hovedo

THE

COLUMBIAN

LADY’S AND GENTLEMAN'S

MAGAZINE ,
EMBRACING LITERATURE IN EVERY DEPARTMENT :

EMBELLISHED WITH THE

FINEST STEEL AND MEZZOTINT ENGRAVINGS,

MUSIC , AND COLORED FASHIONS .

EDITED BY

J O Η Ν Ι Ν Μ Α Ν.

VOL . 1 .

CER
NEWW YYORK;
ISRAEL POST , 3 ASTOR HOUSE .
1844 .
Painted
Sir
by
Reynolds
J.
, ada d
S.ZS
by
Engron
Christianity
of
Crimph
The
Painted by C.C.Incham Engraved IyW L.Ormsby.NY

Creative
Engraved expressiv ter the Columbun Mamarine
olunan

it urte
l'he 4.42,.
Vojvo
outro
 WATATE
WWWWW

23
on
s
CO
1080
000

DECIDEDLY
as of rail- r
ing pills,
approxima
ನ ! character t
resemb
ler
unable to e
so in the
fnet, the w
misnome
r
be their ch
is the " le
nine -tent
tales, eit
newspa
pe
copied fro
PC week ; al
editors
fashion
columns
me a
belnievinnd
et in
likrey ;ma g
served, th
Ders in w
huge Lor
the Time
wit gr
ha e
most of th
VOL .

WYM
9
 THE
COLUMBIAN
JANUARY, 1844 .
MAGAZINE
BY THE EDITOR.
DECIDEDLY this is the age of magazines, as well
as of rail -roads, Ericson -propellers, miracle -work
ing pills, and medicated candy. All literature
approximates to the magazine, either in form or
character ; books are so printed and bound as to
resemble monthly periodicals ; and newspapers,
unable to emulate them in appearance , strive to do
so in the variety and nature of their contents. In
fact, the word newspaper has come to be almost a
misnomer, for the purveying of news has ceased to
be their characteristic vocation and object. What
6
is the “ leading article ” but an essay ? What are
nine -tenths of the narrative paragraphs but short
tales, either of fact or fiction ? Most of the daily
newspapers treat their readers to a long story,
copied from some magazine, two or three times a
week ; all of them dabble more or less in what the
editors are pleased to call criticism — after aa
fashion ; they good-naturedly afford space in their
columns for the ambitious efforts of young gentle
men and ladies who labor under the mistake of
believing that destiny calls on them to write po
etry ; in a word, they make themselves as much
like magazines as possible. And it is to be ob
served , that those are accounted the best newspa
pers in which this effort is most successful. The
huge London folio of eight pages, for example -
the Times, Chronicle, or Herald – is Blackwood
with a greater number and variety of articles, but
most of them not so long.
VOL . 1. - 1.
MAGAZINE .
LITERATURE .
The weekly journals - custom sanctions the ob
vious Hibernicism , though journal means, really,
the thing of a day and not of a week — the weekly
journals approximate the magazines still more
closely, aping them in form as well as in contents ;
and there are some weeklies which make no pre
tension whatever to the character of dealers in
news. There are the London Atheneum , for
instance , the Literary Gazette, and the Court
Journal. These are weekly magazines, to all
intents and purposes ; yet they can be ranked no
where except with the London Spectator, that best
of all published newspapers. Descend from these
“ A number 1 ” leaders of the weekly tribe to the
most forlorn hebdomadal that struggles through a
wretched existence in some remote district of
Canada, or Texas, or the Far West , and though
the beginning and ending of the journey are ex
treme points, wide as the poles asunder, the space
between is a scale so minutely graduated that
there is no point at which it is possible to say,
here is the termination of one class, and here the
commencement of another. It is true that in the
“ top sawyers ” of the weekly tribe there is a con
centration of all things that make up newspaper
excellence — first rate ability, experience, tact,
--
knowledge , and mechanical arrangements of the
widest extension and highest finish — while, at the
other end of the scale , are too often found igno .
rance, grossly defective education, narrow views
1
8 31
2 THE COLUMBIAN
and coarse ideas, wretchedly co-operating with
worn-out type and ragged whitey-brown paper, for
the production of a miserable little sheet, on which
its lordly elder brother would look down with as
much contempt as the highwayman on the scaffold
expressed for his vulgar fellow -sufferer, the chim
ney-sweep. Yet the twain are brothers, and the
lordly one can make no escape from the relation
ship, ruffle it as he may in the unsullied whiteness
of his pages, and the accurate and beautiful
compactness of his typography. Nor, after all ,
is there any thing so very disgraceful in this tie
of kindred. Though the poor younger one of the
fraternity wear a shabby coat, though his speech
be rude, and the garniture of his mind both coarse
and scanty ; yea, though his existence be one
eternal struggle with poverty, and perhaps sorrow ,
he is doing his best to act well his part — wherein
lies the true honor alike of man and newspaper
- and perhaps achieving more good among the
rude and unlettered borderers to whose cabin fire
sides he circulates, than is accomplished in a
higher and wider sphere , by the purple -and-fine
linen clad grandee of the family to whom he looks
up with so much admiring reverence .
But let us not wander away from the idea we
are seeking to develope, to wit, that the weekly
newspaper, all over the world , be it good , bad , or
indifferent, appropriates to itself as much as it can
the magazine character. The effort, of course, is
regulated by circumstances. In the large cities,
where materials are abundant and facilities ample
- where there are writers able and willing to
contribute, for pay or glory, and books, newspa
pers, and magazines in profusion , whence to draw
articles - where also all mechanical helps are at
hand , to achieve the folding, stitching, covering,
and the like — there the weekly costumes itself
at all points en magazine ; as for example , your
Albion , your New World , Brother Jonathan , and
the like. It gives half an octavo page , perhaps, to
the news of the week , chopping it up into frag
ments so curt and sententious, that they might be
transmitted as telegraphic despatches ; and appro
priating all the rest of its space to proper magazine
articles — tale , essay , narrative , description , poem ,
&c., & c.— with an occasional loud outblast of
trumpet in laud of its own excellence , or dispraise
of some rival's turpitude. But in the country,
where books and magazines are less accessible ,
where the editor is generally also printer of his
sheet, and has to do press -work , folding, and
sometimes carrying, with his own hands and feet,
aided only by a journeyman or two, and a pair of
apprentices — where there are no scores of extra
hands to be had at a moment's warning, and
folding-girls are unknown there necessity forbids
-
the adoption of magazine form , and allows but an
approach to magazine character. Such approach,
MAGAZINE .
however, as can be achieved , is always to be found
in the hebdomadal of the country — the whole or
a part of some long story , too often wofully mis .
printed, sundry batches of metre , an essay either
on politics or temperance , and a pleasing variety
of recipes for salting down butter, keeping eggs,
curing valetudinarian horses and the like, pleas
ingly intermingled with admiring notices of gigan
tic squashes, fifteen - feet corn -stalks, plethoric pigs,
and incredible apples, the produce and pride of
some ambitious and skilful farmer in the vicinity.
But as we have already hinted, not to be despised
are these weekly visiters to the rural homestead.
Rarely do they fail to convey some useful informa
tion, applicable to the sphere in which it circulates ;
and if they give but a dim and imperfect reflection
of life as it heaves and bustles in the far -off world
where men in cities congregate, they carry also
but a softened , shadowy image of the great crimes,
the monstrous wickedness, the varied forms of
suffering, and the squalid misery, too often mingled
in frightful contrast with the luxury, the elegance,
the refinement, and the intellectual splendor that
gild , but cannot heal , or even hide, the foulness
and corruption of metropolitan existence.
We have said that this is the age of magazines
- adverting not merely to their number, but even
more especially to their excellence. They are the
field , chiefly, in which literary reputation is won.
Who ever thinks of John Wilson as the learned
professor, or as the author of bound volumes ?
Who does not, when Wilson's name is mentioned ,
instantly call to mind the splendid article -writer,
the Christopher North of Blackwood ? Charles
Lamb was long known only as the Elia of the
New Monthly. Most of the modern French
celebrities — Sue, Janin , and half a hundred
others, have made their fame in the feuilletons
of the Parisian journals - a more decided graft, by
the way, than is elsewhere seen , of the magazine
upon the newspaper. In our own country, how
many there are whose names are known from the
St. Lawrence to the Gulf of Mexico, that are as
yet innocent of books, but have nevertheless con
tributed largely and well to the growing stock of
American literature . How many more who are
bringing themselves into notice by their monthly
efforts in the pages of some popular magazine.
In fact, the magazine is the true channel into
which talent should direct itself for the acquisition
of literary fame. The newspaper is too ephemeral
– the book is not of sufficiently rapid and frequent
production. The monthly magazine just hits the
happy medium , enabling the writer to present
himself twelve times a year before a host of read.
ers, in whose memories he is thus kept fresh , yet
allowing him space enough to develope his thought,
and time enough to do his talent justice in each
article. Then, too , on the score of emolument
 MAGAZINE
justly recognised now as a very essential matter,
and legitimately entitled to grave consideration
the magazine offers advantages not within the
reach of either book or newspaper. The book has
no legs but its own to stand upon ; the expenses
ofpublication are heavy ; and where the author has
not an established reputation in the market, the
publisher justly sets up the risk of loss as a cause
for small pay, or perhaps no pay at all. In the
magazine, on the contrary, the publisher can unite
the certain attractions of a popular author with the
chances of an able but unknown candidate ; the
remunerating sale which the first ensure ena
bling him to afford a liberal compensation to the
efforts of the latter ; and thus it is that magazine
publishers can and do more efficiently promote the
development of talent than any other class of pur
veyors for the intellectual appetite of the country,
And then what great and illustrious names there
are in the annals of magazines ! Addison , Steele,
Johnson , and their fellows — for the Spectator and
the Rambler were magazines, though issued daily.
Dean Swift was a magazine writer, possessing
even more largely than Addison, Steele , or John
son , the qualities essential to success in this walk
of literature — the brilliancy, the point, the con
densation , the vigor of thought and diction ; the
whole art, in short, of making a hit upon the
public taste . His Gulliver's Travels -- what a
capital series they would be, running from month
to month, for such a work as this our Columbian
Magazine! Our publisher would undertake, we
vouch for him , to pay as much for each chapter -
say ten of our pages -- as the Dean got for the first
edition of the whole. Dr. Franklin , too, was a
magazine author, and he knew it. His writings
are all “ papers ”- brief, but complete and striking.
As for his sayings of Poor Richard, every one of
them is a magazine article concentrated - like a
bushel of sarsaparilla into a pint bottle, or a quarter
of beef digested down to a small box of portable
soup .
But after all , the great point is, that magazines
are more read than any other kind of publications.
They just adapt themselves to the leisure of the
business man, and the taste of the idler -- to the
spare half hours of the notable housewife and the
languid inertia of the fashionable lady. They can
be dropped into a valise or a carpet-bag as a wel.
come provision for the wants of a journey by
steamboat or rail-road, when the country through
which the traveller passes offers nothing attractive
to be seen , or the eyes are weary of seeing ; they
while away delightfully the tedious hours of a
rainy day in summer, and afford the most pleasant
occupation through the long evenings of winter.
Or to fill up the luxurious stolen time which some
people will yield to irresolution and indolence,
when the brilliant hues of dawn in the Eastern sky
LITERATURE . 3
of autumn are inviting them forth to breathe health
and strength in the keen but kindly air of a No
vember morn , and the soft warm pillow, with
antagonizing force that proves too mighty in the
contest, beguiles them to a prolongation of their
downy repose , though sleep will for the present no
more visit their eyelids ; then, when the sunbeams
come in, softly shaded through the violet -hued
curtain, and remote sounds of footsteps from below
give note that preparations for breakfast are
toward – when reason and conscience say “get
up, ” and their importunate whispering does but
supply new zest to the enjoyment of lying still -
then how delicious it is to withdraw from its snug
hiding - place under the pillow the last new number
of the favorite magazine, and finish that love of a
story — achieving the hasty delight just as the
impatient third ringing of the breakfast bell an
nounces that every body else is seated , and that
the toast and eggs are fast disappearing.
Imagine yourself, lovely lady, one of the fair
group surrounding the work table in the richly
furnitured parlor of some elegant mansion a few
miles from the city -- the time between Christmas
and New-Year's Day. A cheerful warmth is
diffused through the room , large as it is, from a
grate full of blazing Liverpool coal - not anthracite,
with its dead fierce heat and its unflaming repose
on the bars, like irregular masses of red hot iron
blazing Liverpool coal, that murmurs, as it burns,
a sort of drowsy music, more suggestive of com
fort than any thing else in the world except the
tranquil purring of a half-asleep cat on the hearth
rug. A solar lamp of noble dimensions enlightens
the spacious apartment, and its radiance, mellowed
by transmission through a ground glass shade , deli
cately tinted with the faintest hue of the imperial
carnation , does no injustice to the blooming cheeks
and sparkling eyes of that charming group among
which you, fair lady, are the most lovely, and per
haps — may I not whisper it in your ear ? - the
most dearly loved . There is deep snow on the
lawn and the meadows without — the snow of a
two-days' storm - and the wind howls gustily over
the chimney -top ; but within the enclosure of those
four walls are only warmth , and comfort, and con
tentment , and beauty. On the broad expanse of
the round table are disposed the materials and im
plements of needle-work in all their mysterious
variety - needle-books, scissors, and spools -hanks
of zephyr and crewel in numberless dyes and shades
- chenille and bugles - purse-moulds, embroidery
frames, patterns, and models for all imaginable
stitches - eyelet piercers and long strips of fine
cambric - but as yet these all lie unemployed , and
the white fingers of the industrious fair ones are at
rest in their slender beauty. It is evident that
something or somebody is still wanting - and the
distant but rapid tinkling of sleigh bells gives note
4 THE COLUMBIAN
that the somebody is at hand , as well as calls up a
rich blush on the cheek of the one by whom it is
first heard with the quick ear of nascent affection .
The bells approach swiftly — the sound is at the
door, and there comes to a sudden pause. Light ,
quick steps are heard in the passage -- the door
opens , and a young man is added to the occupants
of that pleasant room.
m . It need not be told whose
look of welcome his eye first seeks, whose voice
falls on his ear with most grateful music . The
greetings over, and all questions meetly asked and
answered , the new comer has his place also as
signed to him at the round table — quite accidentally
of course , taking care that his place is by the side
of one who would be vexed if it were any where
else — and now is revealed the nature of that one
thing which was wanting to set the delicate fingers
in motion. The young man has brought from the
city the January number of the magazine - a copy
obtained a few days in advance of the publication
- and it is his pleasing office to read aloud while
his auditors are plying the implements of their
dainty craft. How silently they listen -only yield
ing so far to the exigency of their pastime that one
occasionally whispers a request for the scissors, or
for aid in finding a dropped thimble ; another by
signs invokes admiration of her success in achiev
ing the mysteries of somenew and intricate stitch ;
and a third almost stifles herself in her endeavors
to suppress a musical and lady - like sneeze , pro
voked by her incautious opening of a window,
before the reader's arrival, to see if he was not
coming. Scenes like this, fair lady, have a multi
plied existence ; and if there were time we could
depict a score or two, all varying in locality and
actors , but all turning upon the attractions and
popularity of the magazine, which may be truly
called the element of every body's reading.
Somewhere toward the commencement of these
desultory speculations, it was remarked that all
literature was approximating to the magazine in
either form or character ; that books from one
extreme , and newspapers from the other, were ap
proaching this middle station of convenience , and ,
in acknowledgment of the magazine's supremacy ,
making themselves as like to it as possible. It
might not be uninteresting or unprofitable to trace
the movement of the books somewhat more par
ticularly.
Reader, did you ever attack Richardson's ten
volumes of Clarissa Harlow ? Or to go still farther
back, the travels of the erudite Fynes Morison,
one monstrous folio of some eight or nine hundred
pages ? Did you ever read Bruce's travels in
Abyssinia, the original work , in five goodly quar
tos ? Did you ever attempt one of the old roman .
ces of knight-errantry — Amadis de Gaul, for in
stance , or Palmerin of England ? Volumes that
would hold their own by the test of the honest
MAGAZINE .
Dutchman , who expressed his admiration of a
certain author's talents, by saying that he had
written a book as big as the biggest cheese in his
wife's dairy. These certainly were not the “ con
venient volumes " lauded by Dr. Johnson , " which
can be held in the hand while sitting by the fire ;"
and we omni-reading moderns are fain to marvel
at the patient endurance that was able to carry
our progenitors through their multitudinous and
mighty pages. In the lapse of years and centuries,
publishers discovered that it was an object to give
the people books that might be read without the
assistance ofa reading -desk and an opera -glass ; and
then came in the era of large type, ample margins,
and three volumes. These long held their ground ,
and even at this day in England the first edition
of a novel is almost invariably bestowed upon the
public in the established three volumes, at a guinea
and a half ; but these are only for the boudoirs of
the aristocratic and the wealthy. They being first
served, a cheaper edition is issued , if the work
prove successful, in a single volume, generally
published at four shillings sterling; but works of
which the copy-right has expired , with multitudes
of American productions on which no copy -right
has been issued, are thrown out by thousands and
tens of thousands in still cheaper forms — at prices
as low as a shilling and even sixpence. But these
cheap publications are most inconvenient in form
and shabby in appearance, the sixpenny things being
actually printed in broadside like a newspaper, and
of course like a newspaper folded . It was reserved
for the ingenuity of American publishers to adopt
the genuine magazine form and size , and crowd
the contents of two or three volumes, old style
volumes of three hundred pages each — into one, of
the same dimensions as Blackwood. These, as every
body knows, are now scattered all over the land,
thick as the leaves that fall in Vallambrosa , being
so cheap that every body can afford to buy them ;
and doubtless they are working their share of good,
with probably no small admixture of evil. But
the hybrid thus engendered - magazine as much as
it can be in form , but volume in substance - lacks
all the attributes that constitute the charm of the
magazine proper — the variety of matter and man
ner ,
the elegance, the sparkling condensation, the
pleasing alternation of gayety and gravity — in a
word , the very soul and life that make the maga
zine so universally acceptable and popular ; while
the newspaper , on the other hand, though attempt.
ing to emulate in these particulars the glory of the
genuine periodical — that is, monthly — must needs
fall infinitely behind in all the external graces.
And so by neither book nor newspaper can the
magazine ever be rivalled in attractiveness or in
the affection of the reading millions.
It may be suspected by the highly esteemed
reader of these rambling observations that we have
 THE INDIAN MAIDEN .
wrought ourselves up to a tolerable state of com
placency with magazine authorship. The soft im
peachment is not denied ; if it is not justified, ten
mortal pages of our small , neat chirography have
been written in vain. Surely it is something
whereby a little vanity may be excused to take
rank somewhere - even though it be far down
toward the caudal termination in a list which
includes Wilson, and Lamb, and Hogg, and Hook,
and Talfourd, and Banim , and Grattan , and many
another Scottish , Irish, and English name - to
labor, albeit with no great skill or success, in the
same field with Irving, and Cooper, and Bryant ,
and Longfellow — with Neal, and Hoffinan, and
Herbert — with Embury, Smith, Osgood , Ellett,
Leslie , and the other accomplished daughters of
genius whose writings breathe tenderness or diffuse
brilliancy through the pages of our magazines and
annuals — which by the way are magazines also,
though issued but once a year. To win compan
ionship with these and their compeers is no un
worthy object of ambition ; to assist in purveying
the rich fruit of their talents to the public enjoy
ment is no unpleasing or honor-lacking office.
THE INDIAN
BY FAYETTE ROBINSON.
Yes, even now I see her oft
As come the evening's gentle hours,
And through my casement zephyrs waft
Perfume from the dewy flowers —
Beauteous as she used to be,
Laughing in her girlish glee,
And through her long and silken hair
Wildly strays the summer air.
When she lifteth up her eyes,
Within whose depths a pure soul lies,
The shining stars cannot compare
With the lustre beaming there.
Oft I clasp her bronzed form
Closely in my hollowed arm,
And the locks which shade her brow
O'er my bosom fall and flow ,
While her warm and gentle breathing,
Like the wild flowers round her wreathing,
Filleth all the ambient air
With an incense rich and rare .
They tell me this is phantasy ;
That in a cold and distant grave,
Where the gnarled maples wave,
Sleeps she by the Manassee .
That many a day and month ago
Grew she cold as winter's snow,
1*
5
And there are many besides these - - many whose
names have never yet been borne upon the breeze
of popular favor, but who need only opportunity
and encouragement to win for themselves laurels,
more or less green and luxuriant , in the field of
intellectual exertion — is it not a meet object of
desire to seek out and to find these mental “ gems
of purest ray serene, ” in whatever shade or nook
of obscurity they may yet lie darkling, and bring
them forth to glisten in the sunlight of success and
reputation ? A cheering word, spoken at the op
portune moment, and in the right way, perhaps
may prove the turning point of some bright mind's
destiny ; the first compensation given by the pub
lisher of a magazine to a new contributor may
afford that stimulus which alone was wanting to
bring out talents of the highest order. Rome was
not built in a day ; reputations are not often made,
like Byron's, between night and morning. And
with these two sayings we take our leave of the
courteous reader, trusting that his sagacity will
give them their fitting application under existing
circumstances.
MAIDEN .
Lifeless as the picture there
Which seems to you so passing fair.
But could you see her as I see ,
When I dream she sits by me,
You'd think it all a mockery .
Dead ? such beings do not die,
But as the zephyrs hurry by
Flit they from the cold, dull earth ,
Their mortal death a heavenly birth .
Yet their bosoms kindly glow
When they think of us, I know,
Who needs must mourn and linger yet
Beneath a sun to them long set .
And in her nation's happy lands
( Untutored nature's dream of heaven )
I know that Saukee * maiden stands
And by her many a sigh is given
For one who weeps now bitter tears
As erst bedewed the ebon hair
That hid a breast wherein once dwelt
As pure a heart as ever felt
The glow of love, the throb of grief -
Sweet daughter of the Saukee chief.
SAUKEE -80 the Sacs pronounce their name .
6
THE LOVE
BY ELIZABETH OAKES SMITH, AUTHOR OF “ THE SINLESS CHILD . "
( See Plate.)
" Alas ! how love can trifle with itself."
READER mine , you must glance once more at the
portrait of Isabella Graham before I tell you a
little adventure of hers, that will reveal to you
more of her real character than the unassisted
study of her face for a month. Not but that the
portrait tells a great deal ; a great deal of one
style of expression. It tells wonders, when we
reflect that the luckless artist who delineates the
features of a beautiful woman is expected to seize
one point of expression, that shall be not only the
most agreeable, but the most predominant ; and
that too out of five thousand ever varying and
lovely characteristics.
Isabella Graham was seated in this wise when
I insisted that she should join me in the all
important business of shopping. A woman is
always averse to the purchase of even a pair of
gloves alone. Shopping is a social affair, and be
comes a pretty medium for numberless little confi .
dences, unconscious coquetries, harmless vanities
and womanly commissions, all of which help to
relieve the monotony of her little kingdom of home.
“ You purchase gloves at Stewart's ? ”
“ Unquestionably. They have a peculiar fitness,
a durability and finish always to be relied on. As
the dainty texture adapts itself to your hand, you
have a solemn faith that the pretty artist had your
own self clairvoyancely before her in its construc
tion. It gratifies your exclusiveness ; you are
convinced that the pair would fit no other hands ;
and had any fatality deprived you of their posses
sion , the lost ones would have perished like the
things of earth defeated of their purposes ; doomed
by conflicting powers' to expire on the way-side
of destiny. "
We had made our purchase, and were just upon
the threshold , when Isabella grasped my arm and
drew slightly back. I followed the direction of
her eyes, and beheld her own affianced lover, the
veritable George Howard , with the pretty, insipid
Ellen Carter leaning upon his arm .
“ What of that, Bell ? You don't expect George
to abstain from all social courtesy in his devotion
9
to you."
She fixed her expressive eyes upon my face —
they were half suffused .
6
QUARREL .
Shakspeare.
“ I do not expect that, coz ; nor do I desire it.
I am proud and exacting ; I wish it were other
wise. I am jealous, too — ' not for the cause ,'
but simply that I am jealous. It is a part of my
proud nature . George knows it, and has told me ,
yes , told me , he would never humor the absurd and
unjust characteristic; that I must cure myself of it."
“ He is in the right, Bell. George is the only
man I ever knew who had pride enough to match
your own . Jealous of George Howard ! You
make me half doubt your worthiness of him. Do
you intend to apportion his smiles, gauge the tone
of his voice, and restrict the number of agreeable
sayings he shall utter ? ”
“ How ridiculous ! I confess to my jealousy -
it is the worst point of my nature — the one ele
ment that , under some circumstances, would drive
me frantic. Jealousy may be the weakness, but
is it not also the test of love ? Is it not the case,
that the richer the possession, the higher our es
timate of its worth , the more miser- like do we
doat upon the smallest item that may add to the
value of our treasure ?"
“ Very true, but I saw no superfluous expendi
ture of smiles on the part of George."
Isabella laughed, and was silent a moment.
At length she replied gravely –
" Jane, I am affianced to George, yet with
my reverence for the sanctity of marriage, I would
not hesitate to withdraw from our relation now ,
before the tie is fixed , rather than hazard an unlov
ing union. It may be that I carry my theory too
far ; but not too far for myself, for I must abide by
the truth as it is revealed to my own soul. My
own destiny is accomplished.”
Her voice assumed a tone so low and musical,
that I looked into her face to read its pure, spiritual
elevation. She went on .
“ Few rightly understood me , dear cousin ; no
one ever did entirely but George. We are not
twin spirits , but the two opposites, whose blending
results in harmony. There is a solitariness, an
incompleteness in the one without the other ; but
the two souls make one complete whole ."
“ Then how can you be jealous, Bella ? "
“ I wish there were another word for the emo .
 THE LOVE QUARREL .
tion ; that but poorly expresses it. The feeling is
more that of aa delicate scruple , lest the sentiment
one has inspired be less than the real, true, ideal
love. That you know is the repose of the soul
- its perfect fulness — its content. It hath no
wandering fancies, no restless hopes. It reveals
the full dignity of our nature , lifting us into a high
. which is strong as death, occasioneth jealousy,
spiritual existence."
“ Do you expect to realize all this, dear, dearest
Bella ?"
“ I have in my own spirit, cousin . Whatever
6
may be my fate, I feel that I shall find strength in
the depths of soul that have been revealed to me.
Few are capable of loving ; the myriads busy with
the littleness of life know nothing of it. To me it
has been “ as a well-spring of living water.' I
feel that he who unsealed the fountain is the high
priest of baptism , and I must worship with him , or
veil my face at the altar. If it be otherwise with
him , if I have failed to elicit and fix the deeper
attributes of his soul , my course is plain ; I surely
cannot blame him ; it is not his fault, but my mis
fortune . "
She drew her veil heavily over her face, for the
tears gushed to her eyes.
“ Bella, you refine too much. This over fasti
diousness will defeat its object. You will annihi
late love by the closeness of its analysis."
“ Not if it exists. The closest ordeal but reveals
its fulness to myself ; and if George cannot endure
a like test, believe me , he is without the ele.
ment."
“6 I feel that you are unjust, both to him and your
self, Bella. But then George has a manly mas
siveness of character that will counteract your
over- refinement."
“ Provided , cousin " -
“ Now , Bella , if I thought you would act upon
the foolish whim of this morning, I would disown
you , I would .”
6
“ Frightful ! you would ? aye, but seriously, I
will have no compromise, cousin . I will realize
my ideal , or live as I am , content in the one high
and holy sentiment resting in my own soul. Life
shall not degenerate with me into cold forinality,
material common -placeism . I will have its glory
fresh in my own spirit. I do half doubt the capa
city of the other sex to sustain that deep, exclusive
attachment that exists in a woman's heart. I must
have a return equal to my own, or it shall be buried
i like the gem congealed in the floating iceberg,
never to be looked upon by mortal eyes. That's a
specimen of my exclusiveness, cousin .” She added ,
half playfully, “ do you believe that any man has
such an affluence of loving, that he can afford to
waste a solitary smile ? Do you not remember the
passage I was reading this very morning from old
Scougal ? Strangely enough , I can repeat it now.
But these ideas are always deposited in the store
7
house of memory , to come forth at the moment
they are called for. This is the passage :
• No wonder lovers do so hardly suffer a rival ;
they know the narrowness and scantiness of the
good which they love ; that it cannot suffice two,
being in effect too little for one . Hence love ,
which is as cruel as the grave. Love is the most
valuable thing we can bestow, and by giving it we
do in effect give all that we have ; and therefore it
must needs be afflicting to find so great a gift
despised .'
· That good old divine, coz , could never have
discoursed so appositely upon love, without a full
capacity for the sentiment, and were he living in
our day, I would call him my spiritual ideal, and
thus find George a rival to make him mind his
P's and Q's."
Isabella uttered this with her natural brilliancy
and sauciness of spirit. I could not but think, as
I gazed upon her beaming face, that with less pride,
and a little more of womanly vanity, a glance at
her mirror would make her feel she had nothing to
fear in the shape of rivals.
By this time the carriage reached the
and we stopped for an ice. Withdrawing our
chairs deeply into an alcove, we chatted for a
length of time, Isabella having nearly recovered
from her unquiet mood .
“ Where could Howard be walking, and at office
hours too ? hours that I am careful never to infringe
upon. Aye , coz, women gain nothing by magna
nimity. I will be as whimsical and exacting as
the veriest puppet that flutters in silk and ribbon !"
“ How would it suit your character, Isabella ? ”
“ Don't talk seriously now, coz, I am not in the
mood — they are
* Pleased with a rattle, tickled with a straw .' ”
Suddenly her voice faltered, her cheek flushed,
and a slight shudder passed over her. George
Howard and Ellen were seating themselves in a
recess nearly opposite. Both were grave, and
Ellen's face had become perfectly beautiful from its
expression of suppressed sensibility. They seemed
entirely absorbed in the subject of discourse, hardly
noting the appearance of an attendant who an
swered the summons.
Isabella put her arm within mine, and we left
the box. There was a movement on the part of
George. He arose to his feet, and was about to
hasten to her side, after a hurried apology to his
companion, when a cold bow , and a slight wave
of the hand from Isabella , arrested him . He red
dened , drew himself proudly up, bowed with a half
scornful smile upon his lips, and returned to his
seat.
As the carriage drove on , Isabella was deathly
pale , silent, passive, well-nigh stunned. I knew
 THE COLUMBIAN
there was misapprehension on her part. I felt that
the sensitiveness of her attachment, superadded to
a vivid imagination , was misleading her, perhaps
fatally .
“ You are to blame , Isabella ; your pride, your
sensitiveness will bring misery, and perhaps ruin
upon you both .”
“ It is all over, cousin , my whole dream of life ;
not that he loves her— no, no ; he isn't capable of
the steadiness of attachment.”
“ Bella , I will not hear this ; you shall not so
wrong a noble nature. If you understood Howard
so little , how could you presume to be his affianced
bride ? Faith is the very soul of love."
“ Now , on my soul, cousin , I believe you love
him yourself. ”
“ Bella , Bella , you are half insane upon this
point. You say rightly that jealousy might drive
you frantic. Dear Bella , pray fervently that this
evil be taken from your nature."
She burst into tears , and wept like a stricken
child.
“ I feel for you , Bella, but not in the way you
suppose. I pity this weakness of your otherwise
noble nature . In fact the whole affair is to me a
little ridiculous."
“ I dare say ; sentiment is always ridiculous to
very sensible people. I don't pretend to be one of
such . Please don't talk to me. "
It is generally wise to let a woman have her cry
out, especially if sentimental. It is wonderfully
refreshing. Probably the brain of such, being par
66
ticularly active , becomes at length dry as summer
dust," and a shower of tears passing over it, gently
revives it, restores its parched and languishing
capabilities, and gives it a newness of aspect, a
rejuvenescence as it were .
Bella shed a somewhat unreasonable quantity of
tears ; indeed, considering the size of her pretty
1
little head , a marvellous quantity. There is some
thing very strange in this opening of the “ windows
of heaven ” in the human brain. Such a deal of
fluid lodged, we don't know where. I suppose
there must be , at the time a woman is about to
weep , a great mustering ofthe little sprites attendant
upon the several organs of the brain, each minute
creature hurrying in great commotion to its appro
priate lodgment, bearing a lachrymal, into which
it squeezes a drop ; and then they jostle along to
the grand sluice -way, where, each emptying its
vial, there is a constant succession of drops.
Well , each of the little creatures had done its
duty fully, and now the whole stock was exhausted,
and Bella looked up , not with red swollen eyes,
reader ; no, tears make sentimental eyes brighter
and clearer - weeping being to such , as I before inti
mated, a cooling process , a liquifying of their rays.
“ Howard will probably call this afternoon ," I
ventured to insinuate .
MAGAZINE .
“ I shall not see him ! ”
“ Indeed ! Which will you make the most
miserable by such a process, yourself or George ? "
“ Myself, of course ; sentiment and affection are
mere episodes in aa man's life, not life itself, as they
are to woman . "
“ How magnanimous you are, Bella, in commit
ting suicide in this wise . "
" Don't trifle with me, cousin. I may be a little
unreasonable just now, but don't tell me so. I hate
common placeisms; wit ill-timed is always odious,
and words “ fitly spoken ' are only effective when
seasonably uttered."
I laughed at her pretty generalizations, so habit
ual to her, that self was at length becoming merged
again ; and I saw too , from the curve of the lip,
and proud bearing of the head , that George had
something to fear from the self-will of the proud
beauty.
Scarcely an hour elapsed , on our return , before
George was at the house . In spite of remon
strance, the self-willed girl refused to see him . She
hastily penned the following lines, which he me
chanically placed in his bosom , and went away
without reading.
To
Thou art free as the air, I prithee away ;
Like the bee over-burdened with sweets,
That roving mid blossoms a moment will stay
To sip of each one that it meets .
I would not detain thee, thou’rt lured to depart ;
Thou cravest a love light and free -
The rapture, the thrill , the doubt of the heart, –
Then why tarry longer with me ?
I had perished for thee ; I had lavished my life,
To shield thee from sorrow or pain ;
I would spare thee, e'en now, but I turn from the strife,
For I feel I have loved thee in vain.
Go, revel in smiles ; I blame thee, no never –
Win hearts that are fickle as thine,
And forget, oh forget, both now and forever,
The truth and the fervor of mine .
It was in vain that I represented to Isabella the
folly and injustice ofher conduct ; the propriety of
waiting an explanation on the part of her lover ;
that it was only her excited fancy, and that she
would painfully regret the course she was adopting.
She would see things only through her own medi
um, and began to take a pleasure, too, in oppo
sition.
Howard was proud almost to a fault, and the
pride of a man is far more concentred and cold than
that of a woman ; with a woman it is more fre
quently an impulse ; with a man it becomes a
characteristic. Howard loved pride in a woman ,
but the pride must become gentleness to him ; he
liked a strong will, but it must be subordinate to
his own ; and the blending of pride and reverence
 BOYHOOD'S
**
in the sentiments of Isabella, had operated as a
spell upon his heart and fancy.
I sat unconsciously watching the tracery of the
plants upon the ceiling, and thinking of the perver
?" sity of human actions, and whether these caprices
deepened rather than weakened the sentiment of
V love ; when I heard a slow heavy step along the
passage to my room . Turning around , George
1. Howard stood before me. His appearance was
much as usual , but I shuddered at the husky tone
e of his voice.
e “ Will you tell Isabella Graham that it became
necessary for me, both as a professional man, and
as a friend to the family, to acquaint Miss Carter
with some reverses of fortune that will materially
affect her condition in life , and that I chose the
open air and a walk for the purpose, in the belief
that the stirring of life about her would make the
disclosure less painful? I wish you a good morn
ing."
“ What absurdity," said I, stepping between him
and his exit.
“ Nothing more is necessary ,madam ; I beg you
will not detain me. 9"
“ Mr. Howard , you love Isabella ? ”
He smiled a sad, faint smile , that was like the
BOYHOOD'S HOME ,
AFTER TWENTY - FIVE YEARS OF ABSENCE .
BY E. PARMLY.
This is the spot where I was born,
And passed my early days ;
"Twas here the light of life's bright morn
First met my infunt gaze;
'Twas here my parents fond and kind
My lips with kisses pressed ;
The scenes that bring their love to mind ,
Secm brighter than the rest.
These gardens, orchards, rocks, and springs -
The church upon the hill —
Affection now around them clings,
And makes them dearer still ;
I've toiled in every field I see ,
Bound by that shelt'ring wood ;
And here beside the bending tree ,
Our lowly cottage stood.
The school house, too, where I began
My A, B, C, to call ;
And there the play-ground where I ran
To catch the bounding ball ;
And here , with tiny dam and spout,
I built my water wheel —
With pinhook caught the speckled trout,
With thread from off the reel :
And there, beyond this gurgling stream
I saw the green hills rise,
Until their lofty tops might seem
To mingle with the skies .
१ $
HOME . 9
slight sundering of a cloud , when the distant fluid
plays in the horizon at night.
“ Isabella is a beautiful, but wayward child, who
mistakes fancy for sentiment, and imagination for
feeling. My emotions are too correct and too
direct to be met by the sickliness of sentimentality.”
My pride of sex was aroused. “ I think you
may be quite right, Mr. Howard ; if you fail to un
derstand each other now, it is doubtful if you ever
will."
He laid his hand upon the lock , hesitated, then
seating himself, he said , “ I will see Isabella .”
“ I think she will not see you," I replied , grow
ing in my turn perverse.
“ But she must, she shall see me."
“ Must ! shall ! indeed ! ”
The story is told. A man who has the audacity
to say “ I will” to his ladye love, is sure to have
matters all in his own way ; and so they were
married last week , looking as like two turtles as if
pride and perversity were no ingredient of their
natures .
Yesterday I sent them a copy of Scougal ele
gantly bound, with annotations in mine own hand
writing, particularly upon the passage quoted by
Isabella .
In fancy now I here behold
The faces once so dear ;
The joyous laugh at story told ,
Falls sweet on memory's ear.
The friends who, with endearing smile,
Oft met me at the door,
When from my home I'd roved awhile,
These cherished scenes restore ;
And with them bring the purest joy
That I have known for years,
When all I loved while yet a boy,
Before my mind appears.
But what a changing, varying scene
Has fallen to my lot,
Since mighty oceans rolled between
Me and this peaceful spot !
I've travers'd nearly half the globe,
Since I was here before ,
But Nature wears the same bright robe
That she in childhood wore.
Oh, could I meet the friends I loved ,
Who watched my infant years !
Alas ! long since were they removed
From out this " vale of tears :"
But blessed hope ! we all may meet
In Truth's bright home above,
Where kindred souls each other greet,
And “ sing redceming love."
Braintree Vermont.
 CLEVENGER .
BY H. T. TUCKERMAX .
"The sea his body hath and heaven his soul."
Lovers of art , in our northern cities, must have
still fresh in their memories the person of the
young western genius named above. His career
is one of those episodes in the thrifty and monoto-
nous tenor of American life, which need only the
enchantment of distance to make them romantic.
The cheek of an imaginative European kindles at
the idea of a nativity beside the Ohio, as quickly
as ours at the thought of first breathing the air
beneath Athenian skies, or amid the hills of Rome.
Novelty is an element of the sublime, and the ab-
solute freshness of a scene captivates the fancy as
certainly as the most memorable associations.
There can be no more striking contrast than that
between the primitive beauty of our new states and
the olden, classic glories of Italy. Nor may we
readily find in the records of adventure a change
of life more truly dramatic than that which trans-
forms a humble stone -cutter of Cincinnati to the
accomplished sculptor of Florence. Human exist-
ence abounds in the poetic, notwithstanding all
the cant about the utilitarian spirit of the age.
The world will never be quite prosaic until love,
genius and death have abandoned it forever. While
these mystic agencies mingle in its strife, the heart
can never entirely wither, or the fancy sleep.
Voices of sweet pathos and godlike earnestness
will, ever and anon, rise above the dull clamor of
toil ; and events, too solemn or beautiful for careless
recognition, will stir the listless tide of routine. I
was led into this train of musing by the recent an-
nouncement in the papers , of the death of Cleven-
ger. It seems but yesterday that I bade him adieu
at the pier, and watched the lessening sail that
wafted him to Italy. He embarked full of the
highest and the purest hopes ; and as I retraced
my steps through the noisy mart, where nothing
is heard but trade's unceasing din, a feeling of
elation arose in my mind at the thought of him I
had thus sped on his way. He was one of the few
who, regardless of temporary and selfish ends,
yield boldly to the destiny for which they were
created. To develope the instinctive powers of his
character seemed to him the true end of life . He
desired nothing more fondly than to give shape to
his peculiar endowment. This was the art of
statuary. It was obviously his vocation. A phy-
siognomist would have detected at a glance no little
ude to deal with form , in the marked size of
that organ. An uncommon space between the eyes
10
indicated that in this sphere his might specially lay.
A compact and many figure , with a certain vigor
of outline, promised more continuity of action than
is often realized by artists. He was no idle enthu
siast in sculpture , but an industrious and patient
devotee. He did not work spasmodically. There
was method in his pursuit. Day by day, with
quiet attention, he plied the instruments of his art,
and found an enjoyment the voluptuary might
envy, as the model gradually assumed the traits
of nature . There was an exactitude in his busts
that gave assurance of skill founded upon solid
principles. The majority of our young artists
essay the ideal before they have any just apprecia
tion of reality ; and with the presumption , not of
genius but of audacity, illustrate imaginary beings
while incompetent to exhibit faithfully the tree that
overshades their window or the friend who praises
their talent. Clevenger began in art where all
noble characters begin in action — at truth. He
carefully studied the minute peculiarities of the
living subject and transferred them with admirable
precision to clay and marble. He never commit
ted the Yankee absurdity of working against time.
The gradual and exact process was more native to
him than the rapid and hazardous. There was a
rectitude in his habits of labor. They did justice
to the subject and occasion. He felt that the time
would arrive when his confident touch and correct
eye would fit him to grapple successfully with ideal
conceptions ; but in his early efforts, good sense
and modesty taught him contentedly lo portray
the actual, and to feel that therein was no common
scope given to the man who could adequately see
and feel the infinite resources of nature. The con
sequence of these judicious views was that Cleven
ger made continual progress in his art. The eight
busts in marble sent home several months since
evince extraordinary improvement ; and the very
last work of his chisel excited more admiration
than any previous effort.
The want of general education was in a measure
supplied to Clevenger by the refined associations
induced by his profession . Some of the most gifted
men and women of the country were the subjects
of his art. It is worthy of notice, as illustrating
the attractiveness of simple excellence of character,
that in nearly every case his sitters became warm
personal frien and manifested a deep interest in
his welfare and success. There is a charm in

CLEVENGER .
truth that wins more permanently than brilliancy
or tact. This genuine son of the West possessed
a sincere directness and unaffected tone of mind
that widely endeared him . Edward Everett took
evident pleasure in unfolding his mental treasury
of taste and wisdom to the young sculptor, and
has ever been one of his most steady and efficient
friends. Allston yielded to his eloquent impulses,
while the hand of his new brother in the holy fel
lowship of art moulded those benign and memo
rable features. It was interesting to watch the seeds
of this high intercourse germinate in the virgin soil
of an unsophisticated mind. Clevenger, with the
instinct of honest admiration , rejoiced in the new
world of thought and humanity to which his talents
had introduced him. It was his privilege, day by
day, for three years, to commune freely in his studio
with men of varied culture and experience. The
effect was visible in the high standard which at last
became the goal of his desires. The free, social
habits of his native region prevented any blind
reverence or timid reserve from nipping these ad
vantages in the bud. He frankly exposed his need
of information , and in the spirit of genuine im
provement, gratefully availed himself of the con
versation and suggestions of those he respected.
This unpretending and assiduous bearing made
him emphatically a favorite. He indulged no
weak repining at the small encouragement which
pursuits like his usually received. He walked con
fidently, but without vanity, in the path he had
entered . He felt that only by self- denial and
perseverance could the garland of fame be won.
He loved his art for its own sake , and looked
on all its votaries with cordial appreciation.
Those who knew him best will remember with
what delicacy and consideration he spoke of all
engaged in similar objects. Not with envy did he
regard the triumph of others, but rather with the
partial judgment of a kindred taste. There was
none of the sickly egotism and absurd jealousy
about him which are apt to mar the nobleness of or
dinary ambition . Clevenger was generous in the
best sense of the term . He would not listen to a
word that disparaged merit. He cherished true
sympathy with all who professed to love what was
so intrinsically dear to himself ; and conscious of
many deficiences, kept always in view the slow
graduations by which lasting excellence is achieved.
Ardent hopes and the kindest remembrance fol
lowed him to Italy. All who had visited that
SONG .
I've kept thy gift, as misers hold
From mortal sight their treasured gold,
Fearful that any eye should guess
Their hidden source of happiness.
Thou hast forgotten , long ere this,
That joyous time, that hour of bliss-
435737
$
11
“ pleasant country's earth ” augured well of one
whose fine gifts and principles were quickened by
youthful enthusiasm . The American virtue of
sustained and earnest activity was his. Early
habits of toil gave promise of vigorous manhood .
The presence of a young and affectionate family
was a pledge and a motive for industry ; and the
aspirations of an honest soul seemed prophetic of
fidelity amid the novel seductions of a warmer
clime. Florence was chosen by Clevenger as a
residence for its comparative cheapness of living,
the facilities it afforded in the prosecution of his
art, and the attraction of his countrymen's society ,
several of whom are established there, as sculptors
and painters. In addition to numerous admirably
executed busts, he modelled an Indian chief and
the Lady of the Lake. The former is one of the
most characteristic products of the American chisel,
and naturally excited much attention in a land
where the heathen mythology has furnished nearly
all the subjects of sculpture. This forest king,
like a messenger from the vast primeval forests of
the new world , is well adapted to charm the fancy
of a people familiar only with classic models. We
hope to see this work completed in marble. It is
to its sale, and that of the remaining and unfinished
efforts of Clevenger, that his widow and children
look for their support. It would be a libel upon
the good feeling as well as taste of the public to
doubt that claims like these will meet with prompt
and liberal recognition .
When disease unnerved the arm of the sculptor,
and his eye grew dim at the sad prospect around
him , it was over the beloved shores of his distant
country that his dreams of hope hovered. Grate
fully came back, upon the aching heart of the exile,
the thought of that encouragement which sent him
an ardent pilgrim to the banks ofthe Arno; and
we cannot wonder that at length he resolved, with
the delusive expectancy peculiar to the disease that
was consuming him , to revisit the land of his birth .
Let us draw a veil over that dreary night at sea —
the moaning of the billows — the narrow and stifled
cabin — the patient sufferer whose dying head was
yet pillowed on the bosom of affection ! Brief as
was the life of Clevenger, it was for the most part
happy, and altogether honorable. He has left to
his brother artists an important example, and no
common legacy of affection , and to his country an
other name sacred to the cause of elevated and
progressive taste .
At least 'twas such to me -- when thou
Bestow'dst the gift so valued now.
But I've so oft in memory's book
Traced o'er and o'er each word and look ,
That all are now as fresh and fair
As in the hour first written there .
8
LIB ER TY .
BY T. B. READ.
I.
When Winter blew his fiercest blast,
And wintry snows were drifting fast,
A feeble child, of slender form ,
With scarce a shelter from the storm,
Unshrinking, 'neath a howling sky,
Listened to ocean's lullaby.
Oppression's curse had driven the child
To the lone desert, far and wild,
With fetters bound his hands and feet,
While on his head the tempest beat ;
But, though condemned with bonds to cope,
The stripling's breast swelled high with hope.
Like voice from subterranean cave,
Or whisper wafted o'er the wave,
Or like the harp's eolian trill,
Or murmuring of the distant rill,
He beard, within , the spirit sigh ,
And lisp the name of LIBERTY .
II .
The youth , unyielding to the storm ,
More sturdy grew in mind and form ,
While flying years sped hand in hand
To seek oblivion's silent land .
When summer clothed the hills in green ,
And spread her thousand gems between ,
And taught the sunny shower to fill
With joy the leaping, singing rill,
Then rose the youth in stature strong,
With nerve that spurned the oppressor's wrong ;
But on his spirit hung a spell —
He felt the galling manacle.
What thrilled his soul ? What lit his eye ?
What caused his sad , crushed heart to cry,
“ O Nature ! hear my troubled voice ;
Oh, say what makes thy heart rejoice ?"
The bright plumed bird upon the limb,
LINES FOR MUSIC .
" Tis many long years since we parted,
Nor lightly has time passed us o'er ;
Yet, love, I come to thee ever true -hearted,
To leave thee, if thou wilt, no more.
The rose from thy cheek, love, has faded ;
Years and sorrow thy young heart could chill ;
Yet though the light of thy life, love, is shaded,
of my life thou art the light still .
12
That all day gave to heaven its hymn,
Sent forth a strain with sweeter swell —
“ O mortal, hear thy spirit tell."
The silver stream , that sought the sea,
Gave to the air its minstrelsy -
“ Yon cruel rocks,” the rambler cried ,
“ Would gladly bid me cease to glide ;
But they, who came to curb my course ,
Are overwhelmed at last by force.
You see me dancing down the steep ;
You hear me laugh, you see me leap ;
You see me lingering on the lea,
Or slumbering 'neath the willow tree -
Then hear your heaving heart confess
The name of all my joyousness."
As music bursting on the night;
As gleams from clouds sulphureous light ;
As water from a fountain gushes,
Or down the cliff the torrent rushes,
He heard , within , the spirit cry
The thrilling name of LIBERTY.
III .
Behold the youthful Hercules,
Now on the land, now on the seas ; -
What though he wears a manacle ?
It goads him to his duty well !
The strife begun - the battle done --
The links are falling, one by one,
As fell the first at Lexington :
And still they fall at every stroke,
The chains and the oppressor's yoke,
Till, standing free, a victor now,
A Hercules with tranquil brow,
He casts around his fire - lit eye,
His thrilling voice sends up a cry ,
By every hill and valley heard ,
And far-off shores give back the word,
The gladdening name of LIBERTY !
1
Far over the world I've been roaming,
Uncheered by the light of thy smile ;
Yet ever knew this blest hour was coming,
And hope cheered me onward the while.
Our youth, love, in sorrow was blighted -
Time hurries us rapidly on -
Yet let us keep the fond faith we then plighted ,
Nor sigh for the days that are gone.
1
 LILLY LARNARD .
BY CHARLES LANAN .
Worth naine of life , in her hath estimate ;
Youth , benuty, wisdom , courage, virtue , all
That happiness and prime can happy call.
Lilly LARNARD is an only child, the pride of
her mother and the delight of her father, who is
the clergyman of our secluded and beautiful vil .
lage. I desire to make my reader acquainted with
this dear girl ; but what can I find to say which
hath not been anticipated by the poet ? Her cha
racter is already revealed. Well then, I will say
something about her by way of illustration .
As I passed by her cottage this afternoon , which
stands on the southern extremity of the green ,
about a hundred paces from the meeting house , I
noticed an almost startling stillness about the pre
mises, as if the place were deserted ; but this was
owing to the heat and natural silence of the hour.
The closed window blinds, half hidden by wood
bine and honey suckle ; the open doors, with a
kitten sunning itself upon the sill of one of them ,
bespoke it not only inhabited, but the abode of
peace and contentment. In a green grape -vine
arbor beside the house sat our little heroine , en
gaged in drawing some curious flowers which she
had gathered in the meadow during her morning
walk. At this moment two of her female cousins
stopped at the front gate, and called her to go
with them on a ramble through the woodlands.
had just time to change from one hand to the
other my heavy string of trout, for I was returning
home from angling, when out she came, bound
ing like a fawn, robed in white muslin , her gypsy
bonnet awry , and a crimson scarf thrown carelessly
over her shoulders. This simple dress is a speci
men of her taste in such matters, and the very
thing to correspond with her dark brown curling
hair, regular pearly teeth , blue Madonna-like eyes
and blooming cheeks. A snow-white terrier, her
constant playmate and companion , soon came
following after, and having licked the hands of
the two friends as a token of recognition, leaped a
neighboring fence and led the way across a clover
field . When I turned to look again the happy
group were crossing a rude bridge at the foot of a
hill, and following the path a short distance they
were lost to view.
Lilly Larnard is now in her sixteenth year. She
is passionately fond of the country ; and I do be
lieve, could she obtain permission , would spend
half her time in the open air. If she has but one
VOL. 1. - 2
All that life can rate
SUAKSPEARE.
summer hour to spare, she goes no farther than
her favorite brook, half a mile from home, where
she will angle away her time, wandering up the
stream to where the overhanging trees throw a
soft twilight upon her path ; and, if necessity
requires it, will off with her slippers, and
wade in after a bunch of lilies or some golden
pebbles. The neighboring farmer as he comes to
the postoffice early in the morning, if he chances
to pass the parsonage, will most likely be saluted
by a sweet smile and bow. And from whom do
you think ? Why, from Lilly Larnard , who is
airing the parlor, dusting the furniture, or arrang
ing some creeping Powers beside the door, with
her pretty face almost hidden in a “ kerchief white.”
And it may be, when mowing in one of his fields
in the afternoon , he will be surprised by aa hearty
laugh in an adjoining copse , and on looking round
behold a party of girls returning from the straw
berry hills, with Lilly as their leader. She is
a pure -hearted lover of nature , and everything,
from the nameless flower to the cloud -capt moun
tain , hath a language which causes her to feel that
the attributes of God are infinite. For her gayer
I hours, Nature “ hath a tale of gladness, and a
smile and eloquence of beauty , and glides into her
darker musings, with a mild and gentle sympathy,
which steals away their sharpness, ere she is
aware ."
But how does she busy herself at home ? it will
be asked . She is an early riser ; and the first
thing she does in the morning, after she has left
her room , is to put every thing in its place which
is out of place. She kindly directs and helps Betty,
the servant, to perform those numerous little house
hold duties, such as feeding the chickens and
straining the milk, not forgetting to give pussy a
saucer full of the warm sweet liquid. She sets
the breakfast table , prepares the toast and all those
kindred delicacies, and pours out the coffee, sitting
like a fairy queen in the old high-backed chair,
with her parents on either side. And when her
father clasps his hands to implore a blessing, she
meekly bows her head, sweetly responding to the
solemn amen . If any thing is wanted from the
kitchen, she is up , and away, and back again ,
almost in a minute, so sprightly is she in all her
13
14 THE COLUMBIAN
movements. During the forenoon she is generally
helping her mother to sew or knit, or do anything
else which is required to be done ; or, if her father
wants her to read one of his chaste and deeply re
ligious sermons, the sweetness of her eloquent
voice makes it doubly impressive. In the after
noon she is generally engaged in some benevolent
duty. Not one in a hundred is so well acquainted
with the poor of the parish.
She enters the abode of the poor widow , and ,
besides administering to her temporal wants, gives
her the overflowing sympathy of her own warm
heart , administering at the same time the consola
tions of religion. It is a common sight to see her
tripping along the street , with a basket on her arm ;
and the clerk or more stately merchant, as he sees
her pass his door, takes particular pains to make a
respectful bow, inwardly exclaiming — “ who now
is to become the debtor of Lilly Larnard ? ” And
the stranger, who may have met her in his walk,
fails not to inquire of his host, at evening, the name
of the lovely creature who wears a white dress and
gypsy bonnet.
Lilly is a Christian, not only a church -going
Christian, but her life is one continued round of
charitable deeds and pious duties, almost worthy
of an angel. She has a class of little boys in the
Sabbath school, and they are all so fond of their
amiable teacher, that I do believe they would un
dergo almost any trial for her sake. She loves
her Bible too, and would be unhappy were she de
prived of the privilege of reading it every day.
When she rises from her pillow at dawn , she
kneels beside her couch , and breathes her offering
of prayer ; and so too, when the day is closed and
she retires to repose .
Her father is a clergyman of easy fortune. The
prayer of his youth seems to have been kindly an
swered by the Most High. About one year ago
he bought a beautiful chestnut pony, and, all sad
dled and bridled , presented it to Lilly on her fif
teenth birth-day. As might be expected , she was
perfectly transported with the gift. “ Oh ! father,"
she exclaimed , “ how I will try to merit your ap
probation in every action of my life !"
A colored boy, named Tommy, is Lilly's groom
and page , and he seems to love the pony and his
mistress above everything else in the world. A
smarter and better-hearted page did not follow a
high -born lady of the feudal times. Lilly has now
become a first rate rider ; and often , when with her
friends, takes pleasure in boasting of her noble ac
complishment, and the speed of her horse . When
she has been out riding she almost always mana
ges to canter through the middle street of the vil
lage on her return . Sometimes she is alone with
her dog, and sometimes with a female friend - but
the forelock of her pony is always surmounted by
a few flowers or a cluster of green leaves, for she
MAGAZINE .
has a queer notion of ransacking the most secluded
corners of the field and wood. Only a week ago,
(the very day I caught that two-pound trout,) while
standing upon a hill , I saw her trying to leap a
narrow but deep brook , and she did not give up
trying until she had accomplished the deed. I
thought that if her pony had been gifted with the
power of speech, he would have exclaimed , “ Well'
done, you courageous girl , you possess a wonderful
deal of spunk ! ”
Lilly left school about two years ago , because
her father chose to superintend her education him
self. She is a good scholar in every thing requisite
for a lady. You could hardly puzzle her with
questions in history, geography or mathematics.
Her modesty and simplicity of character are so
great, that you would be surprised at the extent
of her book information and practical knowledge.
She has a wonderful talent for making herself
agreeable under all circumstances. If she meets
a beggar woman in the street , she will talk fami
liarly with her about her sorrows, instructing her
to bear up under every trial. She is the universal
favorite of the whole village. All who know her,
the poor and the rich, from the child of three years
to the hoary head , all love her with the affection
felt toward a sister or daughter. She smiles with
those who smile, and weeps with those who weep.
Servant girls consult with her about purchasing a
new dress, and little children invite her to partici
pate with them in their pastimes.
Lilly Larnard is a lover of poetry. Yes, whether
she sees it in the primrose and the evening cloud ;
or hears it in the laughing rivulet and the song of
birds ; or reads it in the pages of Spencer, Milton ,
Shakspeare, Wordsworth or Coleridge. And she
is a writer too, of sweet and soothing poetry , just
such as should always emanate from the pure
hearted. To give my reader an idea of her poetic
powers, I will here quote her last effort, which was
written with a pencil on a fly leaf of Dana's Poems,
while walking on the sea shore, for be it known
that the village of her birth is within sound of the
never-ceasing roar of the Atlantic. The title of
it is -
A SEA - SHORE ECHO.
Alone ! and on the smooth , hard , sandy shore
of the boundless sea ! A lovelier morning never
dawned upon the world of waters. O ! how balmy,
how clear, how soul -subduing, how invigorating is
the air ! Calmness sits throned upon the unmoving
clouds, whose colors are like the sky, only of a
brighter hue. One of them , more ambitious than
its fellows, is swimming onward , a wanderer and
companionless. Othat I could rest upon its
“ rolling skirts, ” and take an aerial pilgrimage
around the globe — now looking down upon its
humming cities, and fruitful and cultivated plains,
and again upon some unpeopled wilderness or
 LILLY
ocean solitude ! But alas ! the peerless beauty of
that light cloud will be extinguished , when the
sun shall have withdrawn his influence, and , if
not entirely dispersed, will take another shape
and make its home in darkness. And so have I
seen a man , when wandering from the heavenly
sunshine of religion , passing from his cradle to
the grave .
As I gaze upward into yon blue dome the
anxieties of life are all forgotten , and my heart
throbs with a quicker pulse and beats with an in
creasing thrill of joy. How holy and serene those
azure depths of air ! Strange , that aught so beau
tiful should canopy a world of tears , decay and
death ! Yonder sky is the everlasting home of
countless worlds; the vast ethereal chamber where
are displayed the wonders of the thunder and
lightning and rainbow ; and a mirror too, refect
ing the glorious majesty, the wisdom and power
of the Omnipotent. Lo ! across my vision there
is floating another cloud - whiter than the driven
snow ! Rearward , there trails along another,
and still another, until pile on pile they reach
upward to the very zenith - and oh how gorgeous
the scenes which my fancy conjures up, delighted
with their changing loveliness ! One moment, I
behold a group of angels reclining at ease upon
the summit of a pearly battlement ; and now, sum
moned by a celestial strain of melody, they spread
their pinions for a higher flight -- a flight into the
diamond portals of the New Jerusalem . Again,
a river of pure white foam rolls swift but noise
less through unpeopled valleys, hemmed in by
airy mountains of wondrous height, until its waters
empty into a tranquil sea — boundless and a beau
tiful exceedingly ; " and on this a myriad of swan
like barges are gliding to and fro, without a breeze,
while the voyagers are striking their golden harps
and singing hymns of sweetest strain and holiest
import, whose echoes die away on the shadowy
waves. There ! all these , like the dreams of
youth , are melting into nothingness, and my eyes
now rest only upon the dark and blue ocean .
The green waves of the Atlantic , with their
undulating swell , come rolling in upon the sand,
making a plaintive music, sweeter than the blended
harmonies of a thousand instruments. Would
that I might leap in and wrestle with them , and
when overcome by fatigue , lay my heated brow
upon those cool watery pillows, rocked to sleep as
in aa cradle , while my lullaby would be the moan
ing of the sea . The mists of morning are all dis
pelled, and the glorious sunshine, emblem of God's
love , is bathing with effulgent light the ocean
before me, and behind me the mountains and val.
leys of my own loved country. Look ! how the
white caps chase each other along the watery
plain , like milk -white steeds, striving in their free
dom to outstrip the breeze. Whence comes this
36
LARNARD . 15
breeze, and whither is it going ? Three days ago,
at set of sun , it spread its wings near to a sandy
desert of Africa, where a caravan of camels and
horses and men had halted for the night ; and at
the dawning of to -morrow it will be sporting with
the forest trees of the western wilderness !
Far as the eye can reach , the sea is “ sprinkled
o'er with ships,” their white sails gleaming in the
sunlight. One of them has just returned from In
dia , another from the Pacific, and another from
the Arctic Sea. Years have elapsed since they
departed hence. They have been exposed to a
thousand dangers, but the great God , who holds
the ocean in the hollow of his hand, has conducted
them back to their desired homes. How many
silent prayers of thanksgiving, and what a thrilling
and joyous shout will echo to the shore , as those
storm-beaten mariners drop anchor in their native
waters ! Yonder, too, are other ships, bound to the
remotest corners of the earth. They seem to re
joice in their beauty and speed, and proud is their
bearing ; but will they ever return ? Alas ! the
shadowy future alone can answer. Farewell, a
long farewell, ye snowy daughters of the ocean.
But to return. Lilly Larnard is fond of music
too, and play: elightſully on the harp. Her voice
is sweeter than the fall of waters when heard at a
distance in the stillness of the twilight hour. She
knows nothing of fashion , and if she did , would
consider it beneath her dignity to be incommoded
or swayed by it. Instead of decking herself with
gew - gaws for a brilliant appearance in the gay
saloon, within sound of the rude jest and foolish
flattery, she strives by watchfulness and care to
purify her daily conduct, for hers is not less prone
to sin than all other human hearts. “ Necklaces
does she sometimes wear in her playful glee, made
of the purple fruit that feeds the small birds in the
moors, and beautiful is the gentle stain then visible
over the blue veins of her swan -like bosom ."
Beautiful as she is, a feeling of vanity never yet
entered the heart of the rector's daughter. She
feels too deeply the truth that personal charms,
which are the only pride of weak -minded persons,
time will eventually transform into wrinkled home.
liness ; and that an affectionate heart and good
understanding will endure , and become more per
fect, until the pilgrimage of life is ended .
Never has Lilly Lamard been more than thirty
miles away from the village of her birth. She has
read of cities and the busy multitudes that throng
them! ; of armies and navies ; of politics and war ;
but all these things to her are but as the visions
of a dream . She is ignorant of the real condition
and character of the great world, for nought but
the echo of its din has ever fallen upon her ear.
She listens with wonder to the deeds of which I
sometimes tell her I have been an unwilling witness
in the wilderness of men . She thinks it strange that
16 THE COLUMBIAN
the inhabitants ofcities think so much of the present
life, and so little of the future. Her days have been
spent in innocence beneath the blue dome of the
illimitable sky, inhaling the pure unadulterated air
of the country , now sporting in the sunshine, and
TIE WHITE -FOOTED DEER . *
BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT .
It was a hundred years ago,
When , by the woodland ways,
The traveller saw the wild deer drink,
Or crop the birchen sprays .
Beneath a hill, whose rocky side
O'erbrou ed a grassy mead,
And fenced a cottage from the wind,
A deer was wont to feed .
She only came when on the cliffs
The evening moonlight lay,
And no man knew the secret haunts
In which she walked by day.
White were her feet, her forehead showed
A spot of silvery white,
That seemed to glimmer like a star
In Autumn's hazy night.
And here, when sang the whippoorwill,
She cropped the sprouting leaves,
And here her rustling steps were heard
On still October eves .
But when the broad midsummer morn
Rose o'er that grassy lawn,
Beside the silver-footed deer
There grazed a spotted fawn .
The cottage dame forbade her son
To aim the rifle here ;
“ It were a sin ," she said, “ to harm
Or fright that friendly deer.
“ This spot has been my pleasant home,
Ten peaceful years and more ;
And ever, when the moonlight shines,
She feeds before our door.
" The red men say that here she walked
A thousand moons ago ;
They never raise the war-whoop here,
And never twang the bow.
* During the stay of Long's expedition at Engineer Cantonment, three specimens of a variety of the common deer were
brought in, having all the feet white rear the houfs, and extending to these in the hind feet from a little above the spurious
hoofs. This white extremity was divided , upon the sides of the foot, by the general color of the leg, which extends down near
to the hoofs, leaving a white triangle in front, of which the point was elevated rather higher than the spurious hoofs.
MAGAZINE .
now sprinkled by a refreshing shower ; while the
loveliest of flowers and birds, and holy and tender
aflections, have been her hourly companions ; and
her nights have passed away in pleasant dreams
of that bright world beyond the stars.
“ I love to watch her as she feeds,
And think that all is well,
While such a gentle creature haunts
The place in which we dwell.”
The youth obeyed and sought for game
In forests far away,
Where, deep in silence and in moss,
The ancient woodland lay.
But once, in Autumn's golden time,
He ranged the wild in vain,
Nor roused the pheasant nor the deer,
And wandered home again.
The crescent morn and crimson eve
Shone with a mingling light ;
The deer, upon the grassy mead,
Was feeding full in sight.
He raised the rifle to his eye,
And from the cliffs around
A sudden echo, shrill and sharp,
Gave back its deadly sound .
Away the startled creature sprang,
And the next sunrise threw
Its rays on many a crimson drop,
Amid the glimmering dew.
Next evening shone the waxing moon ,
As sweetly as before ;
The deer upon the grassy mend ,
Was seen again no more.
But ere the crescent moon was old ,
By night the red men came,
And burnt the cottage to the ground,
And slew the youth and dame.
Now woods have overgrown the mead ,
And hid the cliffs from sight ;
There shrieks the hovering bawk at noon,
And prowis the fox at night.
Godman's Natural History, Vol. ii . p. 314 .
었
 AUTHORS
BY ABEL SMITH , JR.
Our authors — especially such as have been
unfavorably reviewed — loudly complain of the
critics. They say that a great portion of them
are destitute of candor, modesty, and good breed
ing ; that they are interested, partial and unjust;
that they are the organs of sectarian violence,
party spleen , or private pique ; that they are indis
criminate in their praise as well as censure ; and
that if they were ever so well inclined, they have
neither the learning, the taste , nor the capacity to
sit in judgment in the high courts of literature,
direct the public opinion, and anticipate the award
of posterity. On the other hand, the critics affirm
that the authors of the present day , especially those
of our own country, are in general destitute of
vigor and originality of genius ; that in place of
exercising their talents in the formation of a na
tional literature , they content themselves with
following in the old beaten track ; and instead of
addressing themselves to the feelings of their coun.
trymen , become the mere echoes of foreign tastes,
manners , habits and opinions.
Without attempting to “ decide where doctors
disagree , " and feeling no other interest in the
subject than that which arises from a sincere and
ardent desire to see the literature of my native
land, like that of every other civilized country,
assume its proper distinctive character, and rise
above that habit of servile imitation which re
presses all originality , I shall , with due candor and
plain dealing, proceed to offer my views on the
subject. For this purpose, I propose to take for
my text the once admired poem of a writer, who,
though celebrated in his day , has been since so
completely overshadowed by more modern bards,
that it is scarcely too much to say, though his
name is sometimes mentioned by old fashioned
people, his works are almost, if not entirely, for
gotten, especially by the critics. Judging from
their general course, the poem in question will be
quite new to them ; and I shall therefore be some
what particular in my analysis , as well as copious
in my quotations, for the special benefit of both
poets and critics.
The writer commences with giving it as his
opinion that it is quite as great a fault to judge ill,
as to write ill , and a more dangerous one in its
consequences. This idea he expresses with great
terseness and felicity.
“ ' Tis hard to say , if greater want of skill
Appear in writing or in judging ill
2*
AND CRITICS .
But of the two, less dangerous is the offence,
To tire our patience than mislead our sense .
Some few in that, but numbers err in this ;
Ten censure wrong for one who writes amiss ;
A fool might once alone himself expose,
Now one in verse makes many more in prose .
** ' Tis with our judgments as our watches ; none
Go just alike, yet each believes his own .
In poets as true genius' is but rare,
True taste as seldom is the critic's share ;
Both must alike from Heaven derive their light,
These born to judge, as well as those to write .
Let such teach others who themselves excel,
And censure freely who have uritten well."
I have underscored the last couplet, because , in
my opinion , it embodies a most important sug
gestion. No man should dare to insult the public
with arrogant decisions on the merits of others,
until he has fairly demonstrated his own ; any
more than a lawyer should be elevated to the seat
of justice without having given ample evidence of
his talents as well as his integrity. And here I
will also add, that criticism should never be anony
mous. The critic should always hold himself re
sponsible for his strictures, as this is the best , and
indeed only effectual security against the indul
gence of spleen and ill nature. What should we
say of a judge, who, like the oracles of old, de
livered his responses from the depths of impenetra
ble obscurity , instead of pronouncing them from
the bench, in the face of the world ? Why then
should the critic adopt the same course in deciding
on the claims of authors, not only to public patron
age, but the admiration of future ages ? His name
would be the best guaranty for his candor, his
modesty and his good breeding ; and his repu
tation, if he had any, give weight to his de
cisions.
The poet, after expressing a conviction that all
persons of common sense have the seeds of natu
ral taste implanted in their minds, howeverfaintly ;
that the slightest sketch, if justly traced, is dis
guised by being badly colored ; and that good
sense is only spoiled or defaced by false learning ;
proceeds to a general description of critics . I
shall merely observe, in passing, that the class
noticed in the first line is become very rare, iſ not
entirely extinct ; learning, good, bad or indiffer
ent , being now considered only an encumbrance to
the skirts of criticism .
17
ga
%
18 THE COLUMBIAN
" Some are bewildered in the maze of schools,
And some made caxcombs, nature meant for fools .
In search of wit these lose their common sense ,
And then turn critics in their own defence ;
Each burns alike, who can , or cannot write,
Or with a rival's, or a eunuch's spite.
All fools have still an itching to deride,
And fain would be upon the laughing side.
If Maevius scribble in Apollo's spite,
There are, who judge still worse than he can write.
Some have at first for wits, then poets passed ,
Turned critics next, and proved plain fools at last .
Some neither can for wits, nor poets pass,
As heavy mules are neither horse, ner ass .
来 # *
" Some to conceit alone their taste confine,
And glittering thoughts struck out at every line :
Pleased with a work where nothing's just or fit,
One glaring chnos, or wild heap of wit.
Poets, like painters, thus unskilled to trace,
The naked nature and the living grace,
With gold and jewels cover every part,
And hide with ornaments their want of art.
"Others for language all their care express,
And value books, as women men, for dress ;
Their praise is still , the style is excellent ;
The sense they humbly take upon content.
Words are like leaves, and where they most abound ,
Much fruit of sense beneath is rarely found .
* *
“ But most by numbers judge a poet's song,
And smooth or rough with them is right or wrong ;
In the bright muse, though thousand charms conspire,
ller voice is all these tuneful fools admire,
Who haunt Parnassus but to please the ear,
Not mend their minds, as some to church repair,
Not for the doctrine, but the music there.
These equal syllables alone require ,
Though oft the ear the open vowels tire ;
While expletives their feeble aid do join ,
And ten low words oft creep in one dull line.
Some foreign writers, some their own despise,
The ancients only, or the moderns prize ;
Thus wit, like faith, by each man is applied ,
To one small sect, and all are damned beside."
Again :
“Some ne'er advance a judgment of their own,
But catch the spreading notion of the town ;
They reason and conclude by precedent,
And own stale nonsense, which they ne'er invent.
Some judge of authors' names, not works, and then
Nor praise nor blame the writings, but the men.
Of all the servile herd , the worst is he,
That in proud dulness joins with quality ;
A constant critic at the great man's board,
To fetch and carry nonsense for my lord.
What woful stuff this madrigal would be,
In some stained , hackneyed, sonneteer, or me,
But let a lord once own the happy lines ,
How the wit brightens ! how the style refines !
MAGAZINE .
Before the sacred name flies every fault ,
And each exalted stanza tecms with thought !" *
Again :
“ Some valuing those of their own side, or mind,
Still make themselves the measure ofmankind ;
Fondly we think we honor merit then,
When we but praise ourselves in other men .
Parties in wit attend on these ofstate,
And public faction doubles private hate . "
Having finished his classification , the poet pro
ceeds to point out the course and duties of the
true critic.
** Be thou the first true merit to befriend ;
His praise is lost who stays till all commend.
Short is the date, alas ! ofmodern rhymes,
And 'tis but just to let them live betimes.
No longer now the golden age appears,
When patriarch wits survived a thousand years ;
Now, length of fame (our second life) is lost,
And bare threescore is all that we can boast ;
Our song their fathers' failing language see ,
And such as Chaucer is shall Dryden be."
Again :
“ Learn then what morals critics ought to show ;
For 'tis but half a judge's task to know.
' Tis not enough, taste, judgment, learning join ;
In all your speech let truth and candor shine.
Be silent always, when you doubt your sense,
And speak, though sure, with seeming diffidence :
Some positive, persisting fops, we know,
Who, if once wrong, will needs be always 80 ;
But you with pleasure own your errors past,
And make each day a critique on the last;
' Tis not enough your counsel still be true,
Blunt truths more mischief than nice falsehoods do ;
Men must be taught, as if you taught them not,
And things unknown proposed as things forgot ;
Without good breeding, truth is disapproved,
That only makes superior sense beloved."
The poet then asks:
“ But where's the man who counsel can bestow ,
Still pleased to teach , and yet not proud to know ?
Unbiassed or by favor, or by spite,
Not dully prepossessed, nor blindly right ;
Though learned, well bred, and though well bred, sincere ;
Modestly bold , and humanely severe ;
Who to a friend his faults can freely show,
And gladly praise the merit ofa foe;
Blessed with a taste exact, yet unconfined,
A knowledge both of books and human kind ;
Generous converse ; a soul exempt from pride,
And love to praise, with reason on his side."
Although I have brought all these passages to
gether, in one view , they are relieved, in the
* Vide my Lord Byron .
 AUTHORS
original poem, by precepts of the nicest taste and
judgment, addressed to poets. The author, after
applauding the Stagyrite, Longinus, Horace , Dyo
nysius, Petronius and Quinctilian, among the
ancients, and Erasmus among the moderns, adds :
4
“ The generous critic fanned the poet's fire,
And taught the world with reason to admire .
Then criticism the muse's handmaid proved,
To dress her charms, and make her more beloved ;
But fawning wits from that intention strayed,
Who could not win the mistress, wooed the maid,
Against the poets their own arms they turned,
Sure to hate most the men from whom they learned .
So modern 'pothecaries taught the art,
By doctors' bills to play the doctor's part ;
Bold in the practice of mistaken rules,
Prescribe, apply , and call their masters, fools.”
For the benefit of the juvenile gentlemen of our
critical school, I will explain the last six lines of
this quotation , which might otherwise puzzle them
not a little. They may not be, and probably are
not, aware that poets preceded critics, just as
doctors did apothecaries, and that Homer, not
Aristotle, Quinctilian and Longinus, established
the laws of poetry . They were already exempli
fied in the Iliad , and the others did nothing but
digest them into a code. As law is said to be the
perfection of reason , drawn from the general intel
ligence and experience of mankind, so are the
canons of criticism the result of the genius of au
thors. I should extend this article to a tiresome
length, were I to extract the author's advice to
poets. It is sufficient that it may be all summed
up in an injunction to follow Nature, and study
Homer as her great exponent. He cautions critics
against pride, “ the never failing vice of fools ;"
against ignorance ; against judging a work by parts
instead of the whole ; against undue attachment to
witticisms, conceits, smooth language and harmo
nious versification, only, in preference to fine
thoughts and lofty conceptions ; against too great
an aptitude to admire or condemn by wholesale ;
against prejudice or partiality connected with sects
and parties ; against singularity, inconstancy, envy
and malice. In short , the poem is not only a code
of criticism , but of morality , and may be profitably
studied as a standard of both, independently of its
exquisite wit and versification .
It may possibly surprise some old - fashioned
readers, who fortunately lived before the glory of
the present age of English literature was ob
scured by certain modern luminaries, that have in
a great measure monopolized the more youthful
class of students, that I should recommend to the
attention of our critics in poetry a work once so
celebrated as the Essay on Criticism. They will
probably presume that no one would set up in the
AND CRITICS . 19
trade of criticism without a competent acquaint
ance with English literature and with Aristotle ,
Quinctilian , Horace, Longinus, Erasmus, and I will
add Dryden, whose preliminary discourse to his
translation of Virgil is one of the finest pieces of
criticism in the English language. But I appre
hend they are greatly mistaken , and know very
little of that species of critics so common now -a
days, who set up on speculation, and having little
or no capital to lose, run riot in all sorts of literary
extravagance. It is quite sufficient for this class
of censors that they read the Edinburgh and
Quarterly, and the London Literary Gazette. But
even this is not indispensable, since there are not
a few of these insipid youth who run down a
writer by instinct, as a pointer scents his game.
Another striking analogy is observable between
the hunter of fowls and the hunter of authors. It
is only certain birds that the former considers
game ; and in like manner it is only certain de
fenceless authors the latter worries. His first
inquiry is, as to what sect or party they belong ;
and then if it chance to be that to which himself,
or his employer, is opposed, he pronounces them
game , levels his blunderbuss at their heads, and
murders them with a clear conscience.
I have heard not a few of these unfledged critics
complain of the present school of poetry, but in my
opinion it is fully equal to the present school of
criticism. A large portion of them have no claim
whatever to sit in judgment on authors. In the
first place, they have no established reputation to
give weight to their decisions. In the second place,
they are not sufficiently versed in the canons of
criticism , or with polite literature , to cite authori
ties in their support. In the third place, they lack
the great requisites of candor, modesty and good
breeding, so essential to the justice, the dignity
and utility of tribunals of this kind. They are
either incapable of all judicious discrimination , or
suffer their prejudices, interests and passions to
lead them into wholesale applause or condemna
tion , for which no adequate reasons are given, and
which have no other support than the authority of
anonymous writers, whose names are probably
withheld, not from modest diffidence, but an un
willingness to assume the responsibility of such
crude declamation and harsh personality. These
literary censors ought to know that such extrava
gance of praise or censure always betrays either
partiality, prejudice, personal interest, or party and
sectarian feeling ; and that criticism must wear at
least the semblance of candor and disinterested
ness , in order to have any weight with judicious
readers. Neither learning nor talents will make በ a
good critic, without the aid of those moral qualities
that afford unquestionable security to the public
against the indulgence of constitutional ill -nature,
envenomed spleen, interested motives and party
 20 THE COLUMBIAN MAGAZINE .
malignity. With these general remarks , I shall
proceed to a classification of the teachers in our
modern school of criticism . The poem from which
I have made such copious selections is somewhat
deficient in this respect, probably because those
classes not included in its strictures had no exist
ence , when it was written , or were held in such
contempt by the poet, that he considered them
unworthy of notice.
The first and highest class of critics, to which
I shall confine myself, is represented by the Edin
burgh and Quarterly Reviews, each of which is
the notorious organ of a great political party.
This, of itself, is sufficient to destroy all candor
and impartiality, and to vitiate the entire mass of
their criticism . It necessarily mingles with all
their decisions, because, even admitting the work
to be entirely distinct from all political questions,
still the author belongs to one or the other party,
and the only way in which he can avoid giving
offence is to advance no opinion whatever , either
on religion, politics, and I might almost add mo
rals, for these last are systematized , and the mo
rality of one sect or party is quite different from
that of the other. That these Reviews are con
ducted with very considerable learning and talent
I do not pretend to question ; but that they are
either candid or impartial I deny. On the con
trary , they have a hundred times given unequivocal
testimony of being governed by political feelings
and prejudices, in praising writers of their own
sect or party far beyond their deserts, and con
demning their opponents without either justice or
mercy . They are consequently unsafe guides in
matters of taste , and partial ones in matters of
opinion , since no one can tell how far their judg
ments may be influenced by party bias, without
reading the work and deciding for himself. Re
views requiring this test are worse than useless,
because , instead of directing the judgment of the
reader, they put him to the trouble of correcting
their own . It seems to me that, at all events,
foreign Reviews, hostile not only to our national
government and institutions, but to our national
character, are not the best guides to our tastes or
opinions ; and that their extensive circulation in
this country, where , as nothing is paid for author
ship or copy right , they greatly undersell our native
publications, is eminently calculated to mislead
the public mind, and perpetuate that literary subor
dination to foreign opinion , which is one great
obstacle to the formation of a healthful and vigor
ous school of national literature. It is said opinion
governs the world , and if so , those who direct our
opinions are our masters .
There is another class of reviewers connected
with English magazines and periodicals, which are
regularly re -printed and extensively disseminated,
through that cheap process of naturalization afford
ed by the absence of aa national copy right law. I
refer to Blackwood's and Frazer's Magazines --- and
there may be others for aught I know — which are
characterized by a sort of reckless hostility and
slap -dash insolence, most especially toward our
selves and our institutions, which one might pre
sume would render them rather distasteful to a
delicate American palate. These deal in what
may be termed slashing criticism, which supplies
the absence of keen wit , cutting sarcasin and
legitimate argument, by calling names , by arrogant
assumptions of our inferiority, founded in sheer
ignorance, on one hand, and equally arrogant asser
tions of superiority on the other, for which the
reader has neither proof nor warrant, except in the
authority of an anonymous scribbler. Yet it
cannot be denied , however it may be lamented,
that there is a large class of readers in the United
States, whose position in society gives them great
weight , and whose opinions are not a little influ
enced by these crude and prejudiced criticisms, as
destitute of truth as devoid of good breeding.
There is not a country in the world , but our own,
where such a tissue of libels on the national cha
racter could be republished with a reasonable
prospect of gain, or tolerated by those who are its
victims. Yet these are among the oracles of what
is called the better sort of people among us, who
may, for aught I know, cherish them as fools were
formerly entertained at semi-barbarous courts, for
the sole purpose of amusing the monarch by their
insolence and buffoonery. They form one of the
great attractions of Athenæums, reading rooms
and circulating libraries, and whoever can offer
these delicacies is sure of customers among the
literary epicures.
Thus criticism , for the most part, has been
prostituted to party and sectarian purposes, by the
leading critical journals of Great Britain, which
have become not only the guides, but the examples
of those of the United States, with a few honorable
exceptions. Instead of reviewing books, they
merely use them as a text for the discussion of
principles ; and in place of deciding on the merits
of a work , they attack the author personally, or
give a long dissertation on poetry, politics or secta
rian religion . They are, in fact, nothing more
than the oracles of party ; and as they present only
one side of the question , can never be relied on
as the vehicles of truth and impartiality. The
worst of it is, I have not unfrequently detected
them in the vulgar, disingenuous artifice of robbing
the authors they profess to review of their ideas,
and putting the substance in their own words,
without intimating the source from whence they
were derived. In this way they may be said to
fatten on the carcasses of the very victims they
have murdered .
Next to those impartial English critics, one class

AUTHORS AND CRITICS .
of which gives no quarter to the advocates of
church and state, the other to dissenters and libe
rals, come the more humble organs of the pub
lishers of books. It is quite notorious that the
London Literary Gazette , whose good word con
fers immortality on our American writers, is, or
was lately, in part owned by a great publishing
house in London , and as a matter of course blew
the trumpet most lustily at the annunciation of
every work which proceeded from that quarter.
Even the Edinburgh Review is extremely tender
and courteous to the publications of Messrs. Archi
bald Constable & Company , and I believe it will
be found that the London Quarterly has seldom ,
if ever, been known to refuse its good word to
those of its proprietor and publisher, the late John
Maurey. In a word , it cannot be denied that
English criticism is greatly, not to say fatally,
adulterated by prejudice, venality, party spirit and
sectarian venom. Ofall others, it is the most unsafe
guide to the tastes and principles of the readers of
the United States, and whatever influence it exer
cises, must necessarily be hostile to our institutions,
as well as injurious to our habits and character.
The growth of indigenous critics is more re
markable for quantity than quality. The harvest
is great , and the laborers not few ; but the crop is
not of wheat so much as tares. I believe there is
scarcely a man who has ever flourished a goose
quill, or contributed to a periodical, but has mur
dered some unlucky author in cold blood , and
afterward gibbeted him without mercy. It seems
a favorite amusement, an agreeable recreation , to
sit down with a segar in the mouth , and write a
sweeping condemnation, in fewer words than are
used by the judge in condemning a criminal. No
reasons are given ; no quotations adduced to jus
tify the verdict. It is the mere ipse dixit of an
anonymous nobody ; and yet this dagger, wielded
by an unknown hand, and levelled in the darkest
obscurity , enters the heart of some humble aspirant
to fame, or bread , and rankles there with poisonous
malignity. These blind indiscriminate judgments
are contrasted by extravagant, wholesale praises
of others, equally unsupported, by extracts, analy
sis or canons of criticism derived from acknow
ledged authorities ; and thus, on the one hand , as
authors are often condemned without crime, on
the other they are as frequently lauded without
desert. It were far better, in my humble opinion ,
that mankind were left to the direction of that
natural perception of beauty with which all are
more or less imbued, than subjected to the govern
ment of critics, who, if ever so impartial, are, for
the most part , entirely unfitted by ignorance ,
prejudice and want of taste , for presiding in the
courts of criticism .
It was my intention to give a complete classifi
cation of the various hordes of critics which from
3.
21
time to time make their periodical forays into the
field of literature, not like the English and Scottish
borderers of old , robbing henroosts, and carrying
off cattle , but smiting with the jaw bone of an ass ,
and like Sampson, slaying their thousands. But the
apprehension of tiring my readers prevents me
from being so particular as I might otherwise have
been , and I must hasten to a conclusion , which
shall be devoted to a few brief general observations.
The extracts I have given from Pope* so clearly
and beautifully define the true critic , that I shall
refrain from saying anything farther on that head,
contenting myself with exhorting the congregated
millions of critics who preside in our literary tribu
nals, and who, not being able to “ win the mistress,
woo the maid , ” to learn to write a little , before
they attempt to sit in judgment on the writings of
others. I confess I have no expectation, not even
the remote glimmering of a hope, that they will
follow my advice, notwithstanding my age and
experience ; for though I write Junior to my name,
I am old enough to be a grandfather. It is so
much easier to give a bad judgment than to write
even a bad book , that it can scarcely be anticipated
that the number of the former will not continue to
exceed the latter, ten fold at least. As it is how
ever probable this is the last time they will ever
hear from me on the subject, I shall sum up all
I have to say in the following friendly caution,
namely - to bear in mind that to be a competent
judge of poetry, it is proper to have read other
poets besides Scott , Moore , Byron, Mrs. Hemans,
Barry Cornwall and L. E. L.; and that to be
competent to the exercise of a correct critical judg
ment requires something more than consummate
assurance or ignorant hardihood. Nothing more
strongly marks, or has more powerfully contributed,
to the decline of a vigorous, healthful and original
literature, than the growth of a school of criticism,
for the most part so ignorant, venal, wanton and
gross , as that which disgraces the present times.
The delicate sensibilities of genius shrink from
appearing before such a tribunal; the lofty and
commanding mind, conscious of its innate strength
and dignity , scorns an appeal to those who should
be its slaves instead of its judges ; the well disci
plined scholar turns with disgust from such arrogant
crudities ; the man of refined taste revolts equally
at their rude condemnations and indiscriminate
praises ; but the reading public at large is irre
trievably led astray by these self -created guides,
who are either too blind to follow the right
path, or too wilful, venal or prejudiced, to pursue
the track marked out by the immortal names that
have gone before them .
* For the benefit of all juvenile crities , I heg leave to state
that I don't mean Pope Joan, nor Pore Gregory , but Alex
ander Pope, a poet formerly of some little celebrity, but now
almost forgotten.
o
A BRIDE'S TRIALS .
BY THE AUTHOR OF “ A NEW HOME."
“ I fear you will be disappointed in this home
of which you talk so sweetly, my dear Constantia , "
said Edward Dalton to his bride, as they journeyed
westward a few days after their marriage. “ I
begin to doubt the wisdom of having deferred my
alterations of the house and its furniture. I might
have trusted the intuition of love to suggest to me
what would suit your delicate taste. But really,
I am so ignorant of all these matters, and my
mother is so old - fashioned in her predilections,
that I thought it better the presiding genius of the
place should superintend the improvements. So I
warn you, love , against first impressions.”
Constantia had no fears -- why should she ?
The match had been an equal and a disinterested
one ; and where first and happy love resides, there
needs but little more. It is, or ought to be , only
in chilled after-liſe that we learn to prize these
merely outward circumstances at an inordinate
rate .
The home which Edward Dalton described as
thus plain and unpretending, was situated in a
large town in western New York. Here he had
commenced the practice of law with sufficiently
good prospects, while, as he had informed Con
stantia and her friends, his own property and that
of his mother, who resided with him , rendered
them independent of his professional exertions.
So the young couple, although their marriage was
more hurried than very wise people thought best,
had not acted so imprudently as some young
couples have done before them , and therefore were
not thought to have forfeited all claims to happi
ness and all title to pity, as we old folks are apt
to conclude when children under thirty venture to
change their condition without having a golden
store laid by for a security against any possible
lack of means.
It was a long journey, and ere they reached its
conclusion , Constantia, feeling much atigued,
proposed remaining at the comfortable hotel at
which they had stopped for tea, that she might be
a little more presentable on the following morning,
when she should meet her new mother, who was
now only ten miles distant. And they arranged
all things for a tranquil evening, an evening which
was sure to prove all too short for the pleasant
business of scanning the future — the smiling,
beckoning future.
" How delighted my mother will be !” said Ed.
66
ward ; " she lost an only daughter some years ago,
and you will repair her loss and teach her to forget.
22
Nor will you find her a cold or gloomy companion.
She is full of warm sympathies and possesses a
happy faculty of seeing only the good qualities of
those around her, which happy faculty preserves
her from the sour censoriousness its opposite is apt
to induce in people who find themselves declining
in life. In short, dearest, ” he concluded , “ you
will first, I know , love her for my sake and then
for your own ."
But ere Constantia could express her conviction
that this description of the mother of her own Ed
ward must be as impartial as it was enthusiastic,
a message was brought to Mr. Dalton that a per
son below desired to see him .
“ Ask him to walk up stairs, " said Mr. Dalton .
“ He wouldn't come up, sir ; he says he has
some business with you in great haste.” And
Edward went down, promising to be absent but a
few minutes. And in less than ten he returned.
“ I shall be obliged to leave you a little while,
love ; an hour or two at farthest .”
“ Leave me, Edward !"
Only for a little while — I have not a moment
for explanation, but you shall know all about it
when I return ; here is a comfortable sofa, and I
will endeavor to send you some books — " and
with a hurried kiss, the young husband ran off,
leaving the poor bride half vexed and half fright
ened at being left alone at an inn in this strange
sort of way.
A maid brought in some tattered volumes , and
Constantia tried in vain to interest herself in their
dingy pages. An hour wore on - no Edward blest
her weary eyes. Again she opened one of the
books, and read with fascinated attention , that
melancholy tale , “ The Forgers ; ” and now the
heart of the fair young bride found relief in tears ,
called forth by sympathy for the desolate survivor
of husband and son . Perhaps she was not sorry
for an excuse for tears , for she had become gloomy
and despondent as the sun neared the western
horizon . “ Yet why this weakness," she asked
herself ; “ necessity alone could have induced Ed
ward to leave me thus, and when he returns I
shall be ashamed to own how like a silly girl I
have felt."
Presently a scrap of paper was brought her,
containing a line or two in pencil from her hus.
band , telling her that he found himself prevented
from returning as soon as he had hoped, but that
he would come or send before dark .
Constantia now became seriously alarmed. She
3
 A BRIDE'S TRIALS .
looked at her - watch , it still wanted a quarter of
six . To remain in this painful uncertainty till
dark seemed an age of cruel suspense . She
thought of a duel ; only because she could think of
nothing else ; for aťa calmer moment she would
have been sure that Edward was no duellist.
Ringing the bell hastily, she inquired of the servant
whether he knew the person with whom Mr. Dal
ton had left the house . Then recollecting the im
propriety of such a question , she added that she
had become uneasy at his stay. The man hesita
ted a moment, and then said :
“ Squire Montgomery came for him in his
carriage, ma'am , and I see Grabbins get in after
'em ."
“ And pray who is Grabbins ? ” she inquired.
“ The constable , ma'am . ”
“ Oh ! it is professional business then ;" said
Constantia, as she dismissed the man, and she en
deavored, by repeating this to herself, to calm the
flutter which still agitated her nerves . But every
moment grew less and less supportable ; and when
the last ray of the setting sun had disappeared, she
took her station on the piazza upon which the
room opened, hoping thence sooner to be aware
of the return of her husband . she cast her
eyes below , a plain light wagon drove up to the
door, and aa rough looking man asked if there was
66
a young woman there. * Her husband has sent
for her, ” he added, giving his whip an impatient
crack, while he awaited the answer to his question .
“ Yes, yes !” exclaimed Constantia , without a
moment's reflection ; " I will be ready in a mo
ment. "
“ Oh ! you'm the one , be ye ? ” said the man,
looking up ; “ wal ! be a joggin ', for its gettin '
late."
And in an instant the bride appeared below,
equipped for a drive.
“ But have you no note or letter for me?" she
said , before she descended the steps.
The man felt in his pockets, took off his hat ,
and after extracting therefrom a dirty cotton hand
kerchief and exploring the crown with a reflective
air, replied :
“ Wal ! I had a kind of a billet , but I must ha'
dropt it out of my hat. But never mind, I guess
we'll find it as we go back , for there a’nt many
passers on that road.” With this comfort Con
stantia resolved to content herself, and allowing
the stranger to help her into the wagon, they drove
off, the poor bride's heart misgiving her sadly , yet
the thought of rejoining her husband putting down
all less agreeable anticipations.
No time was lost on the way. The wagon
banged over the new -made forest road at so fu
rious a rate that Constantia begged him to drive
more moderately, and , when he complied, she took
the opportunity to ask to what place she was going.
23
“Oh ! not far,” he replied ; " it can't be above
three miles from that tavern where you put up.”
" And shall I find Mr. Dalton there ? ”
" Find who ? ”
66
My husband, Mr. Edward Dalton ," said the
perplexed Constantia.
“ Wal ! I don't know ; Ned 'll be there if he
can, I dare say , but he's obleeged to steer pretty
close just now . "
Then in answer to Constantia's look of speech
less, terrified surprise , he added :
“ I see he hasn't told you as much as he'd ought
to ; ” but never mind ! this may blow over ; we've
weathered many as black -looking a squall as this."
Trembling and aghast — her confidence in her
beloved Edward still firm , yet a sense of danger
and distress weighing on her heart like a mill
stone—the now wretched bride attempted to extract
more definite information from her conductor, who,
though rough, was far from seeming devoid of
feeling. But he declined entering into the par
ticulars. “ I must leave Ned to tell his own story , "
he said, “ he's played gentleman so long that he's
mighty uppish , and I don't want to have a quarrel
with him. It's pretty dangerous, as more than
one can tell.”
As he spoke he turned from the travelled road
and struck into aa devious path which led into the
depths of the wood. So thickly were the branches
interlaced above that day -light was almost en
tirely excluded, and here a new fear seized poor Con
stantia. She thought of robbery and murder, and
all those accumulated horrors which are apt to
present themselves to the imaginations of novel
reading young ladies. But ere she could give
voice to her new fears, her companion drew up
before a small house which she had scarcely ob
served, and which seemed to have no cleared land
near it , except a small garden , and a court-yard
enclosed by a picket-fence. Here, leaning over a
little gate in front, stood a portly, red -faced woman ,
who hailed Constantia's driver with “ Hilloa, Jerry !
is that you ? "
" I guess so ! ” was Jerry's reply ; " and here's
Ned's gal.”
Why do tell ! ” said the old woman ; “ well,
I'm glad you're come, for all we're in trouble. It's
plaguey lonesome here ! ” Constantia sat para
lyzed. Could that coarse , vulgar being be the
mother whom she was to love , first for Edward's
sake , and then for her own ? Could this diminutive
dwelling be that which her husband had repre
sented as capable of being made whatever she
should wish ? Impossible !
“ I believe - I think there must be some mis
take — ” she faltered out ; " this is not Mr. Dal
ton's mother "
66 Mr. Dalton !” said the old woman , with a
knowing look at the man ; “ why, yes I be, a’nt
6
24 THE COLUMBIAN MAGAZINE .
I, Jerry ? Come along in ; tea's all ready, though
if I'd a known you'd been a coming I might ha'
slicked up a little more."
“ I see Ned down yonder, ” said Jerry, pointing
with his thumb over his shoulder, as he prepared to
assist the trembling girl from the wagon, " and he
told me I was to go to the tavern after her.”
“ And where's your trunk ?” asked the old woman .
“ I left the baggage in charge of the landlord, ”
Constantia replied. “ I did not know
“ That's a pretty go ! ” said the old woman ,
with another look of intelligence at Jerry. “ I
should ha ' thought Ned might have learnt you
better than that. You'll never see that again , I
can tell ye , and it 'll be well if that's the worst of
it. I'll warrant you had some real handsome
things too, for Ned's always open -handed when
he's got any thing."
“ Light come, light go, ” muttered Jerry, as the
old lady went to the fire to replenish her tea-pot.
The heart- stricken bride sat gazing first at one
and then at the other of these speakers, with a
conviction of their utter vileness, and a wild fear,
often indignantly repelled, yet gradually gaining
ground in her mind, that her own Edward must
indeed be of their crew. Then she would strive
to collect her scattered senses ; to recall the proofs
of her husband's refined education and highly
delicate and sensitive mind ; the various testimo
nies to his excellent reputation at home, which
had come to her knowledge during their brief
acquaintance ; --- and then his tenderness — the
almost worshipping fondness with which he had
dwelt on the anticipation of introducing his fair
prize to his mother and her friends. Had he de
ceived her ? If he had , it was love alone which
prompted the wrong. To acknowledge poverty
like this would have rendered their union impossi
ble. But then that horribly vulgar woman and her
associate , between whom there seemed so familiar
an understanding ! --- “ Oh ! it can never, never
be ! There is some horrid mistake, after all ! ”
And , starting up, she entreated Jerry to drive
her back to the hotel, - she offered him any price
he should demand — she wept — she prayed. Jer
ry and the fat woman laughed immoderately.
“ Why now you do act real silly ! ” said the
latter. “ I told ye Ned would come as soon as he
could , but he darsent come till it's darker than it
is now. So make yourself easy, and behave like
a gal of sense. There won't nobody hurt ye."
“ But I am convinced there is some mistake,
and I must go . I shall set out on foot," said
Constantia wildly , and darted from the door.
The couple made no effort to detain her; but
the next moment a shriek from the unhappy girl
called them to the gate. They found her extended
lifeless on the ground, a white silk handkerchief
faintly grasped in both hands.
“ Well, this beats all, ” said the old woman .
“ Ned said she was city -bred , and very delicate
like , but if she's a goin' to act like this here, the
house 'll be too hot to hold her and me together a
great while. Well , I s'pose we must carry her in,
for Ned 'll swear like anything if he comes here
and finds her lying on the damp ground.”
So saying, with Jerry's aid , Constantia was
borne to an inner room , laid on a bed , and brought
to her recollection by the reviving odor of burnt
feathers, held sufficiently near her nose.
When she opened her eyes, it was to look
round , and then fall into aa fit of the most immode.
rate weeping, and inquire for the handkerchief.
66
“ Here it is,” said the old woman , “ and I
should think you'd want half a dozen on’em if
you're a going to cry that way. "
“ This is my husband's handkerchief,” said
Constantia.
“ Like enough ,” said the agreeable mother-in
law ; “ I don't doubt he's got a plenty of all sorts
o'good clothes while he's been gone. "
The poor girl closed her eyes in despair. She
had found the handkerchief only a few paces from
the gate , and recognised it at once as the one her
husband had used that day. And to make the sad
assurance doubly sure, she could distinguish by the
twilight his initials in the corner. It was in vain
longer to doubt the identity of her Edward with
the “ Ned ” of the odious woman , and the last
ray of hope gave way to the intolerable certainty.
But with despair came the appearance of calm at
least ; and she remained perfectly quiet while the
hostess proceeded to recount the expense and
trouble which had been bestowed upon the room
she then occupied, in order to fit it for her recep
tion. The floor was carpeted, and the bed cur
tained ; and the few articles which found room
within the narrow walls were new, and of better
quality than those in the outer apartment. Of
these the whole history and prices were set forth
in many words, and the recital concluded with the
triumphant question ,
“ There ! aint it fit for any lady in the land ? ”
She paused for a reply, and Constantia tried to
say , “ Oh ! certainly !” and with this faint en
couragement the oratress proceeded.
“ Oh ! Ned knows a thing or two ! He ha'n't
been all over the States for nothing ! He knows
how to do things like a gentleman ! You needn't
ha' been so down -hearted at seeing things look
kind o poor like. We don't put everything on
the outside, I can tell ye ! " Then getting up and
cautiously locking the door, she drew from under
the bed an elegant travelling case, well guarded
with plates and rivets on every side, and unlocking
its intricate enclosures, she displayed to Constan
tia's bewildered eyes several large packages of
new bank notes.
94
 6
A BRIDE'S TRIALS . 25

aid the old woman. “ There ! it isn't every bride that can have the “ Yes ! drive ! ” muttered the woman , turning
and very delicate.
handling of such stuff as that ! And there's a to listen ; " ye're mighty chirk when ye're goin'
t like this here, the sight of it real, too ! Ned's been a travellin' this to get any body into trouble.” Then to Constan
two months, and he's put off a good deal. He tia, trying at the same time to raise her face from
and me together a
e must carry her in, does the most of that , because he's so much of a the pillow where she had buried it,
eg if he comes here gentleman that nobody ever suspects him where “ Look up , dear ! keep a good heart ; he may get
he aint knowed. He always takes some great off yet , and whether or no , you'll come to no harm ,
P ground."
ad , Constantia was name or other, and I s'pose when he was in York for any body may see you're as innocent as a baby."
aa bed, and brought he called himself Squire Dalton.” Hark ! a hurried sound of many steps entering
Constantia might have hoped that this swind the outer room.
ving odor of burnt
her nose .
ling, forging miscreant had only assumed her hus « Where is she ! Constantia ! Constantia ! ” ex
es, it was to look band's name , - but then the handkerchief! she claimed a voice that would have roused the poor
the most immode. knew that too well, even without the initials, and girl from any stupor but that of death , and the
me handkerchief her mind remained a chaos of doubt and misery , next moment she was clasped in her husband's arms.
woman, “ and I where no connected train of thought could find “ Constantia, my love , what does all this mean ?"
a dozen on'em if place. Every moment her opinion varied. Now was Dalton's inquiry, as soon as he could command
hope — now despair — now love - now indignant himself sufficiently, for the dishevelled and wretched
detestation , swayed her. Could this be the even appearance of his wife struck him to the heart.
2ndkerchief," said
ing of that day whose morning and noon had “ Ah ! what indeed , Edward ? ” she said , faint
been so blessed ? Was she to share the fortunes ly. “Is it all a dreadful dream , or are you are
reeable mother-is
of a felon , and become the companion of his you — " She could not proceed. Sighs and
plenty of all sorts
guilty associates ? And yet could she endure the tears choked her voice , and she sank , sobbing, on
one." idea of forsaking the man to whom she had wil. the beloved bosom .
in despair. She
lingly given the whole strength of her young “ Can it be possible, my dearest girl, that you
a few paces from affections, and for whom she felt that she could have allowed yourself to be made so wretched by
ze as the one her
even at that moment yield up her life ? Either a mere inadvertence ? I was requested so urgent
to make the sad
alternative seemed insupportable, and she groaned ly to lend my aid in securing a notorious counter
disainguish by the bitterly in the anguish of her heart. feiter, who had been tracked to his haunt in this
It was in vain
The old woman was about to resume her re house, that I consented without hesitation , under
her Edward with
monstrances, when the sound of a step entering the the expectation that an hour or less would accom
2,7, and the last outer room called her from the bedside. Constan plish the desired end ; and I did not dare to tell
Jerable certainty. tia followed her to the door, which was left ajar, you my errand, because I knew you would tor
ance of calm at
and listened eagerly. It was Jerry. ment yourself with fears for my safety. The
quiet while the " Where's Ned ? ” the old woman asked . “ I many doublings and windings of the experienced
ve expense and
wish he'd come and look after this fine lady of scoundrel have kept us riding through this wood
upon the room his'n ; she takes on like every thing.” ever since. It is easy to explain my absence ; not
t for her recep “ Ned's nabbed , ” was the laconic reply. so easy to forgive the thoughtlessness which has
d the bed cur “ You don't ! " caused you such cruel distress. But you will own
ch found room “ Yes. I must bury the boxes, for it's like that my feelings on inquiring for you at the inn
and of
nt
betler enough they'll be here again . They were off the may have been some punishment, at least !”
artme . Of
scent, but the foolish fellow went to look after his “ Ah ! I see,” said Constantia, beginning to
were set forth
wife ; he'd got a notion that I was shamming him understand the cause of her perplexities; “ it was
ude ) with the when I told him she was here, and so he fell into my own fault, after all ! How could I allow my
the trap. He'll go to Auburn now , sure enough ! ” iinpatience to blind me so far ! I might have
2 the land ? " The sound of Constantia's fall, as she sank known you would not send for me in that way. I
ntia tried to under this dreadful intelligence, drew their atten have read too many novels, Edward ;" and smiles,
tiis faint en tion to the wretched inmate. They ran to raise shining through the tears which still flowed plenti.
her, and even the hardened natures of these guilty fully, once more lighted the sweet face of Con
! He ha'n't creatures, familiar as they were with crime and its stantia , and cheered the heart of her husband .
He knows attendant miseries, melted into pity for the hapless Come, I will tell you all about it as we re
You needn't girl who, they plainly saw, had only now discov turn ,” said Dalton . My mother, with a whole
thin's look ered herself to be the wife of a felon. They made party of friends, has come over from L to

erything on some rough attempts to console her, but she recov meet you, and they will be anxious until we re
and ered her senses once more only to weep and moan turn, although we had some intelligence of your
tirngomupnder
f u in tones which must have touched any human heart. whereabout from the people of the tavern , who
ell guardegd “ Go, Jerry ! ” said the woman ; “ be about knew your amiable driver, and ought to have in .
unlockinn what you've got to do ! I'll do what I can for her, terfered to prevent his carrying you off. You will
o Consta poor thing !” As Jerry disappeared, the sound of not be very ready to run away from me again ,
ackages of wheels became audible in the distance. I think ! "
VOL . 1. - 3 .
 RECOLLECTIONS OF THE WESTERN WILDS .
BY G. WILKINS KENDALL .
The unfortunate expedition from Texas to Santa
Fé , which the writer of these recollections was
unfortunate enough to accompany , has furnished
him with abundant material to look back upon,
through life , with emotions that would be most
painful, were they not softened by the reflection
that the sorrows in which they originate are past.
Though with the expedition only as a guest, he
endured, of course , his full share of its privations,
and did not escape captivity in Mexico, or the suf
ferings, indignities and dangers with which that
captivity abounded. Nevertheless there were many
incidents which it is not unpleasant to recall ; and
the following, among others, may perhaps serve at
least to amuse the reader who has never visited
those western regions, peopled as yet only by the
wild horse, the buffalo and the red man.
I. LOST ON THE PRAIRIE .
After a long and weary march, one day, we
perceived at a distance of a mile or two on our
left what seemed to be a level and grassy prairie,
that might perhaps afford pasturage for a stray deer
or antelope ; in the hope of shooting one of these
animals, therefore , I rode in that direction , accompa
nied by a veteran hunter, of wide renown in Texas,
under the singular appellation of “ Old Paint.” As
he expected , we quickly saw a drove of some fifteen
deer ; but they happened to see us first, and set off
on a run. My companion was well enough versed
in their “ ways ” not to think of following them ;
for after having once seen an enemy, the deer sel
dom allows him to come within gunshot. *
My experience, in comparison with that of the
veteran borderer, was limited , and I was simple
enough not to resist the temptation of following
the herd over a roll of the prairie, in the vain hope
of obtaining a shot. They halted , as I supposed
they would, but were on the look-out , and before I
was within three hundred yards again bounded off
across the prairie. Hope induced me to give one
more trial , which terminated like the other.
now reluctantly gave up the chase and cast my
eyes about for my fellow-hunter , but he was no
where in sight. I tried hurriedly to ascertain the
direction in which I had left him ; but the result
* It appears to be a point of honor with an old hunter
never to follow a deer after the animal has once discovered
him .
26
of my reflections convinced me that I was, to use
a common expression, thoroughly “ turned round "
- lost. I put spurs to my horse and gallopped to
the highest roll of the prairie, with the hope of ob
taining a sight of my companion or companions,
but without success.
A sickening feeling of loneliness came over me
on finding myself in that worst of all situations
upon a prairie -- lost ! The sun was still high in
the heavens, and I could not tell which was north
or which south. I had my rifle and pistols with
me, was well mounted, and had a sufficiency of
ammunition, but I was not well enough acquainted
with a prairie life to steer a course , even if I had
known what course to start upon , neither was I
hunter enough to feel confident that I could kill a
sufficiency of meat in case I should be unsuccessful
in finding my companions. Another thing : I had
already found out, what every hunter knows, that
the more hungry a man grows upon the prairies
the more unlikely he is to find game, and the more
difficult it is to shoot it. There , then , I was, with
out aa companion and without experience - starva
tion staring me in the face, or even if I was fortu
nate in obtaining meat, I still was almost certain
to be killed and scalped by the Indians, or end my
days in vain efforts to reach the settlements. I
thought of home, and made up my mind firmly
that if ever I was fortunate enough to reach it , I
should be in no particular hurry to leave it again.
I dashed off to what appeared a still higher
prairie swell than the one I now stood upon
nothing could I see except a solitary wolf, trotting
stealthily along in the hollow below me ; I even
envied this most contemptible of the brute creation ,
for he knew where he was. I strained my eyes as
though to penetrate beyond the limits of human
vision ; but all was a waste , a blank . I leaped
from my horse and sat upon the ground for a mo
ment ; it was only for a moment, for in my unea
siness I could not remain motionless. I tried to
I reflect, to reason ; but so fast did thoughts of star
vation and of Indian perils crowd on my mind,
that I could come to no definite conclusion as to
my present position with reference to that of my
companions. I tried to follow my own trail back
to the point where I had so foolishly left “ Old
Paint,” but the ground was so hard that my horse's
hoofs had made little or no indentation, and I was
 RECOLLECTIONS OF THE WESTERN WILDS .
too impatient to examine the face of the prairie
with that searching scrutiny which might have re
sulted in success.
Yet I resolved to make one desperate effort, at
least, to find the command. I knew enough of
my situation to feel convinced that by circling
about, from prairie roll to prairie roll , I might gal
lop my horse for hours, and at last find myself at
the point I started from , « with confusion worse
confounded ” — travelling in a straight line alone
might save me. Here was another difficulty ; for
the course I might adopt, even were I successful in
keeping it, might leave me at a still greater dis
tance from my friends. How I wished for the
presence of Tom Hancock -- the presence even of
the greatest dullard in the command would have
assisted in removing the mountain of torturing un
certainty that pressed upon my mind . Man never
knows the full weight of hopelessness until he is
made to bear it alone , with no human intelligence
near from whose resources he can hope to draw
something for his relief when he is too consciously
aware that his own are exhausted. Even sympathy
imparts something of hope. I felt that even my
horse was some company to me ; I patted him
kindly on the neck and told him so , aloud.
“ But, ” the reader will perchance inquire , " why
did you not give your horse the reins, and trust to
his natural instinct for regaining his and your com
panions ? ” And again , “ Why did you not wait
until the sun was low in the western heavens, then
reflect for one moment in what direction the com
mand was travelling, and the side on which you
had left it ? You knew that the sun would set in
the west , and that as you faced it, north was to
the right and south to the left --surely you could
then steer a course , even if you could not while
the sun was vertical.”
Gentle reader, you have never been lost on a
wide ocean of prairies, unskilled in woodcraft, and
little gifted with the power of first adopting a course
to follow and then not deviating from it. You
must recollect that there, as on the wide ocean ,
you find no trees, no friendly landmarks to guide
you - all is a wide waste of eternal sameness. Το
be lost, as I and others have experienced, has a
complex and fearful meaning. It is not merely to
stray from your friends, your path , but from your
selt. With your way you lose your presence of
mind. You attempt to reason , but the rudder and
compass of your reflective faculties are gone . Self
confidence, too , is lost -- in a word all is lost, ex
cept a maniacal impulse to despair, that is peculiar
and indescribable.
In my case , fate, fortune, good luck - call it by
what name you may - stepped in to my assistance.
While upon one of the highest rolls of the prairie ,
I resolved to proceed in aa certain direction , and , if
possible, to keep it without variation. Whether I
27
did so or not I am unable to say -- I only know
that after travelling at a rapid pace , it may be some
five miles, I suddenly found myself upon the brow
of a high and steep declivity, overlooking a narrow
but beautiful valley , through which a small creek
was winding. I had examined the prairies in
every direction , during my short ride , until my eyes
ached from over -straining, yet had not for a moment
allowed my horse to slacken his pace. I now
paused to examine the valley before me . The
reader may judge my feelings when, after a hasty
glance , I discovered the white tops of the wagons,
far off in the distance to the right, slowly winding
their way down a gentle slope into the valley.
Never was the sight of friendly sail more welcome
to the eye of a shipwrecked mariner than was the
appearance of those wagons to me, and I fairly
laughed aloud at my good fortune.
Immediately in front of the spot where I had
made this truly fortunate discovery the declivity
was steep , amounting almost to a precipice, with
craggy rocks jutting out every direction. A
few steps beyond, the descent, although rough ,
appeared less steep, and in such haste was
I once more to reach the command that I put
spurs to my horse and dashed headlong down.
Scarcely had I proceeded twenty steps ere my horse
snorted and jumped furiously aside , frightened by
a rattlesnake lying almost directly in the path.
Blind at the time, in all probability, it being in
August , the snake did not give the well -known and
frightful alarm until the feet of my horse were close
upon him. Numbers of these poisonous reptiles,
coiled among the rocks immediately around , soon
joined in the alarm , and at the same time emitted
an odor which was disagreeable in the extreme."
If I had been frightened while lost upon the prai
ries, it was now my horse's turn to share a panic
with me . With quick yet tremulous leaps he
dashed down the craggy steep, and I was unable
to restrain or check him until he had reached the
smooth , grassy bottom in safety. How many
snakes there were in this immediate neighborhood
is more than I can tell - I did not stop to count or
calculate ; but if the lot had been purchased at five
hundred , I honestly think the buyer never would
have had reason to find fault with the reckoning.
On looking back I discovered a large hole or cave
among the rocks, and near the path I had taken ,
which I had not seen before. This was probably
the den or dwelling-place of the reptiles, and at
the time when I passed along they were all out
airing themselves in the sun . Half an hour's brisk
trot brought me up with the command, which I
* Every animal, with the single exception of the hog, has
an instinctive fear of the rattlesnake --- can scent them easily,
and will fly at their approach with terror. The hog cores
nothing for the tiles, but on the contrary has been known
to attack, kill, and devour them with a vidity and impunity.
% THE COLUMBIAN
28
found my companion had already rejoined . He
did not know even that I had been lost until I in
formed him of my adventure . I said little about
it, but inly resolved never to be caught out of sight
of the command again .
II. A YOUNG HUNTER'S EXPERIENCE .
We had had a long and fatiguing march , and
but very little to eat. I had seen great numbers
of deer, which seemed remarkably tame ; and I
had noticed that as they were roused by our appear
ance the main body of them had gone in the direc
tion of a beautiful valley , scarcely a mile distant
from our camp. Confident that I should find some
of them feeding in this valley , I shouldered my
rifle and hobbled off, as well as a lame ankle would
permit me , in pursuit.
The sun was just setting as I crossed a little roll
which overlooked this retreat. So far from being
disappointed in my expectations of finding deer in
this quiet dell, I was agreeably surprised on seeing
a large drove of them feeding upon the short , sweet
grass. They saw me, too, for they lifted their
heads on high, gave the well -known whistle , and
stared with their mild , large eyes directly toward
the spot where I was standing ; but instead of
leaping hurriedly away , as is their wont when
worried and hunted by either whites or Indians ,
they soon bent their heads to the ground again ,
and unconcernedly resumed their evening meal.
I could have shot the nearest , from the spot
where I first discovered them , and without, to bor
row one of the comedian Hackett's expressions,
running any great risk of straining my rifle ; but
they were so exceedingly tame that I thought I
would creep directly into their very midst, where I
could have my choice of the largest and fattest
buck. It seemed hardly necessary , so little did
the naturally timid animals regard my approach ,
to seek the cover afforded by some scattering mes
quit trees ; yet I made use of them , and in five
minutes was in a position where I could make my
selection from among at least fifty, and the farthest
was not seventy yards from me. I soon selected a
victim , a noble buck , whose plumpness and lightish
blue color betokened an exceeding degree of fatness.
Sitting upon the ground, I raised my rifle across
my knee, as a half rest , took a sight which I thought
close and deliberate , and “ blazed away. ” The
light blue smoke curled slowly upward in fleecy
wreaths upon the still evening air , and as it partially
dispersed, I saw my deer staring me full in the
face, somewhat astonished , perhaps, but far from
frightened at the report of my rifle. He hoisted his
tail , made five or six bounds, and then stopped to
give another inquiring look in the direction where
I was sitting. Supposing, of course , that I had
given him a mortal wound, I quietly began to
reload my rifle with the intention of sacrificing
te
MAGAZINE .
another buck , for not one of the gang had moved
ten steps ; but what was my astonishment, after
having driven well home a bullet and put on a per
cussion cap, to see the buck I had shot at absolutely
nipping the grass with as good a relish as any of
the herd. I knew that I had hit him— I could not,
by any possibillity , miss him at so short a distance ;
but there he stood, a living witness that if I had hit
I had at least not hurt him much .
I could easily , from the spot where I was sitting ,
have selected a victim for my second shot much
nearer than was my first love by this time ; but
having certain misgivings that he might not have
received a mortal wound , I determined upon paying
my respects to him a second time — it was my
duty to “ put him out of his misery " as quickly as
possible. With these intentions, I again rested my
rifle across my knees , again pulled the trigger,
again the rifle went off with a good , sharp, and as
I thought killing crack , and again the deer went
off, too , some half a dozen jumps across the prairie.
If I thought I had given a mortal wound the first
time, I was sure of it now - it could not be other
wise -- there was no such thing as missing a vital
part twice at a distance which was absolutely short
enough for putting out a squirrel's eye without
spoil ing
But tohis
be skin.
ready for another, I again commenced
reloading. Once or twice , while handling the
powder and lead , I cast a glance at the buck to
which I had already dedicated two shots , every
moment expecting to see him totter - to see his
legs give way , yet there he stood , as firm on his
pins as ever , and what was stranger than all , again
commenced a supper from which he had been twice
interrupted. Still , there was no necessity of wast
>
ing more lead upon him-he could not get away
and I therefore commenced a survey of the herd for
the next biggest. There was no difficulty in
making a choice, for by the time my rifle was ready
for a third discharge, another large buck had fed
along until he was within forty steps of me. I
waited until he presented a fair broadside, and then
fired . The result was precisely the same as on the
first two discharges- the buck I had last shot at
jumped off as did the first ; his bounds may have
been a trifle longer , and there may have been a few
more of them . That he was a dead or dying deer
there was no question.
Once more I commenced loading my rifle . Some
of the deer in my more immediate vicinity had,
after the three shots, placed a few yards more of
ground between us ; but others had taken their
places , and I was still within half rifle -shot of at
least twenty of them . By the time I had reloaded,
and was ready to renew the destruction I had com
menced, the dark shades of evening had fallen upon
the more distant prairie swells , yet it was still light
enough for me to see distinctly every object in my
 RECOLLECTIONS OF THE WESTERN WILDS .
neighborhood. Deeply did I regret the lateness of
the hour, as with a little more light I was sanguine
in the belief that I could strew the prairie with
trophies of my skill as a hunter.
Often , while in the settlements , had I remained
patiently at a stand , hour after hour, watching for a
pack of hounds to drive some affrighted deer within
gunshot, and had even considered myself in some
way rewarded if, during aa long day's hunt, I had a
glimpse of a buck dashing madly through the bushes
at a distance of three or four hundred yards, and
had heard the exciting bay of the hounds while in
hot pursuit. If, by any chance , and such accidents
had happened two or three times in my life, I was
fortunate enough to bring down a deer, the exploit
would furnish me with food for thought and speech
for a twelvemonth - now , look in what direction I
would , the animals were staring me in the face
within a stone's throw , and seemed coaxingly to
ask me to shoot at them --- surely, never before
were deer seen so tame.
Anxious to make the most of my time before it
was yet too dark , I drew up my rifle a fourth time
and discharged it at still another buck. He followed
in the footsteps of his shot -at predecessors, evincing
astonishment or alarm no otherwise than by bound
ing off a few jumps , and then stopping to gaze at
me. Of the two, I was probably the most aston
ished - astonished that he did not fall instantly to
the ground.
What was the matter ? It might be that my
rifle, “ sighted " for a distance of one hundred and
twenty - five yards, carried too high at forty or fifty.
But then, if I did not shoot them directly through
the heart, the ball could not have passed far above
it— the animals must be badly, if not mortally
wounded .
After having poured a charge of powder into my
rifle, I found that I had but a single ball left - for
not anticipating such luck , I had started with only
five. The confidence I at first felt, that the deer I
had shot at must soon fall, was now sensibly
diminishing, although lingering hopes were still
harbored in my mind that the more tender portions
of some one of them , at least , would furnish the
raw material for my supper. I had finished load
ing, and on looking over the little valley I noticed
that the deer, with the daylight, had become scarce .
There was one buck, however, close by me - not
sixty yards distant. Determined to make sure of
this one, if the others were really unhurt, I crept
up until I verily believe he was not twenty steps
from me. The motion of placing my rifle across
my knee, for I made each shot sitting upon the
ground , attracted the animal's attention so much
that he absolutely advanced several steps toward
me. He fairly seemed bent upon his own destruc
tion- to meet me half way in my desire to make
my last shot certain.
3*
29
The dimness of night by this time rendered it
impossible to “ draw a fine bead," in hunter's par
lance - but then at a distance at which I could
have killed him with a brickbat , what was the
necessity of being too particular about my aim ? I
fired.
The buck did not bound off as the others had
done , but, on the contrary, advanced toward me
with looks of inquiry ! I knew that the severest
and most mortal wounds are frequently unattended
with pain or a sense of injury -- I must have given
the buck one of this description . I jumped from
the ground and hobbled toward him as fast as my
lameness would permit. He turned and scampered
off after his comrades . By a fair mathematical
calculation the animal went at least twenty yards
while I went one ; yet I continued the pursuit with
the hope that his race would soon be run . Until
his broad , white tail was lost in the dim twilight of
evening did I press forward , and only gave up the
chase when I could see nothing to pursue.
Thus ends a long but veritable account of an
adventure with a herd of deer on the Western
prairies. To account for their exceeding tameness
and approachability , I can offer no other solution
than that they had never before met either the
white or red man . The narrow space of country
which afforded them food was bounded by sterile
wastes, and their natural enemies, the red men,
had never visited their peaceful dell.
I slowly picked my way back to camp, out of
humor and out of conceit with myself , my rifle, my
powder, and more especially my bullets . On
reaching my comrades, I ascertained that Tom
Hancock had shot three noble bucks , and had gone
out some time after me. Nothing , he said, save
the want of light , had prevented him from killing
twenty. I was asked if I had seen any deer. I
merely remarked that I had seen several, and here
the conversation dropped. I was not disposed to
be communicative .
And what , the reader will probably ask , was
the reason of my want of success ? In all frank
ness, and with a desire to answer his question
fairly, and to the best of my knowledge , belief, and
ability, I will here state that there is a very com
mon disease prevalent among young and inexpe
rienced hunters in Texas, which is known as the
o buck ague. " It manifests itself whenever the
subject is suddenly brought in close proximity with
game of the larger class, and more difficult to kill,
and its effects are to give a hurriedness of action , a
tremulousness of the nerves, and an unwonted ex
citableness to the feelings generally. It strikes me
forcibly, and I have little doubt the reader's impres
sions are closely akin to mine , that I underwent a
severe attack of the “ buck ague ” while on the
little hunting excursion of which I have just given
a description .
30 THE COLUMBIAN
III. VISIT TO AN INDIAN VILLAGE .
Our first encounter with a permanent dwelling
place of the red men was full of interest, not un
mingled with anxiety. We came upon it unex
pectedly, and our first view afforded us a delightful
spectacle. Before us was a large and lovely
valley, through which a river coursed along, with
just trees enough to relieve the eye without conceal
ing any of the beauties. In a large bend of the
stream the village was situated , and all around
were the corn -fields , pumpkin and melon patches
of the inhabitants. In the distance , on the other
side, the prairie rose gently, without a tree or bush
to destroy the uniformity of the rich carpeting of
green with which it was covered ; in a western
and southwestern direction , exactly on our course
should we not cross the river, the country appeared
rugged and broken, and offering the greatest diffi
culty to our progress with the wagons.
As we descended the long wave of the prairie
which overlooked the valley , we could see that all
was bustle and commotion in the village, now scarce
a mile distant. Suddenly a considerable party was
seen , dashing off to the southwest, accompanied by
a large troop of horses. We were not near enough
to distinguish with certainty, but saw enough to
convince us that this party was composed of the
women and children, as well as old men of the
tribe, and that with these they were despatching
all their superfluous horses. This seemed to indi
cate that our own reception would be anything but
pacific, as the warriors always send off their families
and movable property when they themselves make
a stand ; but our party kept steadily on. Some
of the older Indian fighters cast glances back, to
measure the amount of support we might receive
from the command in case we should be attacked ,
while all looked well to their powder-horns and
bullet-pouches, and examined their flints and per
cussion -caps, to see that all was right. In low
and hurried tones one volunteer would ask another
for a few caps or ball -patches, or for a spare flint,
and the whole face of things began to assume an
aspect decidedly belligerent, when suddenly another
party was seen dashing from the village, and fol
lowing directly in the footsteps of the former and
larger throng. We were now within less than half
a mile , and it was evident enough that the latter
party was composed of warriors only, or grown
men. Before we had reached the river, which
bounded the village on its southern side, still
another party was seen flying off in a northern
direction, ascending the undulating prairie on the
opposite side of the town .
From these movements it now appeared evident
that the Indians were deserting their heretofore
peaceful home ; yet thinking there might still be
some of the tribe remaining, two of our number
were sent forward with the white flag. As they
MAGAZINE .'
entered the village a solitary Indian, the last of
his tribe that had remained to this time, was seen
emerging from the opposite side and dashing off
at lightning speed on the trail ofhis brothers. Thus,
in certainly less than half an hour, was the Waco
village deserted by all its inhabitants, and in even
less time not one of them could be seen in any
direction upon the prairies.
A small party of us crossed the river and entered
the deserted town. Everything gave evidence of
the hasty departure of the inhabitants. Fires were
still burning in the vicinity of every lodge or wig
wam, and earthen pots were found, in which pump
kins were still boiling. Deer, antelope, and wolf
skins, sewed up and full of corn , were left in their
haste, and everything betokened the unexpectedness
of our approach, and the suddenness of their flight.
Not having time to examine everything as closely
as I wished , I recrossed the river, with the inten
tion of visiting the village at an early hour in the
morning. The command had arrived, and a camp
ing ground been chosen by the time I reached the
opposite side of the stream . The site of this camp
was near a corn -field, the position rendered strong
by a grove of heavy timber immediately in our rear.
The river would have been crossed had there been
a sufficiency of grass on the opposite side for our
animals. Strict orders were given not to touch or
molest anything belonging to the Indians, and at
the same time, fearing lest they might undertake
a night surprise , every preparation was made to
guard against such uncertain neighbors. We rea
sonably anticipated that the Wacoes would at least
make an attempt to stampede and steal some of
our horses and cattle ; yet the guard were not dis
turbed, and the night passed off quietly .
Early in the morning I visited the village on the
other side of the river. The water of this stream
was slightly brackish, enough to make it unpalata
ble as a beverage, but for boiling meat or making
coffee it answered very well . We felt confident
that the Indians must have a supply of fresh water
near, but were unable to find the springs from which
they procured it. The village itself was situated at
the western extremity of a large bend in the river,
and although the bend must have been some five or
six miles in length , by nearly two in breadth in the
wider parts, every portion of it seemed to be under
cultivation , and the land was extremely fertile.
The purlieus of the village appeared to be kept
clean, which can be said of few Indian towns.
The wigwams — or houses, rather, for they re
ally deserve that name -- appeared to be built in
rows, and had an air of neatness and regularity
about them such as I never observed before in an
Indian village. They were of conical shape, some
twenty or twenty - five feet in height, and of about
the same diameter on the floor, the materials used
in their construction being poles, buffalo hides and
 RECOLLECTIONS OF THE WESTERN WILDS .
rushes. The poles were stuck into the ground, and
after running up perpendicularly some ten feet, were
bent over so as to converge to a point at the top ,
thus giving a regi dome - like lope to carry off
the rains. Over these, buffalo hides in some in
stances were made fast, and these again were
covered wtih long rushes — thus making thatched
cottages , impervious to dust or rain .
Within many of the houses, at an elevation of
four or five feet from the ground, was a row of
berths extending nearly the whole circuit, and very
neatly got up. The bottom of these berths ap
peared to be of rough basket work, the frame which
supported them being of large poles. As all the
cooking for the family was done out of doors, their
lodges had neither fireplaces nor chimneys. The
inhabitants had carried off the principal part of their
furniture, but had still left enough, from the haste
with which they departed, to convince us that for
Indians they lived in much comfort, and not aa little
style . Attached to each residence, and immedi
ately in the rear , was another building of smaller
dimensions, the lower part of which was evidently
used as a corn -crib and storehouse. In these
buildings we found a quantity of corn and pump
kins, besides finely-cured venison, antelope and
buffalo meat . Above the corn -crib was a species
of balcony, although without a railing, and this led
into a small room in the second story , if I may so
call it. One of the company said that this room
was the sleeping apartment of the young and mar
riageable squaws of the family, and that their
mother kept a ladder by which they climbed up
to it at night and were let down in the morning,
This story may be true and may be not - I tell it
as it was told me.
In one of the main buildings an instrument, evi
dently intended for musical purposes, was found.
It was made of cane , and in some respects resem
bled a fife, although much longer. It had five holes
for the fingers, besides a mouth-piece somewhat
after the fashion of a clarionet. The notes of the
instrument were nearly as soft as those of a flagelet,
the workmanship extremely neat, and evincing not
only ingenuity, but taste ; and after hearing the
story of the ladder, I could not help thinking that
this same instrument had, perchance, while in the
hands of some Indian Romeo, discoursed most
eloquent music to a belle of the tribe, who, like
Juliet , would step out on her balcony and pour forth
her love and fealty to her soul's idol in return for
this sweet token of his homage. He would then,
very possibly, tell of his flaming, burning and inex
tinguishable passion -- recount to her his perilous
'scapes in the chase — talk of buffalo hunts, mus
tangs, war-paths, bear-fights, corn dances, and
31
scalps ; while she, eagerly devouring each word ,
would throw back volumes of tender affection -
tell what she would do for him , where she would
go for im , how she was willing to pack meat,
make moccasins, hoe corn , dig potatoes, and do
out -door work generally, besides sitting up ofnights
for his sake, and for no other person's sake would
she do a thing. He would then , as in duty bound,
drop on one knee , lay down his lute , and conjure
her to fly — instantly fly with him , on a chosen
steed , to the farthest prairies — fly anywhere, every
where, so that she was with him , and only him .
With beating heart and lip trembling with emotion ,
she would tell him that her mother had carried off
the ladder, and that she dared not , even for his sake,
run the risk of breaking her neck by jumping down .
Such might have been a scene to which this humble
instrument I now held in my hand had been a wit
ness ; and then, again, it might not.
Little skilled am I in the vocabulary of an Indian
girl's pledges of love ; but as in these affairs be
tween parties in civilized life each makes out as
long a catalogue as possible of what he or she in
tends to do to make the other completely happy ,
it is more than probable that the case is the same
among the uncivilized children of the prairies.
Love is a very pretty theme for poets to dwell upon ,
and many of them have been known to live upon
it in the absence of more substantial food ; but
there is far more of matter - of-fact even in this same
love than your sentimentalists would make us be
lieve , and nine- tenths of those afflicted with it have
a decided preference for mush , mutton and safety,
over moonbeams, moss -banks and incensed mothers
— and hence the Indian girl's repugnance to leap
ing the balcony. This is all mere speculation
the reader may take it for what it is worth , while
I return to my narrative.
We spent two or three hours in the pleasant
village , examining the houses, implements, manner
of cooking, cultivating the land , and other matters.
I will not say that the Wacoes know as much of
civilization as the Cherokees or Choctaws, who have
had the opportunity of intercourse with the whites ;
have had their eyes opened somewhat to the plan
of civil government by their treaty dealings with
the United States, and been made to know some
thing of the system of the Christian religion by
the pious zeal of missionaries. I have seen all
these tribes, and while the Wacoes did not exhibit
any of those fruits of civilization which too often
mar the virgin leaf of those other nations, I confess
that I saw evidence of a more elevated kind of
humanity than I had supposed was to be found any
where among the original Americans.
 THE
Τ LADY'S
BY MRS. FRANCES S. OSGOOD .
" She was a phantom of delight,
That, seen, became a part of sight!"
CHAPTER I.
The very shadow cast by thee ,
Is lovelier to love and me,
And dearer too , foir lady , far,
Than living forms of others are !
Well, it was tantalising, and I don't wonder he
grew impatient at last. Yes ; all the way up
Broadway, that sunny morning, the graceful little
shadow of the lady just behind kept close by his
side, and he did not dare turn to see who it could
be, What a charming shadow she made — the
dainty , tipped -up bonnet, with its waving plume
- the fairy sun - shade — the rich shawl, folded with
such recherché elegance ! And then he was sure ,
by the way it moved, that it must have a lovely
foot, and the hand that held up the sun -shade was
exquisite. Either a magnetic influence reached
him from the fair reality , or Charles Carlton had
fallen desperately in love — with a shadow ! He,
who had never been in love — to his knowledge –
in his life before ! - and he could not conjure up
sufficient self-possession to turn and face the foe.
All at once he began to walk consciously erect,
and to think what would she think of his walk
- and at the very moment when he became thus
absorbed in himself the shadow suddenly disap
peared. The instant he missed it, Carlton started
and turned . It was no where to be seen ! Sha
dow and substance had vanished , and the only
person near him , just then, was an old apple
woman . Whither had it flown ? Perhaps it was
a spirit ; but spirits don't carry sun - shades ! That
night he dreamed of an angel-face , looking out of
a cloud in heaven, which cloud suddenly took the
shape of a white satin hat with a pale, rose -colored
plume. The face was after the approved fashion
of angels ; delicately tinted , with beautiful, light
waving curls and violet eyes. He had surely seen
it before -- somewhere ; but where he could not
remember. The next day at the same hour he
took his accustomed walk , and again , just by
Thomson & Weller's, that teazing little shadow
flitted by his side ! — he knew it was the same by
the peculiar flow of the feather ; not a hat in
Broadway could boast so graceful, so cloudlike,
dream -like an accompaniment as that. “ Oh ! that
he could see her features !” There was a strange
conflict in his soul; courage and curiosity ex
32
SHADOW .
claimed “right about face ! ” but love and senti
ment whispered “ be quiet ; you will make her
blush ! " At last a bright thought struck him
why hadn't it struck him before ? If he could not
see her face , he might her torm ; and he could find
out the home of his phantom -love. He slackened
his pace to let the lady pass. The shadow seemed
surprised ; it wavered, faltered, and finally settled
into a slower pace also. This was too much ! to
be thus haunted, baffled , mocked - in the public
street — in open daylight !
Still he would not turn. It was so pleasant to
have an ideal, to love even a beautiful shadow -
to imagine her all that was divine -- he dreaded to
have his dream dispelled ; and again his fairy
friend vanished from his side , and he had not even
discovered where she lived. He turned — the
house which he thought she must have entered
had the air of a boarding house. If so it would be
worth while to take rooms there for the mere
chance of its being her home, and without a mo
ment's hesitation he rang the bell — was admitted
- inquired for rooms ---engaged the first he looked
at, without asking the price, and agreed to take
possession of them at twelve the next day. The
landlady looked as if she rather doubted his sanity,
and said hesitatingly as he bade her good morning,
66
if you please, sir, I should like a reference ; we
never take only the .fuss' people here.” “ Possi
bly ,” said Carlton to himself, “ she means the first
people ; " and he continued aloud , laughing as he
wrote for her the address of aa friend, “ Oh ! don't
be alarmed , my dear madam - I assure you I am
one of the • fuss' people.”
CHAPTER II .
Some phantom fair we each pursue,
Fame, pleasure, fortune, power or love,
And each will prove alike untrue ;
The real dwells above.
Patient reader, I am going to moralize - a thing
I never did before at least on paper - in my
life !Somehow or other, my stories always have
a moral; but how or where they find it, you know
as well as I. They come to it, or it comes to
them , by mere accident. For my part I forget all
about it till the work is finished, and then I am
agreeably surprised to find a pearl in the oyster
 THE LADY'S SHADOW .
-- honey in the weed ! It must be that, with an
intuitive perception of right from wrong, I have, as
it were , unconsciously brought up my pen in the
way it should go, and now it is old it will not
depart from it. But now I am going to moralize
in good earnest, for the mere sake of variety. I
like an episode now and then , especially a moral
one ; they are refreshing novelties, particularly in
a love -story. Don't you think so , Kate ? I beg
your pardon , reader ; I forgot you ; I was talking
to a friend, who is looking over my shoulder. She
is a superb creature , whom I mean to 666 storify
and glorify one of these days. She calls every
fresh beau “ an episode, ” and that will account for
my question.
Well , Charles Carlton had set his heart upon a
shadow . You smile at his folly, and well you
may ; and yet I doubt if among all the crowd that
thronged Broadway that glorious morning, there
were many who were not doing the very same
thing — neglecting the substance for the shadow
contented with a pleasant illusion and fearing to
face the reality - enjoying a beautiful dream, from
which they dreaded to awake – watching, playing
with, accompanying the sunny delusions of the
present, and shrinking from the future, with a
vague consciousness of their folly — worshipping
the empty and fleeting shapes of time, and for
getting the glorious truths of eternity. The mer
chant- the statesman -- the bigot - the belle and
the beau -- to what but phantoms did their aspira
tions tend ? Wealth , fame, power , pleasure — the
idle form , without the soul of religion — the ap
plause of the worldly and frivolous, drowning the
voice of divine love in the heart. Charles Carlton
was not the only idle dreamer in Broadway.
CHAPTER III ,
“ Oh ! give to airy nothing,
A local habitation and a name !"
“ I can but see thee as my star,
My angel and my dream !"
“ Go then ! ifshe whose shade thou art
Forbids thee still to soothe my heart !"
MOORE .
“ This world is all a fleeting show,
For man's illusion given ."
The next morning Carlton was comfortably
seated in his new apartment, with a book in his
hand, every page of which was blurred by the
remembered shadow , when , in the next room , the
softest, purest, most delicious voice he had ever
heard , began to sing- as if it couldn't help it -
the following song : He listened in breathless de
light.
They come — the light, the worldly come,
With looks and words untrue ;
But unto them my soul is dumb
Mon ami! ou es tu ?
33
My lips, with false and careless smile,
Must coldly speak of you,
But wildly sighs my soul the while,
Mon ami! ou es tu ?
Where'er I rove, in hall or grove,
Thy absence still I rue ;
Ah ! what is life without thy love ?
Mon ami ! ou es tu ?
It was eloquently — almost passionately — sung ,
and yet with a graceful delicacy of tone and ex
pression that charmed the fastidious taste of our
hero. But the voice was hushed , and the shadow
resumed its sway .
As Carlton took his seat at dinner that day, he
glanced hurriedly round the table ; not a soul
could be seen that answered to his shadow. There
were an old maid and a young man ; there were a
mother and three children ; there was a middle
aged gentleman opposite him ; there were a widow
and a widower ; but there was no graceful girl to
fit the phantom of his heart ! And even if there
were , how was he to identify the substance with
the shadow ? Ah ! he was sure something within
would tell him if he saw the fair reality of his ideal.
One seat, beside the middle aged gentleman, was
still vacant. “ Perhaps, " he exclaimed to himself,
- but at that moment his neighbor, the maiden
lady, addressed him ; he turned courteously to re
ply, and when he again glanced to the other side,
the vacant seat was filled ! And how ? Angels
and ministers of grace ! was it magic ? enchant
ment ? There — directly opposite him - was his
dream ! with its soft curls — its faintly glowing
cheek — its eyes divinely blue ! Ah ! was it his
shadow too ? What would he not give to know !
The young girl blushed deeply as she caught his
eye , and the blush was followed by a smile equally
beautiful. Poor Carlton ! all that night his sleep
was haunted. First he clasped a shadow ; then
he pursued an airy voice of sweet enchantment ;
then he knelt to a blush that was fading in the
sky ; and last he worshipped a smile in heaven,
which, gradually dawning into day, awakened
him to find the morning sunshine streaming on his
face. Poor Carlton ! was he doomed to love and
to follow , through life, only these lovely illusions ?
But he heard a light step in the next room , and a
voice softly singing, “ Mon ami ! ou es tu ? ” and
he was sure it was time to rise.
CHAPTER IV .
“ His blue eye darkened suddenly,
A shadow crossed his heart ! "
Old Song
" Her walk is like the wind - her smile more sweet
Than sunshine. "
Barry Cornwall.
That day he missed the shade it did not come
- and he felt irrepressibly lonely. He was angry
34 THE COLUMBIAN
with himself, with all around, but more particularly
with the glaring sunshine, that seemed to mock
him with its smile . A: last , to beguile the walk ,
he began to soliloquize in rhyme, to the tune of
Bishop Heber's “ I miss thee from my side , my
love."
I miss thee , my aerial love,
I miss thee from my side ;
I look below , around , above,
To see the shadows glide.
' Twas Cupid in the sunshine sweet,
Stole down with treacherous art,
And threw that shadow at my feet,
And drew it on my heart.
There, traced in colors soft as those
That tint the cloud in air,
In love's daguerreotype it glows,
A picture pure as rare .
Oh ! glide again, my dream, my hope !
Along my lonely way ,
And " charm the street beneath my feet,"
And bless the beauteous day !
Steal lightly from thy starty sphere –
From sister angels part,
And “ do thy spiriting gently ” here,
Thou Ariel of the heart !
And lo ! as if obedientto the playful incantation,
it suddenly glided again by his side ! How fondly
he welcomed the dear little faithful visiter, that had
now become necessary to his happiness ! And this
time he was resolved to know where it went ; so ,
as a last resource , he resolutely folded his arms
and stood perfectly still. There was a moment's
pause ; and then with a quick and somewhat
haughty step, a youthful form glided by. It was
about the same height , and had the same graceful
and high -bred carriage as that of his vis -a -vis, at
table. He should know , if she entered that house .
He would watch her closely this time. He could
not see her face , but there was the little satin hat of
his dream - pure as the snow in hue - and the
costly plume of white , blended with rose-color
80 softly , slightly tinted , that he could compare it
to nothing but an angel's blush — and the superb
white cashmere shawl, with its graceful fold ; and
then the form ! the foot ! What “ a daintily or
ganized ” creature she was ! and the cunning,
and prettily gloved hand , that held the parasol !
Charles began to think it might be a fairy after all.
But while he was thinking so , a richly embroidered
Parisian handkerchief fluttered to his feet. He
stooped to take it up , and when he raised his head ,
the vision had vanished again ! Fate ! Was he
doomed to eternal disappointment ?
But he had the handkerchief still ; a tangible
proof that his ethereal beauty , vanish as she would ,
MAGAZINE .
was neither sylph nor spirit ; for gentle folk of that
quality certainly do not send to Paris for embroi
dery, or to Lawson's for their hats ; and he was
quite sure he had seen that one at the famous
“ opening ” in Park Place only a week before .
Perhaps the handkerchief was marked. Yes !
sure enough , in one corner, in tiny characters, was
written, “ Fanny Gray.” The name thrilled his
soul like a strain of remembered music ; but he
could not think where he had heard it before .
He entered his apartment, pressed the treasure
to his lips, laid it next his heart, and then threw
himself on the sofa , to dream of his “ airy nothing. "
A low, merry , musical laugh in the next room dis
turbed his reverie , and then , with the warble of a
bird , the gay voice sang again.
Oh ! would I were only a spirit of song !
I'd float forever around, above you !
If I were a spirit, it wouldn't be wrong,
It couldn't be wrong to love you !
I'd hide in the light of a moon beum bright;
I'd sing love's lullaby softly o'er you ;
I'd bring fair visions of pure delight,
From the 4land of dreams' before you !
Oh ! if I were only a spirit of song,
I'd float forever around , above you ;
For a musical spirit could never do wrong —
And it wouldn't be wrong to loveyou !
Carlton forgot the shadow , and adored the voice
till dinner time, and then the angel -face enchanted
him again. Surely that face belonged to the voice ,
if not to the shadow. There was the same pure
and heavenly harmony in its features, that thrilled
him in those tones -that reached , and moved to
answering music , the finest chord of feeling in his
soul.
At dinner the maiden lady informed him that
they were to have a little party that evening in the
drawing -room , and hoped he would be there.
“ Now I shall know her name."
CHAPTER V.
And back with that soft glance and tone ,
A faint, sweet dream ofchildhood flew ;
Those eyes before had met mine own ,
That voice ! it was a voice I knew !
How lovely she was in her pretty dress of pale
green silk , with her soft hair floating on her neck !
The middle aged gentleman having entered very
cordially into conversation with him , Carlton at
last found courage to ask an introduction to the
young lady. “ Certainly, sir, my daughter will be
happy to make your acquaintance. Mr. Carlton ,
Miss Gray. " He could hardly repress an exclama
tion of delight! He had found his beautiful sha
dow at last — the treasure , the idol of his heart !
었
 THE LADY'S SHADOW .
He had never been so happy in his life. He was
the soul of the party that night.
7
“ But surely, Miss Gray, " he said , after a few
common places of conversation , “ we have met
somewhere in former years. A mysterious, indefin
able dream of the past awakened in my soul the
moment I saw you , and now some link in memory's
chain is touched by every look and tone - we have
certainly met before."
The lady looked up reproachfully . " Have you
forgotten little Fanny Gray, whom you used to play
with and pet at school in New Hampshire ? ”
“ Ah ! forgive me ! I remember now ! But you9
know we always called you · Fanny' then , and if I
ever knew your last name, it had slipped my
memory . Yes ! now my dream is accounted for --
and the otherwise unaccountable thrill I felt, when
I first saw that graceful shadow in Broadway -
and my emotion too in reading the name on the
handkerchief.”
“ Ah ! the handkerchief ! You must give it me,
Char - Mr. Carlton , I mean . "
“ Oh ! call me Charlie, as you used to ! ”
Mr. Carlton ,where is the handkerchief ? ”
Here, Miss Gray ! ” and he drew it from its
resting place, unseen by all but her.
Fanny was embarrassed, and wished to change
the subject. I learned for the first time this even
ing that you occupy the room next mine. Perhaps
my singing has disturbed you ; I rise so early. "
“ It has, indeed, Miss Gray.”
“ Indeed ! ” Fanny seemed grieved and hurt,
66
Yes ! your voice and your shadow have been a
spell to me ; they have ' roused a spirit from the
vasty deep ' of my soul which will never sleep
again."
66
The spirit ofrevenge, I should imagine.”
“ The spirit of love , Fanny ! ”
Poor child ! She tried once more to change the
subject.
“ Will you share a philopæna with me, Mr.
Carlton ? ”
Certainly ! provided , if I win , you will give me
whatever I write on this slip of paper. "
“ I promise, if it can be given with propriety ;
but on one condition ."
“ Name it ! ”
“ That you will write on the other side of the
paper some impromptu verses --- they say you are
a poet – begin now ; for I am tired of talking. ”
In ten minutes Carlton showed her the following
doggerel:
There's not a sprite that takes her flight,
At morning through Broadway,
So pure and bright-- $0 airy, light,
As lovely Fanny Gray !
Her waving plume --- her youthful bloom ;
Her foot of fairy size,
Her moonlight tress - all -- all - I bless ;
But most — her violet eyes !
35
Oh ! come with me, if you would see
The evening star, by day,
With smile of glee and footstep free,
I'll show you - Fanny Gray !
Well ! Fanny was doomed that night to trouble.
There was no refuge but in flight , and that she took
at once. Rising from the sofa, with the innocent
smile and artless tone he remembered in her child
hood , she murmured, “ good night, Charles ! ” and
left the room .
CHAPTER VI .
“ Oh ! lightly was her young heart swayed,
By just a look - a word ."
Carlton was obliged to leave town on business
for a few days, and Fanny missed him more than
she dared believe. But one evening at the opera ,
as she sat entranced by that “ bird of Italy,” the
divine Damoreau – her whole soul floating away
to heaven on the waves of melody with which the
enchantress filled the room a voice more dear
than Damoreau's, a voice of more than music,
recalled the truant spirit, while it playfully whis
pered, " allow me to say, philopæna ,' Miss Gray .”
Sunny and glad as the glow of a summer morn
ing, was the smile that “softly lightened o'er her
>
face," as she exclaimed , in a low tone, “ how glad
I am you have come back ! You have fairly won
the philopæna ; and now let me see the paper, and
know what I am to forfeit ."
“ Not yet ; I dare not show it now."
“ But when then will you ? ”
. “ When I can't help it.”
About a fortnight afterward, they met alone in
the drawing - room . They had been much together
since the night of the concert, and Fanny looked
up archly in Carlton's face and said
“ Can you help it now ? ”
He placed the paper in her hand. She started
as she read the words, " your heart," traced in
trembling characters upon it.
“ I cannot redeem the pledge," she said gravely.
“ Cannot ! and why, dear Fanny ? ”
" Because I lost the article in question long ago,
when I was a little girl at school, and I have never
been able to find it since. Did you pick it up by
mistake, Charlie ? ”
The lover's heart beat high with hope. “ Then ,”
said he , quickly, " since you cannot pay that forfeit,
you will give me something else ? ”
“ And what ? ”
“ Your hand.”
“ What an unreasonable, ungrateful person you
are ! did you not take forcible possession of it three
minutes ago, and has it not been lying in yours ever
since — patient , resigned, submissive, victimized ?"
“ Oh , Fanny, do not trifle now ! "
She raised her speaking eyes full of tears to her
%
36 THE COLUMBIAN MAGAZINE .

lover's face. He did not complain again of her
trifling — that day at least.
And Fanny Carlton's shadow still fits at times
through Broadway ; but now it is almost always
linked, arm in arm , with one more stately and tall
than her own . The latter belongs to aa distinguish
ed lawyer of the city , and what is better still, to
the father of a miniature Fanny Gray, who bids fair
to be a belle, and whose shadow will, I dare say ,
one day turn the head of some dreamer like her
“ dear papa.”

THE LIFE - PRESERVING COFFIN .

BY SEBA SMITH .

( At the late fair of the American Institute, held at Niblo's Garden in New York, there was exhibited an article called a
“ Life-preserving cottin,” invented by Mr. Eisenbrant of Baltimore . An editor of one of the papers, who, from the singu
larity of the object, was led to examine it, describes it as being “ Juxuriously made, softly stuffed, with an elevation for the
head, like a salin pillow , and the lining of delicate white silk . In order to guard against the occurrence of a burial before
life is extinct, the inventor has arranged springs and levers on its inside, whereby its inmate, by the least motion of either
head or hand, will instantly cause the coffin lid to fly open . The inventor also advises families who may feel disposed to
make use of his life-preserving coffins, to have their tombs or vaults constructed with a lock upon the door, that will open
either from the inside or outside, and to have a key to the lock left within the tomb. He would also have the tomb provided
with a bell that would be rung by its inmates . " )
They laid her in the coffin , And now the still night cometh
When the breath of life had fled , The moon is over head,
And aa soft and satin pillow And in their homes the living
Was placed beneath her head ; Sleep soundly as the dead.
And round her form was folded But there's one lonely watcher,
A robe of silken white, O'er whom sleep hath no power ;
And the lid was closed and fastened , She looks from out the window ,
Shutting out the cheerful light. Long past the midnight hour.
But near those lifeless fingers It is the weeping mother ;
Is placed a little spring, Her eyes are on the tomb,
That with the slightest motion And her heart is with that daughter,
The lid will open fling. Cut down in maiden bloom .
So to the tomb the mourners Why starts that mother wildly ?
Have borne her form away, Why is her cheek so red ?
And back to their cheerless dwelling Why from that window farther
Have gone to weep and pray. Still leaneth out her head ?
There safe will be her resting, She turneth to her chamber,
For the door is bolted tight ; And crieth out for joy ;
None shall disturb the sleeper She calleth to her husband ,
Through her long and silent night . And to her darling boy
The door is barred and bolted, “ Arise, arise, O husband !
But the lock hath so been planned, The dear, lost child is found ;
That a key within turns only The solemn bell is ringing ;
By that dead sleeper's hand. I hear the heavenly sound . "
And in her silent dwelling , Then forth unto the graveyard
A bell, of solemn tone, Full quickly they have sped ;
Is hung where none can move it, And that strong door is opened,
Save her dead hand alone. Where sleeps the lovely dead .
To her long home they've borne her, And there they saw their daughter,
In her silken winding sheet, As the moonbeams on her fell,
And many a stricken mourner In her narrow coffin sitting,
Hath gone about the street. Ringing that solemn bell.
었
&
PAUL PRINGLE'S PROPOSAL .
BY H. HASTINGS WELD .
She is what poets call a “magnificent creature.”
If beauty consists with sublimity, (of which there
has been question,) Cordelia is sublime. There is
certainly enough of her for sublimity -- though it
is all grace and beauty. It would not have been
safe for her, unless she had a heart unengaged ,
and open for the love of a grenadier, to live in the
time and kingdom of the Great Frederick , for he
would have compelled her to wed one of “ The
King's Own.” Tall as the giraffe, (with a slight
discount,) she is infinitely more graceful than that
pride of the forest. The beauty of mustard is its
strength, and while Cordelia's arms have that at
tribute in common with the pungent condiment
enough to bring tears in his eyes, whose ears she
may legally box -- they have a beauty peculiarly
their own ; a beauty and harmony of outline which
prevent the suspicion that they are large, until
some puny belle is placed in contrast beside her.
Cordelia is magnanimous ; a Semiramis in regal
bearing -a fairy in gentleness and kindness of
heart.
Everybody loves beautiful, great women ; the
multitude warm with a general and generous love,
which is jealous of no rival, and rather pleased
than otherwise to find many men of one instead of
many minds. When we say everybody, of course
we except the particular few who cannot admire
one woman without hating all men , especially all
whom they suspect of like ability with themselves
to appreciate female loveliness. As a matter of
course , those who feel themselves most desperately
enamored of Cordelia are always small men
who ever knew the rule to fail ? Paul Pringle was
one of the very smallest of these — small in stature ,
but great in soul ; for soul he has, enough to wor
ship his great idol - enough even to forgive her.
But this is getting before the story. Custom - house
figures — for Paul has travelled - place his altitude
at two inches below five feet ; ridiculously diminu
tive. He has tried to grow, and by proper training
might become obese -but, cui bono ? Height is
what he wants , not sesquipedality.
Paul has loved Cordelia. He does love her, and
he avers that he ever shall. Nor, as we have
already hinted, is there anything strange in this.
Because Paul has not the happiness to have attained
man's stature , is that a reason why he should not
affect those to whom the gods have been more
gracious ? We love, and some nations worship,
the sun - the moon - the stars. We are awe -struck
VOL . 1. - 4 .
at the mountain peaks, and drowned in a shower
of delight at Niagara. Now is it any objection to
these natural sentiments toward great objects that
they are a shade or two our superiors in size and
volume ? Paul thought not, and he might have
told Cordelia so , only that she perhaps would have
considered it personal.
Numberless commissions had Paul performed for
her ; great was his delight when thus confided in,
for he gloried in being a useful ladies' man- that
most appropriate sphere of action for little people.
Cordelia always frankly expressed her gratification
when the task was performed aright. Otherwise
done, undone, or half done, her very reproofs have
a majesty in them , which sometimes tempted Paul
to indulge in short-comings for the mere delight of
hearing Cordelia complain . She does it in such a
queenly way - a thought, perhaps, sometimes too
peremptory. But then there is a majesty in a large
body's lectures, which your small people never can
compass. A little man, conscious of his inches,
jumps up, in a passion , to supply deficiency of
height by antics. A little woman pipes her shrill
voice into the alto. A tall fellow , or a tall fellow's
sister, can stand still and speak calmly and without
effort ; and yet in a tone compelling fear and re
spect.
Paul had served Cordelia for herself, almost as
long as the patriarch served Laban for his daughter
He fancied that it was nearly time there should be
an ecclaircissement. He had never, other than
by the tacit language of his actions, intimated his
hopes. He had never in words expressed a prefer
ence. But Cordelia he fondly deemed had com
mitted herself. She had said on more than one
occasion that Paul was “ a dear little creature. "
He could have spared the diminutive in her com
mendation, but then it was an expression of affec
tion , and lovers reverse the “ nothing ifnot critical"
- being nothing when too precise. Women
especially pretty women , and more especially pretty
amazons — are privileged to say what they choose.
They will, and their little admirers cannot help
themselves.
On the day of the first noticeable snow -storm of
this very year, ( so you see the incident we are re
lating is of recent occurrence ,) something hap
pened the parallel to which is not to be told in
this city and Liberties. There is not another
Corde Campbell in Pennsylvania. Would there
were ! Pringle then might be himself again. Her
37
26
38 THE COLUMBIAN
like might draw him from the bachelor hermitage
to which he has now sentenced himself. Herself
he will never tempt again . He might tell her of
his displeasure, but would certainly fare worse for
it. You shall judge.
On that day of storm , Paul had been commis
sioned by Cordelia to make some purchases which
the inclemency of the weather prevented her con
ducting in person . They were none of your com
mon commissions, such as any black porter, or
great rude he -creature can attend to . There were
delicate shades of silk to match - beautiful ribbons
to pattern ---such things as none but a ladies' ma
can do at all , and none but a very experienced
ladies' man, like Paul, can do well. He had per
formed his task to the very best of his ability -- to
the very kindest approval of Cordelia, She said
as much. She declared, unhesitatingly, that he
was a « dear little fellow." Would that Cordelia
had not said that Paul had not heard that !
It lifted his heart up to the pinnacle of presumption ,
although his coward tongue did still refuse to
“ second the motion."
Paul held the floss upon his neat little wrists,
while Cordelia's magnificent right arm made a
bewildering circle in the air as she wound it. Paul
looked on and felt as though the eighteen arms and
hands of nine muses , considerably larger than life,
were dancing and weaving themselves into true
love knots just on a parallel with his bewildered
eyes. Perhaps he let his own arms sink too much
while admiring her fingers. Indeed it is more
than probable, for she asked –
“ Couldn't you stand upon this ottoman , Paul ? "
Paul would have climbed upon the mantel had
she desired it. Perhaps he thought that might be
the next request, for he looked there as if to see if
there would be room for him beside the porcelain
mandarin who was nodding his head over the fire
place . Cordelia followed his eyes and smiled as
she did so . Paul thought he saw roguery in her
laughing eye , and as he felt that he must say some
thing, he asked her what was her merry thought.
“ You two are such funny little parlor orna
ments !” she said. From any one else Paul would
have resented this as an insult. He blushed and
gasped in reply -
“ Cordelia ! "
ANACREONTIC .
Talk not to me of suns and stars
That sparkle in the skies-
I love the calmer, milder light
That beams from woman's eyes.
Talk not me of nectared ghts
That Jove the thunderer sips —
MAGAZINE .
“Why, what ails the man ? you are snarling my
silk, your hands tremble so ! Get down, if you
think you shall fall !"
Paul sank on his knees on the ottoman . The
crisis had come. He was resolved to utter what
was nearest his heart if it killed him . Cordelia
still kept at work at the silk she was winding -- as
calm as a summer's morning, as placid as an ele
phant.
“ Why you are giddy still ; had you not better
get down on the floor ? " she asked , with perfect
serenity of manner, as with provoking regularity of
motion she still wound the silk upon the bit of card,
heart-shaped card too, and Paul had cut it out for
her. Could she not have divined the language of
that symbol ? and ever and anon, that heart, Paul's
heart — the pasteboard one, understand — was held
close to hers, as she stooped over to disentangle
the floss she was winding.
He did get down on the floor as she bade him .
He knelt at her feet. The thread of his fate W
was
in that floss, and still she wound away, at some
disadvantage from stooping, but still as calm, ag
cool, and as serene as if Paul Pringle was not dying
before her.
“ Cordelia ! ”
“ That's twice you've called me -- but how the
man perspires ! ”
The last thread of the silk was wound, but still
Paul's hands were held up as if they had been
frozen there. Cordelia took hold of each of Paul's
arms above the elbows and he rose to his feet. He
could not choose but do so . Nor had he any choice
but to submit when she lifted his feet from the
floor. “Good gracious ! " thought he, “ if she
raises me in this way to her lips ! ”
But she had no such intention . She carried
him to a window — and held him up still with one
hand , while with the other she threw up the sash ;
and gently placing him out in the snow , closed the
window again.
Paul rang the street bell for his hat. As Cor
delia heard the door open, she called out — “ Come,
my dear good little man , here is another skein to
wind if you have sufficiently recovered yourself in
the air ! ”
But Mr. Pringle declined.
Philadelphia, December, 1843.
There's richer nectar in the dow
Of woman's tempting lips.
Talk not to me of glittering gems,
Or precious works of art -
The brightest gem that man can win
Is woman's loving heart.
%

A FEW HINTS TO BIOGRAPHERS .
BY EDWARD S. GOULD.
I HOPE nobody will undertake to write my biogra
phy. Not that I dislike a compliment, or a little
quiet flattery ; but I like the one to be delicately
worded and the other to be confidentially commu
nicated. I like, too , a little deference in the votary ,
when he offers his incense ; a quantum of respect
sufficient to show that, at least, he is in earnest
and considers me his superior.' But your biogra
pher has no nicety, no privacy, no respect ; he is,
on the contrary , rough, boisterous, patronizing to
the last degree ! He, as it were , invites himself to
your house , strides into your parlor with his hat on,
takes the head of your dinner -table, praises the
canvass -backs which , by accident, are burned to a
cinder, swears he never tasted better salt- and , in
short, is as discriminating as a bull in a china -shop.
And then it is so vexatious to be forced by this
volunteer eulogist, either to turn him out of your
house or to make yourself ridiculous in the eyes of
your friends by appearing to swallow his brutal
doses !
I might force myself to pardon a painter who
should exaggerate me into an Apollo, array me
in brocade, put my foot on a red velvet cushion,
drape my study with Gobelin tapestry , enrich the
perspective with ten thousand square yards of books
bound in Turkey — and then hang me up in the
academy.
I might be induced to forgive a critic who, in
reviewing my new romance — “ The Inundation
of Vesuvius ” — should say , “ We have no words
to express our admiration of this splendid work,
the ne plus ultra of modern romances. Its plot is
original, its characters are faultless , its dialogue
unrivalled , and its philosophy inspired.”
There is a reason for this gradation in forgive.
ness. Each of the three — the biographer, the
painter and the critic - does me great wrong ; for
each causes the public to say psha ! but there are
different kinds of psha's ; some are more endura
ble than others.
The picture one can look at, laugh at, and forget :
The review one can read , ridicule and destroy :
But the biography sticks, stains ; and its diaboli
cal details follow a man to his grave. For in
stance :
“ The distinguished subject of our present notice ,
E. PLURIBUS UNUM, ESQUIRE, was born in the vil
lage of Thebes, county of Montpelier, and state of
Vermont, on the 31st day of April , Anno Domini
1843, at a quarter past four o'clock , and weighed
*
eight pounds. He was the eldest son of Hezekiah
and Esther Unum , and was christened by Deacon
Bigelow , Ebenezer, merely ; but the moment that
he foresaw his brilliant destiny, he without the
slightest hesitation followed a capital modern fash
ion , assumed the middle name of Pluribus, and will,
by that high sounding appellation, be known to
future generations."
It is needless to prolong the quotation at present,
for its counterpart may be found in every magazine
and newspaper in the country ; but an important
question here suggests itself, namely, why do not
the exaggerations of praise come as fairly under
the prohibitions of the law of libel as the simply
true recitals of censure ? Why should the man
whose strictures render me ridiculous be mulcted
in damages, and the man whose extravagant praise
renders me ten times more ridiculous, be able to
play his game with impunity ?
If there were a law against biography, as there
is against libel, a victim might have his redress -
poor, meagre , pitiful redress, indeed , for the law
seldom gives any other ; but still - redress sufficient
to make the persecutor laugh out of the other cor
ner of his mouth. But as the case now stands,
every man is at the mercy of his biographer.
Or, if the wretch would perpetrate his uncon
scious satire in a quiet way, it might be more en
durable. If he would do the thing up in a private
letter and send it to me by his fooiman ; or, whis
per it to my wife on the road to church , so that it
might perforce evaporate a little before it could
gain currency ; or send it to London , etipulating
for a guinea a page.
Or, again , (supposing the creature must write
and publish it under my very nose,) if he would
make his personal reference ambiguous, so that I
might indirectly escape him ; as, “ Mr. Unum of
New England ; " “ The distinguished author of Ve
suvius ; " “ The American Cottle ;” any one of
which might happen to pass for any body else.
But no ! the ruffian goes into particulars. He
gives my name , and my father's name , and my
mother's name , and the name of my native state ,
county and town , together with the year, month ,
day and hour when I was born ; nay , to make my
identification as inevitable as death itself, he records
my weight at a time when, to my mind, weight is
of far less consequence than " hands, organs and
dimensions.” At length , he comes to my physical
conformation ; I am “ not tall , at least not too tall ;
39
现
40 THE COLUMBIAN MAGAZINE .
neither am I short, or at any rate not too short ;
my eyes have that peculiar, and so on ; my mouth
can scarcely be termed large , yet , and so on ; my
hair is sometimes ." Well ! it all comes to
this : when I meet a person in Broadway , or at
Niblo's, or in society, he compares my reality with
my biographer's description and says, “ Lord ! is
that Unum ? ”
If I had unwittingly offended this man — wrong
ed him — made him my enemy — if, for example,
I had been elected coroner when he was the rival
candidate ; if I had roasted his youngest child to
death before a fire “ purposely kindled ,” as Mr.
Alison says , " of green wood ; ” if I had been one
of the twelve who condemned him to the state's
prison ; if — to sum all in a word — I had written
his biography, the outrage would, to a certain de
gree , be extenuated.
If I had asked him to write me down an ass ; if
I had intimated a wish that he would make a fool
of me ; if I had sanctioned his conduct by the
slightest — but zounds ! I never saw the man - I
never heard of him - the first indication I had of
his existence is this plump, ripe, overgrown , pub
lished libel.
Or, if, instead of instigating another to write the
libel , I had written it myself ; if I had sounded the
trumpet with my own breath , concocted the apothe
osis from (my own brain , turned it into shape and
local habitation with my own pen— then , at least ,
having been the architect of my own ruin , I should
have nothing to complain of but my own folly.
But all these good-natured hypotheses are falla
cies, untruths baseless as dreams. And yet, by
Jupiter ! when I take up the April number of Der
Freischutz the first thing that strikes my eye is a
broad , black wood -cut of somebody with a pug
nose , bald front, square chin, and eyes looking one
to the right and the other to the left. A suffi .
ciently ridiculous face , indeed ; but judge my
astonishment when I see beneath it in pseudo fac
simile, “ yours truly, E. Pluribus Unum . ” What !
say I to myself, is that meant for me ? that ! why,
it squints ! If I don't make the man who did it
but hold ! the likeness is nothing ; that is abuse ,
which never harmed any one ; the biography which
DEATH IN
Yes, I have learned to feel my life a void,
A dreary waste, endured but not enjoyed ,
Where I must wander on, without one ray
Of hope or joy to gild my wintry way.
Yet I have had my joys - and they are fled —
And I had hopes — but hope itself is dead.
follows - which “ illustrates " the cut as the cut
illustrates the biography — that is the offence . Let
me see ; hum — hum — hum -- hum - ah, now
we come to it ! " Mr. Unum's powers of conver
sation are truly remarkable. His range of subjects
is infinite ; he irradiates whatever he touches with
light, novelty and eloquence ; he adapts his tone,
his manner, his figures of speech, at once to the
most refined taste and the most moderate appre
hension . " And so forth .
Now, what have I done to deserve this ? Why
am I thus mercilessly lampooned ? Why does
Mr. A , or Mr. B, or Mr. C , show me up as a man
in order to show himself off as a biographer ? Why
does he give vent to his admiration at my expense ?
What right has he to Boswell me to an immortality
of ridicule ? — for it is to be observed that very few
men will bear Boswelling ; if Johnson had been an
ordinary man he would have died of Boswell, as
somebody did of a Frenchman.
It does not answer the purpose of these harpies
to wait until one is dead, so that the “ squirming "
may be done only by one's friends. They must
needs take a living man and caricature his face,
his walk , his conversation, his manner of opening
and shutting a door, and so on , to such a degree
that the victim is thereafter absolutely afraid to
show his face, to walk , to converse , to open and
shut a door; lest people should say “he is acting
up to his biography !”
Biography, therefore, is worse than a mere libel.
It is proscription . It takes away a man's liberty.
It interferes with his every-day enjoyments ; his so
cial happiness ; his philanthropy ; his very purposes
of existence -- for how can he follow out these com
mendable pursuits when every step exposes him to
something worse than the tomahawk of the savage
or the rifle of the Kentuckian - to wit, the smother
ed laugh, the knowing wink , the unmitigated sneer.
By the wide world , I will not submit to it ! or
rather I would not submit to it should any one
venture thus to trespass on my constitutional rights
And I therefore conclude my essay as I com
menced it.
I hope nobody will undertake to write my biog
raphy !
LIFE .
Earth has no trensures I could wish to gain,
And if it had my wishes would prove vain .
I have no fearg -- for what have I to lose ?
No evil to avoid, no good to choose ;
No pleasures to impart, or to conceal,
And pain my heart has grown too cold to feel.
 THE TRANSPLANTED FLOWER ,
OR THE FLORENTINE BRIDE .
BY MRS . EMMA C. EMBURY .
“ Thou wert not made
Through years and moons the inner weight to bear,
Which colder hearts endure till they are laid
By age in earth ."
CHAPTER I.
" She to me
Was as a fairy city of the heart."
FLORENCE ! beautiful Florence ! how many pic
tures in the chambers of mine imagery are filled
with thy surpassing loveliness ! Though long
years have passed away since thy merchant-princes
gathered round thee a constellation of glory before
which the splendors of royalty grew pale , I can
still behold thy ancient magnificence by the magic
light of fancy ; nor are there wanting portraitures
of thy beauty in decay glimpses of thee in thy
day of decadence , when the foot of the invader
blights thy fertile soil, and the breath of tyranny
blasts the fair blossom and the golden fruit of
genius. The truthful graver of the historian , the
gifted pencil of the painter, the many -colored verse
of the poet, and (last and best ) the voice of one
who walks the earth more wisely than his fellows,
seeking ever the spark of good which lies hidden
beneath the ashes of past hopes or present sorrows,
have made me as familiar with thy loveliness, sweet
Florence, as if my step had loitered by the Lung
Amo , or my voice had echoed amid the sombre
courts of thy desecrated palaces . Methinks I have
stood beside the jewelled tombs of those who honor
ed thee by their mastery , and who
* Shook their sceptre o'er the land ,
By nature's first, great title-- mind."
I could fancy that I have wandered in gentle
reverie amid the almost breathing pictures of the
Pitti palace, or kept delicious vigil in the Tribune
- that holy of holies in the temple of art. I could
dream that where
* In Santa Croce's holy precincts lie
Ashes which make it holier,"
I have knelt in meditation , as pure as it was deep,
beside the marble which covers the mortal remains
of those
66
four minds, which, like the elements,
Might furnish forth creation."
Thy very name, fair Florence, is redolent of the
beauty and perfume of flowers, and harsh indeed
must be the voice which utters not one note of
music as it breathes the gentle word . It is the
tale of one of thy sweetest children, a creature born
to live only in such an atmosphere as thine, that I
would now remember.
CHAPTER II .
“ Strong are ye, love and death ! "
The setting sun of a bright autumnal day gilded
the heavy carvings of a deep embayed window in
one of those stately antique mansions, which , fallen
from the high estate to which they were originally
destined , now serve to afford shelter to earth's less
favored children of fortune. The golden light
diffused something of cheerfulness throughout the
apartment, which else had been filled with images
of gloom , for on a low couch in the centre of the
room lay one on whose brow death had set his seal,
while kneeling beside her dying mother was a
young, fair girl , apparently overwhelmed with
sorrow .
Is he yet come, Viola ? " asked the sufferer, in
the sweet accents of a language which in itself is
music.
Ere the maiden could reply a quick step re
sounded through the corridor, and , as the door
opened , a flood of sunshine irradiated the form of
the youth who hastily entered. With all the inn
petuosity of boyhood , (for Albert L had not
yet numbered his twentieth summer, he flung him
self on his knees beside the couch .
“ Cara Signora ,” he exclaimed, while tears im
peded his utterance , “ I knew not this ; I dreamed
not you were so ill. "
“ I believe you , Albert; you would not thus have
deserted us in our extremity had you known our
need of you. Leave us, my daughter, I would
speak with our friend alone.”
Slowly and sorrowfully the girl glided from the
room , and as the door closed behind her, the mother,
raising herself with almost supernatural energy ,
exclaimed, “ promise me, Albert, that you will not
desert her ; promise me that you will be her pro
41
6
42 THE COLUMBIAN
tector ; she will soon be alone in a hard and cruel
world yes alone - and she is so beautiful ! ”
* I swear " uttered the agitated youth .
" Nay – pause ere your oath is registered in
G
heaven ; you are of stranger race ; you will not
long abide in our sweet clime, and the people of
your own land , they tell me, are cold and stern .
If Viola goes with you to your native country, it
must be with a claim to the respect of those who
love you . She must be your wife, Albert .” The
youth started , and a deep flush crossed his pale
cheek. The mother marked his hesitation . • Is
it so ? " she cried , while her dark eyes flashed fire ,
“ is it only as a toy for your idle hours that you
have wooed and won the heart ofmy gentle child ?”
66
No - no , dear lady, ” vehemently exclaimed
Albert ; “ God is my witness how dearly I love
Viola , but you know not my position ; you know
not the control of circumstances
“ I know that I am dying - I know that in a
few brief hours Viola will be left alone and unpro
tected in a world of evil, ” sighed the suffering wo
man as she fell back , exhausted, on her couch .
“ It shall be as you wish , ” was the earnest reply
of her companion ; as my wife, my cherished ,
honored wife , Viola Bertoni shall go with me to my
native land.”
“ Then let my dim eyes behold this consumma
tion of my dearest hopes ere I go hence ; to - night
even now , let me hail her the bride of one who
can protect her . Father Anselmo will be here
anon ; he is good and kind ; he will join your
hands, and I shall die happy . Go to Viola ; she
knows not of my wish in this matter ; soothe her
excited feelings, and let her learn from the lips of
him she loves the purpose of his heart."
Albert rose from beside the couch , but as he did
so, he perceived a fearful change in the face of the
sufferer. Her excitement had died away , and the
grey and ghastly hue of death was fast settling upon
her brow. At the same moment Viola entered,
and in choked and hurried accents the mother
gasped, " quick , quick ,Albert ; I have little time to
lose ; the step of the good father is at the door
open to him quickly ere all is over.”
It was a strange time to speak of nuptial hopes,
and strange indeed was the hurried bridal which
gave Viola to the protection of him whom she
fondly loved. With dress disordered by her anxious
vigil at the couch of sickness, her hair floating in
dishevelled curls upon her neck , her eyes swollen
with weeping, and her cheeks pale with anguish,
Viola stood before the holy priest and plighted her
faith to her lover. The blessing of a passing soul
was upon them , for, from the moment when the
sacred rite was finished, the mother never unclosed
her pallid lips. Her latest word had implored the
benediction of heaven upon her children, and the
stupor which precedes death fell upon her ere the
MAGAZINE .
sounds had died upon the ear. Through the long
hours of that dreary night the newly-wedded knelt
side by side in the chamber of death, and with the
first grey light of morning the mother's spirit passed
away .
CHAPTER III .
" Circumstance - that unspiritual god."
The orphan Viola was born to sad and obscure
fortune. Her mother, the beautiful daughter of a
noble but decayed family , had been destined to a
convent by the pride and poverty of her parents,
but her passionate love for that art, which , more
than all others, appeals to the soul as well as the
sense , saved her from such a cheerless fate. She
listened to the accents of one whose voice and lute
were all his wealth , and the lovely Contessina be
came the wife of a poor and undistinguished mu
sician. Of course
с she was instantly renounced
by her haughty relatives ; but happy in her affection
she asked nothing beyond , until, in the course of
time , she learned the utter unworthiness of him for
whom she had sacrificed her station in society.
Signor Bertoni loved ease and luxury , and the idea
occurred to him that his wife could minister to
these tastes. She was beautiful, and gifted with a
voice whose every tone was melody. He bestowed
the utmost pains upon the cultivation of her talent ,
and then introduced her upon the stage. Obedient
to his will she exerted herself to the utmost, and for
awhile her success was decided ; but the power of
song, which in any other land might have won
enduring fame, was too common in Italy to merit
such distinction . Others arose, more gifted and , it
may be, less timid , than the lovely and dignified
signora . She refused to purchase popularity at the
expense of self -respect, and ere long she was re
duced to the condition of a second -rate vocalist.
The death of her husband, while it released her
from a heavy thraldom , yet left her no other means
of livelihood than the profession to which he had
devoted her ; and the daughter of one of the noblest
houses in Italy now won her daily bread from the
half- grudged plaudits of a musical populace . Viola
was her only child , and never had a creature more
gentle or more lovely grown up beneath a mother's
eye . Guarding her like soine cherished flower
which neither the air nor the sunshine might too
rudely visit, she had kept her in such close seclusion
that her heart was as pure and guileless as an
infant's thought.
Perfectly childlike in all her feelings, Viola's
impulses were those of a passionate but innocent
nature, and to the charms of budding womanhood
she added the rare attraction of simplicity and
frankness. Almost the first man with whom she
had ever conversed was Albert L_ He was
an artist by taste as well as by profession, and had
come from America to cultivate his talents in the

THE TRANSPLANTED FLOWER .
home of art. Some fortunate accident had led
him to take apartments in the palazzo occupied by
Signora Bertoni , and the striking beauty of the
young Viola could not but attract the notice of one
who had come so far in search of the beautiful.
The name of American is ever a passport to all
kindness in Italy, and the studious, melancholy
youth became first the acquaintance and soon
the friend of the lonely woman. How this friend
ship grew into passionate love for the creature
who seemed to him
" A rose with all its sweetest leaves yet folded, "
it were vain to tell. Viola was beautiful and
tender, Albert was impulsive and generous. Both
were filled with images of beauty ; but when Viola
“ wreaked herself upon expression ” she uttered the
voice of song, while Albert's pent-up fantasies
found scope in the loveliness which grew beneath
his pencil. Impetuous, excitable and passionate,
Albert was also unstable and vacillating ;
dreamed away the hours of action , and the mo
ment when exertion was necessary found him
vainly seeking for sufficient force of character to
support him through emergency. Yet his kindly
impulses, his chivalrous devotion, his nobleness of
sentiment, his pure love for the good and the beau
tiful, were strong attractions to the unsophisticated
heart of the gentle Viola. With the usual perver
sity of a loving woman , she found beauty in the
heavily cut features and pale complexion which
marked his northern birth. She asked naught of
his family or of his fortunes, for a true -hearted
woman never calculates ; and least of all might
prudence be expected in a daughter of the sunny
south . Albert gave himself up without restraint
to his passion until the time when it became neces
sary to decide his future conduct , and then , with
his usual instability, began to reflect upon his own
folly. Poor, friendless, living only upon a pittance
wrung from the unwilling hands of a grudging fa
ther, who could neither understand nor appreciate
his refined tastes, what had he to do with woman's
love ? In a paroxysm of grief and remorse he
hastily quitted Florence, and burying himself amid
the antiquities of Rome , sought to dissipate his
grief by renewed devotion to his art. But ere Viola
had time to dream of the real intent of his sudden
departure her mother fell seriously ill. Disease
made rapid inroads in her feeble frame, and when
her physician had pronounced her beyond all hope,
she summoned the young American to her . The
result of this sudden recall has been already seen.
Viola became the wife of the poor young artist , and
within a month after her mother's death she was
sailing on the wide ocean , happy in her husband's
love , happier in her utter unconsciousness of all
that awaited her in the home of her adoption.
86
43
CHAPTER IV .
"The cold in clime are cold in blood ."
It was the afternoon of a dark, dreary winter's
day ; a storm of driving sleet obscured the atmos
phere, and the ground was white with many snows,
when the inmates of a farm -house in the interior
of Vermont gathered round their yawning hearth ,
where crackled and hissed a pile of enormous logs.
The apartment was one of the homeliest appear
ance , but there was an air of rude comfort pervading
it, which, to one conversant with country life in
America , made some amends for its want of ele
gance . Yet the eye accustomed to the refinements
of life might well quail before the rough plenishing
which sufhiced for the accommodation of a large
family. Just now , too, there seemed to be a want
of that genial kindliness which usually enlivens
such scenes . The father, cold , stern , and with a
dark frown settled on his furrowed brow , sate
he gazing intently on the flickering flame ; the mo .
ther, while her fingers industriously plied her
untiring knitting needles, was evidently disturbed
and anxious ; two sturdy young men sat half
asleep upon a wooden settle beside the fire ; a
woman young in years, but wearing upon her face
that look of care which too soon destroys the fresh
ness of youth in the countenance of American
females, cast many a furtive glance toward the
window against which the storm was beating ;
while a child of some ten summers, fair-haired and
pretty , evidently the pet of the circle , stood with
her little face pressed closely to the window - pane,
peering curiously out into the increasing darkness.
.
• There they come ; there they come; I hear
the sleigh bells,” cried the child , clapping her hands
and dancing with delight. The young woman
rose as the child spoke.
“ Sit still , Rachel; ” said the old man sternly ;
“ it is not for us to go out into the driving storm
to welcome such as now approach ."
Rachel resumed her seat, while a flush crossed
her pale cheek ; the sound of bells rang out from
the road directly before the house. A pause en
sued, unbroken save by the clicking of the old lady's
needles as she nervously pursued her mechanical
occupation . All seemed holding their breath as
if in expectation of some painful scene, and not a
sound was uttered. Suddenly the silence was
broken by a quick , heavy step. The door was
flung open , and Albert L-- , bearing in his arms
the lifeless body of his wife, strode into the apart
ment. The mother flung aside her work , and
moved as if by the same impulse, Rachel sprang
forward to receive the stranger in her arms.
" She is dying ! she is perishing with cold ! ”
cried Albert in a voice of agony, as the circle
widened to admit him within the genial influence
of the fire.

44 THE COLUMBIAN MAGAZINE .
“ Pity she had not remained in a less frosty cli
mate ; " muttered the old man as he raised his
eyes coldly to the face of his son.
“ Father, have you no other welcome for me ? ”
exclaimed Albert as he extended his hand .
“ I never utter what I do not feel, Albert ; "
said the stern father as he folded his arms more
closely over his broad breast ; “ had I never been
fooled into allowing you to leave your home I
should now be happier and you would have been
spared much trouble. You have laid a grievous
burden upon me in my old age. Was it not
enough that from your very boyhood you followed
your own idle will ? Was it not enough that you
were ever the drone in the hive , feeding on the
fruit of your brothers' and your father's industry ?
Was it not enough that you won from me the
means to become a vagrant in a land of fiddlers
and mountebanks ? Was not all this enough
without bringing this new disgrace and sorrow
upon my head by wedding a helpless, dowerless,
useless creature , to whom our speech is unknown ,
and whose very birth is infamy ? ”
“ Husband,” said the old lady, in a low voice,
“reproach him not now ; let him feel himself once
more beneath the shelter of his father's roof ; let
him be warmed and fed as he was wont to be in
childhood, and for his sake, if not for her own , let
us be kind to the stranger he has brought among us.”
“ Aye , it has ever been thus with you ; Albert
has ever been your idol because there was more
of the woman than the man in him , and you would
see us ground to the earth if he could but be ele
vated .”
The mother made no reply, but hastened from
the room , and in a few minutes the chilled form
of the young stranger was laid in a warm bed,
while the care of the kindly Rachel was minister
ing restoratives to her exhaustion. Such was the
welcome which met the young Italian in her new
home.
CHAPTER V.
Never had a more delicate exotic been trans
planted to a more ungenial clime. Viola was a
daughter of the sun born in a land where simple
breath is happiness — where the “ dolce far niente ”
is the chief of human enjoyments. The bright
sunshine , the balmy air, the musical sounds which
pervade the whole atmosphere, the noble and
graceful works of art, the genial and beautiful
effects of nature - such were the influences under
which she had been nurtured. She was a gentle ,
loving , helpless creature , born to be caressed and
watched over a beauty and a joy to those who
could appreciate the luxury of inner life , but utterly
unfit for the rude contact of practical existence.
She did not soon perceive the unkindness with
which she was regarded by the family of her hus
☆
band , for she had been so long surrounded by an
atmosphere of tenderness that she could not believe
in the actual presence of indifference and dislike.
She could not comprehend the language, and
though she felt herself repelled by the coldness
which met her, she fancied that it was but the
characteristic of a race that had grown up amid
the sterner influences of a northern clime.
Mr. Lcould not forgive Albert for his im
prudent marriage ; he could not forgive him for
bringing to the home of his boyhood a stranger
one of a land which he had ever despised, and,
worse than all, one who could claim such parent
age — for the profession of Viola's mother was
positive crime in the eyes of the rigid puritan. He
looked on the young stranger as if she had been an
evil spirit under whose thraldom his son had been
ruined , body and soul ; his wife regarded her with
an evil eye, as one who had enticed Albert from
his duty ; and even the gentle Rachel felt a sort
of contemptuous pity for the girlish and simple
hearted being who so strangely militated against
all her ideas of a wife's duties. In fact the mind
of not one in the family was capable of appreciating
the charms which had won the heart of Albert;
and as little could they comprehend the generosity
which had led Albert to soothe the dying hour of
an anxious parent. They saw no beauty in Viola's
chiselled features — in the pale, cream-like com
plexion which no rose - tint ever visited, save when
the hot blush marred the beautiful repose of her
countenance in the thick raven curls which hung
so luxuriantly on the shoulders of the childlike
creature, in spite of all Rachel's careful snooding
and vain attempts to reduce them to something
like matronly decorum. The picturesque loveli
ness of her slight figure, the grace of her every
movement , were unnoticed by those who could not
forgive her habitual indolence and ignorance of
practical matters. They saw nothing to admire,
but much to censure , in the creature whose chief
delight was in couching like an infant at her hus
band's feet, and murmuring the sweet songs of her
native land, while his hand fondly threaded her
thick tresses, and his eye dwelt delightedly on her
surpassing loveliness. Poor, poor Viola !
Had Albert possessed the force of character
which should ever belong to man, much of the
discomfort of both might have been alleviated.
Could he have inspired respect for himself among
his kindred, he might have demanded some con
sideration for his gentle wife. Unfortunately for
himself, as well as for those whose happiness de
pended on him , Albert was one of those luckless
beings who mistake taste for talent. The indolent
dreamings of a nature which , though keenly per
ceptive to moral and physical beauty , was yet
essentially feeble in its energies, had been construed
by him into an evidence of true genius. His aspi
 THE TRANSPLANTED FLOWER .
rations were interpreted into a consciousness of
power ; and thus, with faculties decidedly unequal
to any high emprize, he yet gave himself up to
vain fancies of future glory.
Alas for those who thus err ! Noble as is the
incentive which leads man to seek something
higher and better than the coarse rewards of ex
ternal life — hallowed as is the hope which ena
bles him to become the ministrant of his own
immortal spirit, content to stand in secrecy and
silence, like the priest of Isis, before the veiled glo
ries of his loftier nature —aye, grand as are such
impulses, how fraught are they with sorrow to
him who dwells with his fellow men , as one
“ among them but not of them , ” and who is too
painfully conscious that he is winning none of that
renown which in the eyes of worldlings could alone
excuse his unworldly self devotion !
Albert had not the genius which can command
success, nor had he the industry which may slowly
win reward . He was as one who , after a toilsome
pilgrimage, lies down, from very feebleness, in the
vestibule of the temple , leaving the shrine unvisited
and the object of his labor still unattained . To
coarse-minded, practical people Albert could seem
none other than an idle dreamer, and it is a subject
of little surprise that contempt and indifference
were his only guerdon from those household friends
who are ever the most severe and least impartial
judges of individual character.
CHAPTER VI .
24
Partings, such as press
The life from out young hearts."
By dint of some exertion on the part of Mr.
L- the office of village schoolmaster was ob
tained for Albert , and, miserable as was the pit
tance which it bestowed , he dared not refuse to
contribute his mite to the maintenance which was
80 grudgingly afforded. His heart was deeply
wounded by the manner in which his wife was
§ treated , but he had neither the independence nor
the dignity of character which could have rescued
her from such unkindness. He accepted the
humble occupation that was assigned him , and
with a mind imbued with delicate refinement, and
a soul filled with dreams of future fame, he entered
upon his present irksome duties. The school -house
was more than five miles distant from his home ;
he was necessarily absent during the whole day ,
and when evening brought him again to his abode
he was worn in spirit, wearied in brain and sick
at heart. The glaring lights of the long, narrow
apartment, whose windows were as numerous,
though not as fairy -colored, as the eyes in a pea
cock's tail — the bustle of a throng of noisy school
boys — the noisome atmosphere of an overcrowded
room ; all contributed to distress one whose deli
cacy of organization was extreme. He became
45
moody , silent, unhappy , and when the change had
come over her husband also, then did Viola for the
first time begin to comprehend her real position .
She had learned something of the language, for
months had passed away since she first found her
home in this ungenial clime ; and she now knew
that she was an unwelcome intruder. Had she
found a moral sunshine, she might have learned to
dispense with the physical warmth which had
heretofore been so essential to her ; but now she
longed for something more kindly, both in the
moral and natural world around her. The dreary
waste of snow which stretched around her so long
after winter should have passed away — the biting
blast of a wind such as never visited her own sweet
land — the rude features of a landscape as harsh
and stern as those who had been born and bred
amid its iuflueuces - the absence of all that could
minister to refined tastes ; all these were now
keenly felt when the prolonged absence of her
husband, and the moodiness which fell upon his
spirit, left her to brood over all the discomforts of
her lot. Viola's merry voice became hushed , her
step grew slow and quiet, her eye was dimmed,
and the habitual compression of her soft lips spoke
of some controlled but cherished sorrow . Albert
could only weep passionate tears with her, and
mourn over the fate which doomed both to wither
beneath the atmosphere of unkindness. He could
neither adapt himself to circumstances, nor could
he rise above them ; and he suffered weeks and
months to glide away without making an effort to
change the gloomy scenes around him.
Unable to analyze the character of her husband ,
Viola yet felt that something was wanting. She
doubted not his love, but when she saw him sub
mitting to dependence, enduring contumely, and
silently beholding the contempt which was be
stowed upon her, she was conscious that there
must be some defect in his character, which yet
her loving nature sought not to discover. Had she
been alone with Albert , the tenant of the humblest
cottage that ever sheltered human affection , she
would have learned to minister to his comfort, to
labor for him with her own hands, and she would
have been happy. But now , treated as an object
of charity , forbidden by the coldness of those
around her from every attempt at usefulness, una
ble to do aught but feel her painful dependence,
what wonder that she was most wretched ? It is
true, the dislike which had been the first feeling of
the family toward the stranger had given place to
something less harsh , for it was impossible to know
such a creature without being at least softened by
her sweetness ; but the demonstrations of growing
kindness were so little like the gushings of her own
warm heart that Viola might well be pardoned for
misunderstanding them .
The end was not far off. Through the long
 亮
A
46 THE COLUMBIAN MAGAZINE .

winter Albert daily devoted himself to his disa
greeable duty ; the summer days found him shut
up from all sweet influences of earth and air, and
rarely did his pencil now give being to the images
of beauty which had filled his imagination. He
was fast sinking into a perfect torpor of mind, and
nothing but love seemed to preserve him from utter
imbecility. Two long winters — two little less
dreary summers had slowly passed away, and the
snows of a third desolate season had already fallen
when the end of all this came. One cold, tempest
uous night Albert returned not at the usual hour,
but no one seemed to regard his absence as worth
a moment's anxiety ; and all , save Viola , gathered
quietly around the blazing hearth . She had mark
ed the daily increasing feebleness of Albert's wom
frame; she knew that disease was busy with him ,
and she implored some one to go in search of him
amid the driving storm . Her fears were treated
with ridicule, until at length when hours had
elapsed the mother's heart caught the alarm , and
one of his brothers, taking a lanthorn, set out to
traverse the piled- up snow drifts. Alas! the fears
of Viola had been as prophecies. In a hollow, less
than a mile from the house, Albert was found in
sensible . He had fallen , apparently from fatigue
and weakness, and already the entombing snow
had nearly covered his lifeless form . The late
“ remorse of love " was now awakened. All that
skill or care could do in his behalf was exerted,
but it came too late. He revived from the death
like torpor of the frost which had seized upon him,
but the exposure of that fearful night had hastened
on the work of long hidden disease. No gleam of
reason ever revisited his worn and enfeebled brain ;
the ravings of feverish insanity were only exchang
ed for the gibberings of idiotic imbecility, and ere
the lapse of many days Albert 1 lay in the
cold embrace of death, alike unconscious of the
love which was poured above his senseless clay and
of the unkindness which had chilled his warm heart.
Poor, poor Viola ! What now was left for thee ?
What could earth offer to the exile now ?
The stupor of excessive grief had paralyzed her
every faculty. She wept not, spoke not, but sate
in motionless, marble - like rigidity of limb and
feature . The day appointed for the burial came.
The hands of the careful Rachel, who never forgot
propriety, attired the youthful mourner in the sable
weeds of wo and bound up her long tresses under
the coif of widowhood. But Viola recked not of
her care, and , save by an impatient gesture when
some object intervened between her and the coffin
which held all she loved on earth , she gave no sign
of consciousness. Friends gathered around the
mourners and prep to bear the dead to its last
resting place ; a prayer was breathed above the
lifeless clay ; the noise of that mufiled tread which
sounds so fearfully amid the silence of a house
where death has entered ; all these things she
noted not. With fixed gaze and stony calmness
of demeanor she sate beside the body, until all was
done that piety or propriety required. The mo
ment came when the last rites were to be per
formed , and the hand of a stranger slowly laid the
coffin lid above the form on which Viola gazed. A
sudden clang was heard as the lid was thrust aside
- a long, loud shriek , which bore with it the fear
ful vibration of a heart's broken strings, echoed
through the narrow apartment, and the youthful
widow fell heavily upon the coffined body. Kind
and gentle hands raised her like a crushed flower,
but all started back in horror at the ensanguined
stain which dyed the snowy vestments of the dead
and the sable garments of the dying. She had
poured out her life-blood - the last offering of her
devoted heart and ere the echo of her cry had
faded upon the ear Viola had ceased to love and to
suffer. The flower had found at last its genial
clime, and transplanted to its native leaven , Inight
now bloom in amaranthine beauty.

AN APOLOGY .
Not to fail in any one single point of an undertaking which requires the co -operation of many heads and more bands, is
scarcely within the limits of possibility ; especially when that undertaking is the commencement of a series, for which mate
rial and organization have to be created, as it were, and in the dispositions for which everything is new and untried . The
desired measure of success has not attended the efforts of all concerned in the preparation of the first number of the Columbian
Magazine ; and though it is hoped that the lack is only in a single point, for which the excuse above indicated may be reason
ably urged , the proprietor and publisher feel it their duty to offer an apology. The first of the three engravings which accom
pany this number is not what the proprietor intended and expected to present. An original design, by an eminent artist,
was procured ; it was an interesting subject, and being placed in the hands of a skilful engraver, it was confidently hoped
that the result wculd be wholly satisfactory. But through some misfortune or mismanagement the proof impression, when
obtained at the eleventh hour, was so inferior, so unworthy of the subject and the artist, that the loss and inconvenience of
a suppression were deemed preferable. Under these circumstances, and under the supposed necessity of having three en
gravings in the number, a finished but unpublished plate, which happened to be in the possession of another eligraver, was
purchased — and it is before the reader. It is from a picture by Sir Joshua Reynolds ; but it must be confessed that neither
the composition nor the treatment does any honor to his fame. The subject, it appears, is " The triumph of Christianity."
The figures, with the exception of the seraph, are said to be intended as portraits of Dr. Beattie, David Hume, Voltaire and
Rousseau ; it is very probable, however, that no one familiar with the countenances of those personages, as represented in au
thentic portraits, would recognise either in the picture referred to . It is offered , not as a specimen of what the engravings
in this magazine are intended to be, but simply as the product of an unfortunate and mortifying necessity.
 " LET ME PERISH IN THE EARLY SPRING ."

A BALLAD :
POETRY BY MRS. ANN S. STEPHENS.
MUSIC BY MISS ANN SLOMAN.

Tempo Andante e Molto Legato .

#6 be

P dolce

Ꭿ
# 6 Ho

Let me
perish in the early Spring, When thickets all are green , And

rosy buds are blos-som - ing, A · mid their ten .. der sheen .
 “ LET ME PERISH IN THE EARLY SPRING ."

When the raindrops and the sun shine lie . the

sleep · ingin

bo - o 50 be
F
be be be
33

leaves, And swal - lows haunt the thrifty vine,

P
That

3-40
:#
非

E P
drapes the cot tage eaves .

78
0000

# 名

SECOND VERSE .
Letme perish in the early spring,
The childhood of the year :
I would not have a gloomy thing,
& Sweep o'er my lowly bier,
For when a broken heart gives way ,
In such a world as ours:
' Tis well to let the humble clay,
Pass gently with the flow'rs.

Ꭿ%
Painted by Fred .S.Agate . Engraved by H.S. Sada

T IHI IE SIIS TIERS .

Engraved expressly for the Columbian Maanzine

!

pa G
in h t d u
te b
d y
a
n bor ,prin log Sibi
a

LAPIS U Lxpir, sh. For the Colum

56
THE
COLUMBIAN MAGAZINE .,
FEBRUARY , 1844.
LEAD US NOT INTO TEMPTATION !
BY JOHN NEAL
“ WELL, my young friend, to satisfy you that I am
not the man you take me for ; that I have good
reason to distrust myself, notwithstanding the years
that have gone over my head ; that I am alive now,
with some hope of atoning for the sins of my youth,
only by a sort of special mercy ; and that I have
been led to offer you counsel, before you are
launched upon the great deep which came so near
being the death of me - soul and body -- not be
cause I have a right to say to any man alive , Stand
thou aside , for I am holier than thou ! but simply
- I pray you hear me through -- I know what
you would say ; but you are mistaken, dreadfully
mistaken , I assure you — but simply because I
have long watched over you with the feelings of a
father."
“ Of a father, sir ? "
“ Well then, of an elder brother, if you like that
better. To satisfy you , I say, that I am no better
than I should be ; that I have had my temptations,
and trials and sorrows, and that I know from bitter
and terrible experience that the way of the trans
gressor is hard, you shall have the story. Draw
up your chair."
The young man sat as if wondering what he
would say next, with his fine shapely hand rest
ing upon the table, and his eyes liſted in mute
astonishment to the other's face.
“ Nearer, Paul - nearer. What I have to lay
before you has been a secret for twenty years be
VOL. 1. - 5 .
tween our Father above and myself. I would not ,
for any earthly consideration, that we should be
overheard. You have looked upon me, I know
well , as I do not deserve to be looked upon ; as at
the worst but a little over -righteous, perhaps — or
over -zealous in the search of truth . "
“ Never, my dear sir, never. But I have always
looked upon you as a man wholly unapproachable
to temptation — as a being, in the shape of man ,
without any ofthe weaknesses ofman — as a teacher
of truth -a martyr in the cause of truth — to ques
tion whose goodness, and greatness, and what I
should call resisting power - that awful steadfast
ness which enables the mighty few to be a law to
- were
themselves - W little better than blasphemy.
And now, just when we are about to be separated,
>
perhaps for life "
66
· Perhaps forever, Paul ! "
“ To find you looking at me with tears in your
eyes, and talking to me in a voice that I never
heard before, about your own sorrows, and weak
nesses, and transgressions — forgive me for employ
ing such language to you, sir, though it is your
own — it gives me the heart-ache ; when I had
prepared myself, not only for counsel and reproof,
but for solemn rebuke and wholesome reproach,
it overpowers me, sir ; and that's the truth ."
“ Be comforted, Paul ; and listen to me, as I
would that I had listened to my father, when he
came to my bedside, and sat there and talked with
49
 50 THE COLUMBIAN MAGAZINE..
me, hour after hour, the good old man ! the very
night before I went to Europe — flushed and fever
ish , and half angry that he , of all men living, should
doubt me, or question what you have been pleased
to call my resisting power.
“ I was newly married. I loved my wife with
a sincerity and a strength no language can express.
It seemed like tearing my very heart away to leave
her behind me. I was a father too ; and when she
put her child into my arms, and the fingers of the
little creature got entangled in my hair, as I bent
over to kiss it, I trembled ; I felt as it senething
unearthly had tried to stop me — something speech
less, and passionless, and holy — on my way to
another world ."
“ Go on, sir - go on - I understand your feel
9
ings."
“ No, Paul — you are unmarried - you are not
a father ; and it is not for such as you to understand
the feelings of a father, or of a husband , when about
to forsake the wom oman of his heart and the child of
his strength , and leave a great gulf between him
self and them , and all his hopes, and all his dreams
of happiness on earth. You are going abroad
with no such ties -- with no such purifying and
sustaining influences ; and your danger is by so
much the more alarming. Brought up in the coun
try, my young friend , among honest men and honest
women ; with little knowledge of that which , while
it flavors, taints the very air of city life, and spoils
the heart of youth in its earliest blossoming ; even
here , here, in this new world , where the worst cor
ruptions of the old are but guessed at by the help
of the story books and newspapers that come from
over sea by every wind that bloweth , like the pes
tilence that wasteth at noon day. What can you
know of the life you may be called upon to live ,
or of the temptations and the trials that may beset
you after you get there ? ”
“ Oh, sir - never fear me ! "
" Paul ! Paul ! it is that very confidence in
yourself that frightens me . You have employed
almost the very words, my young friend , that I used
to my father while he sat there expostulating with
me , because of my unseemly self -righteousness.
• My dear boy ,' said he, ‘ God grant that you may
not be given over to the strong delusion that now
possesses you ! that you may not come to believe a
lie , and bring down the gray hairs of a trusting
father, and aa broken -hearted mother, in sorrow to
the grave !' And what, think you , was my answer
4
to the good old man ? ' Oh ! father,' said I , have
no fears on my account ! I am neither a drunkard
nor a gambler. I have kept holy the sabbath day
from my youth up. I love my neighbor as myself.
I covet no man's wife, nor his ox , nor his ass, nor
anything that he hath . I never go after strange
women ; I have labored long and faithfully to over
come the spirit of evil within me — and now that
I am a husband and a father, what have I to fear ? '
* Nevertheless, my son ,' said my father - I give
you the very words, Paul — nevertheless, my son ,
like the young man of the spel, one thing thou
6
lac'est ! ' . And what is it, father ? ' said I. ' A
wise and becoming self-distrust ! ' was the answer,
Paul."
The young man covered his face with his hands
and wept. “ Oh, sir ! ” said he, “ I understand
now the whole worth of your friendship. That
which you have never told to mortal man - even
that you are now telling me. And why ? Only
that I may be the stronger, and the more wary,
when I find myself wrestling for life with the tempt
ations that are sure to beset my path over sea.”
“ Even so , Paul.”
“ Then , sir,” rising and pushing back his chair -
“ Then, sir, I entreat you to give me your blessing,
and let me go in peace - I entreat you to forbear !
I will not hear you , sir, you, of all the men upon
earth , uncover the nakedness of your own heart
before a boy , lest I lose my reverence , not only for
you , sir, but for all that wears the look or shape of
manhood, or virtue, or sincerity .”
“ Nevertheless, Paul, be seated, and hear me
through. I have promised upon my knees to tell
the story ; and shall I not keep my promise ? I
have no fears whatever, my generous , high -hearted
boy, that I shall ever lower myself, or the outward
show of goodness, in your opinion , by telling the
truth. Listen.
“ I felt , I dare say, somewhat as you feel now ,
when my poor father sounded the alarum here ; and
I dwell upon the circumstances only to show you
how strong I was in that faith which keeps man
hood forever on the watch. And if I ſell — 1 ,
whose foundations were so deep, and who was
built round about as it were with walls of treple
brass, what may you , and such as you , the more
youthful , the unmarried, the unsanctified and the
untried have to fear ?
“ And now to the point. I reached England.
I was to be gone but a twelvemonth. I counted
every hour. I wrote every week. And I was the
happiest man , I do believe, upon the face of the
earth, whenever a letter reached me from that be
loved wife -- wet with tears of joy and thankfulness
perhaps that she had just heard of me or from me.
And the twelvemonth was nearly over. The time
of my departure drew nigh. And so faithful had I
been — so watchful and so wary , that I had become
a sort of by -word among those who knew me ; and
so given up to the witchery of loneliness, where I
could sit and muse day after day over the home I
had left, and the awful hope that was flowering
there -- awful to me , for it linked us, the children
of earth — us ! the creatures of a day, with all that
had gone before, and with all that was coming
after ; and established a perpetual relationship be
.
 inm
LEAD US NOT INTO TEMPTATION .
tween us, and the prophets, bards and kings of
another world , and the patriarchs and the princes,
the inextinguishable cherubim , and all the host of
heaven ! So blind to the beauty, and so deaf to
the blandishments of the world , that people pointed
at me, as the man who had gone a travelling, and
left not so much his better half as himself at home.
But Ibore it well ; and when they laughed at me,
I laughed with them, as well as I could, till they
hadn't the heart, with all their unbelief in woman's
faith , or man's love, to tease or worry me more.
“ By the end of another month I was to embark .
I had already bespoken a passage. And I was
counting every hour, every minute , and keeping a
journal, and writing in it every day, and sometimes
half the night, and sending off page after page by
every opportunity that offered, when - Shall I
trouble you for that pitcher ? ”
The young man looked up with surprise, and then
shoved the pitcher toward him .
“ The tumbler, if you please.”
“ I beg your pardon ,” said Paul , jumping up and
blushing all over, “ but I was so deeply engaged
with what you were saying that I — that I - upon
my word, sir, I'm quite ashamed of myself.”
“ Never mind, Paul, never mind ; there's a -
a- there's a sort of- .” (pouring out a tumbler of
water and swallowing it as if all afire within ,) “ a
sort of choking here, which I must overcome --
must, and I will, ” ( firmly- taking another tumbler,)
“ So ! --- that may carry,me through.
“ Well, sir, one day as I happened to be loiter
ing along through a broad empty thoroughfare —
Ludgate Hill, if I remember right – on my way
to a coffee house,much frequented by my sea -faring
countrymen , (where a letter bag was kept, with
cart loads of newspapers for their especial comfort,)
in the hope of meeting with somebody I knew , to
take charge of another parcel for my wife, when
my attention was called by a bustle about me to
what I mistook at first for a great furnishing ware
house, where a multitude of people were very busy,
running to and fro, and looking up to the windows,
and whispering together, as they might if the place
were haunted. I stopped to see what the matter
was ; and after a while crossed the street, and was
about entering with the rest, I hardly know why ;
for I was lost in thought, and so far as I now re
member, wholly unmindful of what was going on
about me , when, happening to look up, I saw two
mutes at the door, a pile of new coffins, hatchments,
mourning plumes, people moving about on tip -toe ;
and right over the entrance , a sign with “ FUNERALS
PERFORMED HERE , ” in large showy letters upon it ;
and look which way I would , nothing but the bla.
zonry of death , preparations for death , and the
silent pomp of undertakers, performing their very
best.
" Half angry with mysell, I turned away, and
*
51
was again lost in thought; musing over the won
derful changes of opinion which had taken place
already among our people, the children of English
men over sea , notwithstanding their pride in their
fathers ; and asking myself what they would think
of hired mourners — of weeping and wailing at so
much a day — of performances and representations
like these, beyond the walls of a theatre - of wo
that men may bespeak by the quantity a twelve
month before hand — when something in the car
riage, countenance and whole manner of a young
female near me, who stood looking at a child's
coffin , with tears in her eyes, made me stop.
“ The incident itself was touching enough , and
I turned away , that she might not see me looking
at her. I had not seen her face to advantage, but
I had seen quite enough to satisfy me that she was
young and beautiful , with a strange and mysterious
sorrow at work in her heart. Her locked hands,
her stooping attitude , her streaming eyes, her
trembling mouth , partly hidden by her veil, if these
were not the signs of desolation - of deep, inward,
unspeakable desolation — I do not know what are .
“ Yes, I turned away and left her, with a feeling
of pity for her, and of deep sympathy which I dare
not trust myself to describe, even after the lapse of
twenty years ."
“ Sir !” (pouring out another glass of water and
reaching it hurriedly to him, who sat with his tace
covered, and his broad, manly chest heaving)
“ take this , my dear sir ! It will make you feel
better."
“ No, my boy, no ! ” ( rising out of his chair and
walking the room with a tread that shook the whole
house ,) “ Water will not quench the burning I feel
here - here ! ” laying both hands upon his heart,
“ whenever I call to mind the unhappy circum
stances that led to our first interview . Poor Lady
Sarah ! "
6
“ Lady Sarah ! ”
“ Even so ." And then , after a short pause , he
seated himself and went on with the story ,
“ I had gone by her two or three steps, on my
way across the street , when a low, half -smothered,
hysterical sob reached me, and turning at the sound ,
I saw her totter and catch at a coffin that stood
leaning against the window — then let go , with a
faint cry , and look about her on all sides for a
moment , and then drop her veil and hurry away
as if pursued for her life.
“ What possessed me to follow her I cannot say.
It was no unhallowed curiosity. It was no idle
whim. It was nothing I should have been ashamed
to acknowledge to my own wife ; nor, with a lowly
and obedient heart, upon my bended knees, Paul.
At the worst, it was only a feeling of sorrow and
pity . I would have you bear this in mind, my
dear boy. Well , before I had time to shape my
own thoughts into language , I had overtaken her,
86
52 THE COLUMBIAN
and offered my arm . But she whispered ' no ; '
and thanked me hastily , without looking up, or
lifting her veil , or slackening her pace.
“ Let me call a coach , then ; you are just ready
to drop, said I.
“ She put forth her hand it was ungloved , and
so beautiful as to make me start - and touched my
arm very gently without speaking. But I under
stood her ; her heart was too full for speech , and I
lost no time in obeying her.
“ "One moment , madam ,' said I ; .I happen to be
somewhat acquainted in this neighborhood . Sup
pose you step into the fruiterer's, over the way - I
see a woman at the door.'
“ She shook her head .
“ But you are growing weaker and weaker,' said
I. • I dare not leave you here - do take my arm ,
pray do ! '
“ She took it , poor girl, without saying another
word ; but her step was unsteady, so that I trem
bled for her.
“ A glass of water would do you no harm ; if
you will permit me to leave you there, while I go
for a coach , I shall know where to find you, and
will be back in five minutes.
“ Although she made no answer, I saw that she
would not oppose me ; and having led her to the
door of the fruiterer's, and begged the good woman
I saw there to give the lady a glass of water,
hurried away, and was lucky enough to find a coach
at the next corner, which I brought with me .
“ As it drew up the wind lifted her veil , and I
caught a glimpse -- a momentary glimpse , my
young friend of the finest face I ever saw in my
life : It was the face of an angel — but of an
angel touched with the sorrows of earth. And as
I helped her in , and she bowed to me without
speaking, though with a look of patient thankful
ness I never shall forget, and with a womanly re
serve that awed me even while my heart was
heaving with ungovernable emotion , I forgot
myself so far as to touch her hand, while the
coachman stood there, and even to lift my foot
upon the step , as if about following her into the
coach ; but when she withdrew her hand, trem
bling, as I could see , all over, and lifted her veil
for a moment, and looked me in the face, my heart
failed me , and making a sign to the coachman to
shut the door, I walked away in silence, and with
a deep feeling of shame.
“ And now, would you believe it ? I could not
sleep, for thinking of my behavior to that woman ,
after I had got back to my lonely chamber. And
I sat up, wondering about her, until the watchman
called to me from the street below to say that my
windows were open , and the muslin drapery , that
was blowing about, in danger from the lamp. I
started -- it was already two o'clock ; and my bed
hour was twelve. I had been sitting there till
MAGAZINE .
was chilled through and through ; and for the first
time, the very first, I declare to you, since our
marriage, I had not been thinking of my wife.
Account for it as you may , the face of that woman
haunted me. Her eyes troubled the fountain of
life within me ; and that snowy hand - no, not
snowy, that hand of unquestionable warmth was
lying before me, or beckoning to me afar off, the
whole night long.
“ I tried to pray, but all in vain ; my thoughts
wandered - I reasoned with myself — I wrestled
with myself - I tried to think of my wife — the
woman I had so loved when the day broke -- of
our dear child — the morning blossom of our mar
riage bed — of the sanctities that breathed about
our home over the great deep ; and I kept saying
to myself, over and over again , Oh that we were
together once more — never to part again ! Oh
that I had never left her and them ! But strange
as it may appear to you, my young friend, my
heart was no longer in my words. They were but
idle and empty breath, and I knew it, and while I
knew it, and acknowledged it, I shuddered with a
vague dreary sense of the future — with a fore
boding of guiltiness I had never felt before .
“ Understand me, Paul. I was not beside my
self. I was not unfaithful. I knew not where this
woman lived , or what her name was. I never ex
I pected to see her face again ; I had not even heard
the sound of her voice , and yet , if you can believe
such a thing, I was no longer master of myself or
of my thoughts. Do what I would , say what I
would , I was like one bewitched for many days
after the meeting I have told you of.
“ But the evil one was gradually releasing his
hold upon my heart ; and I had begun to breathe
freely once more , and to think of my wife and
child, and father ; and to wish myself on my way
back to them over the sounding sea, when it so
happened that letters reached me, saying that my
wife had some thought of coming over with her
brother-in-law ; and that if I did not hear to the
contrary, by the next ship, I might look for them,
baby and all , by the way of Liverpool or Havre,
they were not certain which . Oh how my heart
bounded with joy and hope, when I read that let
ter ! I remember the whole as if it were but yes.
terday ; where I stood, what I was doing, and how
I managed to get away by myself, where I could
pour out my thankfulness in prayer to Him who
had opened a pathway for us through the great
deep."
“ Oh , " said Paul , tilting back in his chair , and
then looking up, and wiping his eyes, “ I think I
may understand that , my dear preceptor, though I
am neither a husband nor a father.”
66
• Hush, Paul, hush. You know not what you
are saying. It is not for blind to reason about
color. It is not for the deaf to understand music.

LEAD US NOT INTO TEMPTATION .
It is not for the unmarried, or the childless, to
dream of what the married and fruitful - the
anointed of God Almighty — have to be thankful
for."
“ Go on , sir - I believe you ."
“ But, although I prayed and wept, and my very
soul was lifted up, and my heart was running over
with thankfulness, I forgot one thing — "
“ And what was that, sir ? ”
“ I forgot to say, Oh Heavenly Father ! lead us
not into temptation ! Or if I said it I saw no
meaning in the words ; I felt them not ; I heeded
them not, and they passed away with my unthink
ing presumptuous breath. And therefore it was
that He rebuked me as he did , I verily believe . "
“ Oh , sir, I should have thought the danger all
over, now that your wife and child were on their
way to comfort and stay you in your bereavement
and loneliness ! ”
“ And yet , Paul, within three days after I re
ceived the letter, saying to me that ere a month was
over I should be clasped to the bosom of a beloved
wife, and be a husband and a father once more,
among the inhabitants of the earth - do you mark
me Paul ? - within three days I met the pale en
chantress again , and gave myself up to her, without
being even aware of it, I acknowledge — nay,
without dreaming of unfaithfulness, or mischief, or
wrong , at the time; but still, without reserve or
qualification.
“ We were brought together by the merest acci
dent in the world, at a fashionable watering-place,
whither I had betaken myself to pass away the
time, which hung upon me like a murky atmos
phere, during the period of suspense that followed
the reception of that letter. Instead of being what
I had somehow or other taken it for granted she
was — a young, unmarried woman, with a deep
and mysterious and holy sympathy for bereaved
mothers or disappointed wives — I found her to be
a married woman !”
“ Ah, sir ! You astonish me ! ”
“ Yes, Paul, a married woman ! - married while
yet a child, and before she dreamed of the strength,
or the glory, or the tenderness of womanhood -
to a man of great wealth , high rank and amazing
— gambler, a spendthrift and a heartless
talents-a
profligate -- old enough to be her father.”
“ Enough ! I foresee the whole catastrophe now,
and will spare you the pain of retreading the path
of self-reproach, and sorrow , and bereavement.
Stop where you are , I beseech you, and let me live
and die in the belief that you have always been
what you are now, and with the reverence I have
always felt for you ."
“ No, Paul, it must not be. I have undertaken
to tell the truth , and the whole truth ; and what
ever may be the consequences to me or mine, the
whole truth you shall have.”
5*
8
53
“ Be it so , then , ” said Paul , in a faint whisper.
“ She knew me the moment I entered the room ,
and as I drew near, grew very pale and gave me a
look that obliged me to appear as a perfect stranger,
when I was led up and presented to her. We
entered into conversation together, and I must
acknowledge that her melancholy sweetness, and
quiet, unpretending, womanly good sense , made
me think of home ; while her large, dark , oriental
eyes and voluptuous mouth , and strange passionate
beauty, take it altogether, and low, musical breath
ing, wrought upon me with a power I had never
felt — never dreamed of-never imagined possible
before .
“ I know not how it happened, but something
led us to talk of marriage, and then it was that I
saw the hidden sorrow of her heart , shaping itself
before me , feature by feature, till I shuddered. I
knew by her unhappy smile that she had squander
ed the wealth of her young heart, before she knew
its value, upon a withered and worthless wretch ;
that her holiest affections had been dried up ; her
warmest feelings blighted forever ; and I guessed
God forgive me that she was not only a husband
less wife, but aa childless mother. As I talked with
her, she wept ; and as we sat together there by the
open window , looking out upon the great level sea ,
the spirit ofmy wife passed before me ; and I felt for
the first time that I had wronged her, by not saying
to the poor broken -hearted woman at my side that
I was a husband and a father ; and that she , whom
I had sworn to love and cherish , and comfort and
help, to my last breath , was already on her way
over that level sea to put her baby into my arms.
6
Nevertheless, dear Paul, though I saw it com
ing, and quaked with terror, and wanted the strength
to turn aside from the path of the destroyer - never
theless, dear Paul , upbraid me not. How could I
tell her the truth ? She, a childless woman — she,
a bereaved and sorrowing wife ! how could she
bear to know the truth — how could I have the
heart to parade my priceless jewels and imperish
able riches before a creature so utterly and hope
lessly impoverished ? No, no ! I could not ; I
lacked the power - I lacked the manhood , Paul.
And after a few days it was too late. She had come
to believe me a much better man , a much truer
friend than I proved myself to be. And at last -
it matters little how I came to the knowledge
at last I knew that she had foresworn herself be.
fore God ; that she had forgotten her plighted faith
to her husband ; that she was languishing for sym
pathy ; and to say all in a word , that she was ready
to become an outcast forever, and give herself up
forever to the forbidden companionship — of the
very man you now see before you , Paul Stev
art."
“ Oh, sir, forbear ! forbear, I beseech you ! Your
looks frighten me ; and the great beads of sweat
8 X
54 THE COLUMBIAN
m
I see upon your forehead are like the dews of a
death -chamber."
“ It may be that they are the dews of a death
chamber, Paul ; but if I knew they were , and if I
knew moreover that when I had got through , and
was able to say, it is finished, I should drop dead
at your feet, still I would go on. I have sinned
awfully — openly — without excuse or palliation —
with a wife pleading for me, and a mother wailing
after me, and a father shouting to me, and a little
a “ All this and more . I went on , from step to
child screaming to stay me. And I know of noth
ing under the skies that can wipe away the record
of my transgression , save the unqualified acknow
ledgement thereof, before all them that love and
revere me .
“ As yet we had sinned only in our hearts ; we
had not sinned beyond the hope of mercy — though
I had forgotten myself, my wife, and all my hopes
of heaven ; while she that walked before me, sing
ing and weeping, toward the precipice of death , had
but one hope -- one wish — and that was to lay
her head upon the bosom of the only man she had
ever loved, and go to sleep there, and never wake
again.
“ Unselfish to the last , she thought only of dying
for my sake ; while I, wretch that I was, overpow
ered with amazement to find myself the object of
such love, to such a woman , thought only of her
living for my sake. What a fearful mystery is the
human heart ! From trying to stop my ears, and
seal up my senses, under the strong delusion my
poor father had warned me against, as with his
dying breath, I went on , and on, till my under
standing was darkened , and I came literally to
believe a lie ; and would sit by that unhappy wo
man , and reason with her about the tyranny of
man , the wickedness of law, and the mighty
wrongs the soul had to complain ofhere on earth
swearing to her that marriages were altogether
wicked and selfish, and contrary to God's appoint
ment , since in heaven there was no marrying or
giving in marriage, till she would lift up her clasped
hands with a cry of terror, and entreat me to for
bear - fling herself upon her knees before me , or
fall upon my neck with streaming eyes, and be
seech me to fly ; that she might not have my ever
lasting happiness to answer for, as well as her
own .
“ Away with all this idle talk ! ' she would say ;
it is alike unworthy of you and affronting to me,
George ! I know what I hazard - I see it all
and I am ready to risk all. Being a married woman ,
it matters not how — whether by fraud or violence –
I have nothing to hope from the charitable interpre
tation of the world. Upon the world therefore I
turn my back, at once and forever. Being a
cheated and hapless wife - a betrayed and
wretched wife — with no sband worth living for
- no child ! no father! no mother ! why should I
MAGAZINE .
forego the only hope I ever had , the only chance
I ever can have , to escape from bondage ? But
oh ! my friend , wrong not your own soul and mine,
by trying to persuade either yourself or me that
men and women may do such things and live –
or hope to live either here or hereafter.' Look up,
my young friend ! Be of good cheer.”
The young man gasped for breath. ~ And you ,"
said he, “ you were able to withstand this ! ”
step, till I had planned the overthrow of that high
minded , generous, but most misjudging woman.
My arrangements were all made. I knew that
she was prepared ; that she thoroughly understood
me ; and that even my wife, who was now on her
way to Havre, and whom I was really afraid to
meet, would never believe anything to my disad
vantage , come what might.
“ The better to provide against all contingencies,
I began to speak of business that would take me
to the south of Europe, or peradventure to the
north ; to send off letters to meet my wife where
ever she might happen to arrive ; and finally , that
no accident should betray us, which it were pos
sible for aa prudent man to provide against, I got
possession of all the letters and keep -sakes which
had passed between poor Lady Sarah and myself,
and burnt them to ashes. Not a scrap of writing
- not so much as a single flower of the many I
had begged of her, almost with tears in my eyes,
after she had breathed upon them -- not a single
tress of hair — not aa book nor a jewel escaped me.
She wept when I told her ; and though I could not
help acknowledging to myself that I was a cold
hearted, selfish scoundrel, I managed to persuade
her that the sacrifice itself was a proof not to be
questioned of my unspeakable tenderness for her.
I see you shudder, my dear boy, and I am glad of
it. If you turned sick with abhorrence and loath
ing I should love you all the better for it ; for I
want you to know what men are -- even the best
of men , according to the judgment of their fellows,
in comparison with the worst of women ."
“ I see it clearly, sir — but go on.”
“ Well, before a month was over all my arrange
ments were made. A smuggler had undertaken to
leave us where we should be safe -- where no mor
tal would ever think of looking for us ; and I had
just finished a letter to Sarah - Lady Sarah , I
should say , though I never called her anything but
Sarah — written with a chemical preparation so
exceedingly delicate and sensitive as to appear only
when it was breathed upon, and vanish while you
were reading it. I had tried perhaps fifty different
kinds of sympathetic ink — chiefly for amusement ,
in the progress of our stealthy correspondence -
no one of which fully satisfied me till I met with
this by the merest accident in the world ; since
with no other would the writing come and go two
my
LEAD US NOT INTO TEMPTATION .
or three times at my bidding, and by careful man
agement even more. I had told her to breathe upon
it , or apply the warmth of her hand to it , and then
throw it into the fire ; but I had forgotten to tell
that , unlike lemon juice and milk , and such prepa
rations, it would vanish again and reappear several
times.
“ After an absence of three days , most of which
I had passed without rest or sleep, I returned to my
lodgings, worn out with anxiety and fatigue, one
night, long after my usual hour. Having a private
key I entered softly, and stealing up stairs on tip
toe, was on my way in the dark to that portion of
the first floor which I had occupied for months,
when something brushed by me like a spirit — my
very blood ran cold. I stopped and listened - I
could hear the beating of my own heart — my own
hurried breathing — even the ticking of a large
clock in the room below — but nothing else.
“ Having found my way to the door of the dining
room I stopped again, for I thought I heard steps -
the lightest in the world — passing to and fro in the
room over head , up the stairs I had just mounted,
and even along the carpet where I stood. A whose fault was it — his or mine ? Blasphemer
strange feeling came over me ; a boding, supersti
tious terror, and I pushed open the door. It was
perfectly dark within ; I felt round for the lamps,
always left upon the table , or occupying the mantle
piece within reach of my hand as I sat upon the
sofa – what could it mean ? — they were all gone.
Had the house been deserted , or given up while I
was away ? I couldn't for the life ofmeunderstand
what it all meant. And then too, why were the
curtains down ? As I stepped softly to the window
to lift them , unwilling to disturb the house , if it
could be avoided , something passed me again so
near as to touch me , and I was just on the point of
shouting ' who goes there ? ' when the light of a
new sky, starred all over with the watching cheru
bim and the quiring constellations, streamed into
the apartment as I lifted the curtain , and revealed
the whole interior. Some changes had taken place,
to be sure , and I was not a little amazed to find a
woman's shawl on the sofa and a bonnet upon the
table — they had not expected me so soon , that was
clear - which set me thinking. And straightway
the image of my beloved wife, my wro Eliza
beth , stood before me, weeping. And I sank down
upon the sofa and reasoned with myself, and tried
to drive a bargain with Jehovah by making a con
ditional prayer ; acknowledging my transgressions
generally , but avoiding every specification , and
beseeching him to forgive and bless me and fill my
heart with thankfulness, and promising to repent
hereafter - hereafter ! but when ! - after I had
accomplished my whole purpose ! After I had
been guilty of the unpardonable sin which I was
then meditating !
“ And while I sat there my conscience awoke,
55
and my knees smote together, and I heard the far
off roaring of the sea and the muttering of distant
thunder — were they the thunders of Sinai ? - and
still my heart held out.
“ And then I saw my wife walking upon the sea,
and holding up my child to me at arm's length, and
gradually sinking. And I was not asleep -- not
asleep — for I remember that I would not consent,
even for the sake of that wife and child, to forego
the triumph of the morrow !
« But if God - I give you all my thoughts, my
young friend, just as they upheaved themselves and
rolled past me from the mighty abyss that was
slowly breaking up within me — - what if God should
smite them for thy sake and leave thee wifeless and
childless, or smite thee for their sake and leave thy
wife husbandless and thy child fatherless ! — what
then ! why, even then, said I — and then I stopped
for the days of special interposition were over,
and God Almighty would never stoop to interfere
so directly with the doings of a creature so frail as
I ! And then, too, had he not fashioned me ? and
if I yielded to the temptations that beset my path,
that I was! - I would not stop. Nor would I even
-
allow myself to think of what might be the conse
quences to me or mine, choosing rather to brave the
worst than to stop long enough to inquire the way
to perdition.
“ At last I started up, and going to the door of my
bed -room , laid my hand upon the lock and was
about opening it, when a little dog sprang from the
sofa on which I had been sitting — and perhaps
lying — with a yelp that startled me ; and the next
-
moment I heard aa child crying within, as if tumbling
about on my own bed — and then there was a faint
scream , but whether of terror or of joy I knew not
until the door flew open and I held my wife to my
bosom -my own dear, faithful, trusting Elizabeth !
and saw my child kicking up its heels and crowing
with all its might, and saying over to itself, as it
were — papa — papa — my papa.'
“ And you were the happiest man upon the face
of the earth ? ”
66
· Yes, Paul , and the wickedest."
“ Oh , sir, I cannot believe you."
“ I tell you I was ! for even while she lay upon
my bosom , with her heart running over and her
beautiful eyes brimming with tears of thankfulness,
I thought more of what was to happen to another
on the morrow , and of the certainty that she would
never be the wiser for it, than of all the past,
present and future which most concerned her.”
“ Monstrous ! "
“ And so I say, Paul Stewart, 'monstrous ! ' But
such are men , the world over, my poor boy.
“ And now for the catastrophe. On the morrow ,
having prepared my wife to meet me in Havre at
the end of a week - meaning at least a month
☆
 56 THE COLUMB
I AN
no common hardship , you may be sure , after so long
a separation , (but my arrangements were all made
- there were my portmanteaux to speak for them
selves — and she was ever the most reasonable of
women ,) I gave her in charge to my brother- in -law
and hurried off to see that everything was ready ,
promising to see her once more , as we shouldn't
sail -- I took care to use the word sail — before five
in the afternoon .
“ I had been gone about two hours , I should say ,
and everything was arranged. I had even ventured
upon another note in pencil to Lady Sarah— taking
care to disguise the hand — saying, 6 be ready at
four,' and leaving it where I knew it would reach
her.
“ It was the longest day I ever knew . I would
have given the world to see the face of her whom I
was plotting to destroy forever and ever, just to say
to her, ' be comforted ; be of good cheer ; yet a few
hours, and we are both free - free as the unfettered
winds of the northern sky !' But no ! that was
forbidden alike to her and to me. And now for
the consequences.
“ On returning after the two hours' absence I
have mentioned, I found my wife upon the watch
for me and her brother- in -law at the window . The
moment he saw me coming he ran out of the house
to meet me , and taking me aside , begged me not to
go in till he should bring me word from Elizabeth .
Wondering what all this could mean, I stepped
into a goldsmith's just round the corner, telling him
I would wait there. At the end of perhaps ten or
fifteen minutes my wife entered, with her counten
ance flushed and her eyes flashing fire, though the
lids were damp and her voice trembled so that she
could scarcely speak, and prayed me to steal into
the house without being seen , and slip into the bed
chamber and wait there till I should be wanted .
“ I looked at her in amazement. " Good heaven !
Elizabeth ,' said I, what can be the meaning of
this ? '
6
« • You shall know in good time ; be patient, I
beseech you. You have enemies that you little
dream of, my dear, dear husband ; the deadliest
enemies that ever man had. They are seeking to
destroy the confidence of your wife in you , and I
have laid a plan to catch them in their own snare . '
( 66
Happily for me , and still more happily for her.
self, the poor thing chanced to be looking another
way when she said this, and I had time to put a
good face on the matter, though I felt the breath of
the accusing spirit on my cheek and his touch
thrilling at my elbow, and would have given the
world to be as clear in my high office ' as that wo
man believed me to be. No wonder I quaked ; for
I knew her well , and I knew that , much as she
loved me , and meek, and lowly, and patient, and
long -suffering though she was by nature, there was
that in her sweet wisdom , that in her womanly
MAGAZI .
NE
strength and holiness which it were death even for
me to provoke, or trifle with, or affront. In aa
word , if the truth came out, she was lost to me
forever ! And then whither should I betake myself ?
what would become of her — of our little one -- of
my aged father and mother -- of me ? And my
love sprang up anew when I thought of this, like a
flower from its own ashes.
There was nothing for it now but to strengthen
myself for the worst. And so trusting to Prov
upon my word, my dear boy, I had well nigh said
Providence ! - trusting, I should rather say, to the
evil one , who, it is said , never fails you at a pinch
if you once put your faith in him , I stole into the
house and up into our little bed -chamber, the door
of which had been left open a few inches to give me
an opportunity of seeing as well as of hearing.
Upon the sofa sat my wife in a morning wrapper,
with her bright hair loose , playing with the baby.
By the window --- as I am a living man – there sat
the Lady Sarah ! Two lovelier women I never
saw ; and yet , oh how unlike ! - Lady Sarah ,
stately and queen -like, with a calm and beautiful
self possession, a haughty mouth , and eyes that
made you tremble to look at them -- so full of
strange, unearthly brightness were they, and of
dreamy languor – and the lids were so heavy, as
if surcharged with the heart's dampness. Alto
gether I had never seen her so before ---- never so
much to be feared - never so little to be loved.
“ And then , too , there was my own dear Eliza
beth, changing from the rosy flush of anticipated
triumph to the paleness of smothered anger, ready
to blaze out with every breath ; her large, serene
eyes literally dancing with joy whenever they were
turned toward the door of the bed -chamber, where
she knew I was concealed ; and then clouding over
all at once, if I stirred, like the summer sky when a
shower is threatened ; her chin quivering, and her
little hands playing what has been very prettily
called the devil's tattoo, upon the back of the sofa."
“ How can you, my dear sir ? ”
“ Patience, my dear Paul — patience ! that you
may understand what a narrow escape I had there ,
and how necessary it may be sometimes for the
<
wisest, and best, and strongest to stop and say, ' oh ,
merciful Father, lead us not into temptation ! 9' ”
Yes, sir."
6
“ « Well, madam ,' said my wife to Lady Sarah,
' I hope you are satisfied now that there must be
some mistake .
" • There can be no mistake,' said Lady Sarah ,
with a sweet seriousness which alarmed me more
than all the rest ; ‘ none whatever -- until yesterday
it never entered my head that your husband was
either a profligate or a married man. Alas ! alas !
how I do pity you ! '
My wife smiled bitterly enough, left off romping
with the baby, and facing Lady Sarah, said to her
.
www
LEAD US NOT INTO TEMPTATION .
fa with a look that made me wish myself anywhere
but there , ' will you permit me to ask upon what
12 ground you should claim to know that he was
f either a profligate or a married man ? '
“ I began to breathe more freely.
^« « That question I must leave your husband to
answer . You are quite sure that if he should return
you will have time to secure my escape - hey ? '
“ As I told you before,madam ,you are perfectly
safe. You shall not see my husband, nor he you,
unless you desire it.'
“ I desire it ! heaven forbid ! I hope never to
see his face again while I breathe the breath of life ;
but a sense of duty toward you , madam — a grudge
if you will — has led me to take the step I have.
He will explain the rest, and I have only to ask you
now if you are satisfied, after all that I have told
you , of that man's unworthiness and treachery.'
466
*** Madam ! ' said my wife, rising slowly and
with unspeakable dignity, ' I allow no mortal to
speak of my husband in such language before me.
And since you oblige me to deal plainly with you,
suffer me to say that I do not believe one word of
the whole story you have been telling me .'
“ Lady Sarah sat looking at her in speechless
amazement.
“ • Where are the proofs you promised me ? '
continued my wife.
« • They are all destroyed but this ' - rummaging
in her work-bag.
“ I thought my heart would burst while she was
getting a paper she found there into shape and
1
smoothing it over her knee.
“ It was that confounded letter I had sent her in
my folly the day before. I knew it instantly.
6
«« • There , madam ! read that, if you please, and
then say what you think of a husband who is capa
ble of writing such aa letter to a married woman !'
turning away with a triumphant look and pointing
to the letter with a jewelled finger as Queen Eliza
beth might were Essex on trial for his life.
“ It was all up with me now ! There was not a
single chance left! I would have jumped out of
the window if I could have done so without being
overheard -- or missed — or given all I was worth
to be at the bottom of the Red Sea . ”
66
* For shame, sir ! How can you bear to trifle so
with that which makes my very heart bleed for
you ? "
“ • To a married woman ! ' said mywife in reply,
with a saucy but eager and trembling emphasis.
. And who may that married woman be ' - eyeing
her with a look that amazed me , for the dove had
.
changed to the eagle —that married woman who
has forgotten herself so far as to encourage another
woman's husband to write her an offensive letter ? ' ”
“ There she had her," whispered Paul ; and his
fine eyes sparkled for joy.
“ Read it,mydear madam ,' retorted Lady Sarah,
57
evidently stung by the sarcasm, and not a little
astonished at her high bearing and quiet self pos
session ; ' read it all through, if you please, before
we talk any farther ; and then , if you wish it, I
shall be happy to enter upon that question with you,
my dear. At present all I have to say is, that your
husband shall find , before I have done with him ' -
courtseying-— ' that thereis one woman at least upon
the broad earth'- stamping her little foot on the
floor — who is a match for him -
“ Elizabeth smiled and courtesied .
« « And who ,' continued Lady Sarah , trembling
with rage and almost sobbing, and who is not to
be made a fool of — just for pastime to keep his
spirits up in the absence of a wife !'
“ Ah ! said I to myself, the lady is overshooting
the mark there ! She has lighted Elizabeth — and
me too — into another world !. - A path of escape
is now opening for me, and but for that confounded
letter, in which I recollected some things not likely
to tally with the notion that I had only been amusing
myself with Lady Sarah , or trying to make a fool
of her — in the absence of my wife - I should have
little or nothing to fear.
“ But there it was, and Elizabeth was looking
over it, first on one side and then on the other, with
a puzzled expression , as if she hadn't the patience to
read it ; and the Lady Sarah, the gentle and loving
Lady Sarah — upon my word, I was thunderstruck
at her manner ; I could hardly believe my own eyes
- the gentle and loving Lady Sarah, who stood
there watching and mocking my poor wife as her
eyes ran swiſtly over the page, had more the look
and air of a hybrid actress than of a high -bred gen
tlewoman, I assure you."
“ Poh ! pshaw ! ""
“ But what of that ? There was my death war
rant! - and there was no possibility of escape now.
“ At last my wife , who seemed to have been be
3
wildered before, suddenly screamed out, mercy on
us ! why, the poor woman must be mad !' - jump
ing up and letting the paper fall out of her lap on
the floor. George ! George ! - why, it's a
blank sheet of paper, with nothing in the world on
it ! - George ! I say'- but I was afraid to move
- with nothing in the world on it ! - and ad
dressed to nobody ! I wonder you ain't ashamed
of yourself, you foolish , wicked woman ! to come
here and try to make mischief between a man and
his wife ! Out of the house with you ! - troop !
troop !' — touching the bell — ' out of the house, I
say ! this moment, or shall I call my husband ?'
« • Blank .'' said Lady Sarah, snatching up the
letter and looking at it hurriedly on both sides, and
then flinging it upon the floor and trampling on it
L'a plague on my blindness and folly !'
“ Here I contrived to make a sign to my wife,
just to encourage her. She smiled , and I pointed to
the paper, as much as to say, ' have a care of that,
60 THE COLUMBIAN MAGAZINE .
impress and sent me forth the walking label and
advertisement of another — who ?
My Double !
My dear madam , you need not seem so shocked .
I mean no allusion to that angel , my wife. Mrs.
Brown herself would smile with disdain at your
unworthy suspicion.
My double ! who is he ? — why, you, ma’am,
and you, sir, both know him perfectly well ; you
have both often mistaken me for him ; you, fair
lady , thanked me in his name for a prayer book I
handed across the pew to you at evening church
last Sunday ; and you, respected mister, looked
thundergusts at me one day before the Astor
House , because I would not accept a letter to him
that a Chicago correspondent had entrusted to
your care. My double, ladies and gentlemen , is
none other than my personal prototype -- a man
whose dapper form fits exactly into my bottle green
frock — whose long arms swing over exactly the
same number of square inches of Broadway flag
ging, and whose one red hand (he always carries
both gloves in the other,) corruscates in front of
the Astor precisely at one o'clock , post meridian,
every day in the year. Every one knows him -
every one speaks to him - certainly they do -
everybody that is anybody must of course exchange
a bow with Colonel Blank of the New York state
artillery. Yes, I see now you know to whom I
allude. You have known him at concerts , per
haps, or as chairman of a society for ascertaining
the condition of popular geographical knowledge at
the time when Shakspeare, in his chart of the
Winter's Tale, ventured to lay out a sea port in
Bohemia because there were serfs upon the bor
ders of that ancient terratime kingdom . You do
know Colonel Blank !
Well , (you ask ,) and is it such a misfortune to
resemble so worthy and popular a character as
Colonel Blank ?
A misfortune ! good heavens, madam , is it no
misfortune to be known everywhere and pointed
out everywhere as the man who is not Colonel
Blank ?
Is it not , I say, a positive calamity to have peo
ple put upon their guard against speaking to you
by mistake ? to be marked , watched and warned
against as a sort of unhappy natural swindler, the
counterfeit presentment, the notorious double of
another man ? — a fellow that goes about as it
were in a second-hand body — a form at least so
modelled after that of another that nature would
seem for the once to have used an old mould in a
fit of economy ?
It exasperates me that you can't see the mortifi
cation of the thing ! Don't you see — can you not
understand that after all which I have endeavored
to convey to you about the love of my own inde
pendence and the unobtrusive but strong affection
I have for my own individuality of character
don't you see that this Colonel Blank not only
raises the window of my privacy, but , having the
greater claim of the two to notoriety , stamps me at
once as his double ? Don't you see, in a word ,
that while from the quietude of my habits not a
breathing soul perhaps, save my own wife, will ever
speak of him in reference to me as “ the man who
looks so much like John Brown,” curiosity points
to me everywhere as “ the man who is not Colonel
Blank ? " Don't you seeee — my pen quivers with
emotion as I write it — do you or do you not see ,
sir, that I am necessarily therefore nothing more
than something pertaining to him — that I am
am his double, not he mine — in tine, that the
possessive pronoun in the title of this article has
properly no business there ?
Ah, it breaks upon you. You do see it all , and
your feelings begin to respond to my appeal to
your sympathy.
" What do I mean to do about it ? ” Why,
that is the all -important question ! What can I
do about it ? One thing only is clear to me ; I
must vanquish my constitutional dislike to publi
city as I best can , and get personal notability or
notoriety by any means in my power — my indi
vidual privacy is gone for ever, and the great ob
ject of my efforts must now be to establish in some
way or other an individual identity. I really, at
times, am disposed to compromise the matter in
any way ; to be “ The Ginger -bread Man , ” « The
man in the claret-colored coat, " be any kind of
man per se, rather than the mere shadow ofanother ;
“ The man who is not Colonel Blank.”
Sdeath , young gentleman, you laugh, but how
would you like to be thus designated to your be
loved ! Her features attracted your gaze at Niblo's ;
you have twice checked your horse to get a fair look
at her form as she galloped by you among the beau
tiful glades ofGreenwood ; you were her vis-a-vis in
a quadrille at Brighton ; you were dying to encir
cle her waist in a waltz, and your friend advanced
to ask permission to introduce you. They whisper
together — she looks at you —she seems to recog
nize you. Has she heard your name favorably
before ? and has she been previously interested by
your personal appearance ? - Stay ! she is asking
your friend to repeat your name — with what well
bred unconsciousness you try to catch her sweetly
66
murmured comment. Brown- John Brown , is
it — well, I've been dying for years to know that
man's name ; every one in our set knows of course
that he is not Colonel Blank."
'Sdeath, sir, I repeat, would you not feel at once
like making “ a set” - a world — an atmosphere
of your own ? Would you not be ready on the
instant to plunge into space in search of some
planet where no such duplicates of humanity were
permitted to exist ? You would I know you
1
 THE SISTERS .
would , had you one spark of true manhood about
you !
But you , sir, why do you sneer ? —you, I mean ,
“ talented ” author of “ Manure for Radicalism , or
the Growth of Jacobinism made Easy . " How can
you - how dare you , sir, sneer at my sufferings ?
you, who with such astute knowledge of the
world, and such all-embracing love of your fellow
men , have taught the sublime truth that “ the
mass is everything - the individual nothing ; you,
whose bold and energetic mind would consign to
priests and old women the stale preachment that
“ there is more glory in heaven over one soul,” &c.
- you, who with a pen of fire would marshal us
on to “ attack and break down the individual, but
cherish and husband the mass ; ” – how, I say ,
how dare you deride my griefs at being taken
forcibly from that “mass” and made a man of
note - a quasi aristocrat in my own despite
a patrician shadow – aa stalking horse to 16 the
Democracie ? ” “ a man that is not Col. Blank ,"
but so much like him that he would do to Lynch
instead !
I well know that I have now no personal rights —
that I deserve to have none — that I lost all privi
lege as a man the instant I ceased to be an inte
gral portion of “ the people.” I know this, I say,
to be a great natural fact — a primordial principle.
But in the name of general --- not individual free
dom — in the name of the genius of UNIVERSAL
FREEDOM , I demand to know the right that any one
has thus to sever and cut me away from my natu
ral affinities with liberty-breathing obscurity ?
• The mass may indeed , justly, at their will ,
denounce, detach and ostracise any particular
member of their own enlightened body. But “ the
people ” have for wise purposes delegated this ex
treme power to certain executive officers, chosen
from themselves by means so mysterious that
when these solemn officers appeal to “ their own
THE SISTERS .
( See the engraving .)
Wuo can tell or describe - what masculine imagination is
manysided enough to conceive -- all the thoughts, feelings,
projects, aspirations, plots, intentions and -- let us whisper
the next word softly - MISCHIEF - abiding or revolving in
the mind of a pretty woman ? The ocean is not so deep as
that unfathomable storehouse of all things dainty, delicious,
provoking, charming, lovenble and terrible ; and man never
existed , the plummet-line of whose sagacity was long enough
for a "dipsy lead " to the soundings of that deep. Even
Talleyrand was beguiled, as everybody knows, by a hand
some widow ; and the other women said she was not much
better thun a fool.
But if one pretty woman is so hopelessly beyond man's
research , what chance has the whisker-wearing animal in
VOL . I. - 6 .
61
strong sense of public duty and almost awful respon
sibilities of position," we all of us feel that the hand
of Providence itself must have had to do with their
election ; and we feel in our very souls that the
same inquisition of “ public opinion ” through its
holy and infallible ministers, clothed in the undefiled
vestments of the daily press , is alone competent to
this office ofmoral Lynching ! The newspapers
not the patricians of the Broadway pavement— the
newspapers which , regardless of their own pros
perity, always study " the greatest good of the
greatest number ” — they alone had the right to
single me out from among men— to strip me of all
my privileges as one of “ the majority ” and brand
me in the public streets as “ The man who is not
Col. Blank .”
Courteous citizen ! Comfortable man whose lit
tle “ intellect” the onward march of mind cannot
disturb — you alone can assist me in ridding myself
of this detestable distinction . Nay ! turn not the
key of your desk upon your check book -- I want
not your money , I crave not your endorsement to
my note — I want only your affidavit, and you who
have known my ingoings and outgoings from days
of tender clerkship, may by your sole certificate sub
stitute a personal distinction which shall restore me
to individuality, if not to obscurity. I was for years
an omnibus driver on the route you daily travel -a
steamboat master in your employ on the Mississippi,
and for the sixteen steamers I snagged or blew up
in half as many years, I never received " a vote of
thanks for my cool and humane conduct , my utter
exemption from all carelessness, and noble conduct
as an officer and gentleman ." There are no less than
five North River skippers running between this
port and Poughkeepsie who have never received
a piece of plate. But I move alone amid the mul
titude of steamboat captains — “ The man who
neder received a vote of thanks."
the contest with two ? Those two, for instance, that look
out so innocently upon the student of their graciousness from
the engraving at the commencement of this number. They
have gone out for an afternoon stroll, with their drawing and
their music ; merely to sketch, and gather wild flowers , und
fill the bosoms of the song -birds with envy by the sweet
notes of their mandolin . Nothing else in the world . No
thought of flirtation, or more serious love-making ; no ex
pectation or wish of being joined in their ramble by any he
creature whatever. Two sweet sisters, all in all to each
other, and not caring one needlefull of red worsted for all the
beaux in Broadway or elsewhere . Do not their faces say so ?
And yet there is a man's hat - a man's pair of gloves !
Who would have thought it ?
 MOODS OF
THE OLD PORTRAIT .
BY MRS. EMMA C. EMBURY.
“ We are the stuff
That dreams are made of, and our little life
Is rounded by a sleep ."
I was amused and interested by a discussion which
I heard a few days since , between two persons who
were my near neighbors on board a - ferry
boat. They had been in close conversation when
they entered the cabin , and as they did not lower
their tones I soon discovered that the dapper,
neatly -whiskered, dogmatic little man beside me
was a young physician who had just been ground
out by the “saw bones ” mill and was not yet
siſted , if one might judge by the husks of learning
which seemed mingled with the good grain . His
companion , a modest, pale -faced , sickly seeming
German , evidently regarded him with much re
spect and listened to him as if there was no possible
appeal from his opinions.
“ Depend upon it,sir,” said the doctor, “ depend
upon it there is a great deal of misconception about
this matter ; a person who dreams cannot be said
to be asleep ; ( this was a startling proposition, by
the way, to one who is an accomplished sleeper,
and a most inveterate dreamer ;) you may rely
upon it that no person ever enjoys a quiet, natu
ral , healthful sleep if his mental faculties are
awake, ” he continued, tapping his little cane most
determinedly against the toe of his boot.
“ But," said the German timidly, “ you surely do
not mean to say that the habit of dreaming argues an
unsound state of the physical system ; there are per
sons who enjoy the most robust health and yet whose
faculty for dreaming is almost an idiosyncracy.
“ Impossible, my dear sir ! ” and the doctor
compressed his lips with the air of a man who
knows he is right; “ the mental faculties slumber
with the corporeal functions; the man who is un
der the influence of a profound , healthful sleep is,
in a manner, dead to all impressions ; unconscious
ness, a total forgetfulness of every mental and
bodily capacity, are necessary to the enjoyment of
repose . No, sir ; slumber may bring dreams, but
sleep must be unbroken by the vagaries of the
imagination ; therefore a man is not asleep when
he dreams. "
This was uttered in such Johnsonian style,
there was such a bridling up of the neck, such a
62
THE MIND .
peculiar pigeon -breasted swelling out of the speak
er's person , as if he would have said :
" I am Sir Oracle , and when I ope
My mouth, let no dog bark,"
that his companion was silenced if not convinced .
At this moment the boat touched the wharf and I
soon lost sight of the interlocutors ; but as I wended
my way I could not help thinking how much cause
I had to feel pity for myself, for, if the doctor's
theory were true , from my childhood to the present
hour I had never slept.
Right sorry should I be to believe any such ma
terial doctrine. Sad indeed would be my privation
if compelled to relinquish my nocturnal wanderings
in the fairy-land of dreams. Surely, when
“Darkness shows us realms of light
We never saw by day "
we may rejoice in the brightness and beauty of that
spirit-life which we can never enter while the fet
ters of clay cling as closely as they do in our
waking hours. Day has its cares and its toils, its
anxieties and its doubts, its vexations and its sor
rows ; scarcely does a sun rise and set without the
destruction of some fair scheme , the withering of
some green hope. Amid the glare of sunshine we
live and move and suffer ; it brings us active , senti
ent life ; but it is all external — the world claims
us and the energies of the soul are all employed by,
and for the service of, the perishing body. But
when night closes around us-- - when the brow of
Heaven is wearing its coronal of stars — when the
far-sweeping breeze comes with lulling music to
the ear wearied with the turmoil of the world , then
is it not sweet to lie down on our couch of nightly
rest , and with the accents of prayer upon our lips
and thoughts of tenderness concentrating within our
hearts like honey -dew in the petals of a flower, to
close the eyes of the body in calm slumber, while
the mind awakens in unfettered vigor to tread the
realms of space and range the glorious spirit-land
of dreams ? Strange that the mind has this power
to roam at large ! strange that it is thus privileged
 MOODS OF
to annihilate time and space in its unchecked ca
reer ! Yet methinks the only idea that a finite
mind can form of infinitude is derived from this
wonderful faculty, which enables us to condense a
life into an hour.
“ Sleep has its own world ,
And a wide realm of wild reality ,
And dreams in their development have breath ,
And tears, and torture, and the touch ofjoy;
They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts,
They take a weight from off our waking toils ;
They do divide our being ; they become
A portion of ourselves as of our time,
And seem like heralds of eternity ."
But there is another mood of mind far more
wonderful than that which admits us through the
ivory portal of dreams. There are moments
when a peculiar retroversive vision is given to the
soul ; when, amid scenes which have never before
met the bodily eye , a sudden consciousness of a
preeexistence in which they were once familiar
comes over the spirit. Who has not experienced
that instant insensibility to mere outward impres
sions, while the soul was looking back through the
vista of memory and beholding there precisely the
same objects which were vainly addressing them
selves to the external senses ? Who has not paused
in painful wonder at the discovery that the material
things which surrounded him were but the tangible
forms of some shadowy reminiscence ? Who has
not ſelt, at some especial moment, that the present
was to him but aa renewal of a by -gone scene , and
that his mind was wandering in a vague past, where
all was dim , dark and troublous to the spirit?
The speculations into which my subject has un
consciously led me remind me of a singular in
stance of hallucination , or perhaps of clairvoyance
- according as one chooses to determine — in the
case of a personal friend , which occurred some
years since.
Mrs. L was one of the most quiet, gentle,
womanly creatures that I have ever known. Intel
ligent and well informed , without being positively
intellectual in her tastes, her varied accomplish
ments gave her brilliancy in society, while her
kindliness of heart made her a decided favorite
with all who came near enough to share it. With
just enough imagination to adorn , but not to out
shine her other qualities, with sufficient sentiment
to give depth of tone to the lights and shades of her
character, and destitute of a single strongly deve
loped passion, she always appeared to me peculiarly
happy in the possession of one of those unexcitable
tempers which ever secure content.
" She was pensive more than melancholy,
And serious more than pensive, and severe,
It may be, more than either ;"
THE MIND . 63
and had I been called to designate one who looked
neither into the vague past nor the dim fuiure , but
found enjoyment in the tranquil present, I should
have pointed to my pretty and agreeable friend .
An incident, trifling in itself, but leading to a
singular development of character, showed me the
folly of thus judging of another's nature , especially
when we have never been admitted to the intimacy
of friendship until after the door of the inner sanctu
ary of the soul was closed against earthly sym
pathies.
It happened one morning that I accompanied
Mrs. L- - to the rooms of a celebrated picture
dealer whom she wished to consult respecting the
framing of a valuable painting she had recently
received from Italy. The virtuoso was absent, but
learning that he was expected to be at home in a
short time, we determined to wait and in the mean
time to amuse ourselves with the various articles
of taste and fancy with which his apartments were
filled. I had been for some time leaning over a
scagliola table, absorbed in the study of some ex
quisite cameos, when an exclamation from my
companion , who had been occupied with the
pictures, aroused me from my abstraction. As I
looked up I beheld her standing opposite a paint
ing, but her close bonnet entirely concealed her
face from me, and conjecturing that she had dis
covered something of superior merit I stepped up
behind her to observe it also .
It was only a portrait of a man in the prime of
life ; an old portrait , for the surface was in some
places cracked and broken, while the unframed
canvass showed on its edges the discoloration as
well as the rents of time. But never did I see a
face to which the doubly significant word “ fasci
nating " could be so exactly applied. The broad ,
high forehead was bare , while the long chestnut
curls which fell back from its expanse were so
mellowed into the background of the picture that
the outline of the head was undefined and the
charm of vagueness was thus given ; as if the face
was looking out from behind a curtain , or rather
from the indistinct gloom of a chamber. The eyes
were large , dark and dreamy, with that sad but not
sorrowful drooping of the delicately cut lids, that
downward bend of the outer corner, which ever
denotes the world - sated rather than the wounded
spirit . But the mouth was the most peculiar fea
ture, for the upper lip was curled like a bow at its
utmost tension , and rested with so slight a pressure
upon the full softness of its fellow that one almost
expected to see it expand with smiles at the behold
er's gaze. The rounded and beardless cheek was
almost too massive in its downward sweep , and the
chin , though Napoleonesque in its outline, had that
heaviness of finish which marks the influence of the
animal nature ; but the coloring of the face - its
pale, clear, yet not effeminate hue -- the dark ,
64 THE COLUMBIAN
well defined brows arching over those superb eyes
- the shadow flung upon the cheek by those
fringed eyelids — the deep, rich color of the wo
manish mouth -- the softness of the flesh -tints -
and, above all , the almost serpent-like fascination
of expression which pervaded the whole counte
nance , all combined to form a most remarkable
and beautiful physiognomy. The costume was
that of the time of George II . , and a diamond
star on the breast of the gold -embroidered coat
bore witness to the rank of him whose pictured
semblance was without a name to designate its
claims to our respect. Beautiful was that face in
its calm immobility – how gloriously beautiful must
have been the flashings of the soul through such
exquisite features, when that eye was lighted up
with life and that lip was eloquent with passionate
emotion ! Yet even while my fancy conjured up
the image of such a being, those instincts which in
woman's heart are ever true, if the world have not
checked their honest teachings, made me recoil
from the creature of my imagination. Something
in those delicate features, something in that sweet
sadness of the eye and lip , something in the almost
girlish hand which lay half hidden in its point - lace
ruffle , seemed to speak of the voluptuary - of one
who with the holy fires of intellect had kindled a
flame on the altar of sensual and selfish indulgence .
But all these things were observed in much less
time than is required for the description of them ,
and I was turning away with an expression of the
mingled feeling that had been excited by the picture,
when my attention was excited by the fixedness
of Mrs. L- L’s attitude. Changing my position
so as to obtain a view of her face, I was startled by
the extraordinary change which had taken place in
her appearance . With her tall figure drawn up to
its full height, yet shrinking back as if alarmed ;
her arms folded tightly upon her bosom and her
hands grasping the drapery of her shawl , as if to
veil herself from the eyes bent down upon her from
the canvass, she stood entranced before the picture.
Her face was ashy pale, her eyes dilated and va
cant , her lips parted and almost livid in their hue,
and her whole countenance bore the impress of
intense horror. Alarmed at her appearance I
addressed her, but without attracting her notice ; I
attempted to draw her away, but to my surprise
I telt her arm as rigid as stone beneath my touch ,
while her whole attitude was that of one who is
subjected to cataleptic infiuence .
Gradually the spell which bound her faculties
seemed to disperse , and as she slowly and shudder
ingly turned from the picture she fell almost fainting
into my arms.
64
· Let us go - quick -- let us go ; ” she gasped ,
and terrified by her unusual agitation I hurried her
into the carriage. During our ride she did not
utter a word , but when we reached her door she
MAGAZINE .
exclaimed, “ Do not leave me ; I would not be
alone just now ; ” and drawing her veil over her
face she hurried up to her apartment. As soon as
we were alone and safe from intruders, she flung
herself upon a couch and a violent flood of tears
seemed somewhat to relieve the dreadful tension of
her nerves. It was long before she recovered from
her excessive agitation, and all my attempts to
soothe her were utterly useless until she had ex
hausted her excitement by indulgence ; then, when
her emotion had subsided into the deep calm which
comes from utter feebleness of body, she unfolded
to me one of the strangest moods of mind that it
had ever been my fortune to discover .
“ How long were we at Mr. —'s room this
morning? ” she asked.
" Perhaps a quarter of an hour," was my reply.
“ And how long did I stand before that dreadful
picture ? ”
“ Not more than five minutes."
“ And yet in that brief space the events of a
whole life passed before me.”"
“ Your thoughts must have travelled with a
speed like that which transported Mahomet to the
seventh heaven , and restored him to his couch , be
fore the vessel of water which had been overturned
in his ascent had lost one drop of its contents."
“ Nay, this is no jest ; it is to me sad and sober
earnest. Let me tell you, E-, my ideas on the
subject of pre- existence. ”
“ My dear friend, you are nervous and excited ;
we had better not discuss such matters."
“ You think me a little égarée — you mistake ;
my nerves have been shaken , but my mind is per
fectly unclouded . Ever since I have been able to
look into my own nature I have been convinced
that my present life is only the completion of an
earthly probation which was begun long, long
since."
“ What do you mean ? You are surely not in
earnest. "
“ I never was more so in my life, and yet I
scarcely know how to explain myself to you.
There are persons who live and die with natures
but half developed ; circumstances call forth one
set of feelings and faculties, while others are left
dormant. Such I believe to be the case with the
great proportion of men and especially of women
in this world , and therefore it is that I have much
charity for those who fall short of my standard
of goodness, since there may be an infinite deal
of latent virtue hidden in their hearts. But there
are others among mankind who seem to have the
use of only half their souls ; not from the want of
development, but rather from exhaustion of the
faculties. Among the latter class I rank myself.
I am calm , cold and passionless ; never violently
excited , never deeply depres in my
feelings and warm but not ardent in my affections.
8
MOODS OF
Yet do I often feel within me the faint stirrings of
a wild and passionate nature ; a throe of the
spirit which tells, not of repressed emotion , but
rather of half extinct capacity for suffering. In a
word , I believe that in a former state of existence
I have outlived my passions.
“ You are surprised. I tell you my life is full
of vague memories of a dark and troubled past. I
am as one in a dream ; the things which surround
me in actual life are entirely distinct from the ob
jects that are daily presented to my mental view
as forming part of my existence . Often that
strange, painful consciousness of some past scene
precisely resembling the present comes over me ,
and I can scarcely determine whether it is the
reality or the vision which most impresses me.
My very affections seem to me rather like old
habitudes of feeling, and when I look upon my
children or listen to their merry voices, a dreamy
consciousness of having , years since , heard the
same “ sweet discord ' and gazed with a mother's
pride upon creatures as fair and as dear, makes me
doubt my own identity.
“ That which is vague is always terrible, and
my thoughts have gone out fearfully into that
dark , cloudy past, seeking vainly to comprehend
the wild memories that so disturb my present tran
quility. But to -day - to -day – I have seen a
vision which has satisfied my quest. I had wan
dered listlessly about Mr. -'s rooms this
morning , thinking only of beguiling the time until
his return , when my eye fell upon the old portrait.
You saw the effect it produced, (and she shuddered
at the recollection,) but you could not know why
it thus overpowered me. Now listen and remem
ber that I know well what I am saying ; that I am
perfectly calm and collected , and as sane in mind
as yourself.
“ As my look became fastened on that superb
face a strain of low, unearthly music floated on the
air, and suddenly I found myself in a gorgeous
apartment, blazing with lights and filled with a gay
company attired in the rich fashion of the olden
time. A large mirror hung opposite me, and as I
raised my eyes I saw reflected on its silvery sur
face the image of a young girl moving in the
stately mazes of the minuet with a handsome and
graceful partner. I saw the blush which mantled
the maiden's cheek as her companion's deep, dark
eyes rested upon her ; I beheld the quivering of her
lip as she timidly replied to the courtly flatteries
which were rather breathed than uttered from that
exquisite mouth ; I marked the trembling of her
hand as it touched his in the evolutions of the
formal dance ; the very beatings of her heart as it
bounded against her jewelled bodice were visible
to me . That maiden was myself ; not a linea
ment was changed ; it was myself, wearing the
same freshness of tint and frankness of expression
6*
THE MIND . 65
as in the youthful portrait which hangs in yonder
recess , differing only in the costume, which was
that in fashion a century ago ; while he who was
thus awaking me to a consciousness of passionate
existence was the living semblance of that name
less picture.
“ Again that strain of music sounded ; a mist
came before my eyes, and as it cleared away I saw
a wide and beautiful landscape. There were
gently swelling hills in the distance , enfolding as
it were in their embrace one of those rich parks
which are said to form so lovely a feature in
English scenery . Broad oaks stretched their
gnarled branches over the soft, green turf, and
here and there an antlered deer was seen bounding
across the lawn -like verdure . But in the fore
ground of the picture was a closely shaded walk
where the boughs of the overarching trees had
been carefully interlaced , so as to exclude every
straggling ray of sunshine. A sweet and tender
light, as soft as moonlight but far warmer in its
glow, filled the place, and there in that secluded
spot sate a maiden on a mossy bank. The grace
ful form of her partner in the dance was bending
over her in the attitude of protecting tenderness,
and as she lifted her face confidingly toward the
eyes which seemed radiant with affection, as she
met their glance , I again recognized my own
features.
“ Once more that faint melody swept by, again
my eyes were darkened , and the next scene showed
me the arrangements of a joyous bridal. A gay
company were assembled in a small but beautiful
chapel, and, as if power had been given to my
mental vision to embrace all objects whether great
or small , I could distinctly trace the rich carvings
of the clustered pillars and the grotesque corbels of
the groined roof, while the flickering tints which
fell upon the snowy vestments of the bridal party,
from the stained glass window behind the altar,
added gorgeousness to the scene . As the newly
wedded pair turned from the shrine , while merry
friends pressed round them with looks of pride and
joy, I beheld again the familiar faces which twice
before had met my view.
“ But the vision faded , the figures vanished , and
a cloud seemed to arise, in which only the noble
face of the portrait was visible. Presently the
cloud shifted , as if moved by a passing breeze , and
my own face, pale , tearful and sad , looked out from
its dim shadow . Again the cloud closed over the
apparition , and thus, folding and unfolding, as
we often see the edges of a thundercloud in the
sky, it gave out alternate glimpses of the two faces
as it altered its position and its form . But a
change gradually came over the countenances of
both ; my own became faded and sorrowful, while
the cold sneer upon those bright lips, the keen glitter
of those soft eyes and an expression of bitter con

66 THE COLUMBIAN
tempt in the scowl of that placid brow, converted
its glorious beauty into the beauty of ‘ archangel
ruined .'
“ Again came that tone of music , but it was
now dirge - like and mournful as it trembled upon
my ear. The shadow passed away and I beheld a
funeral bier. A rigid form lay extended upon
and a child of some ten summers knelt beside the
body, while her sunny curls mingled with the dark
locks which lay so lifelessly on the brow of the
dead. As the child raised her head to wipe away
her gushing tears I beheld the face of the departed ,
and again did I recognize my own features. A
feeling of irrepressible horror crept over me , but I
was compelled to gaze , while slowly, and as it
emerging from the darkness of the distant apart
ment , came out the shadowy face of that old
portrait, as if bending over the cold lineaments of
death .
“ At this moment you spoke to me , but I could
not answer ; you touched me , but I was fixed and
almost turned to stone ; nor could I move until the
fearful vision had entirely vanished , and then, ex
hausted and almost lifeless, I found myself resting
THE FEMALE
A FROSTY LYRIC .
KNO a stern , disdainful maid,
I xnow
With cold , calm looks and measured tone ,
Who to the hottest tropic clime
Would bring the frigid zone.
.
Jack Frost might woo her, it may be,
When in his frostliest, bleakest mood --
A glacier or an avalanche
Would shrink from such a prude !
My blood creeps shivering through my veins,
As memory brings to view the time
When frame and spirit froze beneath
Her spirit's chilling rime.
In fur and flannels thick encased,
A bright coal fire blazing near,
With cautious courage down I dropped
Beside that iceberg's enr.
Swift through me shot an icy thrill,
My heart went fluttering like a feather -
Alas! how soon my soul congealed
In that Siberian weather.
Her breath was like the north east wind,
Freezing the springs whence feelings flow ;
And when she parted lips to speak,
Her words seemed flakes of snow .
93
MAGAZINE .
in your arms, with that cold, calm picture looking
quietly down upon me from the wall. ”
Such was my friend's account of this most extra
ordinary fantasy, and without pretending to trace
its source, or to explain the probable cause of such
a mood of mind, I would only add that it was fol.
lowed by a severe attack of brain fever. She re
covered , however, and lived several years, but never
again gave the slightest evidence of any tendency
to the vague speculations of which she had spoken
to me ; though, as I afterward learned , she had
vainly endeavored to purchase the old portrait,
which had been sold, during her illness, to some
unknown picture fancier. I pretend not to eluci .
date the mystery of her changeful vision , or to define
my own belief in her fanciful creed of pre -existence.
It is enough for me to know that our dreams,
whether they be waking visions or nightly slumber
ing fantasies, often
“ Pass like spirits ofthe past, and speak
Like sybils of the future."
Brooklyn , L. I
ICEBERG ;
Winter lay coiled within an eye
Whose softened beams were hail and sleet,
Which on the casement of my heart
With dreary sharpness beat.
Then fancy soon took place of sight,
And made her form with heart compare —
Her head towered up , a snow - capped Alp,
And icicles her hair.
At last her frosty presence stole
All the glad warmth which life supplies ;
The smile was frozen on my lip,
The moisture in my eyes ;
And in my breast's thermometer
Down went my heart to low degrees,
Until my consciousness could feel
My very feelings freeze.
My life just flickered in its lamp
My spinal marrow turned to frost -
One shriek I gave for molten lead,
Then speech and sense were lost !
* *
Place me where Ætna's lava glows,
Where flame and fire might imps entice,
But ne'er again beside that piece
Of chill incarnate ice ! X.
s

EXTRACTS FROM THE DIARY OF A POOR MAN .
BY A STARVING PHILOSOPHER .
JULY 9. This day completes my fifty -third year.
Alas ! how little I imagined in my twentieth sum
mer that my age would be spent in poverty and
neglect — that this birth -day would be unwelcomed
by the voice of friendship, and even its miseries
unrelieved by the consolations or the benevolence
of charity. To begin life in opulence and end it
in indigence — to have the recollections of wealth
with the painful realities of poverty — to see star
vation gradually sap away the last entrenchments
of pride , and wither the last flower of fancy – to
be, in short , a poor, shiftless, useless, complaining
old man , having been otherwise, this is misery of
which youth cannot even dream , and which pas
ses all speech to describe. Speculated painfully
on the probabilities of my existing twenty years
longer as a miserable mendicant- for such, indeed ,
I am —- living by meanly taking advantage of the
benevolence of the ignorant, and practising petty
chicane for my bread. It is an awful subject of
contemplation . And yet I am in no condition to
die. My life has been no hymn of praise or thanks
to the God who made and is to judge me. Life
and death are equally irksome and equally produc
tive of misery .
July 10. The sapient editor of the Penny Thun
derbolt has returned my communication on the
evils of mendicity. He informs me that the ex
treme poverty of its language , the indigence of the
ideas, the withered metaphors with which it is de
formed , its poor conceits, its lame and meagre rea
soning, make it unfit for his columns. So, my
poverty has gradually extended to my soul, and
now is busy in stripping my mind of ideas, and
starving my very intellect ! The editor is a lying
knave : “ the day on which he dies a man will be
hanged .”
July 11. Borrowed a worn and wasted cloak of
a washerwoman, who lives in the room under my
attic, and tottered slowly into State street, to obtain
subscriptions for my new plan of educating the
young. Met with continual disappointments. A
portly man in an insurance office entrusted me
with his opinion respecting the advantages of my
project. He said that I was a vagrant , vagabond
and humbug, and that my plan for educating the
young was nothing more than a plan to raise the
wind. As the rest of the rich men in the office
seemed to adopt the judgment of the pot-bellied
philanthropist, and as I was disposed to concur in
its correctness myself, I was compelled reluctantly
to retire , with no subscriptions. Feeling exceed
67
R
ingly hungry, I went into a provision cellar,
rather to feed my eye with the victuals than to fill
my stomach ; for my purse , like the thoughts of
Belial , was low.. After exposing myself to suspi
cion , by the eager glances I cast at everything
around me , and the ravenous earnestness with
which I demanded the price of each article , I at
last fixed on a large piece of apple pie, as exactly
fitted to my case . But what was my horror on
discovering, as I plunged my hand into my pocket
for the money, that my whole capital of seventy
five cents had been abstracted by a thief ! A vast
amount of noise was made to find the precious
silver, but all in vain . My pocket and stomach
were now on a perfect equality. Both could boast
of complete emptiness. Determined, however,
since the world , or any part of it , had preyed upon
me , to gratiſy my natural wants, and finding it
impossible to bully the victualler out of his food, or
to engage him in any of my projects for the educa .
tion of the young, I ended with pawning the wash
erwoman's cloak and marching off with the pie.
After my hunger was gratified, the bitter question
came over me — how shall I account for the cloak ?
There was no response to this clincher ; it ran
through every cell of my brain , and returned to me
in echoes. My second childhood is coming on , for
I feel the same guilty sensations which thrill a boy,
when he fears he will be discovered in filching
marbles and nuts. Wo is me ! Nature has been
liberal to that washerwoman in the article of lungs !
Her tongue , “ like polar needles ever on the jar, "
will have its usually quick movement fearfully ac
celerated by my delinquency !
July 12. Spent this day in endeavoring to frame
an apology or plausible lie , for the benefit of the
washerwoman's patience. In the evening she
visited me to claim her garment. On my telling
her in sugared tones how it had passed from my
possession , she fiercely foamed out her rage at the
misfortune, with the fury and fluency of a Pytho
ness . I never knew words to be imported with
such rapidity from Billingsgate, or exported more
readily afterward from the tongue. Her voice was
not modelled on that of Cordelia ; it is not " soft
and low ," but rather the moral thunderbolt of that
tempestuous atmosphere through which her soul
moves . She informed me of many facts respecting
myself of which I had heretofore been ignorant, and
she communicated the information in language of
great vigor and picturesqueness. She commenced
her argument with the sharp postulates of old brute,
9

68 THE COLUMBIAN
liar, hypocrite, thief and vagabond, and these pre
cious premises being assumed , she soon erected on
them a pyramid of denunciatory logic, high enough
to reach the skies, and convey thither the whole
story of her wrongs and my baseness. The results
to which she arrived , in her carping comments on
my character, were highly ingenious, curious and
original. Her speculations, also, on the probable
condition of my soul after death, displayed much
reach of thought, and fire-tipped energy of language.
She concluded her philippic by informing me that
she should enter a complaint to the police , and
have me prosecuted for highway robbery. After
listening listlessly to all she had to offer on the
question , and receiving with meek submission the
cataract of calumny which dashed deliriously from
her lungs, I ventured dubiously on my defence .
But, alas ! all my honey was a poor match for her
gall, and only rendered more intense and bitter her
exasperated and exasperating remarks. At last I
was driven into denunciation myself, and opened
upon her head the flood -gates of wrath . My supe
riority in the matter of education , gave me a wider
scope of illustration and more condensed energy of
expression, and I soon brought her to terms. She
consented to capitulate, on the condition that all
the subscriptions to be received on the great plan
of supplying the city with mince -meat without
killing oxen or pigs, should be pledged to her, until
a sufficient amount had been realized to redeem
the cloak from bondage. After I had written and
signed a paper to that effect, she was kind enough
to leave me to my meditations.
July 13. Met a friend, and requested the loan
of two shillings. But he was a wise, calculating
fellow , and informed me that I “ could come no
game" over him . He directed me to a place,
however, where he said I might obtain what was
wanted. On following the course pointed out, I
discovered that he had directed me to the House
of Correction. Debated in my mind whether to
go in or not — weighed all the advantages of the
place in bedding, boarding and clothing, as com
pared with . my own quarters — thought of the
washerwoman and the pledged cloak -- but decided
after much reflection not to avail myself of public
bounty in this form of its dispensation, unless it
were offered me by the public itself. In returning,
went into a bookseller's store. Offered my services
to do any literary job, at fifty cents a day. Told
the bibliopole that it was indifferent to me what
subject I wrote upon finance, manufactures,
science , novels, biography, geometry , geography,
gin, genius, and ginger-bread were equally within
the scope of my talents. Was told that I was an
ignorant humbug. Craved the liberty to give him
a specimen of my composition, and adduced my
rags as clear proof of authorship. He would give
me, however, liberty to do nothing, except go to
Demon
MAGAZINE .
the devil. Respectfully declined that privilege, as
poverty had already anticipated his benevolent do
nation. Saw the editor of the North American
Review in a corner, and asked him if he did not
desire a sensible article on Lockeism and transcen
dentalism , and offered to write one at twenty- five
cents a page. He declined the offer on the plea
that he had already among his contributors a gen
tleman who did complete justice to those subjects.
Indicated to him that I was aware he had a con
tributor who wrote on those topics, but expressed
my ignorance that they were dealt with justly or
ably. Could not convince hiin of my opinion and
left the shop in disgust. Curse the monied aris
tocracy and the literary aristocracy, “ who are
grinding the poor ! ” Spent the rest of the day in
wondering why Miller had placed so far ahead the
fruition of his world -destroying theory.
July 14. Hungry. Attempted to quiet my in
ward cravings and longings after victuals, by re
flecting on the doctrines of immaterialism . Won
dered if Bishop Berkeley, or Fichte had ever passed
the boundaries of hunger, and gone into the border
lands of starvation . Tried to believe that if ma
terial things had no real existence , food had none ,
and it was therore useless to labor for a pheno
menon instead of a reality. Still the argument
would not hold . After a sensation has become an
idea, the latter has an indubitable existence, even
if the outward object to which it seems to refer is
phantasmal. My hunger was an idea --something
present to thought , therefore had a real existence.
After establishing this fact with syllogistic exactness
from transcendental premises, began to argue on the
true philosophical method of treating hunger. Re
collected that Kant had driven the fierce pangs of
the gout from his consciousness by the depth and
intensity of his thinking. Remarked to myself that
Kant was a wonderful man. Reflected that the
stomach and the consciousness were separate
things ; one was of the body, the other of the soul ;
a disturbance of one should not be allowed to affect
the equanimity of the other. As those things
which relate to the mind are infinitely more impor
tant than those phantasmal nothings which aflect
the phenomenal body, the great object of the true
philosopher should not be to clothe his body but to
clothe his ideas ; to cover the nudity of abstract
thought with the rich garment of tropes and images,
woven by the imagination from the raw material
of language. If a man's thoughts are kingly, and
attired in the royal robes of rhetoric, of what con
cern is to him that his outward man answers to
the description of a beggar ? Rags are the sym
bolical language of the body only ; the soul , all the
time, may be clothed in fine linen, and fare sump
tuously every day at the rich banquet of ideas.
Who is the poor man ? who is the hungry man ?
He whose thoughts are meagre — he whose soul is
 EXTRACTS FROM THE DIARY OF A POOR MAN .
starved — he whose poverty is spiritual — he who
is compelled to catch the crumbs of thought which
fall from the rich beggar's table, while the hounds
of remorse are busy with his moral ulcers. Why
use vapor , air and other thin appearances, as simili
tudes for spirit ? Are they not more applicable to
matter ? Arguing thus, after the various Socratic,
Aristotelian and Baconian methods, my condition
seemed to be improved. Ascended on transcenden
tal wings until my thoughts became orphic. Stop
ped not at the clouds, as some speculators do, but
launched at once into the white radiance of eternal
ideas. Applied to all the departments and duties
of life the great principles of spiritualism. If, said
I, the body and its concerns are mere delusive
phantoms, the laws which refer to them are phe
nomenal and relative . Who then is the thief ?
Not he who borrows a ninepence of his acquaint
ance, and suffers the debt to be brushed away from
his memory by a metaphysical broom. The soul
of a philosopher, busy with the great themes of ex
istence, has arrived at a height considerably above
the moral elevation of ninepences. Neither is the
thief a man who gives a washerwoman's phenome
nal cloak for a phantasmal pie, and then satisfies
her cupidity by pledging to her the fi:st fruits ofa
prospective plundering plan on the public purse.
No ; the real thief is not he who pilfers another's
material chattels, but he who steals another's im
material thoughts ; who cribs large speculations on
eternal entities ; who abstracts abstractions ; who
pillages the fruits ofyears of intellectual toil. “ He
who steals my purse steals trash .” True ; and in
my case particularly true ; but he who filches from
me the ideas which my reason has originated, or
the general laws which my understanding has
grasped , or the beautiful images which have arisen
from the silent depths of my imagination , like so
many Venuses from the sea - he , I say, is a robber
in the eternal sense of the term ; for he does not
take from me the perishable appearances of matter,
but the imperishable things of spirit. He steals
property which the soul might carry with it eter
nally. So with the crime of murder. The mere
slitting a man's carotid artery , and putting an end
to his phenomenal existence, though it be in bad
taste , and may indicate a discontented disposition, is
still not so criminal an action as that which at
tempts to crush and destroy the soul — which racks
its delicate sensibilities - which seeks to torture it
to madness — which foully slaughters, and strives
frenziedly to annihilate, its immortal ideas. Most
critics are murderers. They are the bravoes and
bullies and cut-throats of literature. Gifford and
Jeffrey richly deserved the gibbet. They would
have been hanged , quartered and exposed to “ grin
ning infamy, ” had there been any high court of
intellectual justice when they flourished, slaugh
tered and flagellated. Jean Paul says that some
69
souls fall from heaven like flowers, but that ere the
fresh buds have had time to open , they are trodden
in the dust of the earth , and lie soiled and crushed
beneath the foul tread of some brutal hoof. The
brutal hoof of criticism crushes many such a flower.
Indeed, to me it is ludicrous to hear people express
horror when a company of Indians surprise a ham
let and tomahawk and scalp certain innocent chil
dren , and ten minutes after express pleasure when
they read some stirring criticism , every sarcasm of
which is a poisoned dagger plunged into some poor
author's idea -babes. The shambles of criticism ,
are they not , to the mind's eye , more awful and
hateful subjects of contemplation than the midnight
murder and the daylight gallows ? To see the
brains and limbs of racked and decapitated authors
strewn carelessly about , while some critical imp is
gibing at the scattered remains which his master
devil has damned — pah ! it is too sickening for
even philosophical investigation.
Having by this original and brilliant method of
argumentation satisfactorily proved that all real
evils and crimes had reference to the soul, and that
when the terms were applied to matter they were
mere words, I surrendered myself a delighted slave
to my own dialectics. But, alas ! for the most
ingenious reasoning, when it comes in grinding
collision with the tough forms of matter, or dashes
its thin skull against the adamantine walls of fact !
" Tis true we are “ spirits clad in veils,” but our
veils are not formed of gauze or muslin . I hear
the shrill voice of that cursed cleanser of clothing,
shrieking out my name as if she were sending her
sweet tones on a tour of accusation to the clouds ;
and down drops my mind from the sky -piercing
pinnacles of spiritualism , and the manacles of clay
once more fetter the disembrained spirit.
And then this infernal hunger which, “like a
scorpion's nest , built in my vitals," rages within
me — what shall I do with that ? Phenomenal it
may be to thought, but it will ere long produce in
me certain painful phenomena of starvation. Spent
the rest of this day in regretting that the eminent
French physiologist, who matured a plan for sup
porting existence without aid from food , had become
the martyr to his experiment, about ten minutes
before it promised a satisfactory and triumphant
termination .
In the evening heard the washerwoman prepar
ing her supper. The sound was too intolerable for
endurance. Pride of intellect was supplanted by
the ravenous cravings of my gastric juice, and I
descended the ladder and knocked timidly at
her door. She opened it , and I entered , and invi
ted myself to take supper with her. She at first
was disposed to decline my condescension , but a
dim hint of a magnificent scheme then floating in
my brain removed her natural obduracy, and we
supped together. 0 ! fulness of mind , what art
70 THE COLUMBIAN
thou when accompanied by emptiness of stomach ?
Here was the heaven- soaring transcendentalist
begging a meal of the washerwoman he had
cheated ! It must likewise be added here , that I
offered her my hand and heart in marriage , but
the offer was declined. She said that her labor
hardly supported her own existence, and that she
could not be expected to feed a lazy literary vaga
bond like me. The objection was valid , and met
my hesitating concurrence. Ah me !
July 15. Got into a furious passion this morning
with some fool or knave of an author, who has
written a book on the grandeur, majesty, &c. of
the soul, and who treats poverty as a light evil. He
takes up the old ground of stoicism . His whole
volume bears evidence of three things — a warm
house , a full stomach and sufficient clothing ; and
yet the scoundrel pretends to write comforting para
doxes to those who have neither. Poverty , what.
ever poets, novelists and stoics may say, is always
a curse - a deep, stinging, damnable curse. No
poor man ever wrote in its favor. Rich dyspeptics
are the only men who ever imagined it a blessing:
The misery of every country consists in the poverty
of its citizens. The effect of the evil in those who
have the mis rtune to be men of genius is lament
able. It converts them into dishonest and danger
ous members ofsociety . Possessing the two greatest
powers that can be wielded by man , thought and
language , they are often compelled to exercise both
to provide for their natural wants, regardless of
honor and of truth . In the affairs of the world,
they have taken the place of the bands of mercenary
soldiers who lived by legal murder in the middle
ages ; they let out their brains, as the warriors did
their muscles, to the highest bidder. They are the
Swiss of letters. Every political, religious, social
or philanthropic party in the land can hire talent
at any time , if they cannot hire patriotism , religion
or philanthropy. The idea that a needy literary
man will consult principle and not food, in the di
rection of his talents, is passing into the category
of vulgar errors . Give me money and I will com
mand any amount of talent to perform any services
whatever; for we geniuses are always of that class,
“ Who must, like lawyers, either starve or plead ,
And follow , right or wrong, where guineas lead."
Goslings, in debating societies, will talk of the
predominating influence of talent in the concerns
of the world , and rate wealth as uninfluential in
comparison ; but the said goslings do not consider
that it is gold which gives the direction to talent.
Your big, burly, blustering boohy of a rich man
may not exercise any direct influence whatever on
politics ; but the appropriation of a few hundred
dollars of his property will enable him to buy the
brains of some mercenary writer, who will defend
the opinions he desires to succeed, with a glittering
array of sophistry, a warmth of eloquence and a
MAGAZINE .
strength of expression , which shall make the coun
try ring. Wealth , too, in the abstract , considered
merely as a motive to action , sways the thoughts
and actions of the greatest portion of civilized man
kind. The whole history of literature declares that
the way to make men of genius and talent a curse
to the world , is to provide their gastric juice with
no materials to act upon , and leave it to prey , like
the vulture of Prometheus, on the stomach itself.
Such a course makes men rebels, disorganizers,
blasphemers, immoral hacks, “ intermediate links
between man and the baboon." The true aim of
conservatives in government and religion should be
to keep all the writers in the country well fed and
well clothed ; if they do not , let them look out for
radicalism , naturalism , immorality, quack medicines
and flash newspapers .
Poverty influences the deeds and words of many
men who have , like Shylock , “ an oath in heaven ,"
that they will never bow the knee to anything but
truth . Hunger re-acts upon the faculties whose
exercise has produced it , and maddens what before
was sufficiently intense. The reformer is, of course,
starved by society ; and his passion for reforming
the world gradually grows, by the operation of his
gastric juice upon the coat of his stomach , into
a passion for destroying the world . In Engiand
they strove hard to starve that man of wonderful
imaginations, the spiritual Carlyle , as his writings
plainly indicate. In our Yankee land, effort after
effort has been made to cut off supplies to the sto
mach of thatsocial insurrectionist, Orestes A. Brown
son , and the result is seen in his writings. I have
read everything that Mr. B. has written , and heard
almost every sermon and lecture he has delivered ,
and see nothing more in them than a theory of
dietetics. They merely illustrate the operation of
the mind and passions, while the body is subjected
to the operation of the “ sliding scale ” of food, as
it slides from hunger to the borders of starvation .
He is aa man of strong and comprehensive un
derstanding, somewhat turbulent passions, great
strength of volition, and an idolator of truth , trans
muted into something very like a revolutionist by
hunger. He would have been a blessing to the
country had he been well fed ; and the “ curse of
Cromwell ” will rest upon Boston, for nearly starv
ing its greatest prophet. There was a great deal
of shrieking and wailing and whimpering and de
nouncing in that city , some eighteen months ago,
when Mr. Brownson promulgated his startling
theory respecting property ; the wiseacres should
have known that such theories always rise into the
brain from the empty treasury of the stomach . If
none of my projects succeed for the education of
the young, and the supply of meat without aid from
oxen and pigs, and if my digestive organs are as
ravenous for business as they are at the present
moment, I shall soon start a theory of property
 WE SHALL MEET AGAIN .
which shall astonish even agrarians. When Mr.
Brownson's notions appeared , I was in the enjoy
ment of one full meal every day, and as a matter
of course, deemed that he carried his notions too
far ; I now think that he did not carry them far
enough. . Indeed , it is pure nonsense to echo the
sentimentality of rich hypocrites, about the advan
tages of poverty. Seneca, the stoic, parasite and
millionaire, is the fit type of such rascals. Bless
ings forever rest on the head of Thomas Babington
Macauley for tartly exposing in one sentence their
mingled deceit and mawkishness. Speaking of
Seneca's notions respecting the objects of a philoso
pher's meditations and discoveries, he lashes him
bravely for saying that a true philosopher should
never do anything for the outward comforts of
mankind . “ Oh, no , to be sure. The proper business
of a philosopher was to declaim in praise of poverty
with two millions sterling at usury ; to meditate
epigrammatic conceits on the evils of luxury, in gar
dens which moved the envy of sovereigns ; to rant
about liberty, while fawning on the pampered and
insolent freedmen of a tyrant ; to celebrate the
divine beauty of virtue , with the same pen which
had just written a defence of the murder of a
mother by a son !”
July 16. Received to-day, from an intimate
friend, aa tastefully cut wooden tooth -pick. Oh,
heaven ! what have I to do with tooth -picks ? Had
many quaint and queer fancies stalk into my brain.
Considered the utility and nature of shop -lifting.
Wondered if I had sufficient strength to lift a shop.
Thought that I would attempt to raise money by
selling newspapers. Sauntered into State street ,
and looked into the dirt -encrusted faces of some
Irish news-boys, to see if there were any disinte
restedness among them. Liked the looks of one
urchin who had the appearance of being pinched by
WE SHALL MEET AGAIN .
BY SAMUEL D. PATTERSON .
0 ! how mournfully and drear
Sounds that wintry blast to me,
As I sit within my lonely home,
And thought is ranging free
O'er the field of the buried past -
Of memories fond and dear
And the joys I knew, and the friends I loved,
Like shadows again appear.
It is then I think of thee ,
And the time when first we met,
In the full, rich light of youth's blest morn ,
With hearts like harp-strings set
To a joyous note - when care
Bade no jarring discord rise -
Nor cloud nor shade of sorrow dimmed
The sun -light of thine eyes.
71
famine, and who was engaged in the business of
manufacturing murders, robberies and horrible ac
cidents with his tongue, and proposed that he
should extend his operations by taking me into
partnership — he to supply at first all the capital.
After some haggling about terms, the bargain was
struck . By desperate impudence succeeded in dis
posing of enough papers to supply me with a din
ner. The Penny Thunderbolt was the most popu
lar, and brought me in the most money. Went
home, and meditated on evil. Passed the night in
the humble company of the “ ghastly people of the
realm of dreams. ”
July 17. It is curious to watch musingly the
approach of disease — to feel the slow shadow of
death stealing over the frame as quietly as twilight
over the sun -abandoned earth — to know that life
is engaged in its faint struggle with the great ene
my — and to calculate the probable time existence
will endure , in " helpless, hopeless brokenness of
heart.” But when the melancholy of such medita
tions is heightened by the prospect that want and
despair will be the companions of our last hours --
that there will be by us no heart that throbs in sym
pathy with our misfortunes — that we will be left
to die unpitied , and thrown carelessly into the coffin ,
without the tribute of aa solitary tear — the gloom
of such reflections is too dark for the soul to bear.
How often have I echoed of late , in bitterness of
spirit, the lines of the poet of sorrow -
“ Thou knowest what a thing is poverty
Among the fallen on evil days :
'Tis crime and fear and infumy,
And houseless want, in frozen ways
Wandering ungarmented, and pain,
And worse than all , that in ward stain
Foul • self -contempt ,' which drowi sned
Youth's starlight smile, and makes its tears
First like hot gall, then dry forever. ”
Boston, Jan. 1 , 1844 .
Alas ! that the fair and young,
The beautiful and good,
Should be called, in the spring of earthly joy,
To the grave's dark solitude :
But the chilling wind which sweeps
Along in the midnight gloom,
With a mournful wail, like a spirit tone ,
Chaunts a requiem o'er thy tomb.
The clods of the valley lie
In coldness o'er thy bed,
But my soul doth oft, in the shadowy hour,
Commune with the sainted dead :
And when thy vision comes,
As now, in that mystic train,
A voice like thine whispers soft and low,
That WE SHALL MEET AGAIN .

LIGHT AND
BY C. DONALD MACLEOD .
BOOK I.
“ Into my heart a silent look
Flashed from thy careless eyes,
And what before was shadow, took
The light of summer skies.
The first born love was in that look ;
The Venus rose from out the deep
Of those inspiring eyes ! ".
BULWER .
FLORENCE WARNER .
I.
A STORY of light and darkness, for these are life.
And they change in the heaven of the human
heart when we least expect it, and are least pre
pared for it. But there are stars for the sudden
darkness, although many perceive them not —
stars, which bring warmth and light and beauty
back to us again . And he who finds them does
not heed the gloom ; for they burn in the inner
-
chamber of the soul — those stars of hope and
faith !
II .
“ Are you going to the Burkes to -night ? ” in
quired Tom Marchmont of Cecil Grey.
“ No,” said Cecil , “ I am tired of parties, with
their rows of young ladies, and their files of young
gentlemen ; their thirteen cotillions and two
waltzes ; their liquid ice creams and their flat
champagne. I'll have none of them .”
“ Don't abuse parties , Cecil ; for Jupiter used to
give them to expiate evil — or Horace says so at
least."
“ The deuce he does — where , Tom ?"
“ Why, in that ode which begins with Jam
satis terris,' & c.
Cui dabit partes scelus expiandi
Jupiter.'
But you must go to this affair. You'll see Florence
Warner.”
“ And who may Florence Warner be ? a sweetly
spoken , prettily behaved inanity like the rest of
them ? fair and insipid as the blanc-mange she
eats ? "
“ Do you remember the eyes you praised en
passant yesterday ?"
“ With refreshing distinctness,” said Cecil.
“ Well, they belong to Miss Warner."
72
*
DARKNESS .
" Ah ! I'll go to the Burke concern . Call for
me at nine."
“ That I won't ; I go with Miss Warner.”
“ You do ! I wish that I did ; but good bye !
I'll find the way myself.”
II .
So at nine o'clock Grey presented himself at the
residence of the Burkes, who, being merely good
people , neither admirable nor ridiculous, will fill
but little of our story. And there he saw , oh ,
what rows of nice young women ! sitting on a
sofa or a line of chairs, chattering most volubly ,
and whenever a male creature approached, draw
ing up primly, and saying " yes sir" and 66" no sir "
with intense gravity. And there were groups of
young men , talking of horses and dogs and them
selves. And there were one or two sensible
people, amusing themselves and each other.
Grey saluted his host and hostess and then
strolled through the rooms. A knot of young men
were lounging near the fire place. " Good even
ing, Mr. Grey, ” and “ good evening, gentlemen ,"
drew Cecil within their circle .
“Very pleasant here to -night," suggested Mr.
Joseph Berg ; “ such an array of beauty ; quite a
galaxy ; ” and he smiled at the fearful attempt, for
he had very white teeth.
66
Quite brilliant, ” said Cecil ; “ and where we
find people like Mr. Berg it must always be
pleasant. "
“ Thank you ,” said Joseph ; " but I see Miss
Warner has dropped a glove ; I must go and pick
it up for her ;" and away he darted.
“ I wish supper were ready, ” said Mr. Gurley,
the first time he had opened his mouth , which he
seldom did except to put something in it.
But Cecil had turned to look at Miss Warner.
He saw a girl , taller than most around her, with a
full and rounded figure, cast in a mould of magni
ficent beauty. Her dress was simple, but every
fold spoke of taste. The rich chestnut hair was
swept from a spiritual forehead, and a single ring
let curled behind the small ear. Her complexion
dark but clear, and her eyes such as few could
look upon without loving. To what shall I liken
those eyes ? — so full of purity and beauty , of intel
lect and passion --- so large , so dark , so lustrous !
Just such a pair haunts all my dreams. Grey
 LIGHT AND DARKNESS .
kept his gaze closely fixed upon her as she con
versed gaily with the gentleman on whose arm
she leaned .
As Mr. Berg presented the glove she thanked
him with a smile ; whereupon he ventured to make
a remark , but she drew herself up, looked at him
magnificently, and continued her conversation .
Cecil's lip curled.
“ Well, what think you of our beauty ? " asked
Marchmont, joining him .
“ She seems made to be admired , but never to
be loved,” said Cecil ; " she seems to me to have
that most contemp !ible of all ambitions, the desire
of being the ball room belle,' and queening it
sublimely over empty fools."
In an instant he saw that she had overheard
him , for the blood rushed over her face and neck ,
and her large eyes flashed steadily upon him.
Marchmont saw the look , and with his usual reck
lessness exclaimed, “ Mis3 Warner, Mr. Grey !
the loveliest face that ever yet upon the world hath
shone , and the greatest genius, and all that sort of
thing."
And thus the introduction was completed. Cecil
exhibited his best politeness, and the lady , bowing
haughtily, moved to ano her room . Afterward , in
the dance, or wherever she moved, Cecil would
detect himself following her steps. He could not
keep his eyes from her.
And so , at length, the dancing was over ; and
the signal fur supper, so longed for hy Mr. Gurley,
was given , and great was the rush to the supper
room . Alas for the oysters and chainpagne ! alas
for the creams anl the charlotte russe ! Alas for
the chicken salad and the fruit ; the time of their
destruction was at hand !
Cecil turned from the omnivorous crowd, and
left alone, went to look at soine prints which lay
on a table near him. He heard a step beside him ,
and turning, saw Florence Warner.
9
“ And so," she said abruptly , “ Mr. Grey's
6
loſtiness scorns the queen of the ball room .' ”
“ I hope that Miss Warner will pardon my
ru leness. Let her remember that I had not then
spoken to her.”
“ Yes , " she said bitterly, “ yes, you are a ' true
man , and think that a woman may always be
soothed by a little flattery." .
“ You will not, then , forgive my rudeness ? ”
“ I do not care for the rudeness, Mr. Grey, but
for the in ustice . And yet , why is it so contempti
ble to aspire to rule – even in a ball room ? Is it
not all that you allow us ? I am convinced that
you would be the first to sneer down her who
sought a higher ambition .”
" It is your turn to julge harshly now, Miss
Warner. None ossign to woman lottier or better
aims than I. To her is given up the best of ambi
tions, the ambition of affection ! "
vol . 1.-7.
73
“ And who, sir, has taken from her the right 10
rule ? Hitherio in the history of the world, have
the days of her empire over men been unfortunate ?
Semiramis , Zenobia, Caiherine di Medicis and
Elizabeth , did they guvern less worthily ihan men
have done ? "
“ Add to your list, ” said Cecil, “ Cleopatra ,
Joanna of Naples and Mary of Scotland , and see
that queens have woman -hearts ."
“ The heart, the heart ! " she sail ; “ better, far
better for a woman to forget that she has a heart !
The mind's king tom is siener and happier than
affection's . "
“ You talk strangely for one so young, so beau
tiful and so idolized .”
“ Youth and beauiy ! And what can ihey do
for a woman ? Nothing more than to inake her
6
the idol of the ball room ' and the scorn of such
as Cecil Grey !”
Cecil began to feel hurt.
“ Miss Warner, " he said , “ you do not treat me
fairly. I thought the desire contemptible, and ,
ignorant of your self, expressed my opinion . But
in justice to you , I must furnish you with power
to forget it. I belong to a class of men wh - se
opinions are to be unnoticed, whuse remarks met
with contempt. I ain poor, lady, and civiriure
unworthy of farther thought from you. "
“ Ah ! the scholar's pride is galled, " she said.
" I would not have noticed your remark , Mr. Grey,
had I not heard much and often of you. But why
should poverty be contemptible ? God did not
make the poor for scorn ! And you , with ihe
spell of genius glowing on your brow , and living
beautiful in your mind — you , with gifts of sorg
and eloquence, I wonder that you daje say it ! It
is impivus to say that you are poor ! Have you
no high desires, no fame dreams, no hopes ?”
He looked upon her face so filied with the beauiy
of her soul , and thrilled. But as he thought of
her question, his heart died within him and he
answered sadly –
“ No ; I have thought all dreamsaway. I have
suffered too much to hope, and I can only echo
Byron's wish :
" Tis vain to struggle — let me serish young --
Live as I lived, and love as I live loved ;
To dust if I returii, from dust I sprung ,
And then at least my heart shall ne'er be moved .'
No, lady, I am too poor to hope, to dream or to
aspire ; and I presume not when I say so , for the
poor have at least ihe privilege of being sad.”
When he raised his eyes he saw that hers were
full of tears. The sight was too much for hiin -
he lost his freedom -- his breath ceased - his
hands trembled, ond he felt that the poison of
human love was in his heart !
“ Ah !” cried Tom Marchmont, coining into
74 THE COLUMBIAN MAGAZINE .
the room , " you two all alone ! Pray, Miss War
ner, what have you been saying to my friend
Cecil ? ”
" Giving him a lecture on politeness, " said Flo
rence , blushing a little.
“ But you , Mr. Marchmont, how have you
amused yourself ?”
“ Oh , ” replied Tom , “ in a great variety of
ways. First, in watching the road down Mr.
Gurley's throat. Queer companionships the trav
ellers that way have ."
" How so ? ” queried the lady.
“ Why,” continued Tom , “ first, I saw two
oysters go down with one swallow ; then followed
an ice, and a bit of chicken slipped down on that.
I stumbled over Berg's foot, and when he said I
was heavy, I said I could not help it , for I had
been eating pound cake. Then Miss Sedleigh
asked me for some oysters, and as I presented
6
them , observe,' said I, how being s (h )elfish
gets one into a pickle.' And finally when some
wicked body asked me to say grace, I thought of
you and murmured • Florence Warner !' ”
BOOK II .
" But first the signal pass they claim ;
Ask who they were, and whence they came;
Their home, their purpose and their name.”
Scott .
1.
EXPLANATORY .
Alas, that readers cannot understand all about
one's characters without being told. To think of
letting off the afflatus, to describe whos and whats !
Natheless -
Florence Warner was an orphan. She had
seen her parents dying with the broken hearts of
poverty. And Florence had resolved to crush the
woman in her heart, and be anything, no matter
what ; cold , heartless, the coquette , the wife with
out love — anything rather than be poor.
Her mother's only sister, long resident in Europe ,
had returned home in time to gaze upon the last
struggle and to save the orphan. With this aunt,
Mrs. Langley, Florence now lived , and to the time
of our history believed that she had forgotten to be
a woman, and fancied that she would escape a
woman's destiny — to love and to suffer.
And Grey, too, was alone in the world. One
by one
-the gems from his household crown
To the grave had dropped away ."
He was a man whose intellectual power, although
of the loftiest order, was surpassed by his feelings.
The heart in him was stronger than the mind.
There is but one way of guiding this kind of con
stitution . Affection , passion and feeling must
become enslaved by one object; and it, by its
mastery over these , has power to incite and direct
the intellect. And now his heart was filled by an
abiding love for Florence Warner. They had met
very frequently since their introduction , and Cecil
Grey had become her slave. But he dared not ask
her to love him ; the darkness of love without
hope was upon him — the darkness of poverty was
upon him - and turn which way he would there
was no light!
And Tom Marchmont, there was no harm in
him. He was
“ One of those light hearts whose glee
Is never chil'ed ; whose life-streams glide
Bright from their fuuntu in to the sea,
With sunshine always on their lide.
Hearts whose light bojes burn on the same,
And quenchless as the Grecian flame,
Though winds may rise, or storms may fall,
Glow on still joyously through all."
Poor Tom ! Kate Sedleigh made a new pun to
him , whereat he , amazed , fell at her feet and swore
eternal love. And they were married . The last
I heard of them was on occasion of choosing a
name for their boy.
“ Call him , my dear,” said Tom , “ call him
William , and then we'll always have a bill in the
house for market days."
“ Ah ! ” said his wiſe, “ I'll make a note of it ! "
BOOK in .
" " T'was not in cold and measured phrase
We gave our passion name;
Scorning such tedious eloquence,
Our hearts ' fond flame
And long imprisoned feelings fast
In deep sobs came. "
MOTHERWELL .
“ Her arm is round her lover now,
His livid cheek to hers she presses."
MOORE .
1.
DARKNESS .
A summer party were gathered at Mrs. Lang
ley's country seat a few miles up the Hudson ; and
Cecil Grey was among them . Here he wandered
through the old woods and thought on Florence
Warner ; carved her name upon the trees and
dreamed himself to madness for her.
One morning a riding party had been formed ,
and Cecil , sad and spiritless, pleaded headache
and was permitted to stay at home. When they
had left the house and all had become quiet again,
he went down to the library , and for lack of better
employment arranged his thoughts into a story
a story in which he strove to show the necessity
and uses of a wife to the author -- in which he
 LIGHT AND
tried to prove that energy is best incited by love,
and the mind best guided through the heart. Yet
his hero died ; for in his own sadness he could not
give the creature of his fancy a happy lot.
Just as he finished the door opened and Florence
Warner entered.
“ Mr. Grey ! ” she said , stopping and growing
%
crimson, and then very pale ; " I thought you had
joined the riding party .”
“ I had imagined the same of you ,” replied Cecil.
“ But your cheek is pales, are you not well ? ” and
he set a chair for her.
“ No, I have some headache. But what excuse
have you ? ”
“ None sive a woman's, caprice. I did not feel
in the mood for gayety , and I did not wish to cloud
the mirth of others."
“ Perhaps I disturbed you, " said Florence,
glancing at his papers.
“ Oh no ! I had finished ; and it would have
borne interruption ."
“ You know ," she said , “ the foible of our sex ,
curiosity. May I be pardoned for feeling it , and
asking the nature of your employnicni? ”
“ Truly a fit employment for an idle inan ; the
framing of an idle tale.”
“ One more request, Mr. Grey. Read it to me ;
come, ” she added as she marked his hesitation , “ I
will make all due allowance for modesty and im
perfection. But we have all the morning before us,
and I am sure cannot find a pleasanter employ
ment.”
Cecil bowed to the compliment and read the
story.
9
“ And such," was the comment of Florence ,
“ such is the effect of a poor man's marriage !”
“ Ah ! your comment proves little for my author .
craft. I meant to show the necessity of a wiſe to
the student. "
“ Would you advocate the marriage of the
poor ? ” she asked .
“ That must depend on the man's nature, " he
replied. “ With one it destroys energy and power ;
he looks on his wife and says, “ can I see her
want ? ' and the picture unnerves him and he
perishes. But there are others, and so I feel
would it be with me , whom a wife and nothing
else would drive to energy . Give me but the love
I desire and earth can show no obstacle insuperable
by me. Let me but know that my labor is for her,
and nothing could tire me. But now I sicken at
toil ; I have none to sympathize with me - none
to whom I can show the reward of my labors and
ask her to be proud in me ; and I cannot work . ”
“ You speak feelingly, Mr. Grey ; can it be
possible that you , the ever gay, ever smiling, have
this darkness of love at your heart ? ” And that
question awoke all the passion of his nature.
“ Trust not the face ! ” he said . “ Trust not the
DARKNESS . 75
smile of all things ! Even the poet draws his
simile for a smile from the sparkling water and
forgets its icy depths; from the glowing flame,
and thinks not of the ashes beneath ; from the
beauty of the sunset, and chills not to think of the
coming night ! Love ! you ask me. Perhaps you
think that the penniless have no right to such a
luxury. But I do love ; with all my power ; fer
vently, hopelessly. You , Florence Warner ! you
whom I scorned as the ball room belle when I first
saw you ; whom I soon learned to respect ; whom
I now live to love. Your beauty allured me ; your
intellect fascinated me ; your kindness and gentle
ness won me. And now , Florence , I love you !
not with the heart only ; not merely with afiection
and passion , but with mind and soul ; with intellect
and thought. Thus have I, the poor scholar, loved
by none, dared to love you , the idol of all ! Flo
rence, the heart has had its way. I have told you
that I love you , and now farewell forever.” As
he rose to his feet and turned away, her cheek
grew crimson and then pallid as death .
“ Cecil, " she murmured. He turned in asto
nishment. She placed her hands upon his shoulders
and fixed her dark , fervent eyes upon his. “ Cecil
Grey ! ” she repeated ; and with a low cry of joy
he pressed her to his heart. Then sought the
small, ripe lips and pressed upon them the long,
long kiss of passion .
“ See, Florence, " and from his bosom he drew a
small locket. “ Your hair is in that with my
mother's. It was to be my idol ; my memory of
the dream of you -- but you have loved me.”
An hour passed on as with arms twined about
each other and their hands clasped together, they
gave themselves up to their young happiness.
Suddenly, impelled by a quick thought, Florence
put his arm from about her waist , drew her hand
from his, and said as she rose to her feet, “ Cecil,
this must end now .”
“ Florence ! what can you mean ? ”
“ I can never marry you , Cecil.”
“ What ails you , dearest ? ” he asked fondly,
fearing that she was ill , so pale she grew and
trembled so constantly. And he would have
wound his arm about her, but she put it aside with
a shudder.
“ Cecil Grey , I too have a story to tell ; listen
to me ! " And she told him the sorrows, suffer
ings and death of her parents ; the miseries of
want as she had seen them , and her own resolve.
66
My mother died, almost of starvation ; died in
a garret , Cecil.” And her voice grew passionate
and the uncontrollable tears burst from her eyes.
“ Do not , do not speak to me of love ! ” and she
knelt down before him . Do not ask me to marry
66
you ! Could you bring me to this , Cecil ? Could
you see me die of want and know that you had
done it ? "
8
76 THE COLUMBIAN
He sank back stunned and half senseless.
needed the sirong heart of a woman to bear the
agony of that hour.
“ Poor Cecil ! ” she said as she looked upon him.
“ If it will comfort you to know how truly , how
devotedly I love you ; if to know that my happiness
is gone forever ; that the light has left my heart;
that my life must be sorrow - know it !
well ! ” and she stooped down and kissed his
forehead .
As she left the room he half recovered.
rence ," he murmured ; “ Florence ! ”
“ Farewell, Cecil,” she said . One look , one
long, long look on the pale , beautiful face he loved
Bo well , and then the door closed .
It was midnight darkness with them both
silent , rayless and profound.
" 'I he bright sun was extinguished , and the stars
Did wander darkling in the eternal space ,
Rayless and pathless ; and the icy earth
Swung blind und blackening in the moonless air. "
" Darkness had no need
Of aid from them . She was the universe ."
II .
LIGIT .
“ Alone in her room , Florence Warner flung
herself upon the bed and wept long and bitterly.
Sternly had she become the iconoclast of her own
idols. And she looked now into her desolate heart
and saw that nothing but love would fill it. Then
she thought of what he had said . He could conquer
poverty and all other obstacles if she would love
him .
“ I cannot lose him , " she cried. “ I will go to
him and ask to share his lot wherever and however
God may cast it ! ”
Grey , as soon as he recovered, went to his own
room .
“ Well," he thought , “ it is over now, and the
beggar has wakened from his dream . What right
had I to love ? How dared I ? What has the poor
man to do with passions and feelings ? God did
not make love for him . No ! let him crawl
through the bye -ways of life with an humble
heart , and hail with a smile the common grave
of the Potter's Field ; but let him not presume to
love."
His eye caught the small box of opium that lay
upon his table. In an instant he seized and swal
lowed a portion of its contents.
“ Oblivion ! oblivion ! ” he shouted ; “ they can
not take that from the poor ! ” and as he spoke he
dashed from the room . As he left the house Flo
rence saw him and watched him till his form was
lost among the trees.
The breeze increased , the day darkened , and the
MAGAZINE.
It signs of the summer storm were around him. He
did not notice them , but flung himself at the foot of
an old tree on which he had carved her initials.
And now the dung began its work ; the sense of
pain left hirr , and a confused , half-pleasant sensa
tion crepi over him . He leared back his head and
closed his eyes. Then to him came visions from
Fare the spirit-land of dreams, and in those visions all
was beautiful. The air was fragrance , delicate but
all -pervading ; the breeze was music ; and there
- Flo were cool sounds of waterfall and brook, and songs
of birds and rustling of leaves. Through them
moved the form of Florence, her voice enriching
the music and her smile the beauty of the day. He
spoke of love to her and she listened with a blush ,
and rested her hand in his and leaned her beautiful
head upon his shoulder. He heard not the low
muttering of the thunder and the plash of the first
rain drops —
" Por far and wide there glittered to his eye
Life's only fairy-land, the days to come."
BULWER .
But the scene began to change. The forest, the
flowers and the birds passed away , and he saw
nothing but a cloud before him ; and from it looked
the face of his mother with a sweet , but sad and
mysterious smile upon her lips. She was looking
from heaven upon her son . Ile gazed upon the
still face , and as he gazed a change passed over it ;
the smile faded ; the features grew rigid and sharp ;
an expression of great pain covered them ; the
eyes were glazing ; and the quick , gasping breath
was there, and the white foam upon the lips ; and
the face was as that which he had watched when
he kneeled at her death bed. He strove to raise
his arms and to murmur “ mother ! ” but voice and
arms were powerless. And so the face faded.
Then the thunder pealed and the rain fell and
demons gathered round him , and seized him and
bore him down - down ! Through the “ black
ness of darkness ” he passed , and then into a space
of cold twilight, which an odor pervaded like the
smell of a charnel-house ; and myriads of cold
dead faces came round him and breathed upon him ,
and thrilled him with the unutterable sorrow and
despair of their looks. And again it changed .
Fearful shrieks rent the air, the shrieks of the lost ;
and a low voice hissed in his ear , “ this is thine
eternal hoine ! ” But he shrieked , and dashed
aside his gaolers and soared to the upper air. He
knew again that he stood in the forest, but the rain
was falling fiercely. Again the living thunder of
God shook the sky , and the lightning struck an
oak directly in front of him . He saw the huge
tree shiver and bend ; he heard the crash as it fell
through the air ; then covered his eyes, groaned
deeply and fell.
And there Florence Warner found him . And
究
THE
there she called God to witness that she would
never forsake him !
He opened his eyes and saw her bending over
him .
“ Ah ! ” he shuddered, “ I am dreaming yet."
“ Not dreaming, dear Cecil,not dreaming. It is
I. " Then the star -beams broke upon his heart
beams of hope and faith .
“ And you will love me then, forever ? ” And
for answer she laid her face upon his heart !
“ And you will inspire me to labor, and be glad
in my fame; you will soothe me when I need it ;
you will sorrow in my sadness, rejoice in my
pleasure , and be proud in my pride ? When I can
justly claim you , you will be my own, my wife ? ”
THE
BY ISABEL JOCELYN .
Fill up once more ! Another glass -
We'll gild the moments as they pass ,
Though sad the memories they bring,
And Death rides swiftly on their wing.
Fill up ! nor let one sorrow rest
Within this age -worn , lonely breast,
While wine has power to bid them fly ;
Though friends are gone, and love grown cold.
Though feeble, trembling, helpless, old ,
Give me wine until I die !
Wine was my joy in lusty youth ;
' Twas beauty, vigor, pleasure, truth -
Nor will it fail me now ;
Though last at this once joyous board,
I sit alone, and Death's keen sword
Is hovering o'er my brow,
" Tis fifty years since first we met,
A merry, care despising set
As ever drained a bowl;
And all are gone but one — but one --
Their race of pleasure all have run ; -
And what has been their goal ?
They all have died long since --- but how ?
I dare not ask that question now.
In madness some, and some in guilt;
One by self-murder — with the hilt
Of that red blade still tightly grasped
In one cold hand - the other clasped
Around the cup- I saw him lie -
Oh God ! could wine thus make him die ?
LAST GLASS . 77
He bound her by no vow. He asked no pro
mise ; for poor is the love that cannot trust ! He
was exultant, for he had faith in her. Once, one
instant , she raised her trembling lids and the large
eyes dwelt upon his. And the smile came to
his lip.
Then the sun broke forth , and the rain -drops
sparkled like diamonds, and the damp leaves glit
tered in the sheen . The birds carolled gaily, and
the butterfly crept from beneath the mullen leaf
and dried his wings in the sun . And the south
wind whispered ; and the rivulet sang ; and the
world was Eden once more . For light was in
heaven - light was on earth — and light - God's
-
light -- was in their hearts !
LAST GLASS .
The gallows claimed its dreadful share -
One breathed his last in horror there,
While thousands, gazing on his shame,
With shouts, and groans, and frightful cries,
That pealed in thunder to the skios,
To infamy consigned his name.
Avaunt, black memories of the past !
Fill up again ! -I am the last ;
And while live the wine shall flow ,
Though Death has laid my fellows low .
And well it may, for life , no more ,
Gives golden promise as of yore .
The past is dark and full of gloom –
The future - dare I ask its doom ?
The present only can be mine,
And that I'll gild with rosy wine.
Fill up ! Again ! My heart beats high,
As to its core the bright streams fly.
Hurrah ! let care and sorrow pass —
There's life yet in the sparkling glass.
We'll banish thought - scorn Time and Death ;
Hurrah ! hip, hip
What checks his breath ,
Just gathered to complete the joyous cheer ?
What ghastly hues upon his face appear ?
The hund drops powerless ; down the goblet falls :
In vain for aid with gasping breath he calls ;
His hour has come - life and the world are past;
That sad and lonely revel was his last.
January 1 , 1844.

THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH - A VISION .
BY J. K. PAULDING .
Tue other night, having sat up somewhat late
reading a description of Florida, where I found
some allusion to the fountain of youth , of which
the first discoverers of that region of flowers and
odors make mention , I retired to rest with the
idea impressed on my brain , and falling asleep, the
following vision passed over my mind.
It seemed that, impelled by the infirmities of
age , the apprehension of death , or the desire to live
over once again that period of life which is often
more delightful in the recollection than the enjoy.
ment, but to which all look back with aa feeling of
regret that increases as the prospect recedes from
our view, I was wrought upon to make a pilgrimage
to this famous fountain , and accordingly set out
one frosty morning in the early spring of the year ;
when, in our rugged climate of the north, the
forests are still bare , the earth bound in icy fetters,
the birds far away on their distant pilgrimage to
more genial climes, and the forsaken groves desti
tute of all other music but that of the whistling
winds.
I was delighted, methought, as I proceeded on
my way, to feel a gradual melioration in the
opening season. At first I observed here and there
a little violet peeping forth , opening its blue eye
to the mild south wind that fanned its bosom ; and
now and then a solitary bird might be heard chirp
ing its merry notes among the purple buds just
opening into life and vegetation along the road
side. Travelling on still farther it seemed that I
was indeed rapidly approaching the region of per
petual youth and eternal spring. The fruit trees
were in blossom ; the strawberries blushed on their
lowly stem ; the gardens teemed with flowers ; the
wild jessamine scented the air with delicious odois
that diffused a languid , yet pleasing influence over
the senses as well as the imagination ; and the
mock -bird was heard everywhere carolling his infi
nitely varied strains that supply the place of a thou
sand songsters . There were music and fragrance
in the air, and every production of the earth seemed
revelling in the consciousness of never-fading youth.
Sometimes, indeed , my vision brought me to one
of those dismal, dreary swamps , the abodes of alli
gators, moccasin snakes and other fearful reptiles ;
and where the gigantic trees held suspended from
their lusty arms wild profusion of that melancholy
greybeard moss , which irresistibly associates itself
with the idea of decrepit old age.
78
X
After a long journey, cheered by hope and en
livened by the balmy breath of spring, methought
I at length approached the fountain, of whose prox
imity I became aware by seeing thousands of people
of both sexes, almost all of them far advanced in
the journey of life , pressing forward as rapidly as
their trembling limbs would bear them , in one di
rection . Mingling in the crowd , I followed on
with the rest until we came to a gloomy forest of
pines, towering among the clouds, and within
whose recesses it would seem the sun never shone.
Uninviting as was the prospect before us, the eager
crowd, together with myself, impelled by an irre
sistible impulse, proceeded onward for some miles
until we came to the shores of a chrystal lake ,
whose waters were so clear that more than one of
the company who had left his spectacles behind un
consciously walked directly in, and it being very
deep, would assuredly have been drowned had not
certain courteous alligators rescued and brought
them safely to land.
Far off, and nearly in the centre of the lake ,
loomed a single island, which, though rising to a
considerable height,seemed floating on the surface ;
for we thought we could see the transparent water
rolling beneath . Here we were brought to a stand,
for the lake extended so far and wide that we could
see no land in any direction except the little island
suspended in its bosom . While the company were
consulting together what was best to do, a majestic
alligator, methought, emerged from the wave and
moved gracefully toward us, greatly to the annoy
ance of the old ladies, who screamed with terror,
and courteously bowing his head three times to the
ground , informed the company in tolerably good
English that he officiated as ferryman of the lake
and would carry us all over on the most reasonable
terms. The ladies demurred to the conveyance
and declared that no consideration should induce
them to venture on the back of an alligator ; upon
which the poor ferryman began to shed some of
those deceitful tears with which his cousins of the
Nile were wont to beguile the innocent maidens
who came to bathe their alabaster limbs in that
classic stream . The female bosom cannot resist
such appeals, and the price being adjusted in specie ,
( for he would not receive paper money,) the ferry
man flapped his tail three times on the water, and
thereupon it seemed that a thousand alligatois
arose to the surface and came straight to the bank
 THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH .
of the lake to receive their lovely burthen , as was
observed by a courtly old gentleman who belonged
to the train of some obscure king whose name I
have forgotten. All things being prepared, the
females mounted first, the gentlemen followed , and
we proceeded upon the bosom of the lake, which
was so inexpressibly clear and transparent that one
of the old ladies had her head turned by looking
down into it and fell overboard , but was speedily
rescued by the animal she rode , which I believe
was half horse, half alligator.
The voyage , but for the impatience of the pil .
grims, would have been delightful. There seemed
some fatent influence in the balmy air, which
breathed a renovating charm over the mind , and
revived the decaying powers of the body. Me.
thought as I gradually approached the island I
began to feel a keener relish for the beauties of
nature , and new capacities for enjoyment. The
rest of the pilgrims seemed also to partake of
this mysterious influence. They laughed and
chatted with something approaching the careless
buoyancy of youth , and some of the old gentlemen
began to make love to the ladies, who received
their demonstrations with bewitching condescen
sion. This enlivening influence increased as we
approached, and on reaching the shores of the isl
and , the pilgrims were in such haste to complete
the transformation of which they enjoyed such a
delightful foretaste , that some of them actually
jumped into the water, and all ran forward laugh
ing and shouting like so many urchins released
from school , with the exception of one conceited
looking old man, who had all along preserved the
most invincible gravity and decorum.
For my part I honestly confess I was among the
foremost both in gallantry and speed, and offering
my arm to an old lady who had thrown her crutches
into thc lake, and who had been the belle of her
circle in her day, we sailed along at a prodigious
rate, seeming scarcely to touch the ground, or
make any impression on the beds of flowers that
clothed the earth as we passed along. As we ap
proached the centre of the island, the joyousness
and activity of the pilgrims rapidly increased, and
the face of nature assumed new beauties. There
was an inexpressible enjoyment in the air we
breathed ; the bloom and fragrance of the flowers
grew a thousand times more delicious ; and the
melody of the birds was more sweet than that of
the mellow horn winding in softened distance , far,
far away. The verdure of the woods and meads ap
peared more fresh and bright , methought, than any
I had ever seen before ; the rocks that sometimes
jutted out from the sides of our path, which occa
sionally led through narrow winding water, were
covered with moss more soft and green than silken
velvet ; the little streams that meandered along or
gurgled forth from the bill side, were bright as
79
chrystal, and their music like the echoes of a mur
mur. The leaves, as they replied to the kisses of
the zephyr, whispered not complaints of the out
rage, but soft, cheerful greetings of welcome, and
seemed to ask that they might be repeated again.
In short , everything we saw , everything we heard
and all that we felt, served to increase our eager
ness and inflame our anticipations.
At length there seemed suddenly to break upon
my view a scene, il possible, more enchantingly
lovely than all we had passed before. A little
circular basin of a few hundred yards in circum
ference presented itself directly before us, environed
on two sides with high hills and apparently shut
up on that where we entere adorned with every
grace and every charm which nature in her
most redundant bounty could bestow . The plants
and flowers exhibited more than oriental splendors ;
the trees were all of the choicest , rarest evergreens ;
and the air exhibited a soft, rich purple tint , such
as we sometimes see , in far inferior loveliness, sleep
ing on the bosom of the unruffled lake , in the mel.
low twilight of a summer day. At the farther ex
tremity ofthe basin there was an opening in the hills,
through which the eye luxuriated in a long and
beautiful perspective , and beyond which the ima.
gination sported without bounds.
In the centre of the basin rose a chrystal foun
tain , which ever and anon assumed a thousand
fantastic shapes, and exhibited innumerable tints
each more beautiful than the others. By its side,
and crowned with a wreath of undying laurel ,
stood a youth more blooming than Adonis, more
graceful and majestic than Apollo. He wore a
simple rose - colored scarf about his waist ; his
shoulders, arms and bosom displayed a rich , re
dundant vigor, joined to the most perfect sym
metry ; his neck was white as the driven snow ;
his lower limbs exhibited a finished combination of
grace and activity, as the blue swelling veins
coursed along them like rivers adorning some
beautiful landscape ; his luxuriant chestnut hair
curled about his polished brow and cherry cheeks ;
his lips seemed almost bursting with the rosy cur
rent coursing through them ; his teeth were even
and white as ivory ; his eyes danced in his head
with indescribable lustre ; his smile diffused joy and
love through every beholder ; and such was the
buoyant elasticity of his figure that he seemed on
the point of hounding from the earth and ascend
ing to the skies.
The pilgrims, and myself among the rest , would
have fallen at his feet and acknowledged him as a
divinity, but for our eagerness to consummate the
delightful change of which we had gradually be
come conscious. The foremost were about to pre
cipitate themselves headlong into the fountain,
when they were arrested by the voice of the presi
ding genius, which was sweet as the whisper of
consenting love.

80 THE COLUMBIAN MAGAZINE .
“ Ponder , ” he cried , “ until you have learned
the extent of the transformation you are to under
go. You are about to receive , as it were , a new
being ; to forget all you have learned , and to fore
go the benefits of that experience which you have
80 dearly acquired . You are about to live again
a long life which you all complain has been more
fruitful in suffering than enjoyment ; to be over
and over again racked with mental and bodily
pain ; you will be destined to outlive all that love
you , all that you love ; to become innocent only
that you may wax guilty again ; and in short, as I
have a thousand times heard you complain of ex
istence as a burthen, you will do well to bear in
mind that you are not now going to throw it off,
but to resume it just when you were about to dis
card it forever. Choose , then , and blame not me
or my fountain should you be wofully disappointed.
I know your nyinds and will transform you into
precisely that age you wish . "
The youth might as well have preached to the
air. All pressed forward only the more eagerly , and
as the genius filled his golden goblet, drank it with
the panting voracity of the wanderer of the desert
perishing of thirst. But methought the genius
would not permit them to drink until he first in
quired into the history of their former lives, which
they gave somewhat briefly, being in such haste to
undergo the transformation from age to youth.
The first that came was a decrepit old man ,
whose story I remember was one continued suc
cession of disappointments and calamities. In his
childhood he was tyrannized over by an ill -natured ,
malignant nurse ; in his boyhood he was overtasked
at school, and whipped for not learning his lessons ;
in his youth he suffered the evils of poverty , neg
lect and deprivation of every kind ; in his manhood
he was bereſt of his wife and all his children , one
after the other, and was afflicted with long con
tinued painful diseases ; and in his old age he
stood alone and desolate in the world, without
friends, kindred or fortune, even like the decaying
trunk of an old withered tree , equally divested
of limbs, bearing no verdure, and giving no
shade.
“ And you desire to perpetuate an existence so
full of calamity, so empty of enjoyment ? " said the
genius, smiling
“ Yea — even so ;" replied the old man. “ But
it was not destitute of enjoyment. There were
brief periods and little snatches of pleasure, and
occasional long intervals of repose amid the storms
of life, which , though in estimating the sum of
human happiness they cannot be cast up, still
checker the scene with rays of light, and afford to
the memory sources of cal n enjoyment. Besides,
is it not in itself a never-failing pleasure even to
breathe the breath of life ? Give me the cup and
let me be young again ."
死。
He drank, and was instantly transformed into a
lusty youth of eighteen ; 1d when he saw himself
in a glass which the genius held before him , it
seemed that he could not contain himself, but
danced , sang and capered around, to the equal
amusement and surprise of the beholders ; after
which he dashed off into the long perspective which ,
as I before observed , opened from the farther ex
tremity of the basin.
The next that drank was an old lady, who, ac
cording to her autobiography, had been a great
beauty in her day, and figured at court, until, having
become one of the “ Had beens," as she expressed
it , according to my recollection , she turned her
attention to matrimony but without success , owing
as she said to her extreme particularity, which
made a choice so difficult that she grew old , or
rather, as she expressed it, passed the blooming
season of youth , before she could find an object
worthy her affections, or whom she could entrust
with her happiness.
Having little or no fortune, she, on the death of
her father, ſell into a state of dependance on a dis
tant relation , or youthful friend , I cannot recollect
which , and endured all the mortifications incident
to such a connexion with a person without feeling
or delicacy, who was too ill bred to disguise a bad
temper and a contracted mind . It appeared that
she had enjoyed but little happiness in this world,
and that the balance was much against her. Yet
she was so impatient to quaff the goblet that the
genius asked her, with his usual bewitching smile
"Are you not afraid of another life of single
blessedness ? ”
“ No, thank you ," she replied , " I shall take care
not to be so particular next time."
With that she emptied the goblet at one draught
and became, in the twinkling of an eye , a tall ,
straight, stiff young woman , with reddish hair and
eyebrows, freckled face and light grey eyes, dressed
in the fashion of our grandmothers. When she
looked in the clear fountain , she turned away
greatly disappointed and scolded the genius terribly
for not making her half as handsome as she was in
her youth. Every one gathered around, exclaiming
against the enormity of her costume, which they
declared made her a perfect fright , and the old
courtier I spoke of insisted on dancing a minuet
with her. The poor lady was so disappointed in
her looks, and so beset by the ridicule of the pil
grims, that she burst into tears, and I overheard her
exclaim , “ Marry come up -- after all, it is no such
great matter to be young again ! ” She then wiped
her eyes, and seeing the beautiful vista at a dis
tance , hastened away in that direction as fast as
possible, in search of a fashionable milliner.
But what most excited my wonder was an aged
beggar, bending under the weight of poverty and
years, who appeared among the most eager to par
$
THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH
take of the draught. As he approached the verge
of the fountain and leaned on his staff, trembling
with anticipation , the youth inquired the particu
lars of his life , and one more apparently destitule of
enjoyment could scarcely be imagined. It seemed
one long continued succession of calamities without
any alleviation , and the genius, in seeming surprise,
asked hiin if he did not suriak from the apprehen
sion of encountering them again.
“ You forget the pains of hunger , " said he.
66
• No, but I was not always hungry,” replied the
old begyar ; " and one meal to a starving man is
worth a hun Ired to a man who never lacks food . "
You say you were without shelter from the
summer's heat and winter's cold ."
* True , but I could always find shade under a
tree , and as for the cold , custom soon reconciled
me to that."
· But you had no resting place at night.”
“ You are mistaken . I could rest in a copse by
the road side , in summer, and in winter make my.
self a lodging in a hay stack , or, what was better,
nestle in a hay mow. You cannot imagine what a
luxury it is to sleep snugly and warm in a barn , and
hear the wind whistle and the storm beat, after a
long day's journey . "
“ But you were without friends or a home.”
6
True ; but if I had none to take care of me, I
had none to take care of, and was not the slave of
others . I could go whither I liked , and do as I
pleased. I was not condemned to labor without
ceasing, for what I g )t by barely asking ; and as
for being without a home, the world was mine, and
I was at no expense for housekeeping. And then
I was so lazy. 0 ! if you only knew the pleasures
of idleness, you would not wonder at my wishing to
render them perpetual.”
“ But you lived only to be despised."
“ Well, what of that ? I was rid of the trouble
of taking care of my reputation, and made myself
amends by laughing in my ragged sleeve at those
who become great or respectable by sacrificing
themselves to the world . When I saw them ex
changing a life of ease and content for the empty
praises of others, which are worth little , or that
vain self gratification which is of still less value , I
considered myself a wise man among fools, and
returned scorn for scorn . 0 ! if you only knew the
pleasure of looking down on our fellow creatures ! ”
“ Here -drink thy fill," said the genius , smiling.
“ Thou hast as much cause , for aught I see , to wish
to live thy liſe over again , as the rest of thy race .
We should never estimate the enjoyments and
sufferings of others by what we imagine we should
feel if in their places . Nothing is more certain
than that we often pity those who are much happier
than ourselves ."
A philosopher, who had passed his whole life in
the pursuit of knowledge, on being transformed ,
81
complained grievously of having forgot all he knew,
and being cbliged to learn it over again ; a rich
old curmudgeon, who had amassed great wealth
by a long course of industry and self denial, was
exceedingly put out at having to begin the world
anew , and encounter all the evils of poverty ; a
romantic old lady shed abundance of tears at sud
denly losing the recollection of divers love scenes,
on which her memory had banqueted for scores of
years ; and an inJolent, contemplative old gentle
man was to the last degree dissatisfied that the
exuberance of his health and spirits would not per
mit him to sit still five minutes together. A va
riety of other examples presented themselves which
excited my surprise, but which the conſusion and
obscurity of a vision prevent my recalling distinctly.
I remember, however, that almost all were more or
less disappointed, and looked upon the loss of their
knowledge and experience, together with that pride
of superior wisdom which forms one of the prime
consolations of old age , as almost, if not quite an
equivalent for the spirit , the vigor and the elasticity
they had acquired by their transformation . They
found they had greatly exaggerated the happiness
of youth , and that memory was almost as great a
deceiver as hope.
For my part, I recollect my own motives for
making this pilgrimage perfectly well , together
with my feelings on receiving the gift of renovated
youth, and my experience afterward . Methought
I had become a new being and suddenly awakened
in a new world , which presented every object in a
new light. The first lesson of expeience, I re
member, was being sent to school, where I was
obliged to sit still on a hard bench without anything
to lean upon , tiil sy back seemed almost broken ,
and condemned to keep my eyes fixed on a book
till the letters danced before my eyes, when I
would have given the world to be out in the fields
chasing butterflies, gathering nuts or playing in
the dirt. Then I was often whipped for what ap
peared to me the most trifling faults, or was con
demned to some disgraceful punishment that
mortified my feelings and rendered me an object
of ridicule to my schoolmates. It is said the tears
of childhood are mere summer showers, speedily
succeeded by the sunshine. It may be so, but for
my part I can safely say , that with me the intervals
between the showers were so short that it was
almost always raining. I scarcely forgotone
punishment when I incurred another, often without
knowing why ;; and no sooner had I got through
one task than another was inflicted. It is quite
impossible to depict the miseries I endured in
trudging to school of a morning, without knowing
my lesson , and with the certain anticipation of
being punished either by stripes or disgrace ; and
what gave point and malignity to my inflictions,
the natural sense of justice implanted in the human
82 THE COLUMBIAN
heart , or the self love which is equally indigenous,
was perpetually whispering me that I was suffering
under a system of oppression and injustice. 0 !
how often , nay, how continually , did a long for the
period when I should become a man, and be my
own master !
Well , a man I at length became — at least so I
thought when my education was completed — and
now I resolved to enjoy myself. My father gave
me a couple of hundred dollars, with permission to
visit the Springs, Niagara Falls, Buston and other
places which attract the fashionable world ; and I
set out with the most glowing anticipations of the
delights of novelty and the pleasures of travelling ;
all which turned out little better than a dream .
Being neither handsome, rich nor fashionable , I cut
but a poor figure among those who were . I found
myself neglected and insignificant; solitary in a
crowd, and discontented when alone. Nothing
realized my expectations, and I often looked for
ward to the period when either by my talents,
exertions or good fortune, I might become one of
the elect, and figure among the fashionable world ,
like some of the more fortunate stars of that hemis .
phere. Still the thought of having escaped the
bors, mortifications and inflictions of my school
boy days, and being my own master, made some
amends for my new peck of troubles.
Returning froin my tour, almost the first thing
my father said to me, after welcoming me home,
was, “ well, my son , you have now had your holi .
day , and it is time to think of commencing the
world. What would you like to be ? what business
do you prefer ? Will you be a parson , a lawyer, a
doctor or a merchant ? ”
“ I should prefer being a gentleman ,” was my
reply.
“ A fiddlestick ! ” answered the old gentleman
tartly. Lookee, sir ; you can't be a gentleman
without money , and I have none to spare. You
must master some profession or business by which
you can maintain yourself, as soon as possible ; and
if you have good luck you may , by the time you
are as old as I am , make money enough to set up
for a gentleman . Would you like to be a mer
chant ? ”
After conning the subject over in my mind a few
minutes, and considering what a deal of study was
necessary to what are called the liberal professions
-- I presume because they never part with their
knowledge except for a proper consideration -- I,
who remembered my lessons at school , decided to
become a merchant. I had seen many of them
living in fine houses, riding in gay equipages and
faring sumptuously every day ; and as to the ten
thousand others, who had figured in the lists of
bankruptcy, I knew nothing about them . So with
as little delay as possible I entered on my noviciate .
It is quite impossible to give a full detail of the
MAGAZIN E.
petty plagues, annoyances and mortifications I
endured in this my new calling ; for though always
troublesome, and sometimes worse , they were not
of a nature to make a lasting impression. They
followed in such quick succession that one effaced
all traces of the other. I only remember that I was
extremely tired , discontented and impatient, and
that nearly all my leisure hours were spent in anti
cipating the happy period when my apprenticeship
would expire and I become my own master.
At length the happy period arrived , and the
merchant with whom I had served my time agreed
to associate me with him in his business, on my
father advancing a sum the amount of which I
have forgotten . I thought that now my millen
ium was come , for now , the first time in my life,
I was my own master. In a very little while,
however, I discovered that I was only a slave
under a different name and a different character.
I could no more do as I pleased now , than when I
was a school boy, or an apprentice. I was the
slave of my business, and the slave of the world.
I was perpetually harassed with all those cares
that beset the money -making mortal; the failure
of a scheme fretted my very soul, and a successful
operation only increased my avidity for another on
a larger scale . The sole object of my ambition
was to take rank with the rich old codgers who had
succeeded in building up great fortunes, and who
came to the banks and insurance companies in their
own coaches to receive their dividends. The
thoughts of marrying came sometimes over my
mind, and I was once or twice seriously smitten ,
especially on one occasion which came pretty near
my heart ; but it was finally quelled by a successful
speculation, and I have now forgotten the name of
the lady.
By the time I had reached the age of threescore
and upward , I began to solace myself with the
fool's paradise of retiring from business to the
enjoyment of otium cum dignitate . After two or
three years of hard struggle , I brought myself to
the conclusion and purchased a handsome residence
on Manhattan Island, where I proposed to luxuriate
for the remainder of my life in peace and plenty ,
with nobody to interfere , and nothing to trouble me.
The first summer I did pretty well , but the winter
tried me sorely. To break in upon the tedium of
idleness and uniformity, I one day bethought my
self of going to town to receive my dividends, and
the moment I got into Wall street the fiend of
money making took possession of me. When I
saw thousands of my fellow creatures , some older
than myself, running hither and thither with an
eagerness and vivacity truly refreshing to a man
laboring under the nightmare of idleness, I could
not resist the example. At first I only dabbled a
little in stocks, in which I sometimes lost , at others
gained a few hundred dollars. But excitement is
 THE INDIAN
like drinking, and requires that every succeeding
potation should not only be stronger but deeper.
Step by step I plunged in headıong, purchased
hundreds of thousands on : ime, was “ cornered , "
dished , and finally limped out of Wall stieet de
cidedly a lame duck. I had now gone the circle ,
and returned to the starting place, with only an
additional load of years and intirmities. The last
I remember of myself, I was seriously coniemplating
another visit to the fountain of you.h.
But my autobiography has led me astray from
my feilow pilgrims, many of whom methuught I
afterward met, sighing like myself for the period
when they should be their own master. It is suffi .
cient to say that all tasted the goblet , and all un
derwent the transformation tiom age to youth , with
the exception of the stately , conce.ted oid gentle
min , who, as I before observed , seemed to think
himself wiser than all his companions. He stood
looking on , the while , with a shrug ging of his
shoulde.s, a curve of the lip and an expression of
contemptuvus scorn , until alt eise being ie uvenated ,
the genius beckoned him forward, gave him the
golden goblet and bade him drink .
“ No , " he replied, " I must beg to be excused ."
" for what purpose , then , dil'st thou come
hiiher ?” asked the genius.
“ To laugh at the follies of my fellow creatures ;
to see with what eagerness they crowd to enable
themselves to renew a yoush without pleasure , a
manhood without happiness and an old aye desti .
lute of all enjoyment in the present, perhaps hope
in the future. To learn wisdom froin the toilies ut
oiheis , and w teach them the lesson that the liea
THE
Τ INDIAN
( S22 the engraving .)
THERE she sits , by the side of somesmall Nigar apparently,
and one wivull suppose in considerable danger of a fill. Not
evine i ly beau itul , according to our notions of beauty, but
irresistibly charming, probably, in the eyes of sume pain :ed
brave with a name of turleen syllables. " A jenny fur hier
tug'is . " for de idedly she is in a siudy of the brownest
kunst, like her cilny lexion. Dues she meditate upon an ul
Het ler, tir way upon the war -puth , in all the glory of
verın ilion , feathers, scalp loca, tigs, trinkets and trumpery ?
Or is she only speculating on the chances of catching a fish
er iwitr super ? Terhaps ber grim tither. Win -pin -pes
se - mun -kee -whackipo , has made a bargain fis her with
Some frowsy and famous old chief, with six wives already,
and six dozen of scalis hanging at the top of his bedpost ;
and , e haps she don't like the prospect. It may be that she
hax bre'i fscinated by the grey eye and tawny -white skin
ofsweCanadian half -bree I ,and is trying to strike a balance
herneen the comparative temptations of wigwam and l.g.
cabin - of red xavage and equivecal poule - fice.
11 were a question naw of some interest whether the dusky
daniel hasany knowledge of coquelry ; though the question
is i erhaps answered by Mr. Schoolcraft's curious ludian tra
MAIDEN . 83
sures of knowledge, and experience gathered by
age , are of far more worth than the thoughtless
hilarity of childhood, or all the tinselled enjoymenis
of youth .”
65
• Thou fool ! ” exclaimed the genius in accents
of biter scorn , and with a lightning glance of his
eye, that seemed 10 wither where it tell . “ Thou
conceited fool ! knowest thou not that if we mea
sure the hours of ease and comfort enjoyed by the
great mass of the human race , in contrast with
thuse of pain and suffering, the former will exceed
the latter a hundred folu ? Knowest thou not , O
toolish wise man , that to overrate long past delights
and to exaggerate those which we hope will come,
constitute iwo of the greatest sources of human
happiness ? Knowest thou noi, tou, that existence
is in itselt a pleasure ; that all the senses graciously
bestowed on mın are ministers to his grautication
tar otiener than they communicate pain ? Nay, art
thou ignorant, blind , self sufficient mortal, thut the
love of life is the great principle of existence , and
that without this, and the fear of death , the human
race would tly in the face of heaven and become
their own executiones, at every twinge of pain and
every untoward dispensation? It is this which
enables them to beur the ills of life with patience,
and not only to endure , but love it , when to others
it may seen only a tiery tuinace of suffering.”
Here methouylıl all the young folks set up a
shoui, so loud and shrill, at the lecture given to the
wise man , that my vision could not withstand the
shock , and I awoke just in time to get on board the
Ohiu for a jaunt lu Saratoga Springs , which so
many good people misluhe for the fountain of youth .
MAIDEN .
dition, some pages further on. If the thing is known among
the re:t skins it all every one of the sex no doubt bas lier
share of it, be the sitne mre or loss, as it is written in title
deeds and nortgiges. Miss Tinki - 11onk :1-pusha - flmgaway,
or whatever her name is . can flirt , we dire say, and foul the
men , after her Indian fishin, with is goud a grace is the
masline Table belle that ever sparkled it Sureloga , de- , ite ihe
scantiness of her reto at. ' I hose l lack eyes of hers, suft
und innocentus they see is while resting on the crest of the
Willerf.ll, can de wet lem . l . llull, allurement, disdain er
denial, " arcording to circonstances," just as well as though
they had lieen trained in the first schou Is « f New- York, Paris
or Londun. Let it wonan adone for making a man's heart
arhe, no matter whether her cumplexion be lily or the briglil
est of copper.
But perhaps we do the poor girl injustice after all. It may
be that her aspirations travel o it out of the circle of duty,
and that the immediate rubject of her thoughis, as she sits
there by the eilge of the cataract, is only what kind ofs very
meat she shell hit ve ready for her lured when he comes in from
the council, the chuse ur lie war -path .
 SUNNY PHILOSOPHY.
BY THE EDITOR .
In the preceding number of this magazine a portion
of one page was occupie i by a dole.ut dilly, which
the author was sensible enough to publish without
his name -the only evidence of sense in the whole
matter -- and the philosophy of wh.ch was the
stupidest , the most abominable that ever entered
into or came out of a brain , addled by 100 much
shaking. “ My lite is a void , " whines the hapless
compound of dyspeptic and simpleton ; u dieary
wasie , uncheered by any ray of hope or joy." Whut
does he live for, then ? Is there no arsenic in the
shops of the apothecaries ? llave laulanum , plus
sic acid , leuden bullets and twisted hemp lust their
necine virtue ? Flows not the river anong by the
wharves, as deep and drowning as ever ?
But I say that the min utleis a luisehood. To
no human being is lite a waste , unless he chooses
to make it so ; and that he can du only by tuneying
that it is. Lite is a great poem , mutom and
magn'ficent ; epic, elegiac, satirical, didactic , dra
Inatic and heroic ; full of glorious illoughs and
divine music, swelling now on the ear of the soul
in thunder-diapason and anon dying away in
faint melodies, like the gentlest breathings of the
harp whose strings are suried by the sum :ner -day
zephyr. Existence inay be boine , " says Byron.
Burne ? No such thing. Existence is to be en
joyed . Its ten thousand elements are all elements
of happiness -- unless indeed one sufers his mind
to become ſoul by inaction or corrupring indulgence
of its baser propensities ; or leis over-leeding play
the mischief with his digestion. My joys are
fied," whimpeis the shallow hypochrondiac. Did
he ever leap from his bed at live o'clock « of a clear
November morning, and go out to breathe the
fresh air, and delight his eyes with the splendid
tints of the day -dawn ? Did he ever climb to the
top of a thousand - feet hill and see the misis rolling
beneath him in huge dim volumes, breaking away
here and there to afford momentary glimpses of the
far-off landscape, and then closing up again like
curtains of shadowy lead, so that he stood as it
were on the topmost peak of an island, with a wide
interminable sea heaving and swelling all about
him -- him -- the only living thing within reach of
eye , or voice , or imagination ? Did he ever stretch
himself down by the side of a little brook , wimp
ling and gurgling along over iis pebbly bed , and
listen with shut eyes and rejoicing heart to its wild ,
84
monotonous music ? Did he ever look in the laugh
ing eyes of a happy child, its face smeared with
molisses and fuelling of bread and butter ? Or to
coine down at once to the veriest touchstone of
capacity for en oy.nent, did he ever lay himself
down to seep in a nice , clean ted , after thiee days
and nights vi watching ! Or eat when he was
hung.y ! No joys indeed ! Why, what a miser
able ingrate the creature must be to twik in that
vein , when joys are so thickly clustered around
him that he can i pui forth his hand wishout cluich
ing us many as he can giapp !
And hopes, too. He says that hope is dead :
and toily tu une woud be in fair wager that at the
ve y lime when he said so he was hoping that his
uckei in the lottery would come up a prize, or that
sonrebody would lend hun tive duiluis. li he had
no dupe, I say again , what did he live for ? Accord .
in ; to his own account he was of use neither lo
himseli nor anybody e.se', and did not expect to be.
The sooner he was out of the way , then , the telter
for all parties.
Aye , but there we have the key to the whole
myslely -- In thul very matler ut being useful.
" I
have no fears ' - whimpers the melancholy noodle
-- ' tur what have I iv luse ? No evil iu avoid ,
no good to choose. ” But I say you hare an evil
tu avuit ; the very worst of all evils -- idleness
unwillingness to do anything for the service of your
fellow -ben . You complain that you have " no
good 10 choose ." Have you ever tried ? Have
you ever cherished in your heart a longing to fill
some place usefully and honorably, no matter how
small or lowly , in the great workshop of sociul or
ganization ? Can you make a shoe, for instance ?
l'ut together in workmanike fashion , or in any
fashion at all , certain quantities of sole and upper
leather, with pigs and thiead, and waxed ends,
and vamps, and lining, and binding, so as to herp
from the cold and we'l the perishing toes of some
better christian than yourselt ? - Confound you .
Talk atout having no good to chuc se ! Why ,
you poor soli - head , snail -heasted grumbler at noth
iny, don't you know that the one good in this
world is to have a duty and to perform it ? Some
duties are more noble and plei.sant than others ,
doubiless ; although even in that there is apulude
of disposition and character to be taken into the
account but any is better than none. The most
 SUNNY PHILOSOPHY .
forlorn of all created beings, with a spark of intel
ligence in his soul , is he who cannot or will not
find a field to bustle in among the millions of exi
gences pertaining to human life ; who cannot or
will not lay out some work for him to do, whether
for evil or good — whether for the enlargement or
the diminution of human intelligence and happiness.
It is bad to work evil ; to be a great conqueror,
a cruel bigot or a destroyer of liberty ; bad for
example to be a Napoleon , a Torquemada or an
Autocrat; but not so wretched and contemptible
as to be nothing.
The Almighty created man last of all ; not till
He had created a garden for him to tend, a world
for him to occupy and improve, innumerable forms
of animate and inanimate existence for him to con
trol, to fashion and to put in employment. What
the nature and reward of his activity would have
been, had he not changed the Divine purpose by
his disobedience, it is not for us to say ; but we
know that in mercy , not in wrath and vengeance ,
was the decree pronounced which bade him pour
forth the sweat of his brow through all time as
the price of his sustenance ; and we know too that
so linked are duty and enjoyment — figuratively
the sweat of the brow and the fruit of the earth
that the performance of the first invariably brings
the latter, and that without the first the latter can
have no existence. It is a law of man's nature ,
universal as the air he breathes, inexorable and
undeviating as that which binds the planets and
the suns in perpetuity and harmony.
I say then that human life is an unvarying round
of duty, and therefore a round also of enjoyment.
There is material of pleasure , moral and physical ,
spread all about us, and offering itself everywhere to
our possession . The world is an excellent, bright,
beautiful world, all gilded with sunshine and glit.
tering with gems ofloveliness and delight; myriads
of trees bending under the weight of delicious fruit
are growing all about us ; there is music in every
breeze , in the dash of waves, in the howl even of
winter storms; glorious beauty beams upon us by
night and day , in the star-bespangled sky, the
radiance of the sun at noon and the gorgeous hues
of his going down ; in the driving rack of clouds,
the lightning's glare, and the gentle light of the
silver-shining moon ; in the form and face of wo
man and the full -eyed innocence of childhood ; in
the verdure of green fields and the eternal heaving
of the mighty ocean. Wherever we may turn our
eyes — among the peaks of lofty mountains and
the quiet depths of secluded vales — in the solitude
of forests and amid the bustle and crowd of cities
- by the side of still waters and in the gatherings
of men for counsel or for action in the heavens
above and the earth beneath and the waters under
the earth - everywhere the eye and the soul of
man discover beauty , and grandeur, and glory, and
VOL . 1. - 8 .
85
power, to command his admiration and minister
to his delight. And above all , everywhere there is
pleasure for his senses and his soul, ready for his
gathering, and proffered only on the condition that
he study and understand the true constituents of
his being, and shape for himself a path of duty,
walking therein with an abiding sense of what it
is meet for him to do , and with a will t . do the
same as the Master above has laid upon hin means
and opportunity.
Do something -- be something ; no matter what
it is — wood -sawyer or boot-black, knife- grinder's
apprentice , or deputy clerk to a deputy's deputy —
anything rather than moulder in idleness, without
aim , or object , or hope of furthering even by a hair's
breadth the general welfare. Be a producer iſ you
can ; if you have brains for it, a producer of mental
wealth - a wise legislator, a profound and enlight
ened statesman , a lofty and pure moralist, a discov
erer in science or a shining light in literature ; if
for this you are unfitted, by nature or accident, be
a producer of less noble riches ; dig the ground
and raise cabbages ; make hats, or coats, or watches,
or steamboats, or build houses and churches ; burn
bricks, quarry for limestone, wade for clams or
grapple for oysters ; be a producer, a maker in
some sort — add something to the general store of
human possessions and appliances for living. Or
if you cannot do this , be at least a dealer in the
like ; buy and sell, making your own reasonable
profit from the operation ; put out money at usance
and so furnish the elementary power which shall
keep others in employment ; speculate in stocks or
real estate , buy up mortgages, discount all manner
of notes at fifty per cent. if you can get it ; shave,
grind , extort, take unfair advantage ; be a rogue,
a skinflint, a pettifogger — anything in heaven's
name rather than a clod , a mere useless appendage ,
or more truly worthless excrescence upon the frame
work of society. There is hope of the rogue,
the usurer, the extortioner ; he may repent and
reform ; but of the helpless, soulless, do -nothing
drone there is no hope. The rogue, the usurer, the
extortioner, does at least contribute his part to the
general movement - he stirs the waters , though it
may be only to darken them by bringing up the
mud from the bottom ; but the idler leaves every
thing to stagnate.
I say then, do something. If you want to be
happy do good — do aa man's duty in one form or
another ; and believe, withal, that there is a world
of happiness at your command if you will but look
for it in the right place and the right way . Expect
it - hope for it — insist upon having it - persuade
yourself that you have it or are just going to have.
Eschew idleness, indigestion and the blue -devils ;
and then you will belong to what may be called
the school of Sunny Philosophy.
 RECOLLECTIONS
BY MRS . C. H. BUTLER .
On the morning of the fourth of February , 184,
after a very short passage from New York , we
made the coast of China , and eight o'clock found
us entering the Lema channel, at a distance of only
thirty miles from our anchorage.
We found ourselves now passing through nume
rous groups of islands, which , although beautiful in
their outlines, presented the most rugged and barren
appearance ---onecontinuous mass of rocks. Some
of these were very elevated, of which Lantan
towered pre -eminent. Although not a tree, shrub ,
or verdure of any kind can be descried, yet many ,
if not all , of these ocean-rocks are inhabited . From
the debris constantly collecting at their base, the
China -man prepares a spot whereon to sow his rice
and millet; he there builds his hut , and by the
assistance of his little fishing boat contrives to
procure a comfortable subsistence.
Nothing could be more beautiful than the out
lines of these islands, penciled as it were on the
clear blue sky ; and as the rays of the bright sun
flashed across their summits , or shot athwart their
craggy sides, the coup d'ail was indeed magnifi.
cent .
While viewing this charming scene, a small sail
boat suddenly darted round a point of land and
stood directly for us . “ The pilot — the pilot ! ”
shouted the mate ; and now the curiosity of those
who had never seen a veritable Chinese was on the
qui vive. On came the little boat , but before it
reached us another, and still another, were seen , all
steering for our ship. As the first one neared us,
the clumsy modeled boat , the awkward sails formed
of matting, together with the grotesque appearance
of the crew, excited not a little our risibility.
There were about six Chinese in the boat, who,
with their smooth crowns, long braided queues
dangling to their heels, their wide , blue trowsers
and long, loose jackets, completed the very reality
of all those figures we see delineated on their
China -ware ; and as they stepped on our deck it
would almost appear that some of those very figures
had walked gravely forth from a large dish !
The other two boats also soon came along side,
and notwithstanding the novelty of their appear
ance, the fine, tempting oranges , the rich , yellow
bananas, fresh eggs , sweet potatoes and yams they
brought with them , for a time proved more attract
ive. To a voyager they were indeed a treat, and
86
OF CHINA- NO . 1.
the flavor of those small, delicious mandarin
oranges no nectar could surpass.
The captain engaged one of these boats to pro
ceed directly up to Canton with the despatches for
the owners ; another he sent off for a supply of
fresh provisions, while the third , fastened by a line
to our ship, remained in our company subject to
orders. Looking occasionally over the quarter
rail upon the deck of this little boat, I found myself
not less an object of mirth , but was greeted with
uncontrollable bursts of laughter by the swarthy
crew.
We sailed pleasantly along through the day,
elated at the near termination of our voyage. The
sunset was one of glorious magnificence. Nu
merous fishing boats were scattered here and there
over the mirrored surface of the ocean , some sailing
gently past us, others gliding within the coves of
the islands; and as the sun sank beneath the waves,
ocean, rock and sky mingled in one scene of gor
geous splendor.
Very early the next morning I was aroused by an
unwonted noise. The beating of gongs and firing
of crackers, accompanied by loud shouts, reached
my ears , proceeding from the Chinese craft at our
side. I found it was the China new year, and one
of the very few holydays the Chinese possess. As
I went on deck I saw the crew all apparently busy ,
ushering in the day with every demonstration of
joy ; the boat was gaily ornamented with strips of
colored and gilt paper, and at intervals they would
toss pieces of the same into the air, accompanied
by the horrid din of the gong. Finding them so
busy with their own affairs, I took the opportunity
to peep, unobserved , into the cabin of the little boat.
In one corner was a small niche , containing a
hideous image, before which was placed a small
table, set out with tiny cups of tea , plates of sweet
meats, rice, &c., with two small tapers burning on
each side. This was their “ Josh -house , " and these
dainties were provided for their idol , who very
politely declining to partake of them , the humble
worshippers, after waiting a suitable time, made no
scruple of gratifying their own appetites.
We were now passing near a group of islands
called the Nine Islands, a cluster of rugged rocks
scattered at short distances from each other; none
of them are of much elevation , but presenting a very
picturesque appearance. On our right was the

RECOLLECTIONS
lofty peak of Lantan , and behind us stretched the
Ladrones. A ship had joined us in the night, and
with all sails spread was standing in the same di
.
rection with our own .
About five o'clock in the afternoon we arrived at
Lintin, and the cheerful cries of the sailors soon
announced the dropping of the anchor, and we
found ourselves floating at the base of the lofty
mountain, in company with many ships of our own
and other countries. Lintin is another of those
rugged, and as it would seem, almost inaccessible,
islands. There is however quite a village at its
base, and many little huts are also scattered here
and there along the shore. This being the usual
anchorage, the inhabitants find a ready market for
their fish, fowls, vegetables and other commodities.
Even from the highest peak the declivities are
thickly marked with the memorials of the dead, for
the hills and most barren places form the burying
grounds of the Chinese.
The view from Lintin Peak is said to be very
fine and well repays for the toil of ascent.
The following morning we chartered a small
schooner for Macao, my intended residence while
in China, as ladies were then prohibited from going
to Canton . A passing notice is due the captain and
crew of our little schooner. They were Lascars,
three in number, than whom a more grim visaged
trio is seldom seen . Nearly of African hue, with
high cheek bones and piercing eyes, to which their
huge mustaches and long, peaked beards gave only
an appearance the more ferocious. Their dress
was exceedingly picturesque. That of the captain,
wide trowsers of red silk ; over this a tunic ofwhite
muslin , reaching just below the knee ; then another
of blue silk , some inches shorter ; and again a close
fitting jacket of dark brown velvet , richly embroi
dered, and confined at the waist with a scarf of
crimson silk ; around his neck was suspended a
large silver chain , and a turban of divers gay colors
adorned his head. The tout ensemble was quite
imposing.
When we stepped on board the schooner there
was every reason to hope that we should reach
Macao by twelve o'clock , (a distance of thirty
miles.) We were doomed however to disappoint
ment ; while yet in sight of our ship the wind fell
suddenly away and for several hours we lay gently
rocking on the ocean . In vain did the captain and
crew whistle for the breeze , now coaxingly, then
with angry gesticulations — it came not at their
bidding. Even the beautiful scenery by which we
were surrounded proved inefficacious to restrain our
impatience. At last a slight ripple agitated the
calm surface ; a gentle breeze sprang from the
land ; the sails of our little schooner gradually
filled, and on we bounded. The breeze soon in
creased to a gale ; all sail was taken in , and like
some frightened bird our schooner was scudding
究
OF CHINA . 87
rapidly before the wind, every sea washing over
our deck.
About eight o'clock in the evening we drew near
our place of destination, which presented a very
beautiful appearance, rising like an amphitheatre
from the sea ; its numerous fortified hills — the
lights gleaming from their summits and from the
dwellings on the Praya Granda — and over all the
moon shining so brightly down, rendered the first
impressions of Macao those of a pleasing nature
Owing to the shallowness of the water no vessels
of any size can approach within some hundred yards
of the shore ; but to remedy this evil there are nu
merous little boats, seemingly no bigger than egg
shells, guided entirely by women , who make it
their business to steer directly for the larger craft,
as they enter the harbor, and convey their passen
gers, et cetera, to land . Two of these little san .
pans (as they are called ) were soon along side of us ,
but most unfortunately for our haste, they no sooner
descried a “ barbarian woman " about to spring into
their boat than , with a shrill cry of “ mandarin
mandarin ,” away they paddled to the shore, unheed
ing the shouts of “ tanka ! tanka !” (boat ! boat !)
from the captain. They answered only by yells,
and for nearly an hour we were left pitching and
tossing on the still raging sea. At the end of that
time (which seemed interminable) they again ap
proached us, and we were now suffered to leave
the schooner, and in a few moments the little san
pan had landed us safely on the Praya Granda,
amid a throng of Chinese and Portuguese. It
seems these boat women did not dare to land a
“ barbarian " of their own sex until they had first
informed the mandarin .
Procuring a guide we proceeded to the residence
' an esteemed friend, with whom I had been kindly
invited to make my sojourn at Macao.
The sun arose the following morning in un
clouded splendor, and the hour spent in the veran
dah before breakfast was one of novel interest. The
house was situated on the Praya Granda , which
forms a semi- circle fronting the harbor, where the
long, unbroken seas come rolling in and dash upon
the beach only a few yards from the dwellings . It
was a lovely scene- the sun shining bright and
beautiful upon the waters of the bay, just tinging
the summits of the rocky isles around , and throwing
its brilliant rays far over the ocean . Several large
ships and brigs were at anchor, while others might
be seen under full sail, standing in and out among
the different islands. Chinese junks and fast -boats
were floating idly near the shore ; a Canton packet
was just rounding a point of land , toward which
many of the little san -pans were rapidly sculling.
The beating of gongs and firing of crackers from
the numerous Chinese craft near the shore, mingled
with the merry songs of the sailors — the ringing of
bells from the different churches — the various
Ja
%
88 THE COLUMBIAN
groups constantly passing and repassing the Praya
— parties of Portuguese hurrying to mass — priests
in flowing robes - mandarins borne in their palan
keens - Chinese compradores and coolies — beg
gars - troops of noisy children - added to the lu
gubrious cries of the venders of live fowls, fish , &c.
which they chorus by beating small gongs, varied
occasionally by an air from the band of the corps
stationed at St. Peter's Fort, directly fronting the
residence of his excellency the governor --- all com
bined to render the scene for a time at least very
amusing.
My friend proposed taking me first to the Penha ,
as commanding the most extended view. Macao
is situated on a peninsula, connected by a narrow
neck of land with the island of Hean - shan , across
the centre of which runs the boundary wall, beyond
which no barbarian must dare to pass. The Penha
is a high hill at the western extremity of the town,
on the summit of which stands the ancient hermit
age , Penha de Franca , erected in 1622.
Hlaving completed the ascent by a rocky and
uneven path , the eye is arrested by one extensive
range of the most beautiful scenery. Macao might
truly be called the city of hills, for they rise in every
TO MY SISTER ON HIER BRIDAL .
BY ANXA CORA MOWATT .
A MYRTLE wreath , with rose bods white,
I bound upon thy brow ;
The myrtle told thy changeless love,
The buds were pure as thou .
And o'er the locks that round thy face
In shining clusters hung,
With hands that loved their tender task ,
The bridal veil I flung .
I watched the smiles and tears that formed
Hope's rainbow on thy cheek ;
And read the thoughts within thy soul -
The thoughts thou couldst not speak .
I led thy bridegroom to thy side,
And caught the fervent tone
That whispered in thy happy ear,
“ Forever mine - mine own! "
From round my neck thine arms were loosed ,
To meet his dear embrace ;
While tear-drops vanished from thy cheek ,
And blushes took their place.
How I have loved thee, whom all love,
Not warmest words can tell -
I scarce could bear to yield thee thus
To one who loved as well .
Oh ! happy bridegroom of a bride
As fair in soul as face,
Forget not that her father's hearth
She left, thy hearth to grace.
Forget not that her only home
Is now within thy heart ;
Remember that her happiness
Is only where thou art.
MAGAZINE .
direction , presenting a wild and picturesque ap
pearance , heightened by the numerous forts and
convents capping their summits.
To the east you have the lofty Mont Charil, on
which stands Fort Guia ; directly at its base a
rocky point extends into the sea , on which is erected
Fort St. Francis, with the church bearing the same
name . At a little distance, from a grove of banians
peep forth the white walls of the convent Santa
Clara. On another elevation , nearly in the centre
of the town , stands the Monte Fort, fronting the
residence of the governor. On the Praya Granda }
is St. Peter's Fort, and on other points are the Bar
and Bombarto Forts. Scattered among these lofty
hills are the dwellings of the Portuguese, English
and American residents ; and , separated from near
communion with barbarians, may here and there be
seen the closely packed huis of a Chinese village.
The hermitage Penha de Franca is very much
dilapidated and will soon be but a ruin. A part
has been lately repaired and rendered tenantable
for a few old friars. It is surrounded by a high
wall and on one part of this is erected a rude stone
cross, which Portuguese ships passing the Penha
are in the habit of saluting.
And when she trembling clings to thee,
l'pon life's troubled wave,
Oh! shield her from the angry blast,
She is not wont to brave.
Gentle she is, and formed to list
Affection's voice alone -
Thou wilt not teach her timid ear
The sound of harsher tone ?
I trembled not to hear her breathe
A vow 'twere crime to break ---
Her love is founded on the rock
That tempests cannot shake.
I shrank not when the bridal ring
Her slender finger pressed ,
For joy was in its circlet bound ,
And Hea ren the pledge had blessed.
I trembled not to see her hand
Within her bridegroom's lie,
For truth , that in his spirit dwells,
Was beaming from his eye.
Thus hand in hand , as fondly knit,
Be life's rude pathway trod ,
With hearts in meekness bowed - and eyes
Turned trustingly to God !
And may the bond thut binds you now
l'nite your spirits ever,
That ruthless denth , who breaks all ties ,
May fail that tic to sever.
And when ye seek the better land
Where love conjoins alone,
That nuptial vow ye may renew
Before your Maker's throne !
 THE SONGS OF NIGHT .
BY ISAAC FITZGERALD SHEPARD
The solemn Psalmist, David, slept,
On Bethlehem's plain, alone and young,
And dreaming that his flock he kept,
He heard a holy anthem sung :
Jehovah's spirit o'er him came,
And filling deep his raptured ear,
He caught the sounds from harps of flame,
From hymning star and choral sphere.
They rolled along, the songs of night,
The glory of the Lord their theme,
Their echoing lyres, with cadence light,
Waked mountain wild and gliding stream ,
Till earth took up the swelling hymn
And answered back the sons of God,
Contending for the praise of Him
Whose footsteps through creation trod .
“ Light is Jehovah's countenance,"
The setting sun all proudly said ;
Answered the crimson twilight's glance,
" His garment's fringe my beauty made ; "
The clouds above them echoed loud,
“ His evening tent, how vast are we !"
* His voice is heard above the cloud -
His glory thunders ! ” said the sea .
“ He rides upon my gentle wings !"
The rustling wind sighed, murmuring by ;
The silent air responsive sings,
“ The quickening breath ofGod am I!"
" What songs are these ? What voices new,
While I my slumbering eyelids close ?"
Arouse ! I'll bathe thee !" sang the dew,
“ And make thee blossom like the rose ! "
THE
BY MATILDA P. HUNT .
WRBaths for the gleeful — let them weave them and wear
them ;
Palms for the mighty — let them win them and bear them ;
Gold for the toiling, who seek --- let them find it ;
Fame — for the hearts that have worshipped and shrined it.
But the wreaths shall all wither, and mirth shall grow dim,
And the palms of the victor shall perish like him ;
And wealth, with the hopes it has crowned, shall depart ;
And earth's dearest fame prove but grief to the heart.
There's a fiower that fades, like the amaranth , never
There's a vict'ry whose trophies grow brighter for ver ;
Earth's children , smiling, then began
“ We blossom gladly ! ” said the field,
And through the full ears voices rang,
“ We are God's blessing in the yield
God host's against stern hunger sent ! "
“ We bless you !" said the modest moon,
“ We bless you ! " cried the firmament,
And each star claimed to give the boon.
The cricket chirped, all sweet and clear,
* With drops of dew he blesses me! "
“ And slakes my thirst ! " replied the deer,
64
And mine ! " the leaf sang from the tree :
" He gives us food !” responds the roe,
" And clothes our lambs !" bleat out the flocks,
“ And though o'er lonely earth we go ,
He hears us still ! " the raven croaks.
The turtle dove her music cooed
To answering birds that after slept,
" He gave us nests all through the wood ,
He hath our habitations kept ;
Upon God's altar safe we dwell,
Our plumage by His hand caressed,
Under His shadow sleep we well,
We slumber on in silent rest !”
" In silent rest ! " the night replied,
Prolonging deep , the lingering tone,
Till from his couch , with crimson dyed,
The day resumed his glowing throne.
Uprose the sun, and David woke ;
So rich in psalms had been his dream ,
That ever from his lips it broke ,
Harmonious music, God the theme !
CONTRAST .
There are jewels and gems no Golconda bestows,
And honor which gives c'en the wretched repose.
3
That flower is virtue - immortal it smiles ;
That triumph — the conquest o'er earth and its wiles :
Humility, meekness — the jewels of treasure ,
And piety – fame above price, beyond measure .
Need I ask thee to choose ? does no whispering voice
Breathe over thy heart the unwavering choice,
“ Farewell to the joys which awhile the world borrows —
I'll turn from its charms, and thus flee from its sorrows
BRUNSWICK, ME., January, 1844.
8* 89
 MOOWIS ,, OR THE
BY HENRY R. SCHOOLCRAFT.
In a large village once lived a noted belle , Ma
mon - da - go -kwa, who was the admiration of all the
young hunters and warriors. She was particularly
admired by one who, from his good figure and the
care he took in his dress, was called the beau-man.
This young man had a friend and companion ,
whom he made a confidant of his a fiairs. “ Come, ”
said he , one day in a sportive mood , " let us go
courting to the one who is so handsome ; perhaps
she may fancy one of us.” But she would listen
to neither of them , and when the handsome young
man rallied from the coldness of her air and made
an effort to overcome her indifference, she put to
gether her thumb and three fingers, and raising her
hand gracefully toward him , deliberately opened
them in his face. This gesticulatory mode of re
jection is one of the highest contempt, and the
young hunter retired confused and abashed. His
sense of pride was deeply wounded , and he was
the more piqued as it had been done in the presence
of others, so that the affair was soon noised about
the village and became the talk of every lodge
circle. Besides , he was a very sensitive man , and
the thing so preyed upon him that he became
moody , and at last took to his bed. He was taci
turn , often lying for days without uttering a word,
his eyes fixed on vacancy, and taking little or no
food. From this state no efforts could rouse him ;
he felt abashed and dishonored, even in the presence
of his own relations, and no persuasions could in
duce him to rise. So that when the family pre
pared to take down the lodge and remove, he still
kept his bed and they were compelled to lift it over
his head and leave him upon his skin couch. It
was a time of general removal and breaking up,
for it was only a winter hunting camp, and as the
season of the hunt was now over and spring began
to approach, they all moved off, as by one impulse,
to the place of their summer residence ; and , in a
short time , all were gone and he was left alone.
The last to leave him was his boon companion , who
has been mentioned , and who was his cousin , and
also his co-admirer of the charms of the forest belle.
But even his voice was disregarded , and as soon as
his steps died away on the creaking snow , the
ness and solitude of the wilderness reigned around.
As soon as all were gone and he could no longer,
* This curious specimen of Indian story -telling is genuine. It was taken down, verbatim , from the lips ofan aboriginal narra
tor, and the translation is as literal as it can be made.
90
INDIAN COQUETTE . *
by listening, hear the remotest sounds of the depart
ing camp, the beau-man arose. Now it is to be
understood that this young man was aided in his
desertion and bitterness of feeling by a powerful
guardian spirit, or personal moneto, or god. And
he was resolved to make use of his utmost power to
punish and humble the girl . For she was noted in
the tribe for her coquetry and had treated others,
who were every way her equals , as she had done
him . He resolved on a singular stratagem , by
way of revenge. For this purpose he walked over
the deserted camp and gathered up all the bits of
soiled cloth , clippings of finery, cast-off clothing and
ornaments which had either been left or lost.
These he carefully picked out of the snow , into
which some of them had been trodden and partially
buried , and conveyed them to one place . The
motley heap of gaudy and soiled stuffs he restored
to their original beauty and made them into a coat
and leggins, which he trimmed with beads and
finished and decorated after the best fashion of his
tribe. He then made a pair of moccasins and
garnished them with beads ; a bow and arrows, and
a frontlet and feathers for the head. Having done
this, he searched about for cast -out bones of animals ,
pieces of skins, clippings of dried meat , and even
dirt, and having cemented these together with snow
he filled the clothes which he had made with these
things and pressed the mass firmly in , and fashioned
it externally, in all respects, like a tall and well
favored man . He put the bow and arrows in his
hands and the frontlet on his head. And having
finished it , he willed it to be a man , and the image
stood forth with all the life and most favored linea
ments of his fellows. Such was the origin of
Moowis , or the rag-man.
“ Follow me , " said the beau -man , “ to the camp
of our friends and I will direct you how you shall
act.” He was indeed a very sightly person , and as
they entered the new encampment the many colors
of his clothes, the profusion of ornaments which the
beau -man had managed to give him , and his fine,
manly step and animated countenance, drew all
eyes. And he was received by all , both old and
still young, with marks of attention The chief invited
him to his lodge and he was feasted on moose's
hump and venison .
 THOUGHTS FOR AMPLIFICATION .
But no one was better pleased with the hand-
some stranger than Ma-mon-da-go-kwa. She fell
in love with him at first sight , and he was an invited
guest at the lodge the very first evening of his arri.
val. The beau-man went with him , for it was
under his patronage that he had been introduced ;
and , in truth, he had another motive for accompa-
nying him , for he had not yet wholly subdued his
feelings of admiration for the object against whom
he had nevertheless exerted his necromantic power,
and he held himself subject to any favorable turn
which, he secretly hoped, the visit might take in
relation to himself. But no such turn occurred .
Moowis attracted the chief attention , and every
eye and hand were alert to entertain and please
him . In this effort on the part of his entertainers
they had well nigh revealed his true character and
dissolved him into his original elements of rags and
snow and dirt ; for he was assigned the most
m promi-
nent place before the fire, the increasing heat of
which he could by no means endure . He inter-
posed a boy between himself and the fire. He
shifted his position frequently and evaded , by dex-
terous maneuvres and timely remarks, the pressing
invitations of his host to sit up and enjoy its — to
all but him — vivifying rays. He so managed these
excuses as not only to conceal his dread of immedi-
ate dissolution , but to secure the farther approbation
of the fair forest girl, who could not but admire one
who had so brave a spirit of endurance against the
paralyzing effects of cold.
The result of this visit proved that the rejected
lover had well calculated the effect of his plan. He
withdrew from the lodge and the image man tri-
umphed. Before he went, the beau -man saw him
cross the lodge to the coveted abinos, or bride-
groom's seat. Marriage, in the forest race , is a
simple ceremony, and where the impediments of
custom are small there is but little time demanded
for their execution. The barb which Ma-mon -da-
go-kwa had so often delighted in sending to the
hearts of her admirers, hidden though it were in a
garniture of flowers, she was at length fated herself
to receive. She had married a shadow . As the
morning star began to lose his lustre in the increas
ing rays of a stronger light, the stranger arose,
adjusted his warrior’s plumes and took his forest
THOUGHTS FOR AMPLIFICATION .
There are not among mankind so few men of
genius as some are apt to imagine. Want of reso
lution and perseverance keeps from the world more
works of merit than want of invention or ability.
The first step toward both content and consistency
is a just disregard for the opinions of others.
No man ever yet lived whose opinion upon any
subject never changed.
91
weapons to depart. “ I must go, " said he, " for I
have an important business to transact, and there
are many hills and streams between me and the
object of my journey.” “ I will go with you ," she
replied. “ It is too far," he rejoined, " and you are
ill able to encounter the perils of the way.” “ It is
not so far but that I can go," she responded, “ and
there are no perils which I will not freely share for
you.”
Moowis returned to the lodge of his master and
related to him the events we have described. Pity
for a moment seized the breast of the rejected youth.
He regretted that she had thus unwittingly cast
herself away upon an image and a shadow, when
she might have been mistress of the best lodge in
the tribe. “ But it is her own folly,” he ejaculated ;
“ she has turned aa deaf ear to the counsels of pru
dence and she must submit to her fate.”
The same morning the image-man set forth and
she followed him at a distance. The way was
rough and intricate, and she could not keep up
with his rapid pace ; but she struggled hard and
perseveringly. He had been long out of sight. As
the sun arose and cast his fervid rays upon the
earth, the throes of dissolution began to exert their
power upon the object she llowed , and piece after
piece of his clothing and structure was found in her
path. She first found his mittens, then his mocca
sins, then his leggins and other parts of his garments.
They had all returned to their debased and filthy
condition. The way led over rocks, through wind
falls, across marshes. It whirled about to all
points of the compass, and had no certain direction
or object. Rags, bones, leather, were occasionally
found, but she never caught sight of his form .
When evening came she was no nearer the object
of her search than in the morning, but the snow
having now melted , she had completely lost his
track and wandered about , uncertain which way to
go , and in a state of despair. Finding herself lost
she began, with bitter cries, to bewail her condition ;
and this was the burden of her cry :
“ Moowis — Moowis - where art thou ? Thou
hast led me astray ! Thou art leading me astray ! " *
* Moowis ! nin ge won e win ig, ne won e win ig.
That flattery is most successful which ascribes
to us some quality not in our possession , rather
than bestows commendation on any which we
have.
To many positive dislike from others is more
tolerable than indifference. The latter is most
wounding to vanity ; and there are few characters
of which vanity is not an ingredient.
%

BOOKS OF THE
The preternatural activity of the publishers just before the
holydays— an activity positively frightful to those who are
constrained , or at least expected, to form and to express some
opinion of all the books thrown out from the prese - fortu
nately for those weary laborers in the service of the public
undergoes a sudden collapse, as it were, the moment New
Year's day arrives ; and the issues decline at once from eight
or ten daily to less than half that number per week . A
breathing spell is thus afforded, not by any means unwelcome
either to the public at large or to those from whom the public
expect some hints to guide them in their purchases ; and
we, among others, gladly avail ourselves of the occasion to
look back upon the flood by which we were inundated, and
select from among the scores of new books that were then
passed by in despair, a few of the most important for delibe
rate examination and fitting notice.
Foremost among these, though its publication has been
so long completed that it is straining a point to class it among
the “ books of the month ," is
Alison's HISTORY OF THE Frencu Revolution. Nero
York : Harper & Brothers.
We have no intention of reviewing this great work, even
in the brief and condensed fashion incident to monthly peri
odicals which make no large critical pretensions. Space and
time both are wanting to that end , and besides the book has
been so extensively circulated and read that a review would
be of little use or interest . We propose only to designate
three qualities, or rather faults, of Mr. Alison's performance,
which ought to be known and kept in view by every reader
of it, and two of which at least might perhaps escape notice
unless pointed out by way of warning.
These three qualities, or faults, are in the style, the ethics
and the politics. There is a strong and singular fascination
in Mr. Alison's manner as a writer ; a fascination to which
his work is almost as much indebted for its popularity as
to the profoundly interesting nature of his subject, the won
derful events which he records, and the unwearied diligence
with which he has collected and investigated those remarka
ble details that form the stupendous whole of the most mo
mentous epoch in the history of mankind . But to the critical
eye Mr. Alison's style is faulty in the extreme ; the laws of
grammar in all its divisions he sets at defiance, or at least
violates, with provoking pertinacity ; and it is scarcely pos
sible to read one of his pages carefully --- looking not to the
sense but solely to the expression - without being annoyed
by errors and inelegancies for which a man of education is
absolutely inexcusable. Yet as we have said the general
manner is singularly pleasing ; and were the English per
fectly good -- the language as correct as it is well chosen
and euphonious -- the work might be commended as in point
of style a model for historians.
The other two faults of which we have spoken are of a
graver character, being in matter of substance, while the
first pertains only to form . One is the constant ascription
by Mr. Alison of the property of glory to military achieve
ments. In this he writes like one living in the seventeenth
century — one upon whom the progress of later years toward
better and juster views of man's condition and duties had
been utterly thrown away. He chronicles every victory as
“ glorious ” to the power or people by whose arms it was
achieved ; to every defeat or failure he ascribes disgrace ; and
these expressions are so often and so constantly repeated
92
og
ΜΟΝΤΗ.
that war seems to be the only employment in which it is
possible for a nation to win glory or endure shame. Hap
pily for mankind this brutal idea has much less hold upon
general opinion than it bad in the days of Louis XIV. or
even in those of Napoleon . The systematic and scientific
butchery of the battle - field is now regarded by most with
unmitigated horror ; by all, or nearly all, as at best a de
ploruble incident ofhuman perversity and depravity :; and the
time has gone by, we trust forever, when camage, rapine and
destruction were coolly enumerated as among the chief ele .
ments or evidences of a nation's glory .
The third of Mr. Alison's sins is not less deserving of
heavy censure, and should be as distinctly noted by every
reader. It is the inveteracy of his hatred - the term is not
too strong — against political liberty ; the blindness of his
devotion to those political and social idols which men and
nations are so strangely given to set up and worship . Every
effort to emancipate mankind from the shackles of kingcraft,
priestcraft and noblecraft, he looks upon with a version and
dismay; he can forgive everything but the doctrine of human
equality . Thus we see that he can be just and impartial
toward Napoleon, as warrior, ruler and legislator ; for Na
poleon, though he waged fierce war upon the thrones of Eu
rope, did homage to the principle of monarchy by seating
himself upon a throne. And we see too that he can glority
Wellington as the champion of liberty ! though the despo
tism against which he led the hosts of Europe diflered only
in kind, but not the slightest in degree, from those which he re
established by the success of his vast military skill and talents.
The conflict was between civil and military despotism - be
tween the tyranny of the sword and that ofthe sceptre - and
of the two it may well be questioned whether, in a large
and philosophic view , the despotism for which Wellington
fought was not and is not more grinding and hateful than
that which he overthrew .
In nothing is Mr. Alison's blind prejudice against freedom
more conspicuous than in that portion of his work which
treats of our country ; but his rank errors here have been
gutliciently exposed and castigated ; and indeed they are so
obvious that every reader can detect them for himself. Those
which we have signalized are less patent and therefore more
likely to be mischievous.
Prescott's History Of THE CONQUEST of Mexico.
New - York : Harper & Brothers.
We do not feel called upon, at this late day, to enlarge
upon the merits ofthis noble performance. It is to be hoped
that every man who can afford to buy, has bought and read
it ; and the illustrious author, modest as he is known to be,
must have long since felt inclined to shrink from the flood of
well -bestowed eulogium that has been poured upon him by the
daily and weekly press, both of England and America . We
deem it a duty, however - at once a duty and a privilege to
record our humble participation in the sense ofpride awakened
by the production ofsuch a work by one ofour own country
men ; a work far saperior to that of Robertson in accuracy
and fulness of detail, while it is equal in every other quality .
The especial merit of Mr. Prescott's history, in our eyes —
apart from the deep, sustained and engrossing interest that
goes with the reader through every page, the lofty yet not
stilted dignity of the style , the immense mass of accurate his
torical information and the extraordinary character of the
events recorded - the especial merit is the felicity with which
$
NOTICE TO CORRESPONDENTS .
Mr. Prescott has combined, as it were , the two points of view
from which the subject of his work should be regarded ; it
was proper that he should write as in and for the nineteenth
century, with its knowledge, its modes ofthought, its moral,
civil and religious principles ; and this he has done ; but he
has contrived also, with equal judgment in purpose and skill
in execution , to present the scenes , events and persons of his
theme in the light of the age to which they belonged. To us
the conquest of Cortes appears an achievement not less re
markable for its brutal barbarity than for its daring ; we read
with shuddering and indignant horror of the slaughtered
thousands, the devastated cities, the pillage, oppression and
cruelty in a hundred forms; but we should remember the
high -toned though erroneous notions of devotion to God and
the King which mingled largely with the cupidity and rapa
city of the invaders, and under the influence of which they
deemed that what they did was meritorious and deserving of
reward both in heaven and on earth . Mr. Prescott exhibits
to us , more clearly than any other writer has done, the Con
questador in his attributes of piety and patriotism , sincere
though widely erring ; and this point of view is essential to
a just appreciation both of his character and his deeds.
MEXICO as it was and Is. New - York : J. Winchester.
This book should be read in immediate succession to that
of Prescott ; the latter carrying us back to the whirlwind
that swept the once gorgeous cities, temples and palaces of
the Montezumas, giving them over to rapine and destruction
NOTICE TO CORRESPONDENTS .
The editor finds it necessary to adopt a system of communi
cating with the numerous ladies and gentlemen who do him
the honor to offer articles for his acceptance, by thus pub
licly addressing them in type, instead of through the post
office , or the office of Mr. Post. So extensive is the corres
pondence of which he has been the recipient since the publi
cation of the first number, that the mere task of writing in
reply to each of those who have written to him would give
ample employment for a private secretary - a minister of
ease kept in pay chiefly, now - a -days, by fiddlers and French
dancers, but at all events far beyond the means or the hopes
of one who has only brains to make his living withal . It
may be imagined , then , how impossible it would be for the
editor thus to communicate with all, having in addition the
duty to perform of reading all the articles that are sent to
bim, and of attending to the other requirements of the maga
zine. Hereafter, therefore, the disposition of papers offered
as contributions will be made known by general notice, on
the last page of each number ; and the editor will endeavor
thus to dispose of all that shall have reached him down to
the time of preparing that last page for the printer.
The editor must farther request writers to keep copies of
the short pieces they send - those , for example, not extend
ing beyond three or four pages of manuscript. Those of
greater extent, the labor of copying which would be consid
erable, he will leave at the office of the publisher, if not
accepted ; but he cannot undertake to preserve the multitudes
of single sheets and half sheets that are placed at his dispo
sal. None but those who have experienced the toil ofmaga
zine editing can form an idea of the time and care that
would be expended in the effort to return every offered article
of which the editor can make no use -- that effort of course
involving the necessity of envelope, superscription, & c .
With these preliminary remarks the editor proceeds at
once to the discharge of his most difficult and ungracious
duty .
To save the trouble of specifying in regard to two classes
of articles, the editor has to observe that at present he has
no use either for translations, or for papers of such length that
they cannot be published entire in a single number. His
93
and their occupants to slavery, while the other places before
us a vivid representation of the cities and the population that
have succeeded in their room . Prescott makes us acquainted
with the stern, rapacious, valiant, iron -clad Spaniards of the
conquest, and with the ingenious and luxurious though not
effeminate Aztecs, whom they scattered like chaff before
the wind ; Mr. Mayer exhibits the operation of three centu
ries upon the conquerors and the conquered. A very enter
taining book it is, this Mexico of Mr. Brantz Mayer's ; cred
itable to his talents, his industry and his intelligence, and
especially creditable to the diplomatic craft of which he was
a member when he wrote it, inasmuch as it is but seldom
that diplomacy or diplomatic station does so much for litera
ture . On the whole , too, it is a book that was much needed,
for correct ideas of Mexico and the Spaniard -Mexicans,
notwithstanding their vicinity, were more desirable than pre
valent. We shall endeavor to speak of Mr. Mayer's book
again with larger space and time for doing justice to its
merits .
SWEETHEARTS AND Wives . By T. S. Arthur. New
York : Harper & Brothers .
A pleasing tale this, and like all Mr. Arthur's stories,
whether in periodical or volume, conveying a principle or a
sentiment, enunciated with delicacy yet with strong effect.
He always writes with a moral purpose, which is not obtru
ded upon the reader and to which the mere story is yet made
subservient and secondary.
views on these points may change hereafter, but until they
do change he intends to avoid that objectionable phrase, “ To
be continued,” and to dispense with articles not originally
written for American readers .
The following articles are waiting only time and the print
er's craft for insertion : - Honor O'neil, or the Days ofthe
Armada - Eris — The Child and the Profligate — The Vo
tary of Fame - The Old Cloak - The Belles of Ethering
ton - The Brother's Temptation -- Genius and its Reward
The Colonel abroad.- Summer Frolicking and Winter
Reckoning - The Persecutions of Commonplace - A Lite
rary Chowder - The Artist's Lesson -- George Washington
Wilkins -- The Blind Girl -- A Bit of Romance - Verses on
the Death of a Young Girl - Southpeak Mountain - " Twine
not around the aching head," --Scraps of German Litera
ture - The Voice of the New Year -- The Poet's Heart.
The following are respectfully declined ; the editor regret
ting that he cannot make such use of them as the authors
desire : --The Poetry of Housekeeping - The Book of Fate
- The Old Man's Vision - The Lover's Song - The Spirit
Voice - Tragabizanda -The Betrothed's Farewell — The
Nightingale and Rose -tree- “ Why don't be come - " I
pray thee say I love him yet " -- " Oh tiny Bird " — " To _ "
“ Immortality ” - Lament of the Ipsariot Exile.
Communications are left at the office of the publisher for
Peter Pencil -- the author of Washington, a sonnet " - the
author of “ The Circus-Boy " - the author of the “ Lament
of the Ipsariot Exile " - the author of " The Village Pastor"
and “ Alice Welford ."
The Yacht - An Essay on Dreams - The Capuchin - A
Passage in the Life of an Octagenarian — Christopher Co
lumbus — " How to the Heart are sunny Days," and A Hymn,
were not received in season for notice in the present number.
The editor would be glad to communicate with " Stella "
either personally or by letter.
Among the contents of the next number will be articles
by T. S. Arthur, H. W. Herbert, The author of A New
Home , &c . H. Hastings Weld , Mrs. Sigourney, F. G. Halleck,
Park Benjamin and others .
O

“ THE CHAIN THAT LINKS MY HEART TO THINE . "

A BALLAD :
POETRY BY MRS. ANN S. STEPHENS .

MUSIC BY MISS SLOMAN .

Tempo Allegro
SYM .

€
P

3:#

ᎯᎠ
13
Voce .
be

The chain that links my heart to thine, I sometimes fear may

3 :##

be

2 be less bright, That sha dows yet may dim the shrine, On
Deze

cres .

3 :##
 " THE CHAIN THAT LINKS MY HEART TO THINE . "

fo
which my soulhas cast its light: Where - e'er thou art, Or seem - est cold , My

Cres F

5 :#

bo som sad . dens with fear, That love so ea . si - ly con .

3:

troll'd May pe - rish when it is most dear :

다
F P Dim

2 :#

know not why such thoughts should come, To frighten thus my brief re

P
고
Legato

=#
 " THE CHAIN THAT LINKS MY HEART TO THINE."

pose, As
be
hon -ey · bees that cease to roam , Find
SVA ..

3 :#

shel-ter in the fragrant rose , As hon -ey bees that

cease to roam , Find shelter in the fra grant rose.

Loco .

- so Cres . F

9 :##

3 :#
革

SECOND VERSE .

My spirit-bird has found itsrest, She leaves it to less happy things,

And in the shelter of thy love, To seek all flowers that brave the sun ;
She is content to build her nest": She is content to fold her wings,
Without a thought or wish to rove ; And gather honey but from one.
I know not why, &c .
 H
+++
Ն
Ա

HHH
HH
11
11
1
ն

C
Painted by John Opie , Engraved by 2 S SadaNY

CAUGHT NAPPING . O

Enaraved Expressh for the Columbun Masazine

Ponira hy it... il sa
 Painted
F.S.Agat
bye.
Crumbu
and
the WL
Orainly
by
Engraved

Vi
2.1.
Xpre
3317 Mehr
Lab.
 THE
COLUMBIAN MAGAZINE
MARCH , 1844.
HONOR O'NEIL ;
OR THE DAYS
BY HENRY WILLIAM HERBERT , AUTHOR OF
Tere is perhaps even in these days, when the
navigation of the ocean is reduced almost to a cer
tainty, no sea more perilous, no coast more disas
trous, than are those at the north - east of Ireland.
But if they are fearful now, when nautical skill has
been carried to what would seem a ne plus ultra,
were not each day producing aa new wonder, when
every bay, however wild and unfrequented , every
bare rock and treacherous shoal is laid down in the
elaborate charts of every sea - what must they
have been to the rude seamanship of the sixteenth
century ?
The huge basaltic columns that frown upon the
stormy billows on either side the strait, towering
aloft as it up-piled by giant hands ambitious to
prop heaven itself upon their thunder -graven capi
tals — the stern and iron beach below , all cumbered
with huge blocks and columnar masses left seem
ingly by the rash builders' haste at the base of their
unfinished teinple - the very sea, for leagues and
leagues aloof, troubled and tortured by the subma
rine foundations, left incomplete, or interrupted by
some dread natural convulsion - the surf never si
lent in the stillest weather, the breakers leaping and
flashing ten fathoms into air even in summer calms,
so mighty is the swell that rolls in from the north
Atlantic ; yea ! from the Arctic Ocean— these are
VOI . 1.-9 .
OF THE ARMADA .
THE BROTHERS, CROMWELL ," ETC.
the features which to this very day render the
western isles of Scotland and the north -eastern
coast of Erin so formidable, and so feared by sailors.
But at the time of which I write, not one sail
was seen on those waters for hundreds - thousands
I might say — that now glimmer daily to the sun
-
beams or glide ghost-like in the glimpses of the
moon . Yet even at that time had the nations
turned their ambition to the empire of the deep ;
and if more scientific evolutions have been prac
tised since, and more puissant ships thundered along
the deep, yet never since that day have armaments
more numerous ridden the narrow seas ; nor ever
has the valor of the British sailor blazed more pre
dominant or glorious.
The sun was setting, lurid and bloody red, after a
day of storm wilder than wřich none ever lashed
the deep to madness ; nor was it for one day only,
or one week even , that the strange tempest had en
dured ; nor was it any Slind chance, as I believe,
any vague strife of the elements, which in that
heaven - born hurricane mocked the bold blasphemy
that had presumed to name the work of man in
vincible – iron and wood and a few shreds of can
vass ! The sun was setting, lurid and bloody red ,
and, as it ofrer happens, this was the first time he
had showp his angry face that day, and now he
97
98 THE COLUMBIAN
seemed to show it only to render still more wild
and ghastly a scene which surely needed no en
hancement. The sky was packed in every direc
tion , from the horizon to the zenith, with masses
black as ink , of hard and ridgy cloud , except where
in the west was a long, narrow streak , extending
toward the north , full of strange and fiery light —
fiery, although there was nothing in its portentous
glare that conveyed an idea of heat; no ! it was
cold and keen and cutting, that unnatural light ,
which cast a rusty tinge over the huge, gray rocks,
and the leaden billows that reared their crests toss
ing in grand relief against that crimson sky. The
wind, which had been raving all day long, like a
choir of madmen, was sinking with the sun ; and
its wild shrieks and dissonant howling degenerated
now into low, wailing sobs, like those of the same
lunatics, when their paroxysm has worn itself out
and fallen into absolute prostration. Not there
upon , however, did the sea fall in the least , or its
sullen roar abate. On the contrary , now that the
shriller tones of the gale were lulled into momentary
rest, the heavy boom of the surf upon the iron bound
coasts and long projecting reefs came on the ear
with aa sadder and more meaning cadence.
There was, and yet is, a huge , stern cape or
promontory, presenting to the swell of the tremen
dous sea which rolls in from the northward a sin
gle face of rock, above five hundred feet in perpen
dicular height ; and against this the unbroken bil
lows — for the water was very deep quite to its
base -- burst in a sheet of foamy spray , rising one
third at least of the precipice's altitude, with a
reverberating roar that might be heard many
leagues landward, and almost as far to sea. Im
mediately to leeward of this gigantic barrier, and
sheltered by it almost entirely from both wind and
tide, a small, deep bay ran up into the land , where
a strong but narrow stream came rushing down a
steep gorge or ravine to cast itself into the sea .
The barks of this ravine were thickly feathered
with hanging coppices of alder, ash and birch , with
here and there a juniper or yew, and rarer yet a
stunted Scotish fir, mingling their darker hues
with the bright green of the deciduous trees around
them. This little patch of wood was perhaps more
remarkable from is being found in that wild and
barren spot ; for all the line of coast , stretching
away in view for mary a mile , was bleak and bare
and treeless. But here, sheltered by the vast preci
pices to the northward , and watered by the pure
mountain strearnlet , the inderwood grew in pro
fuse luxuriance , and some of the hardier ashes were
shooting up into respectable timber trees. Imme
diately to the south again of the little bight, formed
by the meeting of the torrent and the sea , the coast
again rose into bold , basaltic crags, the thin soil on
their summits clothed with short, scanty grass , and
a long reef of angular and rifted coluains running
MAGAZINE .
out far into the straits , and even at high water
holding its black heads high above the sea , even in
spring tides or storms of ordinary violence. At
this time , however, not a speck of the dark , pointed
rocks could be discovered ; nor to an unpractised
eye was there any proof that their keen and jagged
ledges lay but a little space beneath the surface of
the white and boiling surge , which foamed and
whirled and thundered over them in sheets of
eddying snow .
A small, blue streak , blue as the deepest indigo,
was alone left to indicate the entrance of the bay
between the surf that flashed up against the north
ern promontory's face, and the hissing breakers on
the reef, so narrow was the channel through which
the waves rolled in , untortured ; but within that
recess all was comparatively still and safe, although
the tide burst heavily upon the stripe of white sand
which bordered it, and even hurled its salt spray
far up the steep bed of the mountain torrent, far
over the green leaves which overhung it.
Such was the scene and such the weather on
which a group of men were gazing anxiously
from the summit of the huge promontory I have
essayed to describe. They were , it seemed, sol
diers ; for the red sun- light was flashed back in
long reflections from breastplates and casques of
polished steel , or twinkled keenly on their pike
heads, which glittered star- like , as those who
carried them moved to and fro upon that dizzy
elevation. The party which was collected nearest
to the brink of the cliff consisted of seven or eight
men , richly attired in the costume peculiar to the
court of Elizabeth ; with slashed scarlet hose , em
broidered jerkins, short cloaks and huge rosettes in
their velvet shoes, which two or three of the number
had not discarded even in the midst of war and
peril on the wild coast of semi-barbarous Ireland.
At a little distance however from these gay gal
lants, somewhat farther from the rock's verge and
under shelter of the barren ridge , there was drawn
up , in the close, serried order of the day , a body of
about two hundred musketeers , with steel caps and
polished corslets, and bandoleers, and long, un
wieldy matchlocks. Supporting these, in a second
line at some fifty yards distance, was probably an
equal force of pikemen , wearing defensive armor
yet more complete than their companions' , with
spears of eighteen feet in length and heavy rapiers
at their side for weapons of offence. All these were
drawn up under a white ensign with a broad, scar .
let cross , the far famed banner of St. George ; and ,
though they stood at ease , with their pikes and
muskets leaning against their shoulders, it was easy
to see ,from the wistful look of the men , and from
the care which the subaltern officers were at to pre
vent their straggling from the ranks, that they ex
pected ere long to be in active duty.
It was a strange sight to see those men so accu
었
 HONOR O'NEIL ; OR THE DAYS OF THE ARMADA .
rately ordered and arrayed in that stern solitude ;
for it was evident by the brightness and perfect state
of their accoutrements , as well as from the gay and
unsullied garb of their leaders, that they must be on
permanent and regular duty in the neighborhood,
with stores and magazines at hand and everything
that constitutes the difference between mere sojourn
ers and men in permanent occupation of the soil.
Yet looking for miles up and down the coast, the
eye could discover nothing that resembled either
town or village ; no fishing hamlet even, with its
rude jetty and low huts ; no feudal castle , with
bannered keep frowning from its embattled rock ;
no palisadoed station, to repress the savage and
half conquered natives. Whence then could be
that English force, or where their abode ? There is
one dwelling - only one in sight. if that can in
deed be called a dwelling which has had no inhabi
tant, save the wild hawk that makes her eyry on
its summit, since the fierce Picts and roving Norse
men were wont to devastate the green shores of
unhappy Erin . It was, in short, one of those singu
lar round towers which abound everywhere in the
northern and north -western isles of Scotland and
along the Irish coasts , the origin and use of which
are still a mystery and a riddle to our most subtle
antiquaries. Though it seem a mere ruin, at first
sight, observe more closely and you shall see that
the old Pictish round tower has undergone such
repairs as to render it a tenantable, nay a defensible
position. Its low and rugged portal has been de
fended by a heavy door of oak, studded with nails ;
loopholes have been made through the heavy
walls, and even windows perforated in the upper
stories ; there is a sentinel on duty at the entrance ,
and that long engine on the summit must be, nay
is, a falconet or culverin, hoisted by dint of skill and
labor to that commanding elevation.
This then is their stronghold ; but to what end
can that handful keep armed watch on these wild
shores ? - too few to subdue a free, or even to coerce
a subjugated people ; too few , as it would scem,
even to keep themselves against the hardy kernes
of Ulster, whom you might well conceive their
presence would goad into wrath and armed re
bellion .
And lo ! it is not to the landward side , but to the
shore, that their anxious gaze is directed ; it is
toward the sea that they turn ears keen with fiery
expectation.
Yes ! listen ! brave hearts, listen ! it is the
rumbling thunder of a distant cannonade ! the roar
of a sea-fight , even in the midst of this appalling
tempest ! -- and lo ! there — there on the far ho.
rizon to the northward -- there , cutting clear against
that cold , red streak, rise the topsails of a squadron !
66
Walsingham , it is they, past doubt ; I was sure
of it when I first heard them ; and see, how fast
they are coming down — the wind must be getting
99
up again from the northward ; " said a square ,
thick -built man, heavily armed, with black eye
brows and mustaches, but hair as white as snow,
bearing the traces of many a foughten field in two
or three long scars seaming his blunt and weather
beaten features. “ It must be the stragglers of the
armada we have heard tell of."
“ God send it may , Sir Nicholas ; " returned the
other, a gay, handsome youth of twenty-three or
twenty -four years, dressed in the extreme of the
mode , in a close , long peaked corset - not much un
like in shape to the boddice of a lady's dress of the
present day — of crimson velvet, cut low in the
neck and showing a shirt of fine linen , embroidered
with gold thread in fanciful devices. The crimson
corset was all purfled with stripes of cloth of gold,
running down from the shoulders to a point in the
centre of the waist , where they seemed to meet in
the gold boss of his sword belt, rich with carvings
of Cellini's chisel. Between these stripes the whole
material of his vest was thickly sown with small
seed pearls, as was his crimson velvet cap, encircled
with a gold chain and medal —fanfarona, as it
was then termed - and his short cloak all fringed
with gold and lined with peach-colored sarcenet .
The trunk hose or breeches of this gay gallant
were likewise crimson, profusely laced and slashed
with the same kind of sarcenet which lined his
mantle ; his nether stocks were of peach -colored
silk , and his red velvet shoes had rosettes, as big
almost as a trencher, of red and peach color and
gold. His weapons were a long, two-edged rapier,
in a superbly chased and gilded scabbard, and a
poniard at the other side his girdle , of correspond
ing workmanship. His face was eminently hand
some , so far as coloring and features were con
sidered ; but the expression was a singular and
most unpleasing mixture of effeminacy and effron
tery , of licentiousness and irony ; that, to one used
to seek for indications of the human mind in the
human physiognomy, would have gone far to neu
tralize the effect of his comely features. His luxu
riant auburn hair fell down his neck in loose ring
lets, and he wore a long, peaked beard and huge
mustaches, which he twirled upward with his
fingers as he spoke.
“ God send it may, Sir Nicholas, and that they
may land hereabout."
“ I cannot join in your prayer, my Lord ,” re
plied the sturdy veteran , “ for should they land in
force, we be all too few to resist them ; and if they
come in , scattered fugitives, these orders like me
not . There is no honor to be gained at either
hand ; and for my part I have had fighting enough
in my day to be sick of mere blood -shedding,
whether it be mine own , or of others."
“ Well ! well ! Sir Nicholas, every one to his
taste ; ” replied the young nobleman, with an un
pleasant smile ; " I, for one,am aweary of this mo
100 THE COLUMBIAN
minn
notonous existence – pent up in this Pictish round
tower, if it be Pictish — parading half the day with
pike and caliver, and no one against whom to
charge the one or bend the other ; no girls with
whom to laugh and ogle ; no lists in which to joust,
with merry eyes upon our prowess ; I might almost
say , and no wine with which to carouse , when the
watch is set and the gates barred, for I believe we
have broached the last cask. I tell you , Sir Nicho
las, it galls my very soul to be penned here on this
accursed coast, with nothing under heaven to do
but throw pebbles at the gulls and sea -mews, while
Drake, and Frobisher, and Hawkins are winning
gold and glory in the channel. For my soul I do
trust they will land here ; whether storm -driven or
in array of war I care not , so they come. I should
have thought you had been at it with them long
enough not to think over deeply of slashing half a
dozen hides of Spanish leather ; and that will be
the worst of it."
“ Be ihe worst of it what it may, ” replied Sir
Nicholas Blount, “ we are likely to try it before
long, my Lord . Those ships are rising very fast
before the wind , and I can see even now that there
is one very large galleon in the number, staggering
hitherward under whatever sail she can carry , as if
to escape those smaller vessels in the offing. She
will be here, if she bring the wind she has down
with her, in an hour or less."
“ She will bring more -- she will bring more, Sir
Nicholas ; ” exclaimed another of the group, who
had not yet spoken ; a tall , dark, sun -burned per
sonage , with a quick eye and a roving look. “ She
will bring more — for look you, it is ever so --
when the wind lulls thus, as the sun goes down ,
and then freshens up again directly , you may be
sure that it will blow great guns before midnight.”
“ I think so, master Darrington , ” replied Blount.
“ I know so ," answered the other ; “ why, when
I was with the jolly flibustiers, down on the Span
ish main ”
“ Look ! look ! ” cried Walsingham , suddenly ;
“she has got even now as much as she can do
with .”
As he spoke, the eyes of every one , having been
for a moment diverted from the spectacle at a dis
tance , were again turned toward the ships. The
storm , it was evident at a glance , was again mus
tering in its fury , and the large ship which , as she
drew nearer, already seemed to be partially disa
bled , had indeed but too surely more to do than
was consistent with her safety.
At this time there appeared to be, far off to wind
ward , two separate and considerable squadrons ;
one , several miles in advance of the other, consisting
of many large ships, all more or less crippled in
their masts and rigging, which were carrying as
weather aa helm as possible, with the view evidently
of working round the northern extremity of Ireland,
MAGAZINE .
and so escaping their pursuers in the broad Atlari.
tic ; the second, composed of a smaller number of
ships, and these apparently lower and lighter, but
handled with much greater skill , and , as far as
could be seen , little damaged yet, either by the
tempest or the enemy's fire ; these last were crowd
ing as much sail as they could safely carry , and
gaining very rapidly on their unwieldy antagonists.
About midway between the squadrