world did you discover our hiding-place?Strange! that the first white face whichhas greeted us since our flight, should be that of adear old friend! But, tell me—how came you hereamong the Quakers, as rigid a Puritan as you wereeducated under our good Lord Protector?” AndLord Temple greeted the new comer with a heartyshake of the hand, accompanied with a significantglance at his own altered attire!

“I came hither, my lord, with your friends, theMohawks, among whom I have been for nearly ayear captive. I have had suspicions that their newpale face friends might possibly be yourselves, sinceWeetano showed me the volume which she saidthe White Lily had given her—for on the cover wasthe name of Anna Temple. Still, with all my inquiries,I could ascertain nothing with certainty,for the old chief said you were ‘Blue Jackets!’meaning Quakers; and that ‘on the head of his newbrother, John Brown, had fallen much snow.’ I rememberedyou with raven locks, and thought not ofthe changes a few years will sometimes occasion.But tell me a little of your wanderings, for time urgesme back. Let me first, however, state the immediatecause of this visit. Weetano is ill, and she hasentreated her father to send for Anna to his lodge,that she may hear her talk again before she goes tobe the companion of spirits. The old chief is sorelyafflicted, for she is his only child, and he was soonto have sealed with her hand an alliance with hiswarlike neighbors, the Hurons. The young braveto whom she is betrothed will soon be there; but,if I can read the Indian girl aright, she shrinks fromthe coming of Owanaw, though in my hearing shehas never spoken of him. However, she has nothingto fear, for she will soon change her dwelling for along resting-place. Consumption is upon her. Willyou return with me, Anna? Can you undergo theprivations of an Indian wigwam for a few days?”

“O, gladly! gladly! May I not go, father, tonurse poor Weetano a little, or will you feel toolonely in my absence?”

“I certainly should prefer to have Francois remainwith us,” replied Lord Temple, “but Oliwibatuchas been a faithful friend; if his daughter issick, you shall go if he desires it; I believe I canentrust you a few days with your old companion.But how is the journey to be performed, my child?You surely cannot walk from the opposite lake-shore?”

“Oliwibatuc ordered his trusty warriors to bearher as they bore Red-Bird on her return,” repliedFrancois. “I will see that she is not overwearied,and secure from accident. Her carriage shall bemade firm, and I will be her footman—she shall bethe Lady Anna again!”

Her father proposed sending one of the old carriage-horsesround by Carle, but the young peoplewould not listen to the plan, for it would delay theirjourney at least a whole day; and so Nurse Judywas ordered to put up some medicine for Red-Bird,with a few articles of necessary clothing for Anna—andin a little time they were crossing the blue water,Anna in a canoe with her father, who crossed thelake with them, and Francois, with the dusky Mohawks,among whom he was a great favorite, formany a deed of kindness and charity had this youngcaptive-minister done for their tribe.

The close of the second day found them approachingthe Mohawk village, and the journey had beenperformed with the greatest ease by Anna—indeed,two pleasanter days she had not passed since thegreen lawns of England had been exchanged for thewestern forest. Waldo had been accompanied byeight young warriors, who, according to the fashionof their nation, had constructed a light carriage ofgreen boughs and branches interwoven, which wasalternately carried forward by four of their number,without the least inconvenience or fatigue. Bornealong thus by her fantastic guides, she felt not theleast emotion of fear. By her side was one whowatched her with the most unwearied care—whoplucked for her every flower in the wild pathway,and brought her water from each cool spring. Itwas the living form of one whose image had oftenbeen with her in dreams, when the spirit’s messengerslink again the parted in sweet companionship.They recounted to each other the story oftheir wanderings, and each felt that time and absenceand sorrow had but strengthened the ties ofyouthful affection; and the dark eye of Francoishad not been so lit up with sunshine since the dayslong gone by, when his simple mountain reed awokea hundred echoes in the ear of the happy peasant-boyof the Alps!

Anna, too, was happy. O, how happy! as sheread in the earnest gaze ever fixed upon her that itwas her presence that had imparted unwonted colorto the pale cheek, and additional lustre to the darkeye—but mournful memories would come flashingover her mind, and the low, confiding tones of Red-Birdwould sound again in her ears—“Weetano haslooked on the face of her pale brother, and the imageof her brave has faded from her heart”—and for thefirst time she felt in her spirit a rising of selfishness.Poor Anna—there was a bitter struggle, but brief;and her better nature was triumphant! No wonder,she thought, the forest-maiden should love the fair-browedcaptive who had come to her father’s wigwamand saved her life! No wonder her ardent,grateful heart should treasure up the rich, low tonesof her preserver, and turn with sickening disgustfrom the stranger Huron! And, then she thoughtof Weetano, sick and wasting away perhaps with anuntold sorrow, and she wished in her heart the loveof her red friend had been requited, even though thebright spark she had so long nursed in her ownbreast had gone out in another’s joy. The daughterof the Indian chief was a fit mate for the gifted ornoble of any nation—one such had already shonewith peerless lustre at a royal court, and Weetanowas as rich in beauty and intellect as the far-fameddaughter of Powhatten!

Such were the thoughts that rapidly coursedthrough Anna’s brain, and when her companion announcedto her that they were already in view ofthe village, and that Weetano was coming forth tomeet them, her heart leaped only with gladness—nota trace of its tumultuous workings remained!She soon descried her friend, supported by the oldchief, followed by a long train of warriors. She hadbeen borne forth on a couch to the outskirts of thevillage to await the Pale-Lily, and now, weak andfeeble as she was, at her earnest entreaty, had beenpermitted to walk forward a few steps to meet andwelcome her.

As they drew near Oliwibatuc stepped forwardand courteously presented a belt of wampum; andAnna, seeing her friend for the moment unsupported,sprang forward, and clasping her in her arms, exclaimed—

“You, darling sick, Red-Bird! I have come tonurse you in your own home.”

“Pale-Lily has come in time,” she calmly replied.“The summer is over, and the song ofRed-Bird will cease with the early frost. But youare weary now—come to the feast of Oliwibatuc.”

The couch of Weetano was now brought forward,and she was laid gently thereon, and supported byher father on one side, and on the other by Francoisand Anna, followed by those of her tribe who hadcome forth to welcome the “Lily of the Pale face,”she was borne back to her father’s wigwam. Herea feast had been spread in honor of the expectedguest, of every variety which river and forest afforded,and a soft, downy mat was spread for herand Weetano beside the old chief, who seemedpleased to see Anna smiling familiarly on the duskywarriors whom she recognized as Oliwibatuc’s companionsof the past summer.

The meal was taken in silence, and at its closeRed-Bird took Anna by the hand and led her to asoft couch of furs, tastefully spread over with embroideredblankets, side by side with her own.

“The way was long for the weak Lily,” she saidin pleasant accents, “she must rest; Weetano willwatch her first slumber—it will be secure in thelodge of the Mohawk chief. She will not fear,”added she, in an inquiring manner; and placing herhand at the same time in hers, Anna was struck withits mortal coldness.

“Why, you are cold, Weetano,” said she, pressingthe hand affectionately, “it is you who most needrest, and I came to watch beside you—not you withme.”

“Only to-night, white maiden; Red-Bird hasspread your couch with her own hands to-day, andwhen she has seen you sleep she will lie down onher couch beside you happy, though her heart isfrozen, and its streams are fast wasting. Slumberwill revive the weary Lily, and Weetano will singher a song of the Great Spirit. She has learned itof her white brother.”

Thus prevailed on, Anna Temple lay down on thedowny bed her friend had spread for her, but shefelt no disposition to sleep, for too many thoughtscame crowding thickly on her mind, and when, toher surprise, the child of the dusky Mohawk halfsung, half chanted the “Cradle Hymn of the Shepherds,”in a voice wildly musical, it brought backwith overpowering force the hours of her childhoodand the dimly remembered tones of her mother’svoice, for that hymn had often been her lullaby.She buried her face in the blankets, but in spite ofher utmost efforts her sobs reached the sharp ear ofher companion, who paused quickly in her hymn.

“Does the song of Red-Bird make the tired Lilyweep? She meant it not so—but the woundedbird has ever a mournful strain. She will sing nomore!”

“Nay, nay, dear Weetano, it is not that; butlong years ago my mother used to sing me thathymn, and it seemed so very strange that its echoshould come back to me far away in these dim oldwoods. Francois Waldo must have heard it, too,among the Alpine hills.”

At the mention of that name Weetano startedslightly, and looking earnestly at Anna, said—“Iremember those words—the Frenchman spoke them—theymean my pale brother. You knew him, then,over the great waters?”

“Yes, Weetano. I knew him there. His enemiesburnt his home and murdered his parents—then hefled to my country for shelter. Did I not tell youonce of the peasant-boy and his poor little sisterChristine? He used to be my tutor there, in myfirst home—that is all, Weetano.”

“Nay, maiden, doth thy heart whisper truly?Listen! When he read the name on the beautifulbook which the Lily gave to Red-Bird, his browgrew whiter, and his eyelids quivered like the poplarbefore the storm. ’Tis not every breath that movesmy brother!”

The shrewd girl’s artifice revealed a truth whichthe lips denied, and the heart would fain have concealed;but those few words had called it forth, andit was written on every lineament of her face tooplainly for an eye less penetrating than an Indian’sto have mistaken its import. Weetano smiledmeaningly on her confused and trembling companion,and continued—

“Why would you hang mist before the eyes ofRed-Bird? Did she not trust the white maiden, anddoes she suppose the daughter of the Mohawk cannothold her tongue?”

“Nay, nay; you wrong me, Weetano. ’Tis butnow I learned that my old companion dwelt in theMohawk’s lodge. Had not my sister already toldme before, ‘that she had looked on the face of herwhite brother and a new life had been awakened inher heart.’ Should the Lily pluck the sweet morselfrom the taste of Red-Bird? No, she is not so selfish—shewould sooner feed her with her own heart’sfood.”

“But the food is poison for Weetano, she will noteat it,” persisted she, somewhat mournfully. “Mybrother loves the fair maiden of his own land—whyshould he not! Oliwibatuc, too, would have givenhis daughter to a dog sooner than to an idle ‘bookman.’ When he brought the hatchet and bow ofmy dead brother and gave them to his captive, heturned away from them and spoke the words ofpeace, and the warrior sighed—‘Who will hang thetrophies of Olo in his father’s wigwam? By his truespirit Weetano shall wed a brave, and he shall bethe chief of the Mohawks instead of Olo!’ He hasspoken, but the Great Spirit loves Weetano, andwill not give her to the Huron, for he will soon layher beside the still waters to slumber, and the Lilyshall bloom for my new brother. Nay, do not weepso—the eye of Weetano can now see the path plainly,and the way looks pleasant, but she was sorry toleave her new brother alone, for though he toils hardto do the Mohawks good they are not his own people,and I know he must sometimes be very sad andlonely. It was for this I plead for him to bring youhither; I knew you were his spirit-mate, and longedto see you both happy.”

Anna Temple gazed long and earnestly on thebeautiful face that bent over her couch, but was unableto trace thereon a shadow of emotion; its expressionwas calm and unvarying, and though theclear, dark eyes sparkled brightly, the light they shedwas as the brightness of a silver fountain that reflectsthe moonbeams from its surface soft and almost holy.Her own heart beat wildly, and when she attemptedto speak, her voice was choked and broken withsobs.

“O, Weetano, do not speak so low and mournfully,”she at length uttered. “You will still liveand be happy, you are so good and true! NurseJudy has sent some medicine, and I know well howto administer it; then I have something else to offerbeside; so bend down your ear close to me, Weetano,and I will whisper it.”

Weetano did as she was desired, and whatever thewords of her companion might have been, they hadno effect on the Indian girl, for when she raisedher head the same serene smile rested on her features.

“The heart of Red-Bird would be weak, indeed,to listen to the words,” she replied. “The whitemaiden has not read it rightly, for its pride is asstern as the rock of her mountains, that may bebroken but cannot be bowed. It fears not the blast!Weetano’s heart is like it—it will bide its lot.”

“And its lot may yet be happy—yea, I am persuadedit will be, only do not indulge in dark fancies,Weetano.”

“Weetano has no dark fancies now! Sunshinehas broken through the dim future since the wordsof the Lily’s book fell on her ears. The shadowyland has no fears now, and beautiful images beckonme there in slumber! Weetano will come againwith messages of good to the Lily and her pale brother,for they taught her the way.”

The next morning Anna awoke early, and refreshed,although her slumber had not been unbroken;for whenever she stirred the dark eyes of Weetanowere fixed upon her with the same placid smile thathad greeted her coming, and sorely, bitterly did herheart ache for the poor creature who regarded herwith an affection so earnest and grateful. Shefeigned sleep at length, fearing her friend would becomeexhausted with care for her, but when the low,soft breathing of Weetano assured her she had relapsedfrom her watching, she turned away from herand wet her couch with tears. When she awoke inthe morning, Weetano still slept, and she arose noiselessly,lest she might disturb her; but when sometime passed and she still betrayed no signs of waking,Anna seated herself beside her couch, murmuringsoftly, “This sleep will do her good—she looksso happy now.” Her dark, glossy locks had fallenover her forehead, and she stroked them gently back,smiling on the beautiful picture before her, for thoughthe cheek of Weetano had lost its roundness, theoutline was still perfect, and still she was marvelouslybeautiful.

An hour or more passed on, and Anna had not leftthe side of the sleeping maiden. Over her featuresbrooded the same tranquil repose, so hushed indeed,that she would often bend down her ear to catch thelow breathing, and satisfy her mind that there was nothingunnatural in a repose so profound. Withoutshe heard the murmur of voices, and cautious footsteps,for only a hanging of skins separated themfrom the large, open space where the feast had beenspread the evening previous, and where breakfastwas now preparing. At length an old Indian womanpeeped cautiously from behind the curtain, and seeingAnna already dressed, she came forward with a lookof surprise that her companion was yet sleeping.

“What!” said she, “is not the daughter of thechief risen? ’Tis her custom to rise with thedawn; she must be weary with the labor of yesterday.Oliwibatuc gave orders not to disturb you,thinking the white maiden would need rest; but Red-Birdhas slept long now, we will break her slumber.Weetano, Weetano!” said the Indian woman, “thesun is high in the east, ’tis time the Lily should eatsomething, Oliwibatuc has called for his daughter.”

A smothered murmur escaped from her lips, likeone half aroused to consciousness, and the eyelidsunclosed for a moment, but were soon heavy withsleep again.

“Wake up, wake up, Weetano,” continued she,“the morning is fair, and the air as fragrant as themonth of flowers. The chief will take you forth tosail on the river—wake up maiden.”

Weetano breathed a low sigh, and there was astruggle, like one who strives to burst a charm.The effort seemed ineffectual, but she spoke faintly,“Weetano is weary, Zohah—leave her to rest alittle.”

“Yes, let her rest,” whispered Anna, “she willgain strength, and I will watch beside her until sheawakens.”

“The maiden sleeps strangely,” muttered the oldwoman, as she retreated behind the curtain, leavingAnna to resume her watch.

Another hour passed by, and she ventured to liftthe hand that had fallen over the blankets of hercouch—it was soft and warm as a slumbering infant’s.She pressed it in her own, whispering,“Weetano, Weetano!” and a happy smile passedover the features of her companion, and the pressureof her hand was gently returned. “She must havewatched longer than I supposed,” thought Anna,“and is exhausted with the effort; it would be wrongto disturb her.”

She arose and lifted the curtain, for it was growinglate, and she began to feel faint and weary herself;no one was to be seen, and she went forward to theopen air. Oliwibatuc was sitting on the ground, ata little distance from the lodge, with a number of hiswarriors in an idle manner, but when he saw Annastanding in the door of the wigwam, he came forwardwith a smile on his dark, grim features, andsaid—“The Lily has slumbered long; was shewearied with her journey through the woods?”

“No, chief, very little,” she replied. “ ’Tis Red-Birdwho is fatigued, and she still slumbers; I havewatched her for hours, but her sleep was so quiet Iwould not waken her.”

“Why, what aileth the maiden,” he exclaimed;“she was never last to leave her couch, but hersong has been sad of late, and her feet have trodlightly in the wood-paths. She hath leaned on thestrong for support. I will rouse her myself, whileZohah helps you to break the long fast of the morning.”

Anna partook lightly of some refreshments fromthe hand of Zohah, while the chief went to Red-Bird;but he soon returned with a satisfied air, saying,“She sleeps well; I will let her rest until wego forth with the canoe on the river.”

The sun was high in the heaven and the daughterof the chief had not awakened! Hour after hour hadAnna Temple lingered by the low bed-side, while herrepose seemed only deepening, and an indefinite fearcrept over her—a mysterious sense of evil, and shefelt sad and lonely. Near the curtain sat the oldchief, for he, too, seemed ill at ease, and Anna putaside the skin hanging, and said—

“Shall not we rouse her now, chief; she mustrequire nourishment, and this long sleep alarmsme!”

“Say you so, maiden; the slumber must then bebroken, for I, too, have fears! Wake up, Red-Bird!”said he, advancing toward her, “ ’tis noonday,you must not sleep;” and he shook her gently bythe shoulder.

She partially opened her eyes, murmuring as before—“Weetanois weary—let her rest.”

“Take some food, first, Weetano,” said Anna,imploringly; “don’t go to sleep again for I am verylonely.”

The sound of her voice seemed to reanimate herfor a moment, and looking round, she said, “Whereis my brother?”

“Gone,” said the chief, “to his daily toil, (forevery day he visited the sick of the tribe,) but hewill be here soon to go forth with us on the river.Rouse up then.” But the head of Weetano wasdrooping again like a sleeping flower.

“Drop the curtain, and let in more air and light,”said Anna in a beseeching tone, “she is faint andlanguid; something must be done to revive her.What can we do!”

“Send for the ‘medicine man,’ ” said old Zohah;“he will arouse her if any one can.”

“Yes, send for Francois Waldo quickly,” exclaimedAnna Temple; “his voice may have powerto break this dreadful slumber.”

Oliwibatuc made a motion with his hand forsome one to depart, but his eyes were fixed earnestlyon the prostrate form of his daughter. “Raiseher up, Zohah,” said he to the old woman, whowas wetting her lips with some beverage, “perhapsshe will drink.”

They pillowed her up on her couch, and Annaknelt there beside her, taking her hand in her ownand supporting her head on her shoulder, while shevainly endeavored to render her conscious by numerousquestions. The messenger soon returned, accompaniedby the young missionary, who hadhastened at the first mention of Weetano’s illness.

“What has been the matter with Red-Bird?”asked he in a whisper, at the same time regardingher closely. “She sleeps quietly now.”

“She has slept thus all day, and will not waken,”replied Anna, bursting into tears. “O, Francois,can you not arouse her?”

“Thus, did you say—has she slept peacefully allday? ’Tis strange,” added he, taking her hand,“her pulse beats well, and her breathing is regular:has she spoken?”

“Two or three times,” replied Zohah. “Once sheinquired for you. Let her know you have come.”

“Weetano, Weetano!” said he, bending his lipsclose to her ear, “speak to your brother, Weetano—hehas come back from his toil. Will not his sisterwelcome him?”

Those tones fell not unheeded; there was anotherstruggle as if to burst the leaden chain, and an expressionof happiness spread like sunlight over herfeatures. Her dark eyes were again unsealed, anda momentary brightness fell from beneath the longlashes, as she said faintly, “Weetano heard her brother’svoice in her dream, but she cannot awaken toits music—her slumber is not over;” and her voicedied away in a murmur, like the lingering pulsationsof a harp, and her head hung heavily.

All through the long afternoon did they labor tobreak that strange lethargy, but no care or remedyproved successful, and her breath grew shorter andfainter until evening, when she revived a little, andlooked consciously on all around. The old chiefwas near, gazing mournfully on his drooping child,and beside her were Francois Waldo and AnnaTemple, upon whom she still leaned for support.She bestowed on each a look of the most earnestaffection, then said, in clear, unbroken accents—

“The Lily will brighten my brother’s pathway,but Oliwibatuc will be alone! You will not forsakemy father,” continued she, fixing her dark eye onthe pale youth before her, inquiringly.

“Never, Weetano, I promise in the sight ofheaven, while I live he shall find in me a son tolean upon; he has been as a father to his captive—Iwill never desert him.”

“I believe you,” she said, pressing his hand to herlips—“Your words are true.” Then placing thehand of Anna Temple in that of her white brother,with a quiet smile she closed her eyes again for theirlast slumber.

All night the spirit of Weetano clung to its earthlytenement, and the morning found it still hoveringaround its beautiful abode, as if unwilling to forsakeits companionship. The lodge was filled with thesorrowing faces of those who had gathered to obtaina last look of the daughter of their chief, who laythere in their midst like a breathing statue—butwhile the dew still lingered on the flower, the lipsof the sleeper parted gently, her eyelids quivered—amomentary shudder passed over her frame, and thestrife was over.

Captive Red-Bird had at last burst her prisonbars, and unfolded her wings in the sunnier bowersof the spirit-land. One by one those who had gatherednear to witness the last moments of the chief’sdaughter went forth, that Oliwibatuc might standalone in the presence of his dead. Francois andAnna withdrew to a little distance from the couchof the dear departed, and gazed with tearful faces onthe old warrior, who stood with a mournful facegazing on the last of his household! He stooped atlength, and took the hand, scarcely yet cold, in hisown, and, pronounced in an unbroken tone an Indianfarewell:

“The Great Spirit help thee on thy journey, mydaughter—the way is long and fearful! Thou arta tender bird to try the unseen path alone, but let notthy wing falter in the misty valley, for the blue hillsare shining brightly beyond! Pass onward—thymother hath spread her couch there; thou art thelast bird of our nest, and she waiteth for thee! Tellher—her warrior hath dwelt alone in his wigwamsince we laid her by the quiet river! Tell her—thatthou alone hast been the sunbeam of his lodge, andhast spread the couch of the weary! O, Weetano!thy father is lonely now—why didst thou go beforehim to the dwelling-place of the happy? The hunterwill come to his wigwam weary at evening, butthe torch will not be lighted, for Weetano will not bethere! His cup will be empty, and his board desolate!No song shall lull him to slumber, for Red-Birdhas gone to her mother!”

The old chief’s voice faltered here, for the firsttime; and he bowed his head. They saw him brusha tear from his eye—then another rolled down hisdusky face, and Anna would have rushed to his sideto pour forth her sympathy, had not Francois withheldher—he knew, better than her, the customs of thepeople among whom he dwelt, that they share withnone their woes, but bear their burden alone. Themomentary struggle was past, and Oliwibatuc spokeagain, calmly, but with lower, sadder tone.

“Weetano, thou hast led us in all thy beauty!Thou hast gathered up the flowers of a few summers—butthe great snows have not fallen on thee! Iwill lay thee gently by thy mother, and the bravesshall rear the green mound, where I will sit with mybow at evening, gazing on the bright hills of the farsouth-west. Farewell! Weetano, I go to make thygrave by the river-side!”

He drew himself up to his full height, and passedslowly out of his wigwam, and Anna now went forward,and stood sobbing by the couch where darlingRed-Bird lay as in a peaceful slumber. How short toher the period since she first beheld her a creatureradiant with health and beauty—the fleetest fawn ofthe wilderness—the gayest bird on the wing! Buthow soon had all this glory and beauty departed.Weetano had lived, loved, suffered, and died. Thushad she fulfilled her woman’s lot; early indeed—butfully and truly. There remained but to lay her inher last resting-place, according to the custom of hernation, without coffin or shroud—but what matter?Beside her grave the clear tones of the young Vaudoispreacher pronounced—“The dead shall beraised,” and as his voice went up in prayer, there, inthe mighty forest, the red warriors looked at him inwondering silence, and the captive “Book Man”was a mystery.

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CHAPTER IV.

Ten years after the events noticed in our last chapter,a pleasant village was rapidly springing upon thesunny lake-side, so long tenanted only by the lonelyrefugees. The broad old forest had been rudely cutaway by the axe of the settler, and cottage-homeswere reared thickly side by side. The emigrant’shut had been transformed into an elegant mansion,whilst the green lawn in front, sloping down to thewater, and planted with shrubbery and vines—wasthe play-ground of happy children. At a little distance,among the trees, a pretty church raised its slenderspire toward heaven, and behind it, several moundsof fresh earth told plainly there was no retreat fromdeath. But who was the dark-haired pastor that hadfirst awakened the voice of prayer in that remote settlement?The imagination of the reader will furnisha ready reply.

Oliwibatuc had gone to his rest! Faithfully, hadhis devoted young captive labored to sow with goodseed the hearts of his red brethren, and in some instances,the scalping-knife and tomahawk had beenburied by the living warrior; but after the death ofthe old chief, he had taken up his abode with LordTemple, having been married to Anna soon after thedeath of Red-Bird. Long and happily did they dwelltogether, wondering much that an over-ruling providenceshould have watched over the divided currentof their lives, and united them so mysteriously in afar, foreign land. Lord Temple lived until his headwas white with four-score years; but until death retainedhis Quaker dress and appellation.

That village is now a beautiful and flourishingtown in the heart of the old empire State. The lonecanoe of the Indian long since disappeared from theblue lake, but hundreds of snowy sails now whitenits waters. Few of the busy multitude that nowthrong these streets, could point the curious travelerto the spot on which stood the humble cottage of thefirst settler—many would not even remember hisname; but go to the ancient records, and there youwill find that as early as 1660, a wealthy Quaker,calling himself John Brown, made purchase of a largeterritory of the Mohawk chief, and settled upon itwith his own family—that he afterward built a churchof the Presbyterian order, and endowed it with afund, for its after-support, and left at his death manyrich legacies. It is also added, that much mysteryshrouded the aforesaid Brown, and by some hewas supposed to have been an associate of OliverCromwell.

An elegant edifice stands now on the site of thelittle church of the first settler; but the burying-yardbehind it remains unchanged, and there on abroad slab may still be traced, a long obituary of JohnBrown, the earliest settler, and by his side sleeps thefirst pastor of that ancient church, of whom it is recorded,that he labored for a number of years as afaithful missionary among the Mohawks, by whomhe was taken captive; and, afterward, for nearlyforty years, as the minister of the first church ofChrist in the wilderness. By his side, sleeps Anna,his wife—and children, and children’s children arearound in long ranks, with the slumber of years uponthem.

Reader! My story is brought to a close. It butfeebly illustrates the chance and change of life—butif it serve to awaken a more earnest interest in thosewho have gone before us, its author will not havespent those few pleasant hours amid the records ofthe past in vain. Life is not all with us! Thosewho trod the paths we are now treading, knew asmuch of its joys and sorrows—perchance even morethan ourselves, and would we search more deeplythe annals of our forefathers, our toil would often berewarded with histories as full of vicissitude and adventure,as that of the illustrious Judge Temple, orthe Vaudois peasant-boy of the Alps!

(OR THE GILIA TRICOLOR.)

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BY ERNESTINE FITZGERALD.

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BY T. YARDLEY.

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BY EMILY HERRMANN.

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BY JAMES M’CARROLL.

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BY SAMUEL MARTIN.

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When we see an insect in the fields pumping asweet fluid from the nectaries of flowers, and carryingit home and storing it in convenient receptacles,which it carefully covers so as to exclude the dustand hinder evaporation, we are filled with devoutastonishment; and as we write hymns about the“Little Busy Bee,” in her industry and foresight,and curious contrivances, we recognize an all-pervadingMind and an all-controlling Hand. And inthis we are right. But here is another animal, stillmore resourceful and provident. The bee collectsthe honey from such flowers as happen to contain it,and which yield it almost ready-made; but she takesno trouble to secure a succession of those flowers orto increase their productiveness. This other creatureis at infinite pains to propagate and improve hisfavorite mellifluent herbs. From the sweet juicesof flowers the bee can only elaborate a single fluid,while her rival from the same syrup can obtain amultitude of dainties; and, according to the taste ofthe consumer, he offers it in the guise of nectar orambrosia, in crystals of topaz or in pyramids of snow.And when the manufacture is complete, the beeknows only one mode of stowage; this other creaturepacks it, as the case may require, in bags or baskets,in boxes or barrels, all his own workmanship, andall cleverly made. What, then, is the reason thatwhen we look at a honeycomb we are apt to bereminded of the wisdom and goodness of God; butlooking at the same thing magnified—surveying ahundred hogsheads of sugar piled up in a WestIndian warehouse—we have no devout associationswith the ingenuity and industry which placed themthere? Why are chords of pious feeling struck bythe proceedings of an insect, and no emotion rousedby the on-goings of our fellow-men?

We examine two paper-mills. The one is situatedin a gooseberry-bush, and the owner is a wasp.The other covers some acres of land, and belongs toa kind-hearted and popular legislator. But afterexploring the latter with all its water-wheels andsteam-engines, and with all the beautiful expedientsfor converting rags into pulp, and then weaving andsizing, and cutting and drying, and folding and packing,we go away admiring nothing except humanskill; whereas, the moment Madam Vespa fetchesa bundle of vegetable fibres and moistens them withher saliva, and then spreads them out in a patch ofwhitey-brown, we lift our hands in amazement, andgo home to write another “Bridgewater Treatise,”or to add a new meditation to Sturm. That a waspshould make paper at all is very wonderful; but ifthe rude fabric which she compiles from raspings ofwood is wonderful, how much more admirable isthat texture which, as it flows from between theseflying cylinders for furlongs together, becomes a fitrepository for the story of the universe, and can receiveon its delicate and evenly expanse, not onlythe musings of genius but the pictures of Prophecyand the lessons of Inspiration!

However, it is said, the cases are quite distinct.Man has reason to guide him; the lower animal proceedsby instinct. In surveying human handiwork,we admire the resources of reason; in looking atbird architecture or insect manufactures, we are inmore direct contact with the Infinite Mind. TheirMaker is their teacher, but man is his own instructor;and, therefore, we see the wisdom and goodnessof God in the operations of the lower animalsmore clearly than in our own.

Without arguing the identity of reason and instinct,it will be admitted that the lower animalsfrequently perform actions which imply a reasoningprocess. Reverting to our insect illustrations, Huberand others have mentioned cases which makeit hard to deny judgment and reflection to the wasp;and the reader who is himself “judicious” will notrefuse a tiny measure of his own endowments to thebee. On a bright day, four or five summers since,we were gazing at a clump of fuchsias planted outon a lawn, not far from London. As every oneknows, the flower of the fuchsia is a graceful pendent,something like a funnel or red coral suspendedwith the opening downward; and in the varietiesplanted on this lawn the tube of the funnel was longand slender. In the case of every expanded flower,we noticed that there was a small hole near theapex, just as if some one had pierced it with a pin.It was not long till we detected the authors of theseperforations. The border was all alive with bees,and we soon noticed that in dealing with the fuchsiasthey extracted the honey through these artificialapertures. They had found the tube of the blossomso long that their haustella could not reach the honeyat its farther end; and so, by this engineering stratagem,they got at it sideways. Surely this wassensible. When a mason releases a sweep stuckfast in a chimney by digging a hole in the gable, orwhen a chancellor of the exchequer gains a revenueby indirect taxation, he merely carries out the principle.And what makes the manœuvre more striking,is the fact that the problem was new. Thefuchsias had come from Mexico and Chili not manyyears ago; whereas the bees were derived from along line of English ancestors, and could not havelearned the art of tapping from their American congeners.In cases such as these, and hundreds whichmight be quoted, no one feels his admiration of theall-pervading Wisdom lessen as instinct approachesreason, or actually merges in it. In the case of theinferior animals no one feels—The more of reason,the less of God. And, because man is all reasontogether, why should it be thought that in human inventionsand operations there is nothing divine?How is it that in the dyke-building of that beaver,or the nest building of that bird, so many mark thevaried evolutions of the Supreme Intelligence; but,when they come to the operations of the artisan orthe architect, they are conscious of an abrupt transition,and, feeling the groundless holy, they exclaim,

One would think that the right way to regard humanhandiwork is with the feelings which an accomplishednaturalist expresses:—“A reference tothe Deity, even through works of human invention,must lead to increased brotherly love among mankind.When we see a mechanic working at histrade, and observe the dexterity which he displays,together with the ingenious adaptation of his toolsto their various uses, and then consider the originalsource of all this, do we not see a being at work,employing for his own purposes an intelligence derivedfrom the Almighty?—and will not such a considerationserve to raise him in our opinion, ratherthan induce us to look down slightingly upon him forbeing employed in a mechanical trade? For myown part, when I watch a mechanic at his work Ifind it very agreeable, and, I believe, a very usefulkind of mental employment, to think of him as Iwould of an insect building its habitation, and in bothsee the workings of the Deity.”[7]

And yet it must be admitted that few have the feelingswhich Mr. Drummond describes. They cannotsee as much of God in the manipulations of themechanic as in the operations of the bird or thebeaver; nor can a life-boat send their thoughts upwardso readily as the shell of a nautilus or the floatof a raft-building spider.

The difference is mainly moral. Man is sinful.Many of his works are constructed with sinful motives,and are destined for evil purposes. And theartificer is often a wicked man. We know this, andwhen we look on man’s works we cannot help rememberingthis. It is a pure pleasure to watch ahive of bees, but it is not so pleasant to survey asugar plantation in Brazil, there is a painful thoughtin knowing how much of their produce will be manufacturedinto intoxicating liquors. It is pleasant toobserve the paper-making of a hymenopterous insect;for it does not swear nor use bad language atit* work, and, when finished, its tissues will not beblotted by effusions of impiety and vice; but of thisyou can seldom be assured in the more splendidmanufactures of us lords of the creation. But if thiselement were guaranteed—if the will of God weredone among ourselves even as it is done amongthe high artificers of heaven and among the humblelaborers in earth’s deep places—our feelingsshould be wholly revolutionized. If of every statelyfabric we knew, as we know regarding St. Paul’s,that no profane word had been uttered all the timeof its construction; if of every factory we could hope,as of the mills at Lowell, that it is meant to be thereward of good conduct and the gymnasium of intelligenceand virtue; if of every fine painting or statuewe might believe that, like Michael Angelo’s works,it was commenced in prayer; this suffusion of themoral over the mechanical would sanctify the Arts,and in Devotion’s breast it would kindle the conviction,at once joyful and true, “My Father madethem all.”

Still, however, in man’s works, we are bound todistinguish these two things—the mechanical andthe moral. When God made man at first, he madehim both upright and intelligent; he endowed himwith both goodness and genius. In his fall he haslost a large amount of both attributes; but whatevermeasure of either he retains is still divine. Anydim instincts of devotion, as well as every benevolentaffection which lingers in man’s nature arerelics of his first estate; and so is any portion of intellectualpower which he still possesses. Too oftenthey exist asunder. In our self-entailed economyof defect and disorder, too often are the genius andthe goodness divided. Too many of our good menwant cleverness, and too many clever men are bad.But, whether consecrated or misdirected, it mustnot be forgotten that talent, genius, dexterity, aregifts of God, and that all their products, so far asthese are innocent or useful, are results of an originalinspiration.

It is true that his Creator has not made each individualman an instinctive constructor of railwaysand palaces, as he has made each beaver a constitutionaldyke-builder and each mole a constitutionaltunnel-borer. But he has endowed the humanrace with faculties and tendencies, which,under favoring circ*mstances, shall eventually developin railways and palaces as surely as beavermind has all along developed in dykes, and molemind worked in tunnels. And just as in carryingout His own great scheme with our species, theMost High has conveyed great moral truths throughall sorts of messengers—through a Balaam and aCaiaphas as well as a Daniel and a John;—so, incarrying out His merciful plan, and gradually augmentingour sum of material comfort, the Fatherof earth’s families has conveyed His gifts throughvery various channels, sometimes sending into ourworld a great discovery through a scoffing philosopher,and sometimes through a Christian sage. Bethe craftsman what he may; when once we haveseparated the moral from the mechanical—the sinwhich is man’s from the skill which is Jehovah’s—inevery exquisite product, and more especially inevery contribution to human comfort, we ought torecognize as their ultimate origin the wisdom andgoodness of God. The arts themselves are His gift;the abuse alone is human. And just as an enlightenedChristian looks forth on the landscape, and inits fair features as well as its countless inhabitantsbeholds mementoes of his Master; so, surveying abeautiful city, its museums and its monuments, itsstatues and fountains, or sauntering through a galleryof art or useful inventions—in all the symmetry ofproportion and splendor of coloring, in every ingeniousdevice and every powerful engine, he mayread manifestations of that mind which is “wonderfulin counsel and excellent in working;” and,so far as skill and adaptation and elegance are involved,piety will hail the Great Architect himselfas the Maker of the Town.

Reason may be regarded as the Instinct of the humanrace. Like instinct, commonly so called, it hasan irresistible tendency toward certain results; andwhen circ*mstances favor, these results evolve. Butreason is a slow and experimental instinct. It islong before it attains to any optimism. The inferiorraces are only repeating masterpieces which theirancestor produced in the year of the world One.Man is constantly improving on his models, andthere are many inventions on which he has only hitin this 59th century of his existence. Nevertheless,as the oak is in the acorn, so these inventions havefrom the first been in the instinct of humanity.That is, if you say that its nest was in the mind ofthe bird, or its cocoon in the mind of the silk-wormas it came from the hand of its Maker, and if youconsequently deem it true and devout to recognizein these humble fabrics a trace of the wisdom whichmoulds the universe; so we say that the BarberiniVase and the Britannia Bridge existed in the mindof our species when first ushered into this earthlyabode, and now in the providential progress of eventsthese germs have developed in structures of beautyor grandeur, whilst admiring the human workmanship,it is right and it is comely to adore the originalAuthorship.

His are the minerals and the metals, the timbersand the vegetable tissues, from which our housesand our ships, our clothing and our furniture, arefabricated. Of these, the variety is amazing, and itplainly indicates that, in the arrangements of thisplanet, the Creator contemplated not only the necessitiesbut the enjoyments of his intelligent creatures.For instance, there might have been only one or twometals; and the eagerness with which tribes confinedto copper, or to gold and silver, grasp at an axeor a butcher’s whittle, shows how rich are thetribes possessing iron. But even that master-metal,with all his capabilities, and aided by his three predecessors,cannot answer every purpose. Thechemist requires a crucible which will stand a powerfulheat, and which, withal, does not yield to thecorroding action of air or water. Gold would answerthe latter, and iron the former purpose, well;but every one knows how readily iron rusts and howeasily gold melts. But there is another metal—platinum—onwhich air and water have not the slightestaction, and which stands unscathed in the eye of afurnace where iron would run down like wax, andgold would burn like paper. In the same way thereare many ends for which none of these metals areavailable, but which are excellently answered bytin, and lead, and zinc, and rhodium, and mercury.Or will the reader bestow a passing thought on hisapparel? His forefathers found one garment sufficient,and for mere protection from the weather asuit of cat-skin or sheep-skin might still suffice. But,oh reader! what a romance is your toilette! andshould all the rest of you be prose, what a poem youbecome when you put on your attire! That snowylawn once blossomed on the banks of the Don or theDnieper, and before it shone in a London drawing-room,that broad-cloth comforted its rightful owneramidst the snows of the Cheviots. Did these bootsreally speak for themselves, you would find that theupper leathers belonged to a goat, and the soles to ahorse or a cow. And could such metamorphic retributionshappen now as in the days of Ovid, the bestway to punish the pride of an exquisite would be tolet every creature come and recover his own. Aworm would get his satin cravat, and a pearl oysterhis studs; and if no fabulous beaver laid claim to hishat, the rats of Paris or the kittens of Worcesterwould assuredly run off with his gloves. Butviewed in a graver and truer light, it is marvellousfrom how many sources we derive the several ingredientsin the simplest clothing, many of themessential to health, and most of them conducive toour well-being; so that we need not go to thecrowded mart or the groaning wharf in order to convinceourselves of earth’s opulent resources. Fewwill read these pages who have not the evidence athome. Open that cupboard, unlock that wardrobe,look round the chamber where you are seated, andthink a little of all the kingdoms of Nature and allthe regions of the globe from which their contentshave been collected, and say if the Framer of thisworld is not a bountiful Provider. “O Lord, howmanifold are thy works! The earth is full of thyriches; so is this great and wide sea.”

The Supreme Governor has so ordered it, that theprogress of the arts—that is, of human comfort andaccommodation—shall be nearly in proportion tohuman industry, sobriety, and peacefulness. Thelast thirty years have been fraught with inventions,chiefly because they have been years of peace. InEngland, however, the reign of Charles II. was tolerablytranquil; but, except for the accident of Newtonand the Royal Society, its peace was the parentof few discoveries, for it was a peace which hadconverted the noise of the warrior, not into the quietof the artisan, but into the din of the drunken debauchee.Such honor does the Most High put uponpeaceful activity and sober perseverance, that whereverthese exist economic comfort is sure to follow.Thus, without uncommon intellectuality, and witha false religion, the Chinese anticipated many of thearts of modern Europe. Whilst Christendom, socalled, was divided betwixt lazy monks and a brutalsoldiery—whilst mediæval churchmen were droningmasses, and feudal barons amused themselves inknocking out each other’s brains—the Chinese, neitherfierce nor indolent, were spinning silk and manufacturingporcelain, compiling almanacs, and sinkingArtesian wells. And long before any Friar Schwartz,or Gutenberg, or Flavio di Gioia, had revealedthem to the Western World, the pacific and painstakingChinese were favored with prelibations of ourvaunted discoveries—gunpowder, book-printing, andthe mariner’s compass.

We have compared our world to a well-furnisheddwelling, in which, however, many of the treasuresare locked up, and it is left to patience and ingenuityto open the several doors. Caoutchouc and guttapercha have always been elastic and extensible; butit is only of late that their properties have been ascertainedand turned to profitable account. Thecinchonas had grown for five thousand years in Perubefore the Jesuit missionaries discovered the tonicinfluence which the bark exerts on the human system.Steam was always capable of condensation,so as to leave in its place a vacuum; but it is only acentury and a half since it struck the Marquis ofWorcester to employ this circ*mstance as a motivepower. And ever since our earthly ball was fashioned,electricity has been able to sweep round it atthe rate of ten times each second, though it is onlywithin the last few years that Professor Wheatstonethought of sending tidings on its wings. And doubtlessthe cabinets still unlocked contain secrets aswonderful and as profitable as these; whilst the languageof Providence is, “Be diligent, and be at peaceamong yourselves, and the doors which have defiedthe spell of the sorcerer and the battle-axe of thewarrior will open to the prayer of harmonious industry.”

So thoroughly provided with all needful commoditiesis the great house of the world, that, in orderto obtain whatever we desiderate, seldom is aughtelse requisite than a distinct realization of our wantand a determined effort to supply it. In workingmines, one of the difficulties with which the excavatorhas to contend is the influx of water. The effortto remedy this evil gave birth to the steam-engine;and, with the relief afforded by the steam-pump,many mines are easily and profitably wrought whichotherwise must have long since become mere water-holes.But a worse enemy than water encountersthe collier, in the shape of fire-damp, or inflammablegas. Formerly, in quarrying his subterranean gallery,the axe of the unsuspecting pitman would piercea magazine of this combustible air, and unlikewater, there being nothing to bewray its presence, itfilled the galleries with its invisible serpent-coils;and it was not till a candle approached that it revealeditself in a shattering explosion, and a wretchedmultitude lay burning and bleeding along its track—afearful hecatomb to this fiery dragon. What wasto be done? Were the blast furnaces of Wales andWolverhampton to be extinguished, and were householdfires to go out? Or, for the sake of a blazingingle and good cutlery, were brave men still to besacrificed to this Moloch of the mine? The questionwas put to Science, and Science set to work to solveit. Many good expedients were suggested, but themost ingenious was in practice the simplest andsafest. It was ascertained that a red heat, if unaccompaniedby flame, will not ignite the fire-damp;and it was also known, that the most powerful flamewill not pass through wire-gauze, if the openingsare sufficiently small. A lamp or a candle might,therefore, be put into a lantern of this gauze, andthen plunged into an atmosphere of inflammable air;and whilst the flame inside the lantern gave lightenough to guide the laborer, none of that flamecould come through to act as a match of mischief.And now, like a diver in his pneumatic helmet, theminer, with his “Davy,” can traverse in security,the depths of an inflammable ocean.

So plentiful is the provision for our wants, thatlittle more is needed than a distinct statement inorder to secure a supply. During his long contestwith England, and when both the ocean and thesugar-growing islands were in the power of his enemy,Napoleon said to his savans, “Make sugar forthe French out of something which grows inFrance.” And, like Archimedes with the tyrant’scrown, they set to work on the problem. Theyknew that sugar is not confined to the Indian cane.They knew that it can be obtained from manythings—from maple, and parsnips, and rags; but thedifficulty was to obtain it in sufficient quantities, andby an inexpensive process. However, knowing thecompartment in which the treasure was concealed,they soon found the key; and it was not long tillbeet-root sugar was manufactured in thousands oftons, nearly as good, though not nearly so cheap, asthe produce of England’s colonies. A few yearsago the British Foreign Office had a dispute with theNeapolitan Government. The best sulphur is foundin Sicily, and from that island Great Britain importsfor its own manufactures about 20,000 tons a year.On the occasion referred to, the Neapolitan Governmentwas about to complete an arrangement whichwould have enormously enhanced the price of thisimportant commodity. Some wished that Englandshould make it a casus belli, and send her ships ofwar to fetch away the brimstone by force. Butthe chemists of England took the quarrel into theirown hands; and, had not the King of Naplesyielded, doubtless we should now have been suppliedwith sulphur from sources at command butyet undeveloped.

A modification of the same problem is constantlyoccurring to practical science, and its almost uniformsolution shows that our world has been arrangedwith a benevolent eye to the growing comfort of thegreater number. Science is perpetually importunedto cheapen commodities; and by substituting a simplemethod for an intricate process, or by making acommon material fulfill the part of a rare one, it isevery year giving presents to the poor. Few substancesare more essential to our daily comfort thansoda. It is a large constituent of glass and soap, andmany other useful articles. The cleanliness of a nationdepends on the cheapness of soda; and if soda ischeap, you can substitute plate-glass for crown inyour windows, and you can adorn your apartmentswith glazed pictures and mirrors. So that from thebleacher who spends thousands-a-year on the carbonate,to the apprentice who in the dog-days lays out apenny on ginger-beer or soda-water, all are interestedin the cheapness of soda. But this alkali used to bedear. Small quantities were found native, and largersupplies were obtained from the burning of sea-weed.Still the cost was considerable. However, it waswell known that a vast magazine of the precious articlesurrounds us on every side. The sea is waterchanged to brine by a salt of soda. If only a plancould be contrived for separating this soda from thehydro-chloric acid, which makes it common salt,there is at our doors a depot large enough to form aMont Blanc of pure soda. That plan was discovered;and now a laundress buys a pound of soda (the carbonate)for three half-pence, and the baker of unfermentedbread can procure the more costly bicarbonatefor sixpence.

Lately, if not still, in the shops of provincial apothecaries,no article was in such demand as one styledin the Pharmacopœia, muriate of magnesia. Thispopular medicine was first obtained by evaporationfrom certain mineral waters, and as the supply waslimited the price was high. But few ingredientscould be cheaper than the earth and the acid fromwhich it is combined. The earth forms wholemountains, and the acid is that cheap one set freewhen the soda is separated from common salt. Accordingly,chemists went to work, and in their laboratoriesdid what the mineral spring had been doingsince the Deluge, and by a simple process they manufacturedthe muriate of magnesia. A few yearsago, looking at the remarkable rocks of magnesianlimestone which defend the Durham coast, nearShields, our companion remarked, “Many a hundredtons of these rocks have we converted into Epsomsalts!”

“Waste not, want not.” An adage which receiveda touching sanction when, after a miraculous feast,and when He could have converted the whole regioninto bread, the Saviour said, “Gather up the fragments,that nothing be lost.” And in the progressof discovery, God is constantly teaching us not towaste anything, for this is a world of which nothingneed be lost. At the woollen factories of Rheimsthere used to accumulate a refuse, which “it costsomething to throw away.” This was the soap-watercontaining the fatty matters washed from thewoollen stuffs, along with some soda and other ingredients.With its offensive scum this soap-waterwas a nuisance, and required to be put out of theway with all convenient speed. But now, from oneportion of it gas is manufactured, sufficient to supplyall the works, and the remainder yields a usefulsoap.[8] In the same way, when Lord Kaims foundhimself proprietor of an extensive peat-moss in theneighborhood of Stirling, with characteristic energyhe commenced its improvement. On digging throughthe moss, he came to a rich alluvial soil; so that tohis sanguine imagination, fifteen hundred acres, atwhose barrenness his neighbors laughed, were asplendid estate, covered over meanwhile by a carpetseven feet thick. To lift this carpet was the puzzle:for every acre of it weighed some hundred tons.But “the mother of invention” is the near kinswomanof most Highland lairds, and “necessity” suggesteda plan to Lord Kaims: a plan which musthave approved itself to the mind of a judge, for, by asort of retributive process, it forced the elementwhich had done the damage to undo it again. By ahydraulic contrivance, a powerful current of waterwas made to traverse the moss and carry off theloosened fragments, till they reached the river Forth,and were finally floated into the German Ocean.And now “a waste,” which last century was thehaunt of the curlew, is covered with heavy crops,and yields its proprietor a revenue of two or threethousand pounds a year. But had Lord Kaims foreseenMr. Reece’s researches into the compositionand capabilities of “bog-earth,” he would, perhaps,have hesitated before he consigned such a treasure tothe deep. At this moment we are writing by thelight of a candle which last year was a peat! And,however opinion may differ as to the probable expenseof the process, there can be no doubt that peat yieldsin large quantities the ammonia which is so largelyused by farmers; the acetic and pyroligneous acids,extensively employed by calico-printers, hatters, etc.;and, along with naptha, a fatty substance capable ofbeing converted into beautiful candles; so that Mr.Owen’s benevolent calculation will, doubtless, sooneror later be fulfilled, and “Irish moss” become a curefor Irish misery.[9] It is pleasant to know that onevery side we are surrounded with mines of unexaminedwealth. Some of the old workings may beexhausted; but if we be only devout and diligentnew veins will open. Forty years ago, so much oilwas required for lighting the streets of cities as wellas for private dwellings, that fears began to be entertainedlest the great oil-flask of the Northern Oceanmight run dry, and the whale family be extirpated.That fear was superseded when, in 1812, gas illuminationwas introduced.

“The best of things is water.” So sang a veryancient Greek; and of all the fragments preserved inAristotle’s “Rhetoric,” hydropathy and teetotalismhave assigned the palm to this old water-poem. Notso our ship-owners. To them the sorest of problemsand the saddest of expenses is water. Soup can beinspissated into osmazome, and meat can be squeezedinto pemican; but water is not compressible, and itis rather provoking to see the space available forstowage occupied by tanks and barrels of this cheapelement. Many expedients have been suggested,and some have partially succeeded. But since webegan to write this paper, our attention has beencalled to a beautiful contrivance which promises toconquer every difficulty. By means of Mr. Grant’sDistilling Galley,[10] the brine may be pumped up fromthe ocean, and, after cooking the mess of the largestship’s company, it may be collected in the form ofthe purest fresh water, to the extent of some hundredgallons each day. Nor is it only a vast saving ofroom which is effected by this beautiful expedient.It is a saving of time. Frequently ships are compelledto leave the straight route, and sometimes lose afavoring wind, in quest of water. But a ship providedwith this apparatus is as independent as if shewere sailing over a fresh water lake; and, instead ofputting into port, she has only to resort to the never-failingpump. And we may add that it is not onlyspace and time which are saved, but the health of thecrew and the passengers. With every precaution cistern-wateris apt to spoil, and in the Indian Seas andother regions the water obtained on shore is apt tooccasion disease. But the produce of this engine isalways as pure as the rain which falls from theclouds.

When Pythagoras demonstrated the geometricalproposition, that in a rectangular triangle the sum ofthe two lateral squares is equal to the square of thehypotenuse, he is said to have offered the sacrificeof a hundred oxen. In modern art we fear that thereare many discoveries for which the thank-offeringhas not yet been rendered.

Both the reader and the writer are deeply indebtedto that gracious Providence which has cast our lot inthe most favored of all times. Chiefly through theprogress of the Arts, the average of existence hasbeen lengthened many years, and into these years itis possible to concentrate an amount of literary acquisition,and moral achievement, and intellectual enjoyment,for which Methuselah himself had not leisure.For lives thus lengthened let us show our gratitudeby living to good purpose; and, remembering thatrailways and telegraphs and steam-printed books arethe good gifts of God, let the age which enjoys thembe also the age of holiest obedience and largest benevolence.

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BY J. P. ADDISON.

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A LEGEND OF OLD SALEM.

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BY E. D. ELIOT.

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(Continued from page 29.)

One day after one of the youth’s little visits to theterrace, Captain and Mrs. Stimpson were sitting atthe door enjoying the afternoon breeze which camefresh from the ocean, and watching the craft in theharbor, when Judith came skipping up to the door,with a great red rose in her hand. Her father accostedher:

“Judy, my gal, where have you been? Sir’sflower! Come, light old daddy’s pipe for him, andtell what that youngster has been talking about solong at the gate.”

“Oh, I will, sir,” (jumping on her father’s knee, andputting the rose in his button-hole,) “if you will pleasecall me Judith, and not keep calling yourself olddaddy. You are not old, I am sure. He alwayssays pa, or my father, and it sounds so much prettier—don’tit, ma?”

“He! who’s he?” chuckled the delighted father,winking to his wife.

“Why, didn’t you say George Fayerweather,sir?” asked Judith, stroking his chin. “He oftenasks me why I don’t call you two, pa and ma.Now, wont you promise not to laugh at me if I callyou so sometimes?”

“You may call me what you please, if you don’tcall me too late to dinner,” said her father. “Butyou don’t tell your old dad—father, I mean—whatyou’ve been talking about.”

“Why, he says,” she replied in a tremulous voice,her rosy lip quivering, “he’s going to sea soon, tobe gone a year; and he says”—her eyes brightening—“thathe means to bring you home the handsomestpipe he can find up the Straits.”

“I thank the lad, I thank him,” said the captain,with his usual sonorous h-m-gh; “that youngster’s asmart chap.” Turning to his wife—“Mind what Isay, he’ll turn out something remarkable.”

“And he is going to bring you, mother, a beautifultortoise shell snuff-box.”

“And what is he going to bring you, my darling?”said her father.

“I told him I would not have any thing.”

“And what did he say to you, dear?” asked hermother.

“Here comes old Mary to call us to tea,” saidJudith, glad to dispose of the interrogatory in so propitiousa manner.

Could you have seen Captain Stimpson at his well-furnishedboard, you would have been at no loss toaccount for his rotundity. Judith presided, with herfather and mother on the side at her left hand, oldgrandsir Stimpson, in his arm-chair, at her right,and Mr. Solomon Tarbox, the foreman of the rope-walk,on the fourth side, opposite to her. A small,japanned tea-tray was placed before her, upon whichwere ranged the tea-cups of burnt china, about thesize of egg-shells, with saucers to match, a silversugar-dish and cream-pitcher, but little larger thanthose which would grace a child’s baby-house at thepresent day, and two shining black tea-pots, eachholding about a pint, one filled with the best boheaand the other with boiling water.

A pewter tankard, filled with small-beer of Mrs.Stimpson’s own brewing, was placed at her husband’sright hand; it being a beverage of which hewas fond, not being able to bring himself to like thenew-fangled wishy-washy stuff called tea. Beforegrandsir was placed a small mug of peppermint-tea,which the old gentleman thought more healthful. Alobster in his scarlet suit occupied the centre of thetable; flanked on one side by a parallelogram ofsmoked salmon, six inches by seven; on the otherby a dish of cold baked beans. A plate of whitebread and another of brown, half an oblate spheroidof butter, and a truncated cone of Dutch cheesefound a place on the table; and to crown all, a dishof miracles, a kind of cake much in vogue in thosedays, and not differing materially from the crullersof New York, being the same, under a differentname, with the Massachusetts dough-nuts of moremodern date, excepting that the dough was formedinto grotesque figures, displaying the fancy of thecompounder to great advantage. In this articleJudith particularly excelled, few possessing eitherher taste or fancy.

The old grandsir, in his white linen cap, pusheda little back from his furrowed brow, with claspedhands, and in a tremulous voice, asked a blessing; towhich his son responded with an audible amen, followedby his usual h-m-gh. Judith commenced theoperation of pouring out the tea, first ascertainingthat her grandfather’s peppermint was to his taste,and being commended by him for having his littleslip of salt fish broiled to a nicety; for notwithstandingthe usual abundance of his son’s table, the goodman always chose to have something prepared exclusivelyfor himself. Judith handed the tea with anatural grace, equaling any elegance acquired at amodern boarding-school.

Her father, after seeing that all were well suppliedwith the good things on his table, took up his pewtertankard, and with a respectful nod to the old gentlemansaid, “Father, my sarvice to you; Miss Stimpson,my sarvice; sarvice, sarvice,” nodding to Judithand Mr. Tarbox; then applying the vessel to his lips,he took a long and apparently a very refreshingdraught. Judith, though a beauty and a heroine,despised not the vulgar enjoyments of eating anddrinking, but valued them as social pleasures.

After ample justice being done to the meal by allparties, Captain Stimpson and Mr. Tarbox went offto the rope-walk. Grandsir, removing his chair to awindow, where the afternoon breeze blew in refreshingly,and placing his Bible, his favorite companion,on his knees, was soon in a gentle slumber;his head thrown back on his comfortable chair, andhis hands folded on the pages of the sacred volumebefore him, opened at his favorite last of Revelations.Mrs. Stimpson, taking up her knitting-work, sat herselfdown by the side of the table, to superintend theclearing away of the tea-things. She followed Judithwith her fond eyes, as the little maiden trippedlightly about in her neat, speckled apron, puttingevery thing in its place in the most housewifelymanner, and directing old Mary in an affectionateand cheerful tone of voice.

She put away the tea-things in their accustomedplaces, in the little buffet with glass-doors, at thecorner of the room, in which three mandarins ofchina were conspicuous, one on the middle projectionof each shelf: then seating herself down at the window,she began to ply her needle in the embroideringof various figures in fine cat-gut to imitate lace;a kind of ladies’ work as much in vogue in thosedays as the worsted and crochet-work has been inour day.

Captain Stimpson soon joined them with his pipe,but their conversation was interrupted by a gentlerap at the tea-room door, and on the captain’s openingit, George Fayerweather appeared, with a lameexcuse for so soon repeating his visit. He was cordiallyreceived by the captain, who invited him tosit down, which he immediately did, in such a manneras to occupy the whole width of a window inthe front parlor, to which the family now all adjourned;grandsir rousing and going with them, ashe loved to doze by the sound of his children’svoices. The evening being fairly set in, a light wasbrought by old Mary; but being placed in a littlecupboard, the door of which was nearly closed, therest of the room was left in obscurity.

The little party remained for some time almost insilence; the coolness of the hour, after the heat of theday, bringing to each a sense of tranquil enjoyment,which none felt disposed to interrupt by conversation.It is in such moments, that throwing off thecares of life, and forgetting its sorrows and disappointments,in the presence of those best loved, onefeels possessed of a treasure of happiness—thoughthe hoard maybe small—which wholly fills the mindand satisfies the wishes. “The heart” does not“distrustful ask if this be joy,” secure in the sobercertainty. These are the moments, which, in theirflight, mark their traces most deeply in the memory,over which we brood as a miser over his gold, andwhich, when past never to return, leave the heartmost desolate.

The beauty of the evening drew many from theirdwellings to enjoy it in the open air, and others whomthrift or need forbade to suspend longer their occupations,resumed them with fresh vigor—a murmurof voices, mingled with other sounds of busy life,softened and blended by distance, found its way intothe open windows of the apartment.

At intervals, a faint and distant strain of music washeard, at first scarcely perceptible, and which eachone might have attributed to imagination as it occasionedno remark; but on the breeze freshening thesounds drew nearer, and at length a strange and beautifulmelody was poured forth, melancholy thoughdelicious, which drew an exclamation of surprise anddelight from the whole party.

“Oh, what is it!” exclaimed Judith; “what canit be, and where does it come from?” as a sensationalmost amounting to superstition stole over her.

“It sounds,” said the father, “almost like themusic which I’ve heard many a time, when I wasbefore the mast, from some of the big churches inforeign parts, as it came over the water, whilst I keptwatch on deck of a moonlight night, when the vesselwas near port.”

Here the old gentleman arousing, cried out, “I’vebeen asleep, I declare—what a beautiful dream I’vehad. I dreamed I was in the New Jerusalem, andwas walking by the side of the river, where was theTree of Life, with twelve manner of fruits hangingfrom its branches. I heard the angels with theirgolden harps—though somehow I couldn’t see them—why,there it is again!”

Here a swell of wild harmony filled the room,prolonged and varied for a moment, and dying awayin a low wail. Judith felt her eyes fill with tears asthe strain ceased, and looking in the direction whereGeorge was sitting, exclaimed, “Oh, it comes fromthat window! I know it does! I thought so allthe time.”

George now spoke—“Well, come let us see if wecan find it.”

On her approach, as he sought her hand to drawher to the window, she drew back, saying she mustget the light; on bringing which, a long, slender boxof polished wood was discovered, filling the space inthe window, which was opened just wide enough toadmit it. The sounds were now found to proceedfrom strings stretched across its upper surface,(which was carved and gilded,) and fastened at eachend by pegs of ivory and brass. The delighted girlasked in wonder—

“What is it? Where did it come from? Whoseis it?”

The latter of which interrogatories George answeredby pointing to her name carved at full lengthat one end, his own initials, in very small characters,appearing beneath.

“It is an Eolian harp,” he said, “it is playedupon by the winds, and is a little conjuror—if youshould happen to have an acquaintance at sea”—herehe looked full in her blushing face with an expressionof much feeling, his voice slightly trembling—“andshould care to know any thing how hefared, put the harp in the window, and the windswill waft the intelligence across the ocean, and asthe strains are in harmony or in discord you mayjudge of his welfare.”

She replied—“Oh, how much I thank you for it.But I am sure I should not forget you without it—oh,I am sure I should not,” she added, in a lowertone.

He then seized her scissors, which hung at her sideby its silver chain, and looking into her face for permission,separated a silken ringlet from her head,and, folding it carefully, placed it in his bosom, then,the evening being somewhat advanced, he took hisleave.

When the point of George’s going to sea was firstsettled, his mother’s lamentations were loud anddeep; but at length, when the voyage was engaged,and the time drew near for his departure, as wasusual with her when an evil was unavoidable, shebore it as well as any one could, and busied herselfwith alacrity in his equipments. She made greatcomplaints that he could be allowed but one sea-chest;in which, however, she managed to find roomfor two plum-puddings, half a dozen minced pies,and a roast-turkey, that he might at least keepThanksgiving, which was near at hand, if not Christmas,on board the vessel.

On the day before he was to sail, a new ideaseemed to strike her. She called Mrs. Wendell,who was present and assisting, as usual, when anything extraordinary was going on in her aunt’sfamily; and they both went again to the chest. Ithad been packed and repacked six times already;but with Amy’s assistance, a closely-folded pile ofsea-clothes was once more taken out, and by stillcloser packing, and a different arrangement, roomwas made for an oblong pasteboard box. She thenwent to the high chest of drawers of black mahogany,which stood in frowning majesty in her chamber,and was taking out an article laid with greatcare in one of the drawers, when her husband, whohad thought all was finished, entered to see whatmore she had found to do.

“High! high! what are you doing with my bestcravat with the Brussels lace?” he cried.

“La, Mr. Fayerweather, my dear, you know younever wear it only on great occasions—such as awedding or so; and there is nobody to be marriednow, before George comes home. I am going to lethim have it, for there’s no time to send to Bostonfor any; and if any thing should happen, you shallhave my best set of lace, which is handsomerthan this.”

“I don’t know that; but what upon earth canGeorge do with a Brussels’ laced cravat at sea?”

“Oh, my dear, when he’s in London, you know,he may be invited to dine with the king; and Ishould want to have him dressed suitably.”

“To dine with the king!” cried Mr. Fayerweather,shouting with laughter; “what could have put suchan idea into your head?”

Madam was quite offended, and said with greatdignity, “Phillis Wheatly drank tea with the queenand I am sure, I do not see why our son may notbe invited to dine with the king.”

“Oh, well, my dear, I ask your pardon; letGeorge have the cravat, by all means; and you hadbetter let him have my blue-satin waistcoat, lacedwith silver, to wear also, when he dines with hismajesty,” said Mr. Fayerweather, turning away tohide a good-natured smile.

“Why, I was thinking of that, but we can’t findroom for it in the chest; and I suppose he may findone ready made in London.”

This weighty affair settled, and the chest packedagain for the seventh and last time, it was locked togo on board the vessel.

The morning came, the wind was fair, and theyoung sailor took his way to the wharf. “Good-bye,Cousin Amie!” he cried, to Mrs. Wendell, whowas waiting at her door to shake hands with him;“when I go up the Straits, I’ll get you the handsomestbrocade that was ever seen in Salem.”

In a few weeks after George’s departure, whichtime passed gloomily away with his family, MadamBrinley, a sister of Mrs. Fayerweather, came toSalem, and moved into the large house, opposite theFayerweather mansion, which was a joyful event toMadam. The two sisters bore a strong resemblanceto each other in features, with some shades of differencein character. Madam Brinley was a fewyears the elder; her nose might have been a littlemore pointed, and, perhaps, her temper rathersharper; then she was more worldly, and took morestate upon herself. She was a widow of about tenyears standing, with a handsome estate. Havinglost several children in infancy, she had remainingonly two daughters. Molly, the then fashionablecognomen for Mary, was then just fifteen, andLizzy, two years younger. The three families residingso near together, made the winter a morepleasant one to the little neighborhood—George’sabsence furnishing a subject of joyful anticipation inhis return.

Early the next spring an important personagemade his appearance in Paved Street—no less thana son to Mr. Wendell. He was, as is generally thecase with the first, the wonder of the age. MadamFayerweather declared, “He was the beautifullestbaby that ever was seen.” Madam Brinley said, “Itwas certainly a remarkably fine infant;” while Mr.Fayerweather declared it was the exact counterpartof all the babies he ever saw. I am sorry to saythat Mr. Wendell did not comport himself with allthe dignity to be expected from his new character;for he only laughed as if he would kill himself,whenever his son was presented to him; but couldnot be prevailed upon by any means, to take it intohis arms, for fear of its falling to pieces; to the greatscandal of the little wizened old woman from Marblehead,in whose lap it usually lay, its long robestouching the floor; she averred, “It was a sin anda shame that its sir wouldn’t take to it more, whenit was as much like him as two peas in a pod—itwas the most knowinist and the most remarkablestbaby ever she seed in her baarn days.”

When the young gentleman was in its fourth week,his mother, according to custom, received visitorsin her chamber. In these visits, scarcely less statewas observed than in those to the bride; but matronsand elderly ladies were alone privileged tomake them. If any young damsel had the hardihoodto make her appearance within the sacred precincts,though under shelter of her mother’s wing, she wasimmediately pronounced as cut out for an old maid—andthe oracle seldom failed of fulfillment.

The first day on which Mrs. Wendell sat up forcompany, when she was just attired in a handsomeundress, made expressly for the occasion, and wasseated in state in her easy chair, while nurse waspreparing the baby to display him to the best advantage,Scipio thrust in his black head at the door witha “He! ho! he! Missy Amy, Scip’ got suthen forde picaninny.” Here Madam Fayerweather’s voicewas heard reproving him for going before her, whenthe door was thrown open, and in she came withScipio after her, bearing a beautiful wicker cradle,lined with white satin. Madam unfolded the cradle-quiltwith great pomp and circ*mstance; and nowthe grand secret came out—Amy’s wondering eyesbeheld the great work—the very work! which hademployed all her aunt’s moments of leisure for upwardof three years.

It was composed of pieces of silk of every patternthat had been worn in the family for two generations,and cut into every form which Madam’s imaginationcould devise, or her scissors shape. Therewere squares, triangles, and hexagons; there werestripes perpendicular, horizontal, and diagonal, withstars, double and single; of brocade, watered tabby,paduasoy, damask, satin, and velvet; in short, itwas a very grand affair. After having sufficientlyenjoyed her niece’s surprise and pleasure, the happyand triumphant aunt took her grand-nephew fromhis nurse, and laid him on his new couch, thenplaced the quilt over him, turned down at thehead, to display the lining of pink sarsnet; and beingquite satisfied with the additional splendor whichthe tout ensemble gave to the apartment, she tookthe baby up again, (he was fortunately a very quietone,) and put him into the lap of his nurse, untilvisitors should be heard coming, when he was to bereinstated in all the magnificence of his luxuriouscradle. He was christened the next Sunday atchurch. Mr. Fayerweather having consented to standas one of the godfathers, Madam, feeling some qualmsof conscience, sent to Boston privately for a veryrich lace, to replace the one which she had abstractedfor George.

The succeeding summer they received two lettersfrom George; both written in high spirits, and discoveringa degree of intelligence and good sensewhich highly gratified his father. That same season,John, the younger son, entered college. Being ofbright parts and fond of study, he bade fair to realizeall the expectations his father had formed for hisbrother.

Dark November came again, with its naked treesand sad-colored skies. This gloomy month, inwhich the inhabitants of old England are said tobe most prone to hang themselves, the Puritanfathers of New England, with greater wisdom, enlivenedby the only festival they ever instituted—Thanksgiving.On this occasion, after offering upsolemn thanks in public to the bountiful Hand,“who had crowned the year with his goodness,”with all the scattered branches of their familiesgathered under the patriarchal roof, they indulged inThanksgiving-dinner—the only approach they evermade to merry-making—an abundant feast of everygood thing the seasons had afforded; imparting tothe poor a liberal portion. It is to be regretted,that abuses, in time, crept in, in the train of this—itmight otherwise be truly called—sacred festival—thatcruel sports became connected with its celebration,which have since continued almost to form apart of it. It is like associating the bloody rites ofpaganism with our most pure and holy worship.

On the Thanksgiving of this year, a family-partywas collected at Mr. Fayerweather’s, with the additionof the Episcopal clergyman, Mr. McGregor,the family physician, Dr. Holly, and one or twoother friends. In the evening, the accustomed gameof Blind Man’s Buff was called for, in which noone was privileged to refuse joining. George’s absencewas now loudly lamented, but he was not expecteduntil Christmas. Much merriment and noise,however, succeeded. The good clergyman, an Oxfordscholar, and a deep and sound divine, whoalways went into company ready prepared with aparticular subject to debate upon, with all hisweapons sharpened for the contest; and who had atlength succeeded in engaging Mr. Wendell in a gravediscussion on some knotty point in divinity, was obligedto break off, just as he had established the premisesto an important conclusion. He joined in the“mad game” with a very bad grace, but by degrees,warming with the sport, he enjoyed it the most ofthe party, and shouted the loudest when Mr. Fayerweather,on being caught by Lizzy Brinley, left hiswig in her hand, and escaped with his bare poll.

Dr. Holly, who loved sport better than his life, onbeing caught and blindfolded, managed, by a littlecheating, to catch Madam Fayerweather, to herunfeigned astonishment. At this juncture, Floratripped lightly into the room, and whispered to hermaster, who immediately followed her out, whenVi’let, in a flaming red gown, popped in her headfor a moment with a most remarkable expression ofcountenance. As she closed the door softly, she gavea significant nod to the company, to let them knowshe was in possession of a great secret.

Mr. Fayerweather a moment after returned, bringingin with him a tall stranger, and made signs tothe company to take no notice of the interruption.All passed so silently that Madam did not perceiveeither the going out or the returning, but continuedto sail round the room in her green damask, withoutbeing able to catch any one. At length her husbandthrust the tall stranger in her way, whom she caughtamidst shouts of laughter, succeeded by deep silence,while she was naming him. All eyes were fixedon the stranger with different expressions, whichwe will not attempt to describe.

Madam cried out, “Well, I’ve caught somebodyat last!—who upon earth is it! John, it’s you, Iknow; you are standing on something to deceiveme, you saucy boy.”

Here she felt the clustering curls of the stranger’shead—John’s hair was straight, and all the othermasculine heads in company wore peruques—whenreminiscences of earlier days seemed suddenly tostrike her, and she threw off her blinder, bringingwith it fly-cap and lappets, and exclaiming with ashriek—“Can it be George!”

George, indeed, it was; standing six feet oneinch in his shoes. We would describe, if we could,what is indescribable, but which may easily beimagined—the exclamations—the shakes of the hand—thecongratulations which followed. After theparents of the newly arrived son had sufficiently admiredhim, and had expended their stock of wonderingexpressions at his growth, the rest of theparty took their turn, inwardly deciding in their ownminds that he was the finest looking fellow theyhad ever seen. He was, in truth, a noble specimenof manhood; but his curling hair, the overflowingand almost child-like good-humor—the fun, whichshone in his full blue eye, and extended his somewhatlarge mouth and full lips, displaying hisbrilliantly white teeth, seemed to bespeak himstill the boy, despite his giant frame, and the browntinge which darkened his cheek. The salutationsover, the company very considerately took theirleave, excepting George’s relatives, who lingereda few moments after the rest to welcome him homeagain, and to bid him more affectionate adieus.

During breakfast, next morning, the young marinerrelated his adventures, and the wonders he had beheldin foreign parts; from the first whale he saw,which awoke out of a comfortable afternoon’snap, just after they had passed “the Banks,” andwhich, lazily yawning, opened its huge jaws andthen closed them again, spouting water as high asthe top-gallant mast, to Stromboli, spouting fire forthe express entertainment of sailors on a dark night,as they neared the coast of Sicily. Not omitting theTower of London, where he had held his head in thelion’s mouth for full five minutes.

“You naughty, wicked boy!” exclaimed his mother,almost breathless with terror; “I really believeI should have been tempted to box your ears. Didyou ever hear any thing like it, Amy?” The latterduring the recital having quietly slipped in, and takenher seat at the table. “Mr. Wendell being obligedto go away by daylight, and the baby not having yetawakened.”

George made no reply, but continued his narrative,eating lump after lump of sugar out of the basin, andescaping the rap over the knuckles, which he wouldonce have had. Then the Cross of St. Paul’s—onthe right arm of which he had stood upon one leg,whilst Dick did the same on the left, shaking handstogether over the top.

John, who had been listening in silent wonder anddelight, at this climax clapped his brother on theshoulder in an ecstasy.

“It is a pity you hadn’t both broken your necks,”exclaimed Mrs. Wendell, in indignation. “Whatupon earth did you play such pranks for?”

Mr. Fayerweather wore his comical look.

“Why, now, cousin—when I’ve brought youhome such a beautiful gown—a rich yellow calamanco,the brightest there was in the shop. Dickwent with me on purpose to help me choose it.”

“Where’s the brocade you promised me, youscapegrace?”

“Why, I’m sorry, but I forgot all about it until Icame back to London; but I thought being an oldmarried woman now, a nice calamanco would do aswell.”

This turn in the conversation changed the currentof his mother’s thoughts, and she wished to see therarities he had brought home. In her impatience,before her husband had half-finished his second cupof coffee, she ordered—I am wrong. The perogativeof ordering the servants in this family, Vi’let allowedto none but herself—she desired Scipio tobring in the ponderous sea-chest, the weight ofwhich was a sufficient excuse for the appearance ofthe other three, each bearing a corner. Aunt Vi’letindulgently making allowances for the curiosity ofFlora and Peter, and telling them, patronizingly, “tobear a hand.” Madam and her niece, full of eagerexpectation, seated themselves on the floor beside thechest, both ready to dive into its deepest recesses,the moment it should be opened.

The first thing which presented itself to view, wasa red worsted cap with a famous red tassel. ThisGeorge threw to Scipio, telling him, it was for him.It was received with a grin from ear to ear.

“Tank you, massa, now Scip got suthen to put onhis head nex ’lection. Primus shan’t be king nolonger. Scip king heself! He! he! he!”

The others withdrew, they having too much ofthe pride of the family to be willing to have it supposedthey were expecting there was any thing forthem. Scipio not being able to restrain his impatienceto try on his new finery, pulled it on as hewent into the kitchen, exclaiming—

“It fits dizackly!” and in his exultation at the favorshown himself, losing his awe of Vi’let, appealedto her, without her usual title of respect, “if itwasn’t mighty becoming?”

At which, with some indignation, she told him—“Helooked like a black monkey with that red capon his head, and that great thing jigging up and downbehind,” betraying some of the infirmity of humannature, at the preference shown her rival.

Mrs. Wendell now pounced upon a package ofsome size, and opening it, cried—

“Oh, here’s my yellow calamanco; well, it’sreally a beauty! Nobody could tell it from a richsatin! I’ll have it made up for Christmas—it’s fullhandsome enough, aunt, isn’t it? I’m sure, I ammuch obliged to you, George.”

“Stop, cousin,” said he, taking it from her, “uponsecond thoughts, I cannot let you have that—I remembernow, I bought it for Aunt Vi’let.”

Aunt Vi’let was called in, the others following inher wake, and the present unfolded before her admiringeyes. Her usually grim features were softenedinto benignity at the sight.

“That aint for me, Misser George! Well, it is aparfec’ speck, I ’clare!”

She could say no more. Her vocabulary, rich inepithets of vituperation only, was soon exhausted,when drawn upon for expressions of satisfaction.Her pleasure was shown in silence. A gay Madrashandkerchief for the head was given to Flora, whor*ceived it with a modest curtsey, and displaying arow of ivory, and a dimple which many a fairer bellemight have envied. On Peter’s looking rathersolemn at thinking himself forgotten, his young mastertold him that his present had not come up fromthe vessel yet, he had brought him a fine parrot,which could talk nearly as well as himself; at whichPeter’s joy knew no bounds. He capered about theroom, regardless where he was, and in whose presence,until brought to his senses by a smart rapupon the head by Vi’let, with—

“Please to walk off into the kitchen, sir, till youcan larn to ’have yeself.” Off went Peter, Vi’let andFlora following, each with her present tucked underher arm.

George now brought from under a pile of otherthings a large roll, carefully wrapped in severalcovers. He put it into Mrs. Wendell’s hand.

“There, cousin, I’ve brought you something, butI’m afraid you will not like it so well as the yellowcalamanco.”

Mrs. Wendell took the roll, and with her aunt’sassistance removed wrapper after wrapper. Whenthe last was off, the wrong side of some fabric appeared,presenting a brown surface, without lustre,on which were seen rows of floss silk of various gaycolors, lying without any apparent order. The rightside drew an exclamation of admiration from bothaunt and niece, for never had eyes in Salem, behelda brocade so magnificent. The figure was a giganticcrimson peony, and a bunch of cherries alternately,each with its appropriate green leaves; on a groundof lustrous chocolate colored satin, firm and thick asleather.

“Oh, George!” his cousin exclaimed, “how couldyou have brought such a silk for me! I had no ideayou were in earnest—how much it must have cost!(looking at her uncle.) I really cannot take it.”

“Oh! if you do not like it, you can let Mr. Wendellhave it for a robe de chambre.”

“Take it, Amy,” interrupted his father. “I amglad he has shown so good a taste.”

“Yes,” added her aunt, “he has only done justwhat we could have wished; remember you are ouronly daughter, and Mr. Wendell is like another sonto us.”

Amy did not attempt to reply, but laid the rich presentaside, carefully. A black case of dog-fish skin ofpeculiar form was now brought forth. Mr. Fayerweatherseized upon this, and undoing the little hookswhich served as fastenings, opened it, and displayeda gold watch with its chain and seals, all richlychased, luxuriously reposing on crimson velvet.

“You gave Haliburton my letter then,” he said,as he took the measure of old Time from its bed, andexamined the whole carefully. Then appearing tobe satisfied with the workmanship, he wound up thewatch, and fastening its large golden hook into thebinding of madam’s apron, it hung at her side, onits chain, loaded with rich seals, and ticked awaymerrily, as if wonderfully refreshed by its long nap,and in liable to show off with its new mistress.

She, finding the costly present really for herself,expressed her gratification, though with glisteningeyes, in the quiet way which best pleased her husband.George then rapped his brother over the headwith a silver-mounted flute. His father finding thatall had had their presents, then asked him if hebrought nothing for him.

“I have something here, sir, which Mr. Haliburtonsaid, he thought would be valuable to you.”

All looked in eager expectation, when George divingwith his hand down to the very bottom of thechest, and bringing up something, which in its egressturned topsy turvy check-shirts, trowsers, pea-jackets,etc., etc. It was a stout oaken staff, which heput into his father’s hand. The latter bore quietlythe merriment which succeeded; though madamcould not forbear expressing some indignation, atwhat she took almost as an insult from their oldfriend to her husband, who, moving the huge batonslowly through his fingers, appeared to be examiningclosely the grain of the wood for some time insilence.

“Haliburton judged right,” at length he said;“there are few things I should have valued somuch. This staff came from Narley Wood, the oldfamily estate in Leicestershire, and was cut from anoak planted by my great grandfather’s own hand.(He pointed to some letters rudely cut in the wood.)Wendell shall have my gold-headed cane. I shallnever carry any but this in future.”

Mrs. Wendell was beginning to speak, when a violentuproar was heard from the precincts of the kitchen,in which the yelping of a dog and the screamsof a cat predominated. It drew near, and the doorburst open suddenly, when in rushed a large blackand white dog, yelling fearfully, as if in the extremityof pain and terror, with old tabby on his back, hertail erect, and looking like the cylindrical brush usedin these latter days to clear stove-pipes, her talonsapparently dug deep into his skin; while Vi’let followed,belaboring him with a broom-handle. Leapingover the chest, he made his way to George, onwhose knees he laid his head, whining piteously.

“Why, Jaco! how did you find your way here?I left you in the vessel—poor fellow,” said George.The dog was released from his feline foe by Vi’let,when she found to whom he belonged. He thenleaped upon his master, with strenuous endeavorsto lick his face, and made other extravagant demonstrationsof joy at finding him.

George then mentioned that he had bought him inItaly, of a person who kept him to show off in thecelebrated Grotto del cane.

“I had no great curiosity to see the poor devil dieand come to life again, so I tried to beg him off.His master only laughed, and was forcing him intothe cave by blows, when he seemed to have understoodwhat I said, for he made out to clear himself,and came and fawned on me. After this, I could nothelp taking him under my protection, so I persuadedthe rascal to sell him to me.”

“It would have been more like you to haveknocked the fellow down, and taken the dog away inspite of him,” said his father. “I am glad you havelearned a little prudence. What did you call him?Jaco.”

“That’s the name the sailors called him; it is acorruption they made of his Italian name, Cicco,meaning blind—he’s blind of one eye. He’s a goodfellow, though no great beauty.”

“Poor fellow!” said madam, patting him, “hemust be hungry. John, my dear—do ask Vi’let togive him something to eat.”

John immediately disappeared, and soon returnedbringing in nearly half the contents of Vi’let’s larder,when all gathered round to see Jaco eat; Mrs. Wendellfor the time forgetting the baby at home. PoorJaco, forgetting his first rough reception, thought hewas in Elysium, having doubtless heard of such ablissful region in the classic land of his nativity, andin his poor silly brain, not conceiving it could beappropriated to one species only of created beings,and that, the remorseless tyrant of all the others. Hestuffed till he could scarcely see out of his remainingeye; then laying himself down at his master’s feet,“the sober certainty of waking bliss” was soon lostin a comfortable nap.

After a short time, George went out to see some ofhis numerous friends. He made a call at his AuntBrinley’s, and laughed and jested with his cousins;he then shaped his course to Neptune street, wherehe made so long a stay that dinner had been ready toput on the table some time before he came home.Whom he could have gone to see it is not easy toconjecture; not his friend Dick, for the latter hadcalled twice to see him during his absence. Where-everhe might have been, he came home in high good-humor.

Seeing his brother, who was watching for him atthe gate, he stooped and took him, passive and unresisting,on his arm, as a nurse would a child of ayear old, and carried him into the house. Peter wasbringing in dinner as he opened the door, and his motherhad already taken her seat at table. He thenwent up to his father, who had not yet risen fromhis seat by the fire, slipped softly behind him, andseizing the chair on which Mr. Fayerweather wassitting, by the two arms, he said, “By your leave,sir,” and holding the chair out at arm’s length, hedescribed with it a semi-circle, himself the centre,which brought his father directly before the smokingsirloin. He then stood at his own place at tablewhile Mr. Fayerweather asked the blessing. Theremainder of the day George passed by the fireside,making his mother laugh and scold alternately, as herelated the pranks of Dick and himself on board thevessel, as well as on shore.

This winter George remained at home, and managedto pass away the time in making the model ofa fine ship he had seen at Deptford; a little mathematicswith John during the college vacation, butmore skating; and occasionally a sleigh-ride with hisaunt and cousins, with whom he was a great favorite.Molly had arrived at an age to be admitted tothe assemblies, and was the acknowledged belle ofthe season; she, moreover, had made a decided impressionon Sir Harland Hartley, a young baronetwho had arrived in Boston with some dispatchesthe previous year, and was visiting Salem.

The next spring young Fayerweather and hisfriend Seaward again set sail. With intervals of amonth or two between, they made several succeedingvoyages together; during one of which, theirvessel was captured by a French privateer, part ofthe crew taken out, and a French captain and crew,nearly double their own remaining number, put onboard. This event gave the two young men theglorious occasion they had long desired, for displayingtheir courage and prowess, which until thenhad been wasted or thrown away in feats of strengthor hardihood to excite the wonder of the bystanders.With their little band they rose upon their captors,and succeeded in retaking their vessel, which theycarried in triumph to its destined British port. Theirpromotion followed of course, and each returnedhome master of a fine merchantman.

George’s engagement with Judith Stimpson tookplace soon after, naturally occasioning some dissatisfactionto his family on account of her plebeianorigin; this, however, soon wore off, or was conqueredby the sweetness of the fair young girl, whosoon gained so entirely upon Madam Fayerweather’saffections, that she declared, “She could not haveloved Judith better if she had been the daughter ofKing George himself;” which was saying much,for madam prided herself on her loyalty.

Sir Harland Hartley was now the declared suitorof Molly Brinley, and great preparations were makingfor the wedding. The baronet, being anxious toreturn to Quebec as soon as possible, in order topresent his bride to some of his near connections,who were soon to embark for England, could notremain in Salem long enough for the three weeks’sitting up for company. In this dilemma MadamBrinley concluded, after several long and deep consultationswith her sister and niece, to make a greatwedding, to be followed by a ball and supper, andto invite all the Salem world, with the court whichwas then sitting, and the élite of Boston.

The preparations for this grand event occupiedthe heads and hands of all the female part of thethree families for ten days. Aunt Vi’let being greatin the roasting line, was a very important personage,and the whole direction of this departmentwas given to her, she felt her consequence accordingly.

Molly Brinley was glad to choose a bridemaidin Judith, whose beauty would contribute to theéclat of her wedding; feeling too secure in her owncharms and in Sir Harland’s devotion to her to feara rival, and Captain and Mrs. Stimpson were amongthe earliest bidden. What was the trepidation ofthe latter on her own account in preparing for herfirst appearance in the beau monde. The captain,determined to spare no expense for his wife anddaughter on so proud an occasion, took a journey toBoston to make the necessary purchases; his taste,in dress being unquestioned. The whole familywere up by daybreak to set him off; the expeditionrequiring the whole of a long day at that time,though now the distance is traversed by the rail-carsin half an hour.

After ransacking every shop in Boston, he boughtfor his wife a grass-green damask for a sack, with abright-pink lustring for a petticoat; these being thecolors in which she had captivated him, at thenever-to-be-forgotten ordination of Parson Slocum.It may be well to inform the reader that the sackwas a dress, open before, discovering half thepetticoat, which was usually of the same material.For Judith he chose better; a delicate buff-coloredsatin. This was so much admired that MadamBrinley sent for some of the same piece for Lizzy,who was her sister’s other bridemaid. For himself,the captain bought a full suit of mulberry color, witha blue-satin waistcoat, magnificently flowered withred, green and purple; and a new wig, with a bag,lately come into fashion, he had always worn a tie.

On the day of the wedding it was thought expedientto try on their new habiliments to see if theyfitted, and how they all looked together. Mrs.Stimpson, after surveying herself in the glass beforeand behind and on each side, pleased and slightlyagitated at the unwonted elegance of her appearance,threw herself into a chair and heaving a deepsigh, to throw off her embarrassment, said to her husband—

“Oh dear! Mr. Stimpson, we must think over alittle what we shall have to do. I suppose, whenwe go into the room, Judith must be on your righthand, and I on your left—no, I must be on yourright hand and Judith on your left—”

“I think, Miss Stimpson,” said the captain, consequentially,“it will be more becoming for me to goin first, and for you and Judith to take hold of handsand follow me.”

“Why, no, Mr. Stimpson; that doesn’t seem tome to be the right way—it wasn’t so at NannyDennis’s wedding, if I remember me rightly.”

“But, ma,” interrupted their daughter gently, “Ido not think this will be exactly like Mrs. Brayton’swedding.”

“No more it wont,” replied her father, “and wemust go and take pattern by the others; I was alwaysa good hand at taking a hint, and I don’t doubt weshall appear as well as any on ’em.”

Here Mrs. Stimpson broke in with—“Oh, Judith,do think me on’t to make a courtesy when I go in;like as not I shall forget it in my hurry. I rememberwe all courtesied round at Nanny Dennis’s, wehad each of us a white rosy in our hands, and it wasthe beautifullest sight! But, where’s my fan? Dorun and get it Judith.”

Judith tripped out of the room to get the fan, andas she closed the door, grandsir, who was not asusual dozing, but was listening to their conversation,and in fact, taking considerable interest in it, spokeout—

“I am sorry, my children, to see you are so muchovertaken with the pomps and vanities of thisworld; more it seems to me than that young child,that we might expect it of. You should strive tohave the ornament of a meek and quiet spirit, andremember that pride comes before destruction, and ahaughty spirit before a fall.”

“So it does, grandsir,” answered his daughter-in-lawmeekly, after a moment of silence; “and I wontwear this elegant dress, but will put on my brownpaduasoy; that was always thought good enoughfor me.” Showing that she had the requisite ornament,and that the Scripture he quoted was not applicableto her.

“No, no child,” he replied quickly; “that wouldbe disrespectful to your husband. I suppose youwill be expected to have some worthy adornments,and I must say you become the dress.”

“That she does,” added his son, forgetting the oldgentleman’s exordium in his conclusion, “and Idon’t believe there will be a more personable womanthere than Captain Robert Stimpson’s wife.”

“Oh, Mr. Stimpson,” said his wife, with recoveredspirits, “do remember to shut up Trip; if you don’the’ll follow us to the wedding; and if I was to seehim in that room I do believe I should be mortifiedto pieces.”

The evening at length arrived, and the companyassembled in Madam Brinley’s parlor, which wasused on this occasion for the reception-room. Thiswas a fine room in the fashion of the day, and solofty that a reasonably tall man might walk across itwith his hat on, without fear of having it knockedoff by the large beam which crossed the centre of theceiling. A rich Turkey carpet, betokening veryhigh style in those days of sanded floors, formed thecentre-piece of the room. High-backed leather-seatedchairs, thickly studded with brass nails, stoodstiffly against the walls. The fireplace, ornamentedwith Dutch tiles, was furnished with andirons of polishedsteel; and the shovel and tongs of the samemetal, seemed, as the merry blaze danced on theirbright surfaces, to cast significant glances at eachother across the hearth. A large mantel-glass surmountedthe fireplace, on each side of which hung inrich black and gold frames, the respective arms ofthe Brinley and Borland families, the lady of thehouse belonging to the latter. A large pier-glasshung between the two front windows, in which eachlady might survey her goodly person, and compareit with that of her neighbor; beneath this was a slabof gray marble, with highly ornamented iron supportersfastened into the wall. A tall, oaken deskand book-case stood in one corner of the room, oppositeto which, a round snap-table of black mahogany,with claw feet, displayed its disc turned down, of soremarkable a polish, that little Trip—who, notwithstandingall his master’s care in shutting him up athome, had managed to escape from his confinement,and had followed his mistress into the room unperceived—onseeing his image so truly reflected, ranup to it with great glee, sniffing and wagging histail, delighted at having found, as he supposed, acomrade of his own species to bear him out in hisaudacity. Mrs. Stimpson turned all manner of colors,and cast many imploring looks at her husband, whopretended to be wholly absorbed in the contemplationof a fire-screen which stood near. On a servant’sattempting to drive Trip out, he set up a shrillbark, and ran on his little bow-legs, with his feetturned out, to his mistress for protection; jumpedinto her lap—on her very pink lustring petticoat—and,putting his black paws on her shoulders, beganwhining and licking her face with great affection.On seeing which, John Fayerweather took his littlefour-footed acquaintance in his arms, and put him ina place of safety; while Captain Stimpson electrifiedthe company by a more than usually sonoroush-m-gh.

Madam Brinley in crimson velvet, and lookingfinely, occupied a large arm-chair, curiously carved,on one side the fireplace. Madam Fayerweather, ina beautiful white-grounded brocade, and looking asif she was wishing every body joy, was on her right.Next to her sat Mrs. Wendell, plainly, though handsomelydressed. She could boast of but little beauty,excepting a pair of fine eyes, beaming with intellectand benevolence; her wit and fine sense, however,rendered her the centre of attraction at every party.

Mrs. Stimpson had the honor of sitting nextMadam Brinley on the left, her husband as near heras possible, as if for mutual protection. The otherguests stationed themselves with great exactness,according to their rank and affinity to the hostess.

The bridal party entered. The bride, a sparklingbrunette, with an exquisite figure, was arrayed in asack of white brocade, embroidered with large silver-flowers;a necklace of oriental pearl encircled herthroat, and pendants of the same hung from her ears.Her hair combed back from her beautiful forehead,was turned over a cushion on the top of her head,where it was confined by a diamond bodkin, fallingfrom the back of her head in glossy ringlets, whosejetty hue contrasted finely with her white neck. Altogethershe was as fair a bride as one would wishto see.

The bridegroom, a handsome man of two andthirty, appeared to be fully sensible of his importance,at the same time to be sufficiently enamoredof his bride, and to applaud himself on the taste hehad displayed in his choice. The fair bridemaids“looked sweetly” in their buff-colored satins, withaprons of Brussels’ lace, and triple ruffle cuffs of thesame. The groomsmen were Mr. Lindsey, a gayyoung Englishman, and George Fayerweather. Thelatter, from his stature and noble proportions, wasthe most conspicuous figure in the assemblage;towering over every other by at least three inches.He was in a coat of light-blue, with under-garmentsof white silk. His countenance was an expansionof all the good-humor and happiness of his mother’s,with a dash of fun and frolic, under which might bedetected traces of thought and deep feeling. John,“a pale, intellectual-looking student,” was too reservedand diffident to become an actor in the scene,but sat retired, and observed every thing going on inquiet enjoyment, admiring Judith nearly as much ashis brother.

The solemn ceremony, which was very impressivelyperformed by Mr. McGregor, being over andthe cake cut and distributed, arrangements were madeby the master-of-ceremonies, Mr. Wendell, for theball. The door being thrown open, the companywere ushered into the dancing-room, brilliantlylighted up for the occasion. After a short pause, Mr.Wendell called upon the governor to lead out thebride for the opening minuet, which was danced ina very gubernatorial and bridal manner. The bridegroomand Madam Brinley followed, and then JudgeWentworth of Boston and Madam Fayerweather,who was still celebrated for her minuet. Her husbandnever danced, and Mr. Wendell then calledout Captain Fayerweather and Miss Stimpson,though scarcely expecting that Judith would be prevailedupon to dance.

To his surprise, after a little hesitation, with asmile and a blush, she rose, and as her partner ledher to the head of the room, an involuntary murmurof admiration ran round the assembly—for neverhad a pair appeared of more singular beauty. Theystood side by side, while the accustomed preludewas played, the blue and white of his habit, contrastingbeautifully with the color of hers, as didhis stately figure with hers of bird-like lightness; sheextended her dress to its greatest width in her delicatefingers; she cast a timid glance around the room,he one of manly greeting, her little foot slid to theright, and she made a low and graceful courtsey,while his tall figure was bending to the floor in perfecttime to the measure, in this salute to the company.Then rising slowly, they stood for a momentwith one foot in advance, awaiting the proper signalfrom the music, when they turned, and he, withsparkling eyes, and she, with the delicate bloomon her cheek heightened to a rose, made a likelowly reverence to each other. Then, as the pairbecame animated with the music, and they floatedround the room, now advancing now receding,in their magic evolutions crossing and re-crossing,their graceful forms rising and falling in measuredwaves to the time—all their attitudes, andall their motions of elegance and delicacy combined;they might have seemed some fair beings of anothersphere, weaving a mystic spell to drive afar allsorrow. This was the old-fashioned minuet. Howhas its place been supplied in the ball-room, by thewaltz and its varieties, the mazurka, the polka, etc.

What were Judith’s father and mother doing allthe while? Entirely forgetting the rest of the company,and following their daughter with their eyes,Captain Stimpson, with his lips firmly compressed,moved his head from side to side in time to themusic, or rather with involuntary imitation ofJudith’s motions.

“Did you ever! Mr. Stimpson,” said his wife,in an irrepressible ecstasy, as Judith slowly glidedthrough a peculiarly beautiful part of the figure.

“I sartainly never did,” said the captain, drawingin a very long breath.

“But, after all,” rejoined Mrs. Stimpson, “shehas the same solemn eyes of my poor, dear mother;and it seems to me more so than ever to-night.”

“Look like her grandmother!” said her husband,with strong emphasis; “she looks more like a birdof paradise, such as I’ve seen in Ingee. That yallersatin becomes her most remarkably; she sartainlyis the comeliest person that ever I clapped myeyes on.”

Here Madam Fayerweather joined them, and layingher hand impressively on the arm of Mrs.Stimpson, interrupted them as she pointed to Judith,“She’s the prettiest, the dearest creature that everwas seen, and as good as she is pretty;” and as theobject of her encomiums came up to them withglowing cheeks, the minuet being finished, Madamcould not refrain from kissing her, saying, “Mydear, you did dance charmingly.”

George would willingly have made one of thegroup, but was called away reluctantly by his co-adjutor,the young Englishman, who asked him withmore freedom than George approved of, “What hewould take for his bargain?” then surveying hisnoble figure with internal admiration, he added, aftera short pause, “Fayerweather, you are a luckydog.” Afterward, in the course of the evening, hemanaged to pay Judith so much attention as to distressthe modest girl not a little, and to give somepain to George, whose office as groomsman, did notallow him to be exclusively devoted to her. Mr.Lindsey manœuvered to be beforehand with everyone else in inviting her to be his partner in thecountry dances, and her refusal necessarily obligingher to sit still, he took his seat by her, and persistedin keeping it until supper was announced, when hetook her hand, which she had no pretence for refusing,and led her in triumph to the supper-table.

Mr. Fayerweather, who had intended to performthis office himself, in order to do particular honor tohis son’s choice, felt no slight displeasure at suchpresumption, with a strong disposition to makeknown to Mr. Lindsey, that “he considered him animpertinent coxcomb.” He refrained, however,and advancing toward Judith’s father and mother,he begged to have the honor of leading MadamStimpson to the supper-table. Madam Stimpsonbridled up and looked at her husband; the dignifiedfrown on whose brow was contradicted by the complacentsmile which, in spite of his endeavor, lurkedabout his mouth; then making her courtsey—and avery good one it was—she gave her hand to Mr.Fayerweather; and the three proceeded in state tothe supper-room—the captain marching with headerect on the other side of his wife. It was a proudevening for Captain Bob Stimpson.

On the whole, the wedding went off with greatéclat. The happy pair set off the next day forBoston, to embark for Quebec. On the followingweek, Captain Fayerweather was to set sail on atwo years’ voyage—on his return from which he wasto claim his bride.

On the day previous to George’s departure, hegave his father a cabinet of ebony, curiously inlaid,and of costly and peculiar workmanship, which aFrench prisoner, whose release he had been instrumentalin procuring in one of the British ports, hadprevailed upon him to accept as a token of gratitudefor the service.

“Thank you, my son,” said Mr. Fayerweather,not a little gratified; “that will be just the thingfor my valuable papers, the little trunk I keep themin is too crowded.”

“I wish you would let me have that, sir, to takewith me; I always took a fancy to it,” rejoined hisson.

“You shall have it, and Judith shall have a jewel-boxwell filled on her wedding-day, too.” So saying,Mr. Fayerweather ran down stairs to the counting-roomand quickly returned with the little trunkin his hand to his own chamber, where he and hisson had been communing. He sat down panting,and remained a minute or two without speaking,with his hand on his side.

“What’s the matter, sir, that you are so out ofbreath?” his son anxiously inquired; “why didn’tyou let me go for you? I didn’t know what youleft the room for.”

“Oh, it’s nothing but a slight palpitation of theheart, to which I have been subject a little of late—itwill soon go off.”

It did not go off, however, and the attack continuedlonger than usual; but Mr. Fayerweatherwithout heeding it, or suffering any indications of itto appear before his son, proceeded to remove thepapers into their new place of deposit—and Georgetook the little trunk into his own possession. Theday after Mr. Fayerweather felt more unwell than hewas willing to make known, wishing to spare hisfamily any additional weight upon their spirits, atthe time of his son’s departure. After this hisattacks became more frequent and of longer duration,rendering it impossible to conceal them any longerfrom Madam, who, in alarm, sent immediately forDr. Holly. The latter, upon inquiring into thesymptoms, and examining the pulse of his patient,looked grave. His prescriptions were successful,however, and Mr. Fayerweather in a few weeksappeared to be restored to his usual health.

But to return to George; his usual gay spirits desertedhim as he was taking his leave of Judith, anda depression wholly unknown to him before seizedhim, as the boat which was to bear him to the vesselappeared merrily dancing over the waves to thewharf, opposite the window near which they werestanding.

“Farewell, Judith!” said he, then adding playfully,but with a voice not wholly free from a slighttremor, “when I return, do not let me find you thebride of some dashing Englishman.”

“Oh, George! how can you say so?” she replied,the tears gushing into her eyes; “how can youthink I could ever be the bride of any man but you;but if there is any truth in dreams, the one I hadlast night, tells me I shall never be a bride.”

“Oh, psha upon dreams!” he said, running off tohide the tears which, in spite of his manliness, werenow streaming down his own cheeks. She sawhim spring into the boat, which she kept in sightuntil it reached the vessel. Then going up to herown room, with a spy-glass she watched the vesselas it gradually receded from view, until its tallestmast sunk beneath the waves. She yielded to aburst of anguish, which she in vain attempted tocontrol, and sat for some moments sobbing, thenher tears ceased to flow, and her countenance resumedits wonted serenity; she then went below,superintended old Mary, and prepared her grandfather’ssupper with more than usual care, her generousnature not suffering her own private feelings tointerfere with the comfort or happiness of others.

[Conclusion in our next.

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BY RICHARD COE.

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BY R. PENN SMITH.

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AN EPISODE IN AMERICAN LIFE.

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BY THOS. R. NEWBOLD.

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The ever-changing hues of the kaleidoscope, andthe varying tints of our autumnal forests do not presentmore changeful or varied scenes than are to befound in real life in this country. The decay of onefamily, the rise of another, depending as they do onthe pecuniary fortunes of their possessors, renderAmerican society a scene of constant excitement,and he who is at the top of the social ladder to-day,falls to-morrow with the fall of stocks to the bottom.The little tale which follows is but a type of what isdaily occurring around us, and is presented as a generaloutline, which all may fill up at their leisure tosuit their pleasure.

Letitia, or as she was usually called in her girlhood,Letty Rawdon, was the only daughter of oldElias Rawdon, a thrifty and prosperous tailor in thepleasant village of Middlebury. The old man hadmarried rather late in life, after he had in his ownphrase “got a little something snug about him.”She followed the usual course of village girls, and atthe dame’s school had learned those difficult arts ofreading, writing, and ciphering. In her young days,the road to learning was not the plank or rail-roadtrack on which our young people now travel so readily.The A, B, C, required some study to ponderout, and in 179—, the portals to learning were notthrown so wide open as they are in the year of grace1852. Be that as it may, Letty, however, masteredthem. From her earliest years she had been an ambitiouschild, never content unless she was amongthe foremost; as eager for superiority over her littleschoolmates in play as in study, as if she had beenborn to rule them. She was not what would betermed a handsome child, but her features were delicate,and her full hazel eye looked out from its longlashes with a glance that showed full well the determinedsoul within. She was her father’s darling,who denied her nothing, whence she soon obtained acomplete ascendancy in the dwelling of the oldtailor.

When Letty was about thirteen years of age, afashionable boarding-school was opened in the village,and the old man yielded at once to her wishesto become a day-scholar at it. Here her ambitioncarried her rapidly onward, and if Letty, when sheentered it, was comparatively a raw, ignorant country-girl,no one who saw her at the termination ofher course of studies there, could have recognized inthe graceful, intelligent, and accomplished girl beforehim, the little awkward being, who, four years beforehad there commenced her career. The principalof the school, an elegant and accomplished lady,was early attracted to her by her aptitude for learning,and her desire to acquire it, and Letty was soona favorite pupil. Nor whilst cultivating her minddid she neglect her person. The elegant manners ofher preceptress made a most decided impression onher; gradually she found her own forming on themodel before her, and in process of time, though shemade no pretensions to great beauty, it would havebeen difficult to have found a more attractive personthan Letty Rawdon, the tailor’s daughter.

The young men of the village and neighborhoodwere the first to make this discovery, and at all thegeneral merry-makings which occurred, Letty Rawdonwas, beyond all rivalry, the village belle. Wesay general merry-makings, for our village, like allothers large and small, had its aristocracy, and in theeyes of the “upper circle,” we mean the female partof it, of its fifteen hundred inhabitants, she was only“that conceited, forward thing, the daughter of oldRawdon, the tailor.” Mrs. Baxter, the wife of theleading lawyer of the place, in an interview withMrs. Danforth, the wife of the physician, had settled—“that,although they supposed in their small placethey must know the tailor’s daughter when they mether in the street, or at church, or other public place,still she was not to be on any account admitted intotheir set.” How often has many a lovely girl beenthus tabooed, not that she would not confer honor onthem, but she might mayhap be in the way of an advantageoussettlement of some marriageable daughters,perchance less attractive than herself.

Letty soon found that there was a determination inthe female magnates of the village to crush her risinginto any importance among them. But the spirit ofthe girl rose with the occasion. In a short time itbecame generally known that she was to be kept at adistance by the village fashionables. What caredshe? Her father had accumulated a snug little competency,and few girls in the neighborhood would beas well dowered as Letty. On this she was allowedto draw as she pleased. New and tasty furnitureadorned the best “sitting-room,” and Letty’s brilliantperformance on by far the best piano in the village,caused many a hasty step to loiter on its way, as itpassed the tailor’s door. Nor were the listenersconfined to the outside of the house, for within werefrequently found all the “most desirable” youngmen, who showed a decided preference for Letty’sfine music and lively conversation, to the more dignified,but less agreeable assemblages of the exclusivesof the place. Nor abroad did she attract lessadmiration than at home, and envy itself was atlength compelled to confess that Letty Rawdon wasby far the best dressed and most stylish girl in thevillage.

As a natural consequence, suitors followed. PhilDubbs, the only child of the wealthiest farmer in theneighborhood; young Harry Edmonds, just calledto the bar, and for whom his friends already predicteda brilliant career; Edward Simpson, the juniorpartner of the principal mercantile firm in theplace, were prominent among these. Each wooedin his peculiar way. Dubbs had enjoyed no advantagesof education beyond what the village grammar-schoolafforded; but then he was an accomplishedgraduate in all rural sports. No young man in thecountry had as good a horse, or rode him as well;he had the best pointers, and was the best shot to befound in 20 miles round, and was in all such accomplishmentsperfect. To him Letty was under obligationsfor finishing completely one part of her education;for he broke a favorite colt for her especialuse, and under his skillful tuition she became afearless and accomplished horse-woman. Edmondsquoted Byron and Moore to her constantly, whenhe had better have been employed over co*ke andStarkie; and spoiled as much paper in perpetratingbad verses to her, as would have sufficed for hispleas and declarations during a year’s practice; andSimpson never returned from “the city,” whither hewent to make the purchases of goods for his firm,without a selection of the choicest articles for Letty’sespecial use, accompanied with directions as to thelatest style of making them up.

Thus strengthened and fortified, Letty saw herfoes gradually yielding before her. One by one theysurrendered at discretion, until Mrs. Baxter, herself,at last sought the acquaintance, and at twenty yearsof age, Letty Rawdon, the tailor’s daughter, stoodthe supreme arbitress of ton in her native village.Although she was grateful to her allies for the assistancethey had afforded her, she was by no meansdisposed to bestow herself in return on any of them.She was not one of those whose hearts are easilywon. She was prodigal of her smiles; she wasready to do a kind act, or say a kind word, but thesurrender of her heart and hand was another matter.She was ambitious of social distinction. She hadachieved the highest place at home, and she pantedfor triumphs yet to come on a wider and loftier stage.Since she had left school her time had not been misspent.She continued to cultivate, under the tuitionof her former master, her very decided musicaltalents; her mind was strengthened and enlarged bya course of judicious reading, for which Harry Edmondssupplied her with the material; and the foreignlanguages she had acquired were not forgotten.She felt herself far superior to all her companions,and that her genius was hidden in the comparativelyobscure place in which her lot was cast.

There are few women who do not at some periodor other, or in some form or other, meet their fate inthe shape of a man. Happy, they, who are exemptfrom this general calamity of the sex; for calamityin too many cases we believe it to be. For ourpart, we plead guilty to a sneaking liking to singlewomen, yclept by vulgar minds, old maids. Underthis denomination, we do not, however, include thatnumerous bond of “single sisters,” hovering betweenthe ages of 35 and 45, to whom a superannuated bachelor,or an interesting widower, especially if he bea parson with a half a dozen responsibilities, is a god-send.Oh, no! we mean none of these, but one ofthese dignified ladies, of nameless age and easyfortune, of whom all of us count one or more amongour acquaintance. Where are such complete establishmentsto be found as among these? Go to visitthem, and your ears are not deafened by a practicingmiss of 14, thumping an unfortunate piano, until if ithad any powers of speech it would certainly cry out“pianissimo;” or by one of those lively squalls fromthe upper regions, which resembles nothing earthlybut the serenade of an amatory cat at midnight.From these, and such like annoyances you are exempt,and then if you enjoy the privilege of an intimacywhich admits you to the tea-table—where elseis such superb Imperial or glorious Souchong to befound? Piping hot, it is poured into a cup of suchclean and delicate texture, that the fragrance of thegrateful shrub is heightened thereby. The waterwith which it has been compounded has certainlyboiled. Just the right quantity has been admixed.It does not require to be ruined, by having a supplyof tepid water added to it after it has been poured into your cup; nor does it come on table a tastelessslops, at which even a four-footed animal, unmentionableto ears polite, would utter a grunt of dissentif presented to it. No. Commend me to one ofthose tea-tables. The muffins also, are so hot, so“just done;” or the toast without being burned to acinder, or hardened to a board, is crisp and delightfulas the most fastidious could require. The cream,too—please do not mention it—the same milk-manmay serve her next door neighbor, but in her mansionno skim-milk is mixed therewith, to eke out toa large family the amount required in the compoundused therein, and which is called by courtesy, tea.And then the sugar, sparkling as so many diamondsin the antique silver bowl in which it rests; no“broken-topped” or “crushed,” but “Stewart’s” or“Lovering’s extra loaf” is alone used here. It sometimeshappens that a “petit souper” is substitutedfor the tea-table. The oysters, Morris river coves,when they can be had, certainly: the terrapins, nonebut the genuine Egg-harbors ever enter her doors,and the inimitable John Irwin has exhausted on themall the resources of his skill. All the appliances ofher table are in keeping, and as you admire the dignifiedcourtesy with which she attends to the wantsof each guest, or leads the conversation into channelsshe thinks most acceptable to those around her, themind involuntarily recurs to the days of hoops andhair-powder, trains and high-heeled shoes.

In those days, rail-roads were a thing which hadentered into the imagination of no man as a mode oftravel, and he who should have spoken of an ironhorse rushing on his course, and drawing hundredsof human beings after him at a speed of 30 miles anhour, would have been considered quite as great abeliever in the marvelous, as those now are, whohave faith in Paine’s light. Even post-coaches werea novelty off of the great thoroughfares, and the publicconveyance usual to such small places as Middlebury,was the old long-bodied stage, with its threeor four seats behind the driver’s, and stowing awaysome ten or twelve passengers. Blessings on thoseold carriages, we say. It is true, their pace rarelygot up to five miles an hour, and that at every fivemiles or so they stopped “to water,” at an expenseof some fifteen minutes of time; but what of that?Minutes seem to be more valuable to travelers now,than hours were then. But what mixed feelings didnot these produce in our bosom, when seated in theold stage on our route out of town for the holydays,between impatience to arrive at our journey’s end,and the airy fabrics we erected, of what we shoulddo when we reached there. There was the best andkindest of grandmothers as impatiently waiting forthe arrival which was to enable her to spoil “theboys” with indulgences, as we were to be spoiled.There was the well-remembered pony, a little lessanxious we opine to be dashed around the country,than we were to dash him. Then, there was themill-dam, where the many-colored sun-fish awaitedour hook and worms, and the bathing-place belowthe dam, where we could venture to try our newly-acquiredskill across “the hole” without danger;and the store, where gingerbread and candy, andpipes for soap-suds bubbles were bought, with those“odd quarters” which grandma so freely bestowed.Who can ever forget these early days? And thedeeper he sinks into the sere and yellow leaf, thebrighter do they rise up. They constitute the smallportion of our lives upon which we can look backwith perfect complacency; for the light shadowswhich once partially clouded them have long sincefaded away and been forgotten, and nought but thememory of the bright joyous sunshine remains.

The old stage which plied between Middleburyand the city of Quakerdelphia, one day landed as apassenger at the former place a young man of somethirty years of age. Whether business or pleasureattracted him thither is of no consequence to thisstory, although from the character of the man it wasmore probably the former. At the age of sixteenJohn Smithson found himself an apprentice in a dry-goodsstore of Quakerdelphia. He had come thitherwith a sound constitution, a good, solid English education,such as was then less frequently obtained incountry schools than now is; great industry and indomitableperseverance. These last traits had earlyattracted the attention of his acquaintance, and hissuccess in whatever he should undertake predicted.He soon attracted the attention and confidence of hisemployers, and the respective grades of apprentice,clerk, and junior partner were attained by him. Inthe mercantile world he had for some time beennoted for his intimate acquaintance with and completeknowledge of business, and for the integrity,straightforwardness and manliness of his character,and no one was surprised when the senior memberof the firm retired a year before, that it took the titleof Jones, Smithson & Co. John Smithson hadachieved mercantile distinction. Wealth had commencedflowing in upon him in a continuous andunbroken stream, and a few years would in all probabilitysee him among the richest merchants of hisadopted city. But social distinctions were wantingto him. In his younger days he had been too busyto think of matrimony, or indeed, of female societyat all. He was too much engaged in achieving the positionhe now occupied to care much for aught else,and his intercourse with men had rubbed off theawkward angles of the raw country lad. Still thewant of refined female society had necessarily lefthim without that polish which can be derived fromit alone. He occupied then no social position. Hishome connection was respectable, and his growingwealth would enable him to take a place among themagnates about him; all his future, then, dependedon his choice of a wife; for he began about this timeto be cognizant of the fact that it was high time forhim to marry.

He was fully impressed with this idea when hefirst met Letty Rawdon, nor did subsequent interviewswith her serve to weaken the impression.Indeed, he began to be fully convinced of the necessityof the fact, and after paying some four or fivevisits to Middlebury, determined to inquire of Lettywhat was her opinion on the subject. On being interrogatedby him, therefore, on this point, she stillfurther strengthened his determination by agreeingfully with him thereon. Here was one point gained.Still another step, however, was to be taken. Heagain had recourse to his adviser, and she, on beinginterrogated whether it would be best for her todrop the name of Rawdon and take that of Smithson,determined it also affirmatively, to the entire satisfactionof the querist.

Letty, clear-sighted woman that she was, saw atan early period of her acquaintance the influence shewas gradually acquiring over John Smithson. It istrue he was not very handsome, but he had a manly,intelligent face and a good figure. If he did not understandall the mazes of a cotillion—waltzing wasthen unknown here, and the polka would have horrifiedour reputable predecessors—he had not entirelyforgotten all the figures of the country-dance or thereel which he had learned when a boy. He rodewell, too, and often accompanied the young lady inher gallops about the country. It is true he was moreconversant with the qualities of Yorkshire woolensor India piece-goods, than with most of those lighteraccomplishments by which alone many conceitedaddle-pates think that women are to be caught. Buthe was by no means uninformed. His reading hadnot been very extensive, but as far as it went it hadbeen good—history, biography, travels comprisedthe chief of it—Shakspeare had, however, attractedhim to his magic page, and many an idle hour whichhad been spent by many of his brother clerks in thetheatre, the oyster-cellar or the billiard-room, hadbeen passed by him in the manner above described.He was a close observer also of men and things, andLetty soon began to find his society much more toher taste than that of any unmarried man withwhom she had ever associated.

She then asked herself the state of her own heart.Ambitious though she was, she was too true andhonest a woman to give her hand without her heart;and after a brief, but careful consultation with herself,decided that she could in all honesty take him“for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer.” Ina worldly point of view it was the chance of a lifetime.The rich and rising merchant of the greatcity proposing to make her, the daughter of a villagetailor, the future partner of his greatness. Lettywas not insensible to this—we will not say she wasgrateful for it; she had too just an appreciation ofher own merits to be so; but she was not blind to itsadvantages in a worldly point of view. Had it occurredsome two years sooner, all the aristocracy ofMiddlebury would have cried out “shame;” but nowit was received as a thing of course, and Smithsonwas warmly congratulated on his admirable taste.

It was decided by Letty, and confirmed by Smithson,that in order to secure high social position, agood start was necessary. There must be no falsestep, no blunder at the outset. How many apparentlypromising fortunes has this one false stepmarred. He accordingly took a good house in themost desirable part of Hazelnut street, the verycentre and focus of fashion in Quakerdelphia. Tofurnish the house was in those days the business ofthe wife, and Letty determined to disburse the, forhis situation, very considerable dower her fathercould give her, in fitting up her new mansion, leavingit to her future lord and master to furnish the sinewsof war for carrying on the ensuing campaigns. Accompaniedby her former preceptress, the assistanceof whose taste she had evoked, Letty proceeded onher first visit to “the city.” We shall not stop todescribe her first sensations on entering so large aplace. Reading and descriptions had given her apretty correct idea of what a city was, and she didnot, like another country-girl we have heard of,complain “that she could not see the town for thehouses.” Let not this be considered an exaggeration,for the reverse of the case occurred in our ownpresence a very few years since. We were at acountry-house a few miles from the city, when afriend of its owner arrived there, accompanied byone of her children, a lovely little girl of some fiveyears of age. From some cause or other she hadnever since she could remember been in the countrybefore, and delighted with all she saw—the trees,the green fields, the flowers, she hurried with asmiling face to her mother, exclaiming—“Oh,mamma, is this indeed the real country?”

After a day or so devoted to sight-seeing, theserious business which brought her there was enteredupon by Letty. Cabinet-makers were visited,upholsterers consulted, and trades-people of variouskinds looked in upon, until finally, like a genuinewoman, she stopped buying, simply because hermoney was all gone. Articles of vertu were notso common in those days as now, but yet our friendcontrived to mingle a good deal of the ornamentalwith all of the useful in her purchases, and when,some time after, a carriage whirled to the door of acapacious Hazelnut street mansion, and a lady andgentleman descended therefrom, few ladies of Quakerdelphiaentered a more elegant and luxurioushome than did Mrs. John Smithson when she passedits portals.

——

CHAPTER II.

Acquaintances Letty had none in the great city.Mrs. Jones, the lady of her husband’s partner, ofcourse called upon her and gave her a party, towhich her acquaintance generally were invited. Now,though Mrs. Jones and her friends belonged moststrictly to the class called respectable and genteel,yet they were not fashionable. Letty appeared tocomprehend this as it were by intuition. Naturehad certainly intended her to be somebody—she accordinglytook her line of conduct at once, and shedetermined that though circ*mstances required thatwith Mrs. Jones an air of cordiality and sociabilitymust be preserved, yet this was not so necessarywith that lady’s friends. Letty never cut any bodydirectly. Her innate sense of propriety and naturalgood-breeding revolted from a course to which nonebut people of vulgar minds and shallow parts everresort. She possessed, however, a tact which enabledher to drop an acquaintance without the slightestseemingness of rudeness or ill-manners. Sheknew how first to smile most cordially when shemet the “droppee,” to wonder—

It was so long since they had met; she supposed,however, it must be her fault, but she had beenso busy she had not been able to pay half her visits;to press the hand slightly, and with a smile anangel might almost envy, to say, “Good-bye, I willendeavor soon—”

And then glide gently away before the sentencewas filled up. And this was the last of it. On thenext meeting a sweet smile, a courteous bow, butno time to speak; and so the season passed; novisit exchanged, each eradicated the other’s namefrom her “list”—the object was effected not onlywithout offense, but with such ease and grace, thatthe dropped was afterward heard to say:

“I think Mrs. A. a most lovely woman, and regretI was compelled by circ*mstances I could not helpto stop visiting her, and so she has given me up.”Mrs. C. is not the only deluded mortal in thisworld.

Mrs. Smithson, we have seen, had determined thatMrs. Jones’s “set” were not to become her “set.”She was willing to bide her time. She was awarethat great events are usually the creatures of slowgrowth. They may at the last grow with rapidity,but the seed which produces them has been for along time germinating. She believed that a cultivatedmind and accomplished person joined to a determinedwill, can achieve anything it pleases in thesocial as in other worlds, and she was determined toprove the truth of her convictions in her own case,and so she went on improving her mind, perfectingher accomplishments and biding her time.

Mr. Smithson, like all other reputable gentlemen,had, on becoming a married man, taken a pew inchurch. It was in a fashionable church, which thenmeant an Episcopal church, for fashion in thosedays was pretty much monopolized in Quakerdelphiaby Episcopalians and a few degenerate descendantsof the co-religionists of Penn, who haddeparted wofully in dress and manners from theprimitive simplicity of “Friends.” Now-a-daysthings are somewhat altered, as one may perceive ata glance on entering some of the Presbyterianchurches in the fashionable part of the city—thedisplay of velvets, brocades and furs, the oceans offeathers and parterres of flowers show that theirowners have entered on the race, and that it is almosta dead heat. Nor has the innovation ceasedhere. The full, rich, deep swell of the organ hasbeen substituted for the bass-viol, and (rise not at themention of it, shades of Knox and Calvin,) it isrumored that your descendants are about to worshipin a Gothic temple, with its windows of stained-glassthrough which the “dim religious light” is to penetrate,and dim enough it is during our short winterafternoons. Whether the resemblance to the “Mass-houses”which were torn down in the sixteenth centuryis to be carried out fully in the interior as wellas exterior, we have not learned, nor whether it isonly to be confined to “sedilia,” “screen,” “south-porch,”“octagonal font at the door,” or whetherany or none of these remains of Medievalism are tohave a place within. The “Ecclesiologist” nodoubt can enlighten our readers, and to that we referthem.

Mr. Smithson, as we said, took a pew in a fashionablechurch, and in a desirable position. Thither,accompanied by his fashionable-looking wife, who,in her turn, was accompanied by her richly-boundprayer-book, he resorted on Sunday mornings. Theattention of the devotees around was at once attractedby her, and stray glances would slip fromthe leaf of the prayer-book to the “new person” nearby. “N’importe,” Letty might say, as did a celebratedEnglish dandy when an hundred opera-glasseswere leveled at him, “Let them look and die.”With her attire no fault could be found. The materialwas of the richest and most costly kind, thecolors most harmoniously combined; the fit perfect,showing her willowy and graceful figure to the utmostadvantage, and the furs genuine martin.

“Who is she?” was the whispered colloquy, asthe parties proceeded down the aisle, with a glanceover the shoulder.

“Don’t you know—her name is Smithson. Arich Shamble street merchant. Live in Hazelnutstreet, in old Corkscrew’s house—said to be splendidlyfurnished.”

“Yes; but who is she? Where does she comefrom?”

“Don’t know exactly; but believe from NewYork, or Baltimore, or Richmond, or somewhere.”

“Very definite—and the last location very likely.”

“But what do you think of her? Very lady-looking—don’tyou think so? And how beautifully shedresses. Her muff and tippet are certainly martin—andwhat a love of a hat. Martine tells me shepaid $25 for it.”

Here the ladies having reached the door, the edifyingcommentary on the sermon just delivered ceased,and the parties separating, pursued their severalways. The first speaker, or querist, was Mrs.Rodgers, one of the most decided leaders of theton in Quakerdelphia, whose father having retiredfrom trade as a hardware merchant when she wasa very little girl, felt her superiority to those of heracquaintances who were still engaged in trade.Her husband was in the same position as herself,and their united fortunes enabled him to provide hisfriends with the finest clarets, the oldest Madeiras,the fattest venison, and one of the greatest bores atthe head of his own table who ever spoiled goodwine by prosing over it. His lady gave no ballsnor grand routes; she was too exclusive for that;but admittance to her “Evenings” was eagerlysought after by all who aspired to be of the ton.The other lady, Mrs. Cackle, a widow, was one ofthose gossips who are everywhere found. Herpretensions to fashion were only pretensions, andshe held her own in the gay world simply by makingherself useful as the purveyor of all the fashionablescandal of the day to her fashionable acquaintance.Mrs. Rodgers and others of her set, would have assoon thought of doing without their cards or theircarriages as without “Cackle,” as she was familiarlycalled; and hence she was at home in all the“best houses” of Quakerdelphia.

The pew which the Smithsons occupied, was adjoiningthat of Mrs. Rodgers. It was the family-pewof a certain Mrs. Edmonson, who, after a longcareer in the gay world, had recently, alarmed byconscience or gray hairs, abandoned cards for prayer-meetings,and despairing of “grace” under what shewas pleased to term “the didactic essays and moralteachings” of Dr. Silky, her pastor, had abandonedthem for the preachings of the Rev. Mr. Thunder, acelebrated revivalist. Here a new scene was openedfor her. Possibly her jaded feelings may have requiredsome new and varied stimulant. We donot say so positively. We merely repeat what“Cackle” said.

“Poor, dear soul! she was so worn-out withwhist and piquett, that any change was for thebetter.”

Be this as it may, she certainly entered upon hernew course of life with much zeal. She faithfullyattended not only the three regular Sunday services,but all the occasional week-day lectures and familiarmeetings for prayer and religious conversation.These latter were always preceded by tea at thehouse of some of the sisters of the Rev. Mr. Thunder’sflock. Projects for converting the world werethen new, and the recent convert entered upon themwith all the zeal which had formerly animated herwhen arranging the details of a ball or of a party forthe theatre. The dwellers in Africa and the islesof the Pacific, occupied much of their attention; butthey did not seem to know that within a few squaresof where they were engaged alternately in sippingtea or expounding prophecy, dwelt a population,perhaps more degraded and more requiring enlightenment,than those over whose darkness theymourned. The inhabitant of Africa thought nothingof a Saviour of whom he had never heard. Thedenizen of St. Anne’s street uttered his name only toblaspheme. Which of these, according to the doctrineas laid down by the Apostle to the Gentiles,most required the humanizing influences of the missionaryof the cross, we leave to each to determinefor himself.

One thing is certain. Had Mrs. Edmonson notbeen thus called off, Mrs. Smithson could not haveobtained the pew which she now occupied. Agradual acquaintance was beginning to spring upbetween her and Mrs. Rodgers, arising from theprinciple of contiguity. Commend us to that principle.It has settled the fate of many a son anddaughter of Eve. It commenced we know nothow. It was probably from some one of those thousandand one little offices which neighborhood induces.A shawl may have become entangled in somethingrequiring the friendly offices of a neighbor to unloose;or the warmth of the weather may havecreated an uncomfortable feeling, which the opportuneloan of a fan may have relieved. How the acquaintanceshipin question was first brought aboutwe have forgotten—if we ever knew. It is of noconsequence to us. Every one knows the progressof these things. At first it is a distant bow, as muchas to say, “I should like to know you, but don’tcare to advance.” Then came a casual and passingremark, as they emerged from the pew to the aisle.Then the walk down the aisle, side by side, untilreaching the door, when each assumed her husband’sarm, and the respective couples mingled in thecrowd; and finally the continued walk together tothe parting-place, whence each pursues the path totheir own residence. These things have often occurredbefore; they were enacted by MesdamesRogers and Smithson then, and will occur again.Their husbands followed slowly in the rear, discussingthe state of the weather, the prospects ofbusiness, the likelihood of speedy news from Europe,there not having been an arrival for upward ofa month, with other topics of a kindred nature.Mrs. Rodgers, a well-educated lady of considerableconversational powers, found the mind of her newacquaintance as agreeable as her person, and beforethey separated,

“Hoped she might be permitted to improve theacquaintance thus opportunely begun, by calling onMrs. Smithson.”

Letty graciously gave the required permission,expressing all that courtesy demanded on the occasion,but carefully abstaining from appearing overwhelmedwith the compliment, as many a weakerminded and less skillful tactician would have done.She knew that her cue was to meet advances half-way,but not to pass the line one hair’s breadth, ifshe wished any new acquaintance to be made to feel,than in seeking her, the obligation was mutual.

On the next day but one Mrs. Rodgers wasushered into Letty’s drawing-room. That lady didnot detain her long before she made her appearance,but still dallied sufficiently to allow the other to takein at a rapid glance the completeness of her establishment.Her experience, however, was for onceat fault, for she determined hastily that the womanwho could arrange her rooms with such taste, musthave been surrounded by like refinements and eleganciesall her life. Her reception of Letty, therefore,when she arrived, was most cordial and impressive.The season was far advanced. Her last“Evening” was on that of the succeeding day, “andit was to secure Mrs. Smithson’s appearance as wellas further to cultivate so pleasant an acquaintancethus agreeably begun, that she had called this morning,etc.”

Mrs. Smithson, on her part, would be very happyto make one at this exclusive assemblage, and avery unfashionably long visit for a morning callfollowed. Mrs. Rodgers was anxious to find outall about Letty, who she was, where she camefrom, etc.; but was foiled in all her skillful questions,by answers equally skillful. When at lengthshe took her leave, she could not help pondering onthis to herself. She admitted her curiosity about it,but wound up by saying to herself, be she who shemay, she is certainly a most agreeable personage,and I think I have made a most decided hit in introducingher into our set.

As for Letty, she was all exultation on the departureof her visitor. She saw herself achieving atonce the distinctions she panted after. Not onlywere the doors of the drawing-room of dame Fashionopened to her, but as she passed through them withfirm step and head erect amid the ill-concealed envyof the crowd which filled them, she saw the curtainsof the boudoir drawn aside at her approach,and she was admitted into the inmost presence-chamberof the goddess. Not so fast, Letty. Youcertainly have mounted the first rung of the ladder;and my readers and myself know you now too wellto fear for a moment that you will go backward;but there is many a step yet to climb before youreach that giddy height on which you aspire tostand.

The next evening soon came, and after almost allthe guests had assembled, Mr. and Mrs. Smithsonarrived. She was arrayed in a dress of the richestkind, and with her usual faultless taste. Her ornamentswere few, but elegant; the best of them beingthat bright, fresh face and elastic form, which the dissipationof city life had not yet impaired. She had asevere and scathing ordeal to pass. It was felt byseveral, with the keen intuition which women alonehave, that she might prove a formidable rival. Mrs.Rodgers’ reception and treatment of her were mostkind. She introduced several most desirable acquaintancesto her, and the gentlemen in especialwere delighted with her. Letty’s earliest allies, itmay be remembered, were of the male sex; but thegallant Colonel Lumley, and that exquisite of exquisites,Mr. Tom Harrowby, were of a different stampfrom Phil Dubbs and even Harry Edmonds, thoughthe latter, in after days, achieved renown both atthe bar and in the senate-chamber. The eveningpassed but too delightfully and too rapidly for Letty.She felt that she was at last among kindred minds,and on arriving at home, when she reviewed whathad transpired as she was preparing for her night’srepose, she was satisfied that her debut had beeneminently successful, and that she had made a decidedhit. With visions of much future greatnessbefore her, she fell asleep.

[WITH A STEEL ENGRAVING.]

The practice of interment in churches and church-yardsprevailed in Paris till near the end of theeighteenth century. In 1790 the National Assemblypassed a law commanding all towns and villages todiscontinue the use of their old burial-places, andform others at a distance from their habitations.An imperial decree was issued in 1804, orderinghigh ground to be chosen for cemeteries, and everycorpse to be interred at a depth of at least six feet.Another decree, of 1811, ordained a company of undertakers,to whom the whole business of intermentwas to be consigned, who arranged funerals in sixclasses, and established a tariff of expense for theservice rendered. The cemeteries of Paris are fourin number. Père-la-chaise, Montmartre, Vaugirard,and Mont-Parnasse.

Père-la-chaise, the subject of the beautiful engravingin our present number—engraved for us byJ. A. Rolph, of New York—occupies a tract of highand sloping ground to the north-east of Paris. Itderives its name from the confessor of Louis XIV.,who occupied a splendid mansion on its site—acountry-house of the Jesuits for more than one hundredand fifty years. This beautiful burial-groundwas consecrated in 1804, and on the 21st of May ofthat year the first burial took place within its walls.In the fosses communes the poor are gratuitouslyinterred in coffins placed side by side, without ornamentor mark of any kind. Temporary graves, tobe held for six years, may be procured for fiftyfrancs, and may afterward be retained on five years’lease by the regular payment of the same sum. Ifafterward purchased, a deduction of the first paymentof fifty francs is made. The ground is purchasedin perpetuity at a rate of one hundred andtwenty francs per square metre, where vaults maybe sunk or monuments erected at the pleasure of theowner. Many of the most celebrated personagesof France here repose in the dreamless sleep, amidgarlands and flowers. Baron Cuvier, CasimirPérier and Benjamin Constant. Marshals Ney,Suchet, Massena, Lefèvre—Volney rests here, withTalma, Mademoiselle Raucourt, Macdonald, Beaumarchais,and many whose names are imperishablein history.

The picturesque monument of Gothic architecture,to the right on entering, contains the ashes ofAbelard and Heloisa—this sepulchre was constructedfrom the ruins of the celebrated Abbey of Paracleet.

We rejoice that, in our own country, a wise foresighthas already disposed our citizens to set apartat a distance from the busy mart and the thrivingtown, secluded and beautiful places for the quietresting-place of the beloved dead. From this piousfeeling has sprung our own Laurel-Hill—MountAuburn, near Boston—Greenwood, near New York,and scores of other places appropriately named andselected in the vicinage of cities and towns of ourcountry—where the monumental pile and the humbletomb bear silent company. The roses emboweringthese make the whole air fragrant, but, dyingin autumn return again with the spring, mute yeteloquent preachers of a Final Resurrection.

———

BY A. M. PARIS.

———

In the balmy breath of the early spring,

In the warbling notes that her songsters sing,

In her bursting buds, and her fragrant flowers,

In her azure skies and her golden hours,

In the leafy woods and the meadows green,

Are thy powers displayed, and thy breathings seen.

  Thou art found in the ocean’s wide expanse,

When the gentle waves in the sunbeams dance,

Or propelled by the storm’s resistless might,

Rise foaming up to their giddy height;

When the first faint blush of the glowing morn,

Lights the dewy pearl on the flower and thorn,

And the sunbeams kiss the awakening flower,

And the zephyr stirs the enchanted bower;

Or the silvery clouds of the sunset lie

On the radiant breast of the evening sky,

And the gentle gales through the forests play,

And the requiem sing of departing day,

On the craggy steeps of the rock-based hills;

By the flowery banks of the purling rills;

From the darkling climes of the gelid north,

Where the bright Aurora flashes forth,

And the iceberg gleams in the moon’s soft light,

Through the lengthened hours of the polar night;

To the sunny south, where the palm-trees spread

Their feathery boughs o’er the sheltered head;

And a thousand flowers of brilliant hue,

Are forever expanding to the view;

And a thousand birds of plumage bright,

Rejoice in the groves of a land of light;

O’er the gladsome earth, in the stars of night,

Thou art seen, if the heart be attuned aright.

———

BY IK. MARVEL.

———

I believe that sooner or later, there come toevery man, dreams of ambition. They may becovered with the sloth of habit, or with a pretenceof humility; they may come only in dim, shadowyvisions, that feed the eye, like the glories of an oceansun-rise; but you may be sure that they will come:even before one is aware, the bold, adventurousgoddess, whose name is ambition, and whose doweris Fame, will be toying with the feeble heart. Andshe pushes her ventures with a bold hand: shemakes timidity strong, and weakness valiant.

The way of a man’s heart will be foreshadowedby what goodness lies in him—coming from above,and from around;—but a way foreshadowed, is nota way made. And the making of a man’s waycomes only from that quickening of resolve, whichwe call Ambition. It is the spur that makes manstruggle with Destiny: it is Heaven’s own incentive,to make Purpose great, and Achievementgreater.

It would be strange if you, in that cloister-life ofa college, did not sometimes feel a dawning of newresolves. They grapple you, indeed, oftener thanyou dare to speak of. Here, you dream first of thatvery sweet, but very shadowy success, called reputation.

You think of the delight and astonishment, itwould give your mother and father, and most of all,little Nelly, if you were winning such honors, asnow escape you. You measure your capacities bythose about you, and watch their habit of study; yougaze for a half hour together, upon some successfulman, who has won his prizes; and wonder by whatsecret action he has done it. And when, in time,you come to be a competitor yourself, your anxietyis immense.

You spend hours upon hours at your theme. Youwrite and re-write; and when it is at length complete,and out of your hands, you are harassed by athousand doubts. At times, as you recal your hoursof toil, you question if so much has been spent uponany other; you feel almost certain of success. Yourepeat to yourself, some passages of special eloquence,at night. You fancy the admiration of theProfessors at meeting with such wonderful performance.You have a slight fear that its superiorgoodness may awaken the suspicion that some one outof the college—some superior man, may have writtenit. But this fear dies away.

The eventful day is a great one in your calendar;you hardly sleep the night previous. You trembleas the chapel-bell is rung; you profess to be very indifferent,as the reading, and the prayer close; youeven stoop to take up your hat—as if you had entirelyoverlooked the fact, that the old president was in thedesk, for the express purpose of declaring the successfulnames. You listen dreamily to his tremulous,yet fearfully distinct enunciation. Your headswims strangely.

They all pass out with a harsh murmur, along theaisles, and through the door-ways. It would be wellif there were no disappointments in life more terriblethan this. It is consoling to express very depreciatingopinions of the Faculty in general;—and verycontemptuous ones of that particular officer whodecided upon the merit of the prize themes. Anevening or two at Dalton’s room go still furthertoward healing the disappointment; and—if it mustbe said—toward moderating the heat of your ambition.

You grow up however, unfortunately, as thecollege years fly by, into a very exaggerated senseof your own capacities. Even the good, old, white-hairedsquire, for whom you had once entertainedso much respect, seems to your crazy, classic fancy,a very hum-drum sort of personage. Frank, althoughas noble a fellow as ever sat a horse, is yet—youcannot help thinking—very ignorant of Euripides;even the English master at Dr. Bidlow’s school, youfeel sure would balk at a dozen problems you couldgive him.

You get an exalted idea of that uncertain quality,which turns the heads of a vast many of your fellows,called—Genius. An odd notion seems tobe inherent in the atmosphere of those collegechambers, that there is a certain faculty of mind—firstdeveloped as would seem in colleges—whichaccomplishes whatever it chooses, without anyspecial painstaking. For a time, you fall yourselfinto this very unfortunate hallucination; you cultivateit, after the usual college fashion, by drinkinga vast deal of strong coffee, and whiskey-toddy—bywriting a little poor verse, in the Byronic temper,and by studying very late at night, with closedblinds.

It costs you, however, more anxiety and hypocrisythan you could possibly have believed.

——You will learn, Clarence, when the Autumnhas rounded your hopeful Summer, if not before,that there is no Genius in life, like the Genius ofenergy and industry. You will learn, that all thetraditions so current among very young men, thatcertain great characters have wrought their greatnessby an inspiration, as it were, grow out of a sadmistake.

And you will further find, when you come tomeasure yourself with men, that there are no rivalsso formidable, as those earnest, determined minds,which reckon the value of every hour, and whichachieve eminence by persistent application.

Literary ambition may inflame you at certainperiods; and a thought of some great names will flashlike a spark into the mine of your purposes; youdream till midnight over books; you set up shadows,and chase them down—other shadows, and they fly.Dreaming will never catch them. Nothing makesthe “scent lie well,” in the hunt after distinction,but labor.

And it is a glorious thing, when once you areweary of the dissipation, and the ennui of your ownaimless thought, to take up some glowing page ofan earnest thinker, and read—deep and long, untilyou feel the metal of his thought tinkling on yourbrain, and striking out from your flinty lethargy, flashesof ideas, that give the mind light and heat. And awayyou go, in the chase of what the soul within is creatingon the instant, and you wonder at the fecundityof what seemed so barren, and at the ripeness ofwhat seems so crude. The glow of toil wakesyou to the consciousness of your real capacities: youfeel sure that they have taken a new step towardfinal development. In such mood it is, that onefeels grateful to the musty tomes, which at otherhours, stand like curiosity-making mummies, withno warmth, and no vitality. Now they grow intothe affections like new-found friends; and gain ahold upon the heart, and light a fire in the brain, thatthe years and the mould cannot cover, nor quench.

———

BY ANNE G. HALE.

———

[It is related of Signora Angelica Kauffman, the celebrated Italian, that when a youthful maiden, she was oneevening by the bank of her native stream, a short distance from Mount Rosa, near the entrance of a forest, when,charmed with the beauty of the sunset, she fell into a reverie, during which a vision passed before her, which ledher to form the resolution—which she patiently kept—of being a painter. She afterward obtained the prize fromthe Royal Academy at London, England, for her painting of the Weeping Magdalen. See Graham’s Magazine,Vol. XXX.]

———

BY T. H. CHIVERS, M. D.

———

All aboard? Yes! Tingle, tingle,

Goes the bell, as we all mingle—

No one sitting solely single—

As the fireman builds his fire,

And the steam gets higher, higher—

Thus fulfilling his desire—

Which forever he keeps feeding

With the pine-knots he is needing,

As he on his way goes speeding—

And the Iron Horse goes rushing,

With his fiery face all flushing—

Every thing before him crushing—

While the smoke goes upward curling,

Spark-bespangled in unfurling,

And the iron-wheels go whirling,

Like two mighty mill-stones grinding,

When no miller is them minding—

All the eye with grit-dust blinding—

And the cars begin to rattle,

And the springs go tittle-tattle—

Driving off the grazing cattle—

As if Death were fiends pursuing

To their uttermost undoing—

With a cl*tta, clatta, clatter,

Like the devil beating batter

Down below in iron platter,

As if something was the matter;

Then it changes to a clanking,

And a clinking, and a clanking,

And a clanking, and a clinking—

Then returns to clatta, clatter,

cl*tta, clatta, clatta, clatter—

And the song that I now offer

For Apollo’s Golden Coffer—

With the friendship that I proffer—

Is for Riding on a Rail.

Thus, from station on to station,

Right along through each plantation,

This great Iron Horse goes rushing,

With his fiery face all flushing—

Every thing before him crushing—

Sometimes faster, sometimes slower,

Sometimes higher, sometimes lower—

As if Time, the great world-mover,

Had come down for his last reaping

Of the harvest ripe, in keeping,

Of the nations waiting, weeping—

While the engine, overteeming,

Spits his vengeance out in steaming

With excruciating screaming—

While the wheels are whirling under,

Like the chariot-wheels of thunder,

When the lightning rends asunder

All the clouds that steam from Ocean,

When he pays the Moon devotion—

With a grinding rhythmic motion—

Till the frightened sheep are scattered,

Like the clouds by lightning tattered,

And the gates of day are battered

With the cl*tta, clatta, clatter—

Still repeating clatta, clatter,

cl*tta, clatta, clatta, clatter,

As if something was the matter—

While the woodlands all are ringing,

And the birds forget their singing.

And away to heaven go winging

Of their flight to hear the clatter,

cl*tta, clatta, clatta, clatter,

Which continues so, till coming

To a straight line, when the humming

Is so mixed up with the strumming,

That the cars begin to rattle,

And the springs go tittle-tattle—

Frightening off the grazing cattle—

Like Hell’s thunder-river roaring,

Over Death’s dark mountain pouring

Into space, forever boring

Through th’ abysmal depths, with clatter

cl*tta, clatta, clatta, clatter,

And a clinking, and a clanking,

And a clanking, and a clinking—

Then returns to clatta, clatter,

cl*tta, clatta, clatta, clatter,

Like the devil beating batter

Down below in iron platter—

Which subsides into a clunky,

And a clinky, and a clanky,

And a clinky, clanky, clanky,

And a clanky, clinky, clanky;

And the song that I now offer

For Apollo’s Golden Coffer—

With the friendship that I proffer—

Is for Riding on a Rail.

———

BY JULIA KAVANAGH.

———

Amongst the women of the French Revolution,there is one who stands essentially apart: a solitaryepisode of the eventful story. She appears for a moment,performs a deed—heroic as to the intention,criminal as to the means—and disappears for ever;lost in the shadow of time—an unfathomed mystery.

And it is, perhaps, this very mystery that has investedwith so much interest the name of one knownby a single deed; which, though intended by her todeliver her country, changed little in its destinies.To admire her entirely is impossible; to condemnher is equally difficult. No one can read her historywithout feeling that, to judge her absolutely, lies notin the province of man. Beautiful, pure, gentle, anda murderess, she attracts and repels us in almostequal degrees; like all those beings whose nature isinexplicable and strange, according to the ordinarystandard of humanity. Although it is generally acknowledgedthat site did not exercise over contemporaryevents that repressing power for which shesacrificed her life, it is felt, nevertheless, that no historyof the times in which she lived, is completewithout her name; and to her brief and tragic historyan eloquent modern historian[12] has devotedsome of his most impressive pages.

The 31st of May was the signal of the fall and dispersionof the Girondists. Some, like Barbaroux,Buzot, Louvet, and their friends, retired to the provinces,which they endeavored to rouse for one laststruggle. Others, like Madame Roland and thetwenty-two, prepared themselves in their silent prisonsolitude for death and the scaffold. The nameof the Girondists now became a sound as proscribedas that of Royalist had been during their brief sway.No voice gifted with power was raised throughoutthe republic in favor of the men by whom, in themidst of such enthusiastic acclamations, that republichad been founded. France was rapidly sinkinginto that state of silent apathy which foreboded theReign of Terror: discouraged by their experienceof the past, men lost their faith in humanity, and selfishlydespaired of the future. A maiden’s heroicspirit alone conceived the daring project of savingthose who had so long and so nobly striven for freedom;or, if this might not be, of avenging their fall,and striking terror into the hearts of their foes, by adeed of solemn immolation, worthy of the sternsacrifices of paganism, offered of yore on the blood-stainedshrines of the goddess Nemesis.

The maiden was Marie-Anne Charlotte, of Cordayand of Armont, one of the last descendants of a noble,though impoverished Norman family, which countedamongst its near relatives, Fontenelle, the wit andphilosopher of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries,and amongst its ancestors, the father of the greattragic poet of France, Pierre Corneille.

Her father, Jacques of Corday and of Armont,was a younger son of this noble line. He was,however, poorer than many of the peasants amongstwhom he lived, cultivating with his own hands, hisnarrow inheritance. He married in early life a ladyof gentle blood, but as poor as himself. They hadfive children and a noble name to support, in a vainshow of dignity, on their insufficient income. Itthus happened that Charlotte, their fourth child andsecond daughter, was born in a thatched dwelling, inthe village of Saint-Saturnin des Lignerets; and thatin the register of the parish church where she wasbaptized, on the 28th of July, 1768, the day after herbirth, she is described as “born in lawful wedlockof Jacques Francois of Corday, esquire, sieur of Armont,and of the noble dame Marie Charlotte-Jacqueline,of Gauthier des Authieux, his wife.” It wasunder these difficult circ*mstances, which embitteredhis temper, and often caused him to inveigh in energeticterms against the injustice of the law of primogeniture,that M. d’Armont reared his family. Assoon as they were of age, his sons entered the army;one of his daughters died young; and he became awidower when the other two were emerging fromchildhood into youth. They remained for some timewith their father, but at length entered the Abbayeaux Dames, in the neighboring town of Caen.

The greatest portion of the youth of CharlotteCorday—to give her the name by which she is generallyknown—was spent in the calm obscurity of herconvent solitude. Many high visions, many burningdreams and lofty aspirations, already haunted herimaginative and enthusiastic mind, as she slowlypaced the silent cloisters, or rested, lost in thought,beneath the shadow of the ancient elms. It is saidthat, like Madame Roland, she contemplated secludingherself for ever from the world in her monasticretreat; but, affected by the scepticism of the age,which penetrated even beyond convent walls, shegave up this project. From these early religionsfeelings, Charlotte derived, however, the calm devotednesswhich characterized her brief career: forthough self-sacrifice may not be the exclusive attributeof Christianity, it cannot be denied that thedeep humility by which it is accompanied—a feelingalmost unknown to the ancients—is in itself the veryspirit of Christ. The peaceful and solemn shadowof the old cloister favored the mild seriousness ofCharlotte’s character. Within the precincts of hersacred retreat she grew up in grave and serene loveliness,a being fit for the gentlest duties of woman’shousehold life, or for one of those austere and fearlessdeeds which lead to the scaffold and give martyrdomin a holy cause.

The scepticism that prevailed for the last fewyears preceding the Revolution, was not the sensualatheism which had disgraced the eighteenth centuryso long. The faith in a first and eternal cause, in thesacredness of human rights and the holiness of duty,was firmly held by many noble spirits, who hailedwith enthusiasm the first dawn of democracy. Thisfaith was blended in the soul of Charlotte Corday,with a passionate admiration of antiquity. All theausterity and republican enthusiasm of her illustriousancestor, Pierre Corneille, seemed to have comedown to his young descendant. Even Rousseauand Raynal, the apostles of democracy, had no pagesthat could absorb her so deeply as those of ancienthistory, with its stirring deeds and immortal recollections.Often, like Manon Philipon, in the recessof her father’s workshop, might Charlotte Corday beseen in her convent cell, thoughtfully bending overan open volume of Plutarch; that powerful and eloquenthistorian of all heroic sacrifices.

When the Abbaye aux Dames was closed, in consequenceof the Revolution, Charlotte was in hertwentieth year, in the prime of life and of her wonderfulbeauty; and never, perhaps, did a vision ofmore dazzling loveliness step forth from beneath thedark convent portal into the light of the free and openworld. She was rather tall, but admirably proportioned,with a figure full of native grace and dignity;her hands, arms, and shoulders, were models of puresculptural beauty. An expression of singular gentlenessand serenity characterized her fair, oval countenanceand regular features. Her open forehead,dark and well-arched eyebrows, and eyes of a grayso deep that it was often mistaken for blue, added toher naturally grave and meditative appearance; hernose was straight and well formed, her mouth seriousbut exquisitely beautiful. Like most of the womenof the Norman race, she had a complexion of transparentpurity; enhanced by the rich brown hairwhich fell in thick curls around her neck, accordingto the fashion of the period. A simple severitycharacterized her dress of sombre hue, and the lowand becoming lace cap which she habitually wore isstill known by her name in France. Her whole aspectwas fraught with so much modest grace anddignity, that, notwithstanding her youth, the firstfeeling she invariably inspired was one of respect;blended with involuntary admiration, for a being ofsuch pure and touching loveliness.

On leaving the convent in which she had beeneducated, Charlotte Corday went to reside with heraunt, Madame Coutellier de Bretteville Gouville;an old royalist lady, who inhabited an ancient-lookinghouse in one of the principal streets of Caen.There the young girl, who had inherited a little property,spent several years, chiefly engaged in watchingthe progress of the Revolution. The feelings ofher father were similarly engrossed: he wrote severalpamphlets in favor of the revolutionary principles;and one in which he attacked the right of primogeniture.His republican tendencies confirmedCharlotte in her opinions; but of the deep, overpoweringstrength which those opinions acquired inher soul, during the long hours she daily devoted tomeditation, no one ever knew, until a stern and fearfuldeed—more stern and fearful in one so gentle—hadrevealed it to all France. A silent reservecharacterized this epoch of Charlotte Corday’s life:her enthusiasm was not external, but inward: shelistened to the discussions which were carried onaround her without taking a part in them herself. Sheseemed to feel instinctively that great thoughts arealways better nursed in the heart’s solitude: thatthey can only lose their native depth and intensityby being revealed too freely before the indifferentgaze of the world. Those with whom she then occasionallyconversed, took little heed of the substanceof her discourse, and could remember nothingof it when she afterward became celebrated; but allrecollected well her voice, and spoke with strangeenthusiasm of its pure, silvery sound. Like MadameRoland, whom she resembled in so many respects,Charlotte possessed this rare and great attraction;and there was something so touching in her youthfuland almost childlike utterance of heroic thoughts,that it affected even to tears those who heard her onher trial, calmly defending herself from the infamousaccusations of her judges, and glorying with the samelow, sweet tones, in the deadly deed which hadbrought her before them.

The fall of the Girondists, on the 31st of May,first suggested to Charlotte Corday the possibility ofgiving an active shape to her hitherto passive feelings.She watched with intense, though still silent,interest the progress of events, concealing her secretindignation and thoughts of vengeance under her habituallycalm aspect. Those feelings were heightenedin her soul by the presence of the fugitive Girondists,who had found a refuge in Caen, and wereurging the Normans to raise an army to march onParis. She found a pretence to call upon Barbaroux,then with his friends at the Intendance. She cametwice, accompanied by an old servant, and protectedby her own modest dignity. Pethion saw her in thehall, where she was waiting for the handsome Girondist,and observed, with a smile—

“So, the beautiful aristocrat is come to see republicans.”

“Citizen Pethion,” she replied, “you now judgeme without knowing me, but a time will come whatyou shall learn who I am.”

With Barbaroux, Charlotte chiefly conversed ofthe imprisoned Girondists; of Madame Roland andMarat. The name of this man had long haunted herwith a mingled feeling of dread and horror. ToMarat she ascribed the proscription of the Girondists,the woes of the republic, and on him she resolved toavenge her ill-fated country. Charlotte was notaware that Marat was but the tool of Dunton andRobespierre. “If such actions could be counseled,”afterward said Barbaroux, “it is not Marat whomwe would have advised her to strike.”

Whilst this deadly thought was daily strengtheningitself in Charlotte’s mind, she received several offersof marriage. She declined them, on the plea ofwishing to remain free: but strange indeed musthave seemed to her, at that moment, those proposalsof earthly love. One of those whom her beauty hadenamored, M. de Franquelin, a young volunteer inthe cause of the Girondists, died of grief on learningher fate. His last request was, that her portrait anda few letters he had formerly received from her,might be buried with him in his grave.

For several days after her last interview with Barbaroux,Charlotte brooded silently over her greatthought, often meditating on the history of Judith.Her aunt subsequently remembered that, on enteringher room one morning, she found an old Bible openon her bed: the verse in which it is recorded that“the Lord had gifted Judith with a special beautyand fairness,” for the deliverance of Israel, was underlinedwith a pencil.

On another occasion Madame de Bretteville foundher niece weeping alone; she inquired into the causeof her tears.

“They flow,” replied Charlotte, “for the misfortunesof my country.”

Heroic and devoted as she was, she then alsowept, perchance, over her own youth and beauty,so soon to be sacrificed for ever. No personal considerationsaltered her resolve; she procured a passport,provided herself with money, and paid a farewellvisit to her father, to inform him that, consideringthe unsettled condition of France, she thought itbest to retire to England. He approved of her intention,and bade her adieu. On returning to Caen,Charlotte told the same tale to Madame de Bretteville,left a secret provision for an old nurse, and distributedthe little property she possessed amongst herfriends.

It was on the morning of the 9th of July, 1793,that she left the house of her aunt, without trustingherself with a last farewell. Her most earnest wishwas, when her deed should have been accomplished,to perish, wholly unknown, by the hands of an infuriatedmultitude. The woman who could contemplatesuch a fate, and calmly devote herself to it,without one selfish thought of future renown, had indeedthe heroic soul of a martyr.

Her journey to Paris was marked by no otherevent than the unwelcome attentions of some Jacobinswith whom she traveled. One of them, struckby her modest and gentle beauty, made her a veryserious proposal of marriage: she playfully evadedhis request, but promised that he should learn whoand what she was at some future period. On enteringParis, she proceeded immediately to the Hotelde la Providence, Rue des Vieux Augustins, not farfrom Marat’s dwelling. Here she rested for twodays, before calling on her intended victim. Nothingcan mark more forcibly the singular calmnessof her mind: she felt no hurry to accomplish thedeed for which she had journeyed so far, and overwhich she had meditated so deeply: her soul remainedserene and undaunted to the last. The roomwhich she occupied, and which has been oftenpointed out to inquiring strangers, was a dark andwretched attic, into which light scarcely ever penetrated.There she read again the volume of Plutarchshe had brought with her—unwilling to partfrom her favorite author even in her last hours—andprobably composed that energetic address to the people,which was found upon her after her apprehension.One of the first acts of Charlotte was to callon the Girondist, Duperret, for whom she was providedwith a letter from Barbaroux, relative to thesupposed business she had in Paris: her real motivewas to learn how she could see Marat. She hadfirst intended to strike him in the Champ de Mars,on the 14th of July, the anniversary of the fall of theBastille, when a great and imposing ceremony wasto take place. The festival being delayed, she resolvedto seek him in the convention, and immolatehim on the very summit of the mountain; but Maratwas too ill to attend the meetings of the NationalAssembly: this Charlotte learned from Duperret.She resolved, nevertheless, to go to the convention,in order to fortify herself in her resolve. Minglingwith the horde of Jacobins who crowded the galleries,she watched with deep attention the scene below.Saint Just was then urging the convention toproscribe Lanjuinais, the heroic defender of the Girondists.A young foreigner, a friend of Lanjuinais,and who stood at a short distance from Charlotte,noticed the expression of stern indignation whichgathered over her features; until, like one over-poweredby her feelings, and apprehensive of displayingthem too openly, she abruptly left the place.Struck with her whole appearance, he followed herout; a sudden shower of rain, which compelledthem to seek shelter under the same archway, affordedhim an opportunity of entering into conversationwith her. When she learned that he was afriend of Lanjuinais she waived her reserve, andquestioned him with much interest concerning MadameRoland and the Girondists. She also askedhim about Marat, with whom she said she had somebusiness.

“Marat is ill; it would be better for you to applyto the public accuser, Fouquier Tinville,” said thestranger.

“I do not want him now, but I may have to dealwith him yet,” she significantly replied.

Perceiving that the rain did not cease, she requestedher companion to procure her a conveyance.He complied, and before parting from her,begged to be favored with her name. She refused,adding, however, “You will know it before long.”With Italian courtesy, he kissed her hand as he assistedher into the fiacre. She smiled, and bade himfarewell.

Charlotte perceived that to call on Marat was theonly means by which she might accomplish her purpose.She did so on the morning of the 13th of July,having first purchased a knife in the Palais Royal,and written him a note, in which she requested aninterview. She was refused admittance. She thenwrote him a second note, more pressing than thefirst, and in which she represented herself as persecutedfor the cause of freedom. Without waiting tosee what effect this note might produce, she calledagain at half-past seven the same evening.

Marat then resided in the Rue des Cordeliers, in agloomy-looking house, which has since been demolished.His constant fears of assassination wereshared by those around him; the porter, seeing astrange woman pass by his lodge without pausing tomake any inquiry, ran out and called her back. Shedid not heed his remonstrance, but swiftly ascendedthe old stone stair-case, until she had reached thedoor of Marat’s apartment. It was cautiouslyopened by Albertine, a woman with whom Maratcohabited, and who passed for his wife. Recognizingthe same young and handsome girl who hadalready called on her husband, and animated, perhaps,by a feeling of jealous mistrust, Albertine refusedto admit her: Charlotte insisted with greatearnestness. The sound of their altercation reachedMarat; he immediately ordered his wife to admitthe stranger, whom he recognized as the author of thetwo letters he had received in the course of the day.Albertine obeyed reluctantly; she allowed Charlotteto enter; and, after crossing with her an antechamber,where she had been occupied with a man namedLaurent Basse, in folding some numbers of the“Ami du People,” she ushered her through twoother rooms, until they came to a narrow closet,where Marat was then in a bath. He gave a look atCharlotte, and ordered his wife to leave them alone:she complied, but allowed the door of the closet toremain half open, and kept within call.

According to his usual custom, Marat wore asoiled handkerchief bound round his head, increasinghis natural hideousness. A coarse covering wasthrown across his bath; a board, likewise placedtransversely, supported his papers. Laying downhis pen, he asked Charlotte the purport of her visit.The closet was so narrow that she touched the bathnear which she stood. She gazed on him with ill-disguisedhorror and disgust, but answered as composedlyas she could, that she had come from Caen,in order to give him correct intelligence concerningthe proceedings of the Girondists there. He listened,questioned her eagerly, wrote down the name ofthe Girondists, then added with a smile of triumph—

“Before a week, they shall have perished on theguillotine.”

“These words,” afterward said Charlotte, “sealedhis fate.” Drawing from beneath the handkerchiefwhich covered her bosom, the knife she had keptthere all along, she plunged it to the hilt in Marat’sheart. He gave one loud expiring cry for help, andsank back dead in the bath. By an instinctive impulse,Charlotte had instantly drawn out the knifefrom the breast of her victim, but she did not strikeagain; casting it down at his feet, she left the closetand sat down in a neighboring room, thoughtfullypassing her hand across her brow: her task was done.

The wife of Marat had rushed to his aid, on hearinghis cry for help. Laurent Basse, seeing that allwas over, turned round toward Charlotte, and witha blow of a chair felled her to the floor, whilst theinfuriated Albertine trampled her under her feet.The tumult aroused the other tenants of the house;the alarm spread, and a crowd gathered in the apartment,who learned with stupor that Marat, the Friendof the People, had been murdered. Deeper still wastheir wonder when they gazed on the murderess.She stood there before them with still disorderedgarments, and her disheveled hair, loosely bound bya broad green ribbon, falling around her; but socalm, so serenely lovely, that those who most abhorredher crime gazed on her with involuntary admiration.

“Was she then so beautiful?” was the questionaddressed many years afterward, to on old man, oneof the few remaining witnesses of this scene.

“Beautiful!” he echoed enthusiastically, addingwith the eternal regrets of old age: “Ay, there arenone such now!”

The commissary of police began his interrogatoryin the saloon of Marat’s apartment. She told him hername, how long she had been in Paris, confessed hercrime, and recognized the knife with which it hadbeen perpetrated. The sheath was found in herpocket, with a thimble, some thread, money, and herwatch.

“What was your motive in assassinating Marat?”asked the commissary.

“To prevent a civil war,” she answered.

“Who are your accomplices?”

“I have none.”

She was ordered to be transferred to the Abbaye,the nearest prison. An immense and infuriatedcrowd had gathered around the door of Marat’shouse; one of the witnesses perceived that shewould have liked to be delivered to this maddenedmultitude, and thus perish at once. She was notsaved from their hands without difficulty; her couragefailed her at the sight of the peril she ran, andshe fainted away on being conveyed to the fiacre.On reaching the Abbaye, she was questioned untilmidnight by Chabot and Drouet, two Jacobin membersof the convention. She answered their interrogatorieswith singular firmness; observing, in conclusion:“I have done my task, let others dotheirs.” Chabot threatened her with the scaffold;she answered with a smile of disdain. Her behavioruntil the 17th, the day of her trial, was marked bythe same firmness. She wrote to Barbaroux acharming letter, full of graceful wit and heroic feeling.Her playfulness never degenerated into levity:like that of the illustrious Thomas Moore, it was theserenity of a mind whom death had no power todaunt. Speaking of her action, she observes—

“I considered that so many brave men need notcome to Paris for the head of one man. He deservednot so much honor: the hand of a woman wasenough.... I have never hated but one being,and him with what intensity I have sufficiently shown,but there are a thousand whom I love still morethan I hated him.... I confess that I employeda perfidious artifice in order that he might receiveme. In leaving Caen, I thought to sacrifice him onthe pinnacle of ‘the mountain,’ but he no longerwent to it. In Paris, they cannot understand how auseless woman, whose longest life could have beenof no good, could sacrifice herself to save her country....May peace be as soon established as Idesire! A great criminal has been laid low....the happiness of my country makes mine. A livelyimagination and a feeling heart promise but a stormylife; I beseech those who might regret me to considerthis: they will then rejoice at my fate.”

A tenderer tone marks the brief letter she addressedto her father on the eve of her trial anddeath:

“Forgive me, my dear father,” she observed, “forhaving disposed of my existence without your permission.I have avenged many innocent victims. Ihave warded away many disasters. The people,undeceived, will one day rejoice at being deliveredfrom a tyrant. If I endeavored to persuade you thatI was going to England, it was because I hoped toremain unknown: I recognized that this was impossible.I hope you will not be subjected to annoyance:you have at least defenders at Caen; Ihave chosen Gustave Doulcet de Pontecoulant formine: it is a mere matter of form. Such a deed allowsof no defense. Farewell, my dear father. Ibeseech of you to forget me; or, rather, to rejoice atmy fate. I die for a good cause. I embrace mysister, whom I love with my whole heart. Do notforget the line of Corneille:

‘Le crime faite la honte, et non pas l’échafaud.’

To-morrow, at eight, I am to be tried.”

On the morning of the 17th, she was led before herjudges. She was dressed with care, and had neverlooked more lovely. Her bearing was so imposingand dignified, that the spectators and the judgesseemed to stand arraigned before her. She interruptedthe first witness, by declaring that it was shewho had killed Marat.

“Who inspired you with so much hatred againsthim?” asked the president.

“I needed not the hatred of others, I had enoughof my own,” she energetically replied. “Besides,we do not execute well that which we have not ourselvesconceived.”

“What, then, did you hate in Marat?”

“His crimes.”

“Do you think that you have assassinated all theMarats?”

“No; but now that he is dead, the rest mayfear.”

She answered other questions with equal firmnessand laconism. Her project, she declared, had beenformed since the 31st of May. “She had killed oneman to save a hundred thousand. She was a republicanlong before the Revolution, and had never failedin energy.”

“What do you understand by energy?” asked thepresident.

“That feeling,” she replied, “which induces us tocast aside selfish considerations, and sacrifice ourselvesfor our country.”

Fouquier Tinville here observed, alluding to thesure blow she had given, that she must be well practicedin crime.

“The monster takes me for an assassin!” she exclaimed,in a tone thrilling with indignation.

This closed the debates, and her defender rose. Itwas not Doulcet de Pontecoulant—who had not receivedher letter—but Chauveau de la Garde, chosenby the president. Charlotte gave him an anxiouslook, as though she feared he might seek to save herat the expense of honor. He spoke, and she perceivedthat her apprehensions were unfounded. Withoutexcusing her crime or attributing it to insanity, hepleaded for the fervor of her conviction; which hehad the courage to call sublime. The appeal provedunavailing. Charlotte Corday was condemned.Without deigning to answer the president, whoasked her if she had aught to object to the penaltyof death being carried out against her, she rose, andwalking up to her defender, thanked him gracefully.

“These gentlemen,” said she, pointing to thejudges, “have just informed me that the whole ofmy property is confiscated. I owe something in theprison: as a proof of my friendship and esteem, I requestyou to pay this little debt.”

On returning to the conciergerie, she found an artist,named Hauer, waiting for her, to finish her portrait,which he had begun at the tribunal. Theyconversed freely together, until the executioner,carrying the red chemise destined for assassins, andthe scissors with which he was to cut her hair off,made his appearance.

“What, so soon?” exclaimed Charlotte Corday,slightly turning pale; but rallying her courage, sheresumed her composure, and presented a lock of herhair to M. Hauer, as the only reward in her powerto offer. A priest came to offer her his ministry.She thanked him and the persons by whom he hadbeen sent, but declined his spiritual aid. The executionercut her hair, bound her hands, and threw thered chemise over her. M. Hauer was struck withthe almost unearthly loveliness which the crimsonhue of this garment imparted to the ill-fated maiden.“This toilet of death, though performed by rudehands, leads to immortality,” said Charlotte, with asmile.

A heavy storm broke forth as the car of the condemnedleft the conciergerie for the Place de la Revolution.An immense crowd lined every streetthrough which Charlotte Corday passed. Hootingsand execrations at first rose on her path; but as herpure and serene beauty dawned on the multitude, asthe exquisite loveliness of her countenance, and thesculptural beauty of her figure became more fully revealed,pity and admiration superseded every otherfeeling. Her bearing was so admirably calm anddignified, as to rouse sympathy in the breasts of thosewho detested not only her crime, but the cause forwhich it had been committed. Many men of everyparty took off their hats and bowed as the cart passedbefore them. Amongst those who waited its approach,was a young German, named Adam Luz, who stoodat the entrance of the Rue Sainte Honore, and followedCharlotte to the scaffold. He gazed on thelovely and heroic maiden with all the enthusiasm ofhis imaginative race. A love, unexampled perhapsin the history of the human heart, took possession ofhis soul. Not one wandering look of “those beautifuleyes, which revealed a soul as intrepid as it wastender,” escaped him. Every earthly grace so soonto perish in death, every trace of the lofty and immortalspirit, filled him with bitter and intoxicatingemotions unknown till then. “To die for her; tobe struck by the same hand; to feel in death thesame cold axe which had severed the angelic headof Charlotte; to be united to her in heroism, freedom,love, and death, was now the only hope anddesire of his heart.”

Unconscious of the passionate love she hadawakened, Charlotte now stood near the guillotine.She turned pale on first beholding it, but soonresumed her serenity. A deep blush suffused herface when the executioner removed the handkerchiefthat covered her neck and shoulders, but shecalmly laid her head upon the block. The executionertouched a spring, and the axe came down.One of Samson’s assistants immediately stepped forward,and holding up the lifeless head to the gaze ofthe crowd, struck it on either cheek. The brutal actonly excited a feeling of horror; and it is said that—asthough even in death her indignant spirit protestedagainst this outrage—an angry and crimson flushpassed over the features of Charlotte Corday.

A few days after her execution, Adam Luz publisheda pamphlet, in which he enthusiasticallypraised her deed, and proposed that a statue with theinscription, “Greater than Brutus,” should beerected to her memory on the spot where she hadperished. He was arrested and thrown into prison.On entering the Abbaye, he passionately exclaimed,“I am going to die for her!” His wish was fulfilledere long.

Strange, feverish times were those which couldrouse a gentle and lovely maiden to avenge freedomby such a deadly deed; which could waken in a humanheart a love whose thoughts were not of life orearthly bliss, but of the grave and the scaffold. Letthe times, then, explain those natures, where somuch evil and heroism are blended, that man cannotmark the limits between both. Whatever judgmentmay be passed upon her, the character of CharlotteCorday was certainly not cast in an ordinary mould.It is a striking and noble trait, that to the last she didnot repent: never was error more sincere. If shecould have repented, she would never have becomeguilty.

Her deed created an extraordinary impressionthroughout France. On hearing of it, a beautifulroyalist lady fell down on her knees, and invoked“Saint Charlotte Corday.” The republican MadameRoland calls her a heroine worthy of a betterage. The poet, Andre Chenier—who, before a yearhad elapsed, followed her on the scaffold—sang herheroism in a soul-stirring strain.

The political influence of that deed may be estimatedby the exclamation of Vergniaud: “She killsus, but she teaches us how to die!” It was so.The assassination of Marat exasperated all hisfanatic partisans against the Girondists. Almost divinehonors were paid to his memory; forms ofprayer were addressed to him; altars were erectedto his honor, and numberless victims sent to thescaffold as a peace-offering to his manes. On thewreck of his popularity rose the far more dangerouspower of Robespierre; a new impulse was given tothe Reign of Terror. Such was the “peace” whichthe erring and heroic Charlotte Corday won forFrance.

———

BY MRS. E. J. EAMES.

———

A Favorite Song.

COMPOSED BY

MATTHIAS KELLER.

WORDS FROM THE GERMAN.

The Golden Legend. By Henry Wordsworth Longfellow.Boston: Ticknor, Read & Fields. 1 vol. 16mo.

The readers of this charming poem, whatever may betheir judgment of its merits as compared with “TheSpanish Student” and “Evangeline,” will be compelledto acknowledge its originality of plan, and thenew impression it conveys of the author’s genius.Whatever it may be, it is most assuredly no repetitionof any of his former works, for the mark it leaves uponthe imagination is essentially novel. The poem is a successionof highly colored pictures of life in the middleages; and though the fortunes of Prince Henry and Elsiegive a certain unity to the whole, it is a unity that admitsof more variety than “Evangeline”—a varietywhich, though purchased at some expense of interest inthe story, produces a more pleasing impression in theend. Though the poem has not the continuous richnessand warmth of fancy, diction, and melody whichcommonly distinguish Longfellow’s writings, it is by nomeans deficient in those qualities, and has scenes andpassages on which his imagination has expended the fullpomp of its luxurious images and subtle melodies.Though filled with vivid pictures of the middle ages,the poem can hardly be called picturesque, for the picturesqueimplies not succession but combination; and“The Golden Legend” is a succession of pictures, nota combination of many into one. The picturesque, asdefined by Coleridge, is the “union, harmonious melting-downand fusion of the different in kind and the disparatein degree” and it is in this meaning of the wordthat Coleridge denies the quality to Spenser, therebymuch puzzling even Hallam, who could not conceivewhy a poem so full of pictures as the Faery Queene,was not in an eminent degree picturesque.

The volume opens with a scene representing the spireof the Strasburg Cathedral, and Lucifer with the Powersof the Air, trying to tear down the cross. This scenehas a quaint sublimity which prepares the mind for thestrangeness of the representations of religion whichfollow; for Longfellow, in his pictures of Catholicism,presents it, not in its abstract doctrines, but in its concretelife—presents it as it really existed in institutions,customs, and men, during the middle ages. This ideamust be perceived at the commencement, or else thereader, judging not merely as a modern Protestant, butas a modern Catholic, will condemn the poem at onceas irreverently extravagant and bizarre. The nextscene introduces Prince Henry, sitting alone in hiscastle, tormented with baffled aspiration and wearinessof life—a sort of Faust, but a Faust of sentiment ratherthan a Faust of intellect. In a beautiful soliloquy, theprince mourns over the graves of his departed hopes,loves, and aspirations, in a style very different from thesharp, short, electric curses on the deceptions of life,which leap from the lips of Goethe’s hero. We give ashort extract, which is a poem in itself:

Just as the prince, in his hunger for rest, has asserted

Lucifer appears, in his accustomed dress as a travelingphysician, and accompanied by his usual sign, a flash oflightning. He taunts and cajoles his victim into drinkingwhat he is pleased to call his water of life. Theimmediate effect of this Satanic liquid is like that whichthe cordial of the foul hag communicates to the Faustof Goethe:

We are next transferred as spectators to the courtyardof the castle, and a most beautiful scene occursbetween Hubert, Prince Henry’s seneschal, and Walter,the Minnesinger, a capital embodiment of the knightlypoet of the middle ages. The prince, it seems, has relapsedfrom the glory of his exaltation, has become moresoul-sick than ever, has fallen under the malediction ofthe church; and has gone forth into disgrace and banishment.We give the concluding passage of this scene,where Walter speaks of the “beings of the wind” thatattend the poet, and, leaning over the parapet of thecastle, describes the landscape:

The next three scenes are exquisite in conception andexecution. Prince Henry has found refuge

The pictures which follow of Gottlieb, his wife Ursula,and Elsie, his daughter, the heroine of the poem, arebeautiful and touching representations of the sturdyhonesty and sublime simplicity of faith, which distinguishedthe religious German peasant-family of theold time. A legend of the Monk Felix, which PrinceHenry reads, while Elsie is gathering flowers for himand for St. Cecelia, is truly “golden.” We cannot resistthe temptation to quote a portion of it.

When the monk returns to the convent, every thing ischanged. He finds himself a stranger among the brotherhood.

At last the oldest recluse of the cloister recollects hisname as that of a monk, who, a hundred years before,had left the convent, and never returned.

Elsie learns that the malady of the prince will neverbe cured unless by a miracle, or unless (which someBenedicts would pronounce equally miraculous) amaiden should offer her life for his, and die in his stead.She immediately expresses her desire to save the princeat this sacrifice; and to the exclamation of her mother,that she knows not what death is, she answers with aburst of religious fervor almost celestial:

Prince Henry, uncertain whether he shall selfishlyavail himself of this sacrifice, goes to take counsel ofthe priest. Lucifer, however, in the absence of theregular clergy, has seated himself in the confessional,and, preaching the gospel of expediency, convincesHenry that he can accept the maiden’s offer. She is togo with him to Salerno to die; and before they start sheexacts a promise from him that he shall not endeavor toturn her from her purpose, and does it in words

A large portion of the rest of the poem is devoted torepresentations of the cities, towns, forests throughwhich they pass on their way to Salerno, the cloistersand convents where they stop, and the many-coloredand multiform life with which they come slightly in contactor collision. The thread of the story is here spunvery fine, and we almost lose memory of the hero andheroine, while rapt in the gorgeous pictures of medievalsuperstition, manners and character, with which thepage is crowded. It is evident that the story itself istoo slight for the bulk of the book, and that the majorityof the scenes, vivid and delightful as they are in themselves,have not that vital connection with the chiefcharacters and leading event which is demanded in awork of art. And yet, if the reader sharply scrutinizesthe whole impression which the poem leaves on hisimagination, he will, perhaps, discover that there is afine thread of union connecting the various parts, andthat the incidents and scenery of the journey have notthat merely mechanical juxtaposition which characterizesthe events and scenes recorded in a tourist’sjournal. The prince and Elsie are felt when they arenot seen; and we do not know but that the poem mayawake the admiration of future critics for the singularrefinement of the imaginative power, by which theseemingly heterogeneous parts of the work are subtlyorganized into a hom*ogeneous whole, by the connectionof the profound Catholic sentiment of Elsie with theother expressions, grotesque and besotted, of the operationof the same faith. But such refinements are foreignto our purpose here. It is sufficient to say that theprince and Elsie appear at least on the edges of all theincidents which are so vividly presented. At the conclusion,the prince repents just as Elsie is on the pointof being immolated, and then finds that his health recoversmore rapidly on the prospect that she will livefor him, instead of die for him. They are accordinglymarried. The account of the return to the cottage ofGottlieb and the castle of the prince, is very beautiful.Elsie is, perhaps, Longfellow’s finest creation, representinga woman so perfectly good, that her principleshave become instincts. The devil that appears in thebook, though sufficiently Satanic to frighten some sensitivereaders, is rather a languid Lucifer, as comparedwith Milton’s or Goethe’s.

Among the many curiosities of the poem is a play,ingeniously imitated, in form and spirit, from thosemonstrosities of the early drama, the Miracle Plays.The fourth part is devoted to a convent in the BlackForest, and the soliloquy of Friar Claus, in the wine-cellar—ofFriar Pacificus, transcribing and illuminatingMSS.—of the Abbot Ernestus, pacing among thecloisters—and the convivial scene in the rectory—arefine descriptions of cloistered life, true both to the ideasand facts of the time. The passionate confession ofthe Abbess Irmingard to Elsie, is in Longfellow’s mostpowerful style, and has a fire and fierceness of outrightand downright passion, not common to his representationsof emotion. All of these would afford many choicepassages for quotation; we have but room, however,for Friar Cuthbert’s sermon, delivered in front of theStrasburg Cathedral, on Easter Day. This, with aquaint audacity of its own, elbows out even its bettersin verse and sentiment, and vehemently claims the rightto be cited:

Friar Cuthbert, gesticulating and cracking apostilion’s whip.

We think we have sufficiently quoted from this delightfulvolume to give our readers an idea of its poeticalmerit. But no analysis or quotation can do justice tothe wealth of knowledge it evinces of the middle ages,and to the various scholarship it displays. Longfellow,with a true poetic insight and power of assimilation, hasgiven us here the life and spirit as well as the form of aby-gone age, so that the reader of the poem can obtainmore of the substance of knowledge from its picturedpage than from history itself. The work is not only oneof uncommon poetical excellence, but it is a triumphover difficulties inherent in the subject, and over thesubjective limitations of the author’s own mind. It isbroader if not higher than any thing he has previouslywritten, promises to be more permanently popular, andhas the great merit of increasing in the reader’s estimationwith a second or even a third perusal.

Miscellanies. By the Rev. James Martineau. Boston:Crosby & Nichols. 1 vol. 12mo.

Mr. Martineau has long been known to a numerousclass of readers in this country as an eloquent preacherand essayist. The present volume is composed of philosophicalessays, selected from his contributions to theWestminster and Prospective Reviews, and is edited bythe Rev. Thomas S. King, of Boston, himself one of themost eloquent and accomplished of New England clergymen.Mr. Martineau’s sermons have been repeatedlyreprinted, but this volume of Miscellanies conveys animpression of the independence and fertility of his mindand the reach of his acquisitions, which his sermons,with all their peculiar merit, would never give. Itevinces not only an interest in all the social and religiousproblems which puzzle the present age, but a grasp ofscholarship extending far back over the philosophies andliteratures of other times and nations. The bent of hisnature, however, is toward mental hospitality to theradical opinions of the day, and new thoughts, newhopes, even new paradoxes, are ever welcomed by hisheart and disposition when his cool head doubts, discusses,demurs, and withholds its assenting judgment.He seems to have more sympathy for reformers thantheir productions, as his rich and various culture enableshim to detect one-sidedness or superficiality in manya plan of amelioration, the spirit of which he approves.Both, however, in politics and religion he would beclassed with the extremely “liberal” party; and thoughthe conservative elements of his mind are, to a discriminatingreader, visible in almost every page of the presentvolume, the author appears all the while desirous toshare the glorious unpopularity of a class of thinkerswith whom he but imperfectly sympathizes rather thanto indicate his points of disagreement with their schemesand systems. He has a deep mental disgust for the moraltimidity and intellectual feebleness which characterizeso many of the fashionable and conventional thinkers onpolitics and theology, and is perhaps from this cause tooapt to overlook defects in heretical systems in his admirationof the courage of the heretics. In his ownwords, “it is a dishonorable characteristic of the presentage, that on its most marked intellectual tendencies isimpressed a character of FEAR. While its great practicalagitations exhibit a progress toward some positiveand attainable good, all its conspicuous movements ofthought seem to be retreats from some apprehended evil.The open plain of meditation, over which, in simplertimes, earnest men might range with devout and unmolestedhope, bristles all over with directions showingwhich way we are not to go. Turn where we maywe see warnings to beware of some sophist’s pitfall,or devil’s ditch, or fool’s paradise, or atheist’sdesert.”

This “despair of truth,” this intellectual cowardice,is more offensive to Mr. Martineau than unbelief itself.He describes the class of thinkers he most dislikes inone sentence of beautiful sharpness. “Checked andfrightened,” he says, “at the entrance of every path onwhich they venture, they spend their strength in standingstill; or devise ingenious proofs, that, in a world whereperiodicity is the only progress, retrogradation is thediscreetest method of advance.” His whole volume istherefore a protest against the practice, common both inEngland and the United States, of erecting in the republicof thought a despotism of dullness and timidity, bywhich independent investigation is to be allowed only sofar as it results in fortifying accredited systems, and abounty is put on that worst form of disbelief, infidelityto the laws of thought, the monitions of conscience, andthe beckonings of new and inspiring truths. But whilehe is properly angry at such noodleism as this, which,if unlashed and unrebuked, would reduce men of thoughtinto a corporation of intellectual Jerry Sneaks, he doesnot appear to us properly to distinguish between thatindependence which seeks truth and that independencewhich is merely a blustering egotism, and ostentatiousexhibition of the commonplaces of error. His discriminationis not always of that sort which detects throughthe verbal disguises of moral energy the unmistakablefeatures of moral pertness. The charlatans of dignityand convention have provoked a corresponding clique ofcharlatans, who revel in the bravadoes of license andanarchy; and it is no part of a wise man’s duty to allowhis disgust of one form of nonsense to tempt him intochampionship of another form, because it happens to beon the opposite extreme.

The defect of Mr. Martineau’s nature appears to be thedominion of the reflective portion of his nature over allits other powers. He is emphatically a thinker, but athinker on subjects so allied to sentiment and passion,that some action should be combined with it, in orderthat the mind shall receive no morbid taint, be not“sicklied o’er” by a thought that broadens into unpracticalcomprehension. The fertility of his mind inthoughts is altogether out of proportion to the vigor ofhis nature, and though intellectually brave he is not intellectuallyrobust. Hence a lack of muscle and nervein his most beautiful paragraphs; hence the absence ofelectric force and condensed energy of expression in hisfinest statements; hence a certain sadness and languorin the atmosphere spread over his writings, the breathingof which does not invigorate the mind so much as it enlargesits view. He communicates thoughts, but he doesnot always communicate the inspiration to think.

Although these drawbacks prevent us from rankinghim, as a writer, in the highest class—for a writer of thehighest class impresses his readers by the force of hischaracter as much as by the affluence of his conceptionsand the beauties of his style—still Mr. Martineau rankshigh among contemporary prose writers for the sweetness,clearness, pliancy and unity of his style, his happyfelicities of imagery, his unostentatious intellectual honesty,and his command of all the rhetorical aids ofmetaphor, sarcasm and figurative illustration. His styleis also strictly vital, the exact expression of his natureas well as opinions; but its melody is flute-like ratherthan clarion-like; is so consistently ornate and so tunedon one key, that commonplaces and originalities areequally clad in the same superb uniform, and move to themusic of the same slow march; and the sad earnestnessand languor, which we have mentioned as characterizinghis will, steal mysteriously out from his exquisiteperiods, and pass into the reader’s mind like an invisibleessence. Almost every professor of rhetoric would saythat Mr. Martineau is a better writer than the Bishop ofExeter, a church dignitary for whom Mr. Martineau’sliberal mind has a natural antipathy. Mr. Martineauhas evidently a larger command of words and images,more taste, more toleration, more intellectual conscientiousnessand comprehension, a better metaphysician, amore trustworthy thinker, with less mosaic work in hislogic, and less casuistry in his ethics. But behind allthe Bishop of Exeter’s sentences is a great, brawny,hard-fisted, pugilistic, arrogant man, daring, confident,indomitable, with as much will as reason, and with allhis opinions so thoroughly penetrated with the life-bloodof his character that they have all the force of bigotryand prejudice. He is equally unreasonable and uncreativeas a thinker, but his unreason has a vigor that Mr.Martineau’s reason lacks. Wielding with his strongarm some piece of medieval bigotry, he goes crashingon from sentence to sentence, angrily pummeling andbuffeting his opponents—a theological “ugly customer,”who, when the rush of his coming is heard afaroff, makes the adversaries he is approaching glance instinctivelyto the direction—“look out for the enginewhen the bell rings!” Mr. Martineau’s large understandingwould be benefited by some of the Bishop’swill; and one is driven to the conclusion, that, a man ofpurely independent thought, who abides in conceptionsof his own, entirely apart from authority, must be agenius of the first order to escape from that weakness ofwill which distinguishes the most adventurous of Mr.Martineau’s abstract and uninvigorating speculations.

Indeed, in all declamations about the advantages ofstrict individualism in matters of faith and speculation,there is not the right emphasis laid on the distinctionbetween abstract and concrete ideas. A faith whichrests on some union of authority with reason, which isconnected with institutions, which combines the principleof obedience with that of liberty, may be narrow butit is sure to be strong, and if not distinguished by reachof thought will compensate for that deficiency by forceof character. Mr. Martineau’s tendency is to the abstract,the impalpable, the unrealized in speculation,and spends much of his strength in supporting himselfat the elevation of his thought. But as his thinking isnot on the level of his character, he insensibly exaltsopinion over life, and is more inclined to tolerate the excessesof unbridled and unreasonable egotism, than theprejudices of pious humility. As a thinker his mind demandsbreadth and largeness of view, and we hardlythink he could be satisfied with a saint who was notsomething of a philosopher. But while he has a literaryadvantage over his adversaries, they have a personaladvantage over him. In courage, even, there can belittle doubt that the Bishop of Exeter is his superior, forall the coarser human elements which enter into courageMr. Martineau lacks. Mr. Martineau has the courageto deny in his Review any proposition which any establishedchurch might proclaim; but he could not haveassailed the Archbishop of Canterbury, and beardedLord Campbell, like the bishop. The difference in thecase is, that the bishop battled for a positive institutionaround which for years his affections and passions hadclustered; while Mr. Martineau has no such inspirationto support the abstract conclusions of his intellect.

The subjects of the essays in this volume are Dr.Priestley, Dr. Arnold, Church and State, TheodoreParker’s Discourses of Religion, Phases of Faith, TheChurch of England, and the Battle of the Churches. Ofthese we have been particularly impressed with theanalysis of the mental character of Priestley, the reviewof Mr. Parker, and the articles relating to the EnglishChurch. The essay on Dr. Arnold has something of thesome merit which distinguishes that on Dr. Priestley; itis acute in the examination of principles but dull in theperception of character. Mr. Martineau is alwaysstrong in the explication of ideas and the statement andanalysis of systems, but he constantly overlooks men inhis attention to the opinions they champion and represent.The dramatic element not only does not exist inhis mind, but he hardly accepts it as a possibility of thehuman intellect; and therefore he always fails in viewingideas in connection with the individuality or nationalityin which they have their root, and is accordinglyoften unintentionally intolerant to persons from his wantof insight into the individual conditions of their intellectualactivity. But we gladly hasten from these criticismson his limitations to some examples of his peculiarmerits as a writer. In speaking of Dr. Priestley’s intellectualprocesses as a scientific explorer and discoverer,he shrewdly remarks: “He was the ample collector ofmaterials for discovery rather than the final discovererhimself; a sign of approaching order rather than theproducer of order himself. We remember an amusingGerman play, designed as a satire upon the philosophyof atheism, in which Adam walks across the stage, goingto be created; and, though a paradox, it may be said thattruth, as it passed through Dr. Priestley’s mind, wasgoing to be created.” In referring to the purely independentaction of Dr. Priestley’s mind in the formationof his opinions, our analyst gives a fine statement of thereal sources of most men’s “positive” knowledge anddoctrines. “It would be difficult,” he says, “to selectfrom the benefactors of mankind one who was less actedupon by his age; whose convictions were more independentof sympathy; in the whole circle of whoseopinions you can set down so little to the prejudgmentsof education, to the attractions of friendship, to the perverselove of opposition, to the contagion of prevailingtaste, or to any of the irregular moral causes which,independently of evidence, determine the course ofhuman belief.” Again, how fine is his statement of theindestructibility of Christian faith: “Amid the vicissitudesof intellect, worship retains its stability; and thetruth, which, it would seem, cannot be proved, is unaffectedby an infinite series of refutations. How evidentthat it has its ultimate seat, not in the mutable judgmentsof the understanding, but in the native sentimentsof Conscience and the inexhaustible aspirations of Affection!The Supreme certainly must needs be too trueto be proved: and the highest perfection can appeardoubtful only to sensualism and sin.”

“The Battle of the Churches,” the most exquisite inthought and style of all the essays in the volume, andwell-known to most readers for its clear statement ofthe hold which Romanism has upon the affections ofmankind, contains many examples of the fine irony andbland sarcasm which enter into the more stimulating ingredientsof Mr. Martineau’s softly flowing diction. Hisstatement of Comte’s Law of Progression, as followedby his view of the complicated theological discussionswhich now divide England into furious parties, is mostdemurely comical. “In 1822,” he commences, “aFrench philosopher discovered the grand law of humanprogression, revealed it to applauding Paris, brought thehistory of all civilized nations to pronounce it infallible,and computed from it the future course of European society.The mind of man, we are assured by AugusteComte, passes by invariable necessity through threestages of development: the state of religion, or fiction;of metaphysics, or abstract thought; of science, or positiveknowledge. No change in this order, no return uponits steps, is possible; the shadow cannot retreat upon thedial, or the man return to the nature of the child. Everyone who is not behind the age will tell you, that he hasoutlived the theology of his infancy and the philosophyof his youth, to settle down on a physical belief in theripeness of his powers. And so, too, the world, passingfrom myth to metaphysics, and from metaphysics to induction,begins with the Bible and ends with the ‘Coursde Philosophie Positive.’ To the schools of the prophetssucceeds ‘L’Ecole Polytechnique;’ and our intellect,having surmounted the meridians of God and the Soul,culminates in the apprehension of material nature.Henceforth the problems so intensely attractive to speculation,and so variously answered by faith, retire fromthe field of thought. They have an interest, as in somesense the autobiography of an adolescent world: butthey were never to return in living action upon theearth.”

We can only, in conclusion, recommend to our readersan examination of this volume, and to its editor a continuationof his well-rewarded labors in Mr. Martineau’smine.

The Women of Early Christianity. A Series of Portraits,with appropriate Descriptions, by several AmericanClergymen. Edited by Rev. J. A. Spencer, M. A.New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 8vo.

This magnificent volume, with its superb illustrations,letter-press and binding, seems to have been publishedwith a determination to rival those English houses whosupply the American market with splendid gift-books.It contains seventeen ideal portraits, engraved fromoriginal designs for this work, and conveying all thevarieties of expression which religious emotion communicatesto the human countenance, from the humblestpenitence to loftiest rapture. The notices are by theeditor, assisted by Dr. Sprague, Dr. Kip, Dr. Ingen, Dr.Parks, the Rev. Mr. Osgood, and a few other eminentclergymen. The volume will be found especially interestingto those who delight in whatever increases theirknowledge of the manners and the character, the sufferingsand the heroic resolution of the early Christians.The lives of these women is a representation of Christianityas embodied in feminine character; and the studyis curious in its metaphysical as well as its theologicalaspect. Among the best of the communicated articles,is that of St. Agnes, by Mr. Osgood. The conclusionwe quote for the pointedness of its application. “Tous,” says Mr. Osgood, “this Roman girl stands as asacred ideal of the Christian maiden. Her name we maynot invoke in prayer. Her purity and heroism we mayadmire and commend to the honor of the maidens of ourtime, who are tempted by powers more insidious thanthe arts and threats of Sempronius. The world has notchanged its heart so much as its creed and costume. Itscorrupt fashions would tyrannize over our daughterswith the pride of the Cæsars, and a meretricious literaturelurks in our journals and romances more dangerousto maidenly purity than the den of shame which assailedonly to illustrate the virtue of Agnes. True to her souland to her Saviour, the Christian maiden wins to herbrow a radiance which, instead of being dimmed bymarriage, is rather brightened by the affections of thewife and the sacrifices of the mother, into the aureolaof the saint.”

Greenwood Leaves. A Collection of Sketches and Letters.By Grace Greenwood. Second Series. Boston: Ticknor,Reed & Fields. 1 vol. 12mo.

This series of sketches is superior to the first, and indicatesplainly, not only the growth of the author’smind, but a firmer and more confident grasp and controlof her various resources of intellect, sentiment and acquisition.It is the production of the same individualitywhich gave zest to her first volume, but an individualityof larger moral and mental stature. The full, easy, almostmajestic flow of emotion and sentiment, whichgave vividness to the conceptions and vigorous movementto the style of her former sketches, is visible herein a brighter and more powerful form; and, it may beadded, that the faults proceeding from the intensity ofher mind, and her custom of surveying things whichproperly claim the decision of judgment through an atmosphereof feeling, are not altogether absent from herpresent work. She exaggerates both in her praise andblame; her eulogy being too generous, her condemnationsometimes too sharp and indiscriminating; and many ofher criticisms are, therefore, but an ingenious and splendidexhibition of likes and dislikes, rather than a recordof intellectual judgments. She has not yet obtained thefaculty of viewing things as they are in themselves, independentof the feelings they excite in her own soul.This fault is a source of raciness, and doubtless makesher books all the more stimulating to a majority ofrenders; but it would seem that a mind which gives suchunmistakable hints of sharp insight, penetrating wit, andclear, intuitive reason as Grace Greenwood’s, shouldkeep the enthusiasm of her nature a little more undercontrol; and this could be done, we opine, withoutbreaking up into waves and ripples that superb sweepof her prose style, which is her great charm as a writer.We may add that the Letters in this volume, especiallythose from Washington, have often a delightful combinationof observation, wit and fancy, and in their ramblingreferences to individuals, almost raise gossip to thedignity of a fine art.

Moby-Dick; or The Whale. By Herman Melville.New York: Harper and Brothers. 1 vol. 12mo.

This volume sparkles with the raciest qualities of theauthor’s voluble and brilliant mind, and whatever maybe its reception among old salts, it will be sure of successwith the reading public generally. It has passagesof description and narration equal to the best that Melvillehas written, and its rhetoric revels and riots inscenes of nautical adventure with more than usual gleeand gusto. The style is dashing, headlong, strewn withqueer and quaint ingenuities moistened with humor, andis a capital specimen of deliberate and felicitous recklessness,in which a seeming helter-skelter movement isguided by real judgment. The whole work beams withthe analogies of a bright and teeming fancy—a facultythat Melville possesses in such degree that it sometimesbetrays his rhetoric into fantastic excesses, and gives asort of unreality to his most vivid descriptions. Thejoyous vigor and elasticity of his style, however, compensatefor all faults, and even his tasteless passagesbear the impress of conscious and unwearied power.His late books are not only original in the usual sense,but evince originality of nature, and convey the impressionof a new individuality, somewhat composite, it istrue, but still giving to the jaded reader of every-daypublications, that pleasant shock of surprise whichcomes from a mental contact with a character at oncenovel and vigorous.

The Land of Bondage; its Ancient Monuments and PresentCondition: Being a Journal of a Tour in Egypt.By J. M. Wainwright, D. D. New York: D. Appleton& Co. 1 vol. 8vo.

This volume, one of the most sumptuous in externalappearance of the season, beautifully printed and profuselyillustrated, has many peculiar excellencies also asa book of travels. Dr. Wainwright is both an eager andacute observer, and his volume bears continual evidenceof the patience with which he investigated for himself,his disregard of discomfort and danger, and his desire tosee with his own eyes what any eyes had seen. Thebook is full of information, much of which is valuable, andall of which is entertaining. The illustrations, twenty-eightin number, are exceedingly well executed, and areimportant aids to the author’s descriptions. The volumeis one of the most elegant that ever the Appletons haveissued.

Sixteen Months in the Gold Diggings. By Daniel B.Woods. New York: Harper & Brothers. 1 vol. 12mo.

The author of this valuable volume is a man of educationand intelligence, who gives us the results of hisobservations and experience during sixteen months ofpractical mining, and who, as having written the mostsensible book on the subject, deserves to have his factsand opinions carefully studied by every man who meditatesa California journey. The extravagant expectationsformed by most emigrants have been miserablybaulked by the stern realities of the case, and the plainfacts given by Mr. Woods will, we hope, induce the adventurousportion of the public to pause and reflectbefore they undertake an enterprise whose commonresult is four dollars a day, and broken health, instead ofa fortune.

The Practical Metal Worker’s Assistant. With NumerousEngravings on Wood. Containing the Arts ofWorking all Metals and Alloys, Forging of Iron andSteel, etc. etc. By Oliver Byrne. Philadelphia: HenryCarey Baird, Successor to E. L. Carey.

This is another of the very valuable series of worksupon the Arts of Mechanics, which Mr. Baird has, withgreat shrewdness, made his own. The series embracesthe whole, or nearly the whole, of the various mechanicalbranches of trade, and cannot fail to reach a widesale, and to remain standard authorities upon the subjectsof which they severally treat.

Held in his idle moments, with his Readers, Correspondents and Exchanges.

Reader! we have determined to be more familiarwith you. We shall talk right at you, in defiance ofany over nice rules. If you like us, we shall have muchto say to you—telling plain truths in our own off-handway, and occasionally giving you a punch in the ribswith our fore-finger, by way of impressment. Ourpunch, however, is “our own peculiar”—with but littleacid—and may be taken in moderation, without fear ofa headache from its excessive strength. It is new, andthough not as heady as the imported, it costs us no painsof conscience by way of unpaid duties. Like the oldlady’s gingerbread, “it costs nothing to make, for themolasses is already in the house.” So you may make ameal on ours, and spices being hot, you will find yourselfcomfortable without a bear-skin. Indeed we hopeto make “vituals and drink and pretty good clothes” outof it ourself, and to be vulgar and quote a proverb,“What is fat for the goose ought to be fat for thegander.” So you see you are in for a living as long asyou read “Graham.” But whether a person of robustconstitution could survive long on the viands that areserved up at some of the other magazine tables, is aquestion more in the line of another Graham to answer—whohas invented a bran new way of growing gracefullystout, on the shadow of cabbages, by a process of“small by degrees and beautifully less.” It is expectedthat any fellow who comes to our table shallsmoke his cigar, and laugh with the rest of the company,and not mar the general hilarity by looking grave(? stupid) and asking when the fun is over—“What is itall about?”

THAT BILL AGAIN!

Wife. Now here is my Graham forFebruary, with 112 pages, as theeditor promised, and you have neversent him that $3. Aint you ashamedof yourself!

Husband. Don’t bother me—I ambusy.

Wife. Well—the money shall go,as I shall put it in a letter—put athree cent stamp upon it, and post itthis very day.

Cross Husband. Money is worth2 per cent. a month—let the fellowwait!

Reader—that is the very reasonwe can’t wait. We are poor, andwe want every dollar. We have afancy for short paper ourself, now.“Cash on the nail, or no books.”Having $10,000 at sea, that we shouldlike to see, of last year’s bright prospects, we shall trustno more, and go in debt no deeper. Wisdom andPoverty are Fellows in our college.

If Magazine publishers could only, like cotton brokers,draw against shipments, what a delightful businessthey would have. But who advances cash upon snowed-upmails? Who has an available credit in bank, or cango at the market rates upon over-due subscriptions?Not Graham!

You can’t conceive how agreeable it is not to have adiscount—to be able to look a Bank Director in the facewithout asking him if “they are doing any thing now”—tofeel perfectly indifferent as to whether your friendhas “any thing over”—to know that you have no interestin the gold that is going to England—to be able tosay to a dun, “look you, fellow! I have no money, andyou know it!”

Mail the money at once, at our risk—Don’t waitfor

For $10 we send Graham for five years.

A Horrible Deafness.—Godey, in praising theplates of his own number for January, says, “We havenever heard of any other Magazine giving an originalplate.” Well! as we gave four “original engravings”in January, and three of them from original designs, wehave hopes of working a miracle on Godey. “Theeagle suffers little birds to sing.”

Refreshing.—The editor of the International Magazineasserts that as his German articles are germaineto the American spirit—his is the most American of allthe magazines. A nice Irish bull for a doctor of divinity.“Cousin! let there be less of this, I pray you.”

The editor of the Boston Farmer, wearied with thetoils of the field, turns poet, and comes down upon ourDecember number in the following epigram. It is evidenthe is no judge of “picture books.”

You shall not run the teeth of your poetical harrowover us in that fashion, Mr. Farmer—so here’s at you!

Dost think because thou art virtuous there shall be nomore cakes and ale? Why, look you, sir! We were afarmer’s boy ourself once—but we mowed, reaped, cradled,ploughed, ditched, and chopped wood—we didn’twrite execrable poetry, upon pretty women and innocentchildren. How are crops in State Street?

“Bizarre.”—This is the title of a neat periodical—issuedin the style of Dickens’ Household Words, andit is filled with graceful and sparkling tributes from thepen of Mr. Church, its editor. We have a right to speakout in meeting about Church, for he was an associate ofours in Auld Lang Syne—in a daily paper—and weknow him. His modest, gentlemanly demeanor concealsa world of honest good stuff, of which a dozenliterary reputations could be made, if cut up and dividedamong the “distinguished contributors” of someperiodicals. The readers of the Bizarre will soon haveoccasion to admit this.

Arthur’s Home Gazette.—We call the attentionof our readers to the prospectus of this valuable literaryJournal; and we do it with the more heartiness as wehave known its editor intimately for many years, andhave known him as one of the most upright, consistent,laborious, talented, yet modest of our literary men.Mr. Arthur is an earnest, good man—practically themoral editor he pretends to be—there is no sham orflummery in his composition, but truthful and fearless,he conducts his Journal as much as a matter of conscience,as a matter of dollars. He is totally free, too,of all small jealousies of other people’s success—but witha keen eye to life and its surroundings, he attends rigidlyto his own concerns, and labors to embody his observationsand experiences, so as to make men wiser andbetter.

To his well-known ability as an author, Mr. Arthurunites the rare gift of a capital writer for a journal, seizingwith happy tact upon the passing occurrences of thehour, and so combining them with his own manly reflectionsas to give us just views of life and of its responsibilities,too, at the same glance. In the management ofhis journal Mr. A. has had the sagacity to enlist brains—thebest writers are among his regular contributors,and without any parade or pretence, he quietly issueshis sheet each week, teeming with thought, and overflowingwith the generous sentiments of a thoroughChristian gentleman.

If any of our readers desire to see a copy of the Gazette,he will furnish it upon application—if they desireto subscribe they can have this Magazine and thatpaper for $4. We have spoken frankly of Mr. Arthurand his paper—we have spoken what we believe.

Plain Talk.—It has become fashionable to tell allmanner of fibs to the country by prospectus and editorialpersonal horn-blowing. We shall stop this businessright off, as if ’twere a sort of gas burner. Why nottell the whole truth at once, without attempting to throwdust in people’s eyes about extra pages when there arenone—or new fashions, which are but copies of oldFrench designs—American literature contributed byEnglish and Swedish writers, or by Mrs. Hall, an Irishlady. Jonathan is not as stupid as he looks, and wedoubt whether there is much made in attempting to cheathim. So here’s into the confessional—Jontey, my boy,the plate called “Sweet Sixteen,” in this number, wasnot engraved for Graham—and you will observe he doesnot say it was—but it cost us $120 for all that, on accountof its beauty. If you have never seen it, you will likeit much—if you have, go one eye on it from an originalpoint of view, and refresh your admiration—that’s agood boy! If that engraving don’t suit you, look atPère-la-Chaise, which we paid Rolph, of New York,$175 for engraving; or admire Devereux’s fine wood-engravings.Then take up the literary department andread that, and if you haven’t got your “quarter’s worth,”amuse yourself with reading the advertisem*nts on thecover.

The Froth of Small Beer.—One word as to thesly hits at us for engaging “Mr. James, an Englishwriter.” Well! Mr. James is a writer of English, andnotwithstanding the gnat-like buzzing of small criticswho singe their wings in his light, we think him one ofthe most agreeable of all novel writers. He is a gentleman,of modest demeanor, who does not come to thiscountry to raise a hurrah, or a row, by flattering ourvanity or assailing our foibles. He has settled snuglydown on his farm at Stockbridge, Massachusetts—claimsthe proper protection of his property as a residentcitizen, by copyrighting his books; and attends quietlyto his own affairs. We paid him $1200 for his novel,and think it a good one—he is satisfied—we are satisfied—andthe readers of Graham are delighted. So that wehope to survive the small malice of small men. If Grahamlives, he will, before he closes the year 1852, havethe largest list of good paying subscribers that everblessed a publisher’s eyes with the sight of dollars, andwill show such energy in “Graham” as will astonishthose who imitate, but can never excel, and whosehighest achievement it is, to be looking through a pieceof smoked glass, in the vain hope of seeing an eclipse ofGraham’s Magazine.

Always 112 Pages.—At the risk of being thought alittle malicious, as well as prophetical, we ask of ourreaders, and of editors with whom we exchange, to comparethe quantity of literary matter in Graham of thismonth, with those who endeavor to follow in our footstepswith the January number, but trip up, or get leg-wearyas soon as the number is published, and the subscriptionsare received.

We also ask—and in this we do not think we are impertinent,that our editorial friends will, in so far astheir leisure will permit, look over Graham before noticingit, even if the notice be delayed a week or more.We are in no expiring agony or apprehension that we areforgotten by our exchanges—so we can wait their pleasureabout the notice always; and should prefer a candidexpression of sentiment, favorable or adverse, to anysolicited puffery. Indeed, it would be refreshing to bescored up a little or quizzed once in a while. Only ifyou have but a word or a line, to say of Graham, don’tbundle him into a bag with any body! He comes to yourtable by invitation—so give him his own plate and knifeand fork; and if you treat him to but plain fare, he willbe as jolly as if you champagned him, or killed the fattestchicken, in your desire to honor his visit with a barbecue.

Our readers, of course, read “Graham”—they can telltheir acquaintances what a happy rascal he is, and howmuch they miss it by not having him drop in upon themthese long winter evenings. Will you do this?—eachone of you—YOU!

A New Feature.—In addition to, and separate from,the regular review of new books, we shall introduce anew feature in “Graham”—that of giving well-chosenchapters of new books—bound volumes which do notreadily find their way into a large circulation—that ourreaders, far and near, may be kept booked up in all thatappertains to the fresh literature of the day. In thisnumber, we give a short chapter from Ik Marvel’s newwork—“Dream-Land”—and in subsequent numbers of“Graham,” shall devote some eight or ten pages to interestingand sparkling chapters or passages of choiceand rare volumes, the proof sheets of which we can oftenobtain in advance. The great addition to the size of theMagazine, readily affords us space for this improvement—andif our readers receive but half the gratificationwhich we design to impart to them by this new feature,Graham will be amply rewarded.

The Home Journal.—One of the most delightful ofall the journals we have upon our exchange—and theynumber over twelve hundred—is the Home Journal ofNew York, Edited by N. Parker Willis and George P.Morris, two men whose names are household words, andwhose fine genius seems to expand in its sparkling pages.There is no paper in the country upon which there issuch manifest employment of brain-work or pains-takinglabor—of tact or taste. The editorial page alone willfurnish food, at any time, for a day of pleasant reflection—thewhole sheet, indeed, is the siftings of golden sand.It is a sort of intellectual placer, where Beauty may growradiant and wise.

Liberal.—Duval, of The Phœnix, Camden, Ala.,offers to exchange his Weekly with the Daily of theBoston Post, provided Green will publish his prospectussix times. If Green declines that offer he don’t deservehis name. Duval has a fair hit at the catch-penny affairswhich offer to give an exchange and an “engraving,”(? wood-cut) as a premium to those who publish a two-columnprospectus and get up a club.

It is about time the country press took this matter inhand. We send “Graham” to whom we please, and ifnoticed—well, if not—weller. We shall not die outfrom exhaustion if an editor with whom we exchangefails to say that Graham is, or is not, “himself again”.

Welcome Brother.—We welcome to the corpseditorial of the Magazine fraternity, John Sartain, Esq.,who, with all the blushing honors thick upon him as anartist of the first ability, comes like another Alexanderto conquer in a new field. We have confidence in Mr.Sartain’s tact and taste, and look for a very fresh, sparklingand original periodical. Mr. S. is a disciple of thedoctrine of progress—“onward!” is his motto—thoughall the fiends oppose. He is a revolutionizer, and hascommenced cutting the heads off in style. We don’twant to take off any thing in Sartain, but if he can“keep it up” long, he must get a new bat-man for hisPuck’s port-folio—not even a Puck could stand that.

Wont Do It.—The State Guard of Wetumpka,Ala., “hopes George R. will forgive it, for lending“Graham” to six young ladies.” The sin is unpardonable.Look you—Messrs. Hardy and Stephens! whatright have you to be making love to half a dozen prettygirls? Where are their beaux, that each of them hasnot a “Graham” of her own? Inquire into this business,and report at the next meeting. No young ladyhas a right to read “Graham” unless her beau pays thedamage.

Godey will find it impossible to get the Mote out ofhis own eye, when he contrasts “Sweet Sixteen” inthis number with his Americanized Fashion plates,Our own have a beam of pleasure in them, as we gazeupon its surpassing loveliness. The original must be abeauty. We have never seen her—indeed, should neverhave had this copy, were it not for a heart in the business,loading us to brave all dangers to conquer.

Robert Morris, of the Inquirer, is a friend thatnever wavers, but in sunshine or in storm, his benignantcountenance and cheering words are never wantingMorris must have a rich treasury in the memory of gooddeeds done—of kindly words spoken in dark hours tothe sad and desolate—a wealth of remembrance of generoushours, worth all the gold of misers.

Acknowledged.—Godey had the most beautiful coveron his Magazine for January that we have ever seen.Having beaten him in our Paris Fashion, we submit andare penitent.

We shall start a bank with Godey on the profits of ourJanuary numbers—notes to be kept at par for thirtydays. There is no joke in this—it is as serious as Sartain’sfun.

Curious, Isn’t?—They intend, in Kentucky, toblacken the noses of all convicts, so that if they escape,they may be detected. Pike, of the Flag, suggests thatthe operation be extended to all delinquent subscribersto periodicals and newspapers—he knows.

Graham lays down and expounds the law as it oughtto be applied to those who forget to pay up once a year.

Graham wrote the above under the inspiration of thediscovery that he has over $10,000 due on his books inlittle California lumps of $3—and is poorer than he waslast year—which he resists, and don’t intend to stand.

Graham had occasion last year to say, “take yourcountry papers”—and good doctrine it is, too; he says,now “GO AND PAY FOR THEM!—TIME’S UP!”

Reader—this is a mournful picture—a sad evidence ofthe depravity of man. This fellow has read, and hasallowed his family to read, his cousins and his neighbors,too, to ponder over, the lessons of wisdom imparted by“Graham,” and yet for a year, or two years, or more,has not paid. We are giving him the Kentucky benediction!But he has a chance yet, you see—he must payup before the next number is out, or we shall make himas black as Sambo, and tell you who he is!

Harry Hazel, the editor, says, “The sailing qualitiesof ‘The Yankee Privateer’ come fully up to ourexpectations. The breezes of popular opinion areblowing freshly in her favor, and there in every prospectthat she will walk ‘like a thing of life.’ ” Wethought, from her rig and stowage, that she was a sort ofclipper—for she has all the good things in her. Wewish her a fresh breeze and flowing sale. Harry offersto “pay liberally for tough yarns.” Here is a chancefor the writers of some of the Magazine Prospectuses—Allhands ahoy!

Improving.—Brother Harper promises “one or moreoriginal articles,” and “copious selections,” in the newvolume.

“One swallow does not make a summer,” nor willone swallow sustain “an author and his family.”

Quære. Whether “Swallow Barn” contains any allusionto authorial capacity for gulping—Bird could tell.

Delusion Extraordinary.—To suppose that becausea man is poor, he has unlimited credit at bank, andcan pay all manner of absurd bills and drafts at sight—andgold going out at the rate of a million per steamer,and the rocks in California not all crushed, either.

Minute.—One of the Magazines, in numbering theillustrations for the month, treats us to the following:

“No. IX. Pattern for Baby’s Cap, one engraving,with directions for working it in crotchet.”

The Game Won.—Our January number was a “sensationnumber”—and the press and the public are inecstasies with it. “We turn up Jack” with this number—havingbut one point to make.

Awful.—Snooks wants to know whether we have“still eighty thousand!” No! we have a very noisyone hundred and ten—a good many of them Temperancefolk at that—clamorous for “more—still.”

Sartin.—A cotemporary says, “With the presentnumber we commence securing the copyright of ourMagazine.” Where’s the International AmericanizedGerman Frenchman?

A Proper Present.—The New York Tribune, innoticing appropriate gifts to those we love, at NewYear, says, “A year’s subscription to some good Periodicalis an appropriate and excellent gift.”

If you want to pay a delicate attention to your sweet-heart,send her “Graham.”

Cheap Literature.—A new edition of Cooper’snovels is now in course of publication in England, inpenny numbers.

Husband. “Economy, my dear, is the source ofwealth.”

Wife. “I wish, husband, you would go there.”

A “SPLENDID EMBELLISHMENT.”

A distressed black-man, who seeing the portrait of hisladie-love in a fashionable magazine, is driven to desperation,and blows the brains out of—his master’s bestmirror!—exclaiming, “Dat’s Dinah! Sartin.”

Curious.—John S. Hart, L. L. D., has retired fromthe editorship of Sartain’s Magazine, and the series ofvery funny religious illustrations is ended. Sartain whois a graver man, now gives us comic cuts which are sadenough to make a Momus weep.

Mr. James.—Several witty dogs wish to know“whether Mr. James has the solitary horseman in thenovel now running through the pages of Graham?” No.Any equestrian fond of solitary rides may put the novelin his pocket without danger of having “the other fellow”with him.

By the way, the American gentleman mentioned in theopening chapters of Mr. James’ novel, in the Januarynumber, as having first stimulated his ambition to becomea literary man, is our own distinguished countrymanMr. Washington Irving, as will be seen by the followingletter from Mr. James, addressed to us, inanswer to an inquiry upon the subject:

Scott’s Weekly Paper.—Scott, the great “PracticalPrinter” who was bred in “Alexander’s time,” has, byeating a good deal of it, become a hero in ours—and survivedthe decay which usually attaches itself to mortalswho press “the rugged pathway up the steeps of Fame.”He lives on air—or at least on that fast press whichcame off with a feed at the Astor. Hoeing his own rowmost elegantly, he disdains in ’52 the mean competitionof trade, which leads men to haggle for sixpence profit,but becomes a prophet himself, and carries out his ownpredictions.

Scott, last year, having announced a sheet “as big asall out doors”—if we except one from a Dutch barn inBerks—was accused of endeavoring to pull down thewhole literary temple, like another Sampson—of proceedingat a gait that would not pay, and of throwingdust in people’s eyes, who were expected to go it blind.The charge was a plain one—being delivered by peoplewho use the plain language—the inclined plane—andScott, who having lived “in Alexander’s time,” hadopportunities to observe that people who play with“edged tools,” however expert, are apt to suffer fromsuch familiarity with such hardware—determined, likea true Caledonian as he is, to make somebody smart forit, and to

So, never minding the expense, but paying his price likea man, he rushed into the fray, shouting his war cry:

The foe, who in all his life was no “devil,” soonfound his head in chancery, and “suffered some”—as“the Fancy” say—realizing, too, the proverb, “thatlisteners hear no good of themselves” in the freedom ofdebate of a legal set-to.

Having witnessed the fight, and delivered a few hintsin this game of cross-purposes, we are testimony. Infact, we are rather more driven to test other people’smoney, now, than to handle our own. The battle wasnot drawn—but a check for $500 was—to put a checkupon future proceedings out of the pale of equity—andScott was conqueror!

Most men would have reposed upon their laurels, andconsidered the glory sufficient, but the redoubted cotemporaryof Alexander now “carries the war into Africa,”and in abounding greatness—“very like a whale”—“aLeviathan” great, he comes forth a terror to see.

There is nothing like Scott in the museum—indeed, heis a museum in himself and a whole circulating-libraryin the bargain. He counts more feet of paper than anypoet could measure in a month, and threatens to stop thesupply of all small dealers. The rumor that Scott haspurchased a paper-mill, is, we are assured, “an inventionof the enemy”—having been successful in one mill,he turns his thoughts to the million, and feels a good deallike Park Benjamin, when he exclaims,

Though nobody ever believed Park, for he was neverwith Alexander in his campaigns, when he took theworld by arts—not arms. Not “The New World,” forthat was rather heavy. We speak the truth—but speakit in sadness, Park! for the day of “first-rate notices isover”—unless Scott chooses to call this “one of ’em”—andthis is over.

The “Rival Captives.”—This story—the publicationof which we were obliged to suspend in November,in consequence of the severe illness of the author—weshall conclude in our next issue; the last part havingreached us too late for this number.

Freas, of the Germantown Telegraph, has justified hisname, like a good printer, as he is, and has locked up hisnotice of our January number, in the ice, somewhere.His paper of Dec. 24th has never reached us, breakingour file, and the heart, too, of a very lovely woman.

A loss.—Some of the most beautiful engravingsprinted up and intended for forthcoming numbers ofGraham’s Magazine, were ruined by the fire at Hart’sBuilding. Graham was in the same predicament himselfonce, but he rose like a phœnix from the ashes. Hehas already selected some of his most beautiful originaldrawings and engravings, and has artists and copper-plateprinters at work night and day. Graham will beas handsome as ever when he appears, and will be called“sweet” by whole bevies of pretty girls. It is a factworthy of mention, that there is not upon the whole listof Graham a single ugly woman. There is something inphilosophy about attraction and repellents, (or ought tobe,) which our friend Bird, of the North American, couldtell all about, but which we realize in being surroundedby “a blaze of beauty,” which used to light Godey’spath when he was younger. It is astonishing how popularMagazine publishers are when they are young! ButGodey has been “a publisher for twenty-two years!”Shocking! Yet there is consolation in this, too, forsome of the Magazines will never be able to imitateGodey in that “feature”—we’ll bet a “dollar” on’t.

If people will say handsome things of “Graham,” thepublic must know it. S. A. Godman, of South Carolina,has the following in his last week’s paper:

“The Best of the Monthlies.”—We always havehad a partiality for Graham. Years agone, before weever dreamed of inditing a line for the printer, many andmany are the pleasant hours we have spent, beguiledfrom all surrounding things, by the captivating articleswith which Graham, by an art known only to himself,has for years past kept his Magazine—filled. In thedays of our juvenility, too, not a few thoughts have wespent, wondering what manner of man he was, whocould thus monthly gather together such an amount ofvaluable and interesting reading matter—to say nothingof the choice embellishments that accompanied it.And, in after times, when we had the pleasure of forminghis acquaintance, we found that the pictures of theimagination had scarcely done justice, fairly drawn asthey were, to the original—for, than George R. Graham,there is not a more whole-souled, liberal, generous,or enterprising man in the Union. With a kindnessthat has no ebb, he is ever ready to appreciatemerit in the young, and by his means, and through hisencouragement, have some of the best authors thatAmerica can now boast of been induced to launch theirbarks—which since have made such successful voyages—uponthe sea of public opinion. His liberality,too, keeps pace with his kindness—and instead of endeavoringto underrate the value of brain-labor—he alwaysstretches his figures to the utmost limits of prudence—andwhilst he advises like a friend, he pays like aprince. Success, then, say we, to Graham, and hisMagazine! They both deserve it! And with a peopleso prompt to perceive, and so ready to reward merit,as are the inhabitants of the Southern States, to beencouraged, it is only necessary to deserve encouragement.

“Graham’s great rival now is Harper’s Magazine.But the palm by rights, and all odds, belongs to theformer. For whilst his January number now lying beforeus, is equal to Harper’s in the amount and qualityof its literary contents, it far exceeds it in beauty ofillustration—and in the fact that its contributors are allhonestly paid for their labors.”—Illustrated FamilyFriend, Columbia, S. C.

Graham’s Magazine.—The January number of Grahamis incomparably the most magnificent periodicalever issued from the American press. Gazette, Bellefontaine,Ohio.

A young gentleman, whohad failed to pay up forGraham, finds on visitingthe lady of his heart, thatthe bell-rope is cut, andthe door shut in his face.She having been notifiedthat he had received theKentucky benediction. Thatis the word, and this thestyle, now. Godey’s “AmericanizedParis Fashions”are no touch to this—nothalf as “truthful.”

Transcriber’s Notes:

Table of Contents has been added for reader convenience. Archaic spellings andhyphenation have been retained. Obvious typesetting and punctuation errors have been correctedwithout note. Other errors have been corrected as noted below. Forillustrations, some caption text may be missing or incomplete due to condition ofthe originals available for preparation of the eBook.

[End of Graham’s Magazine, Vol. XL, No. 2, February 1852]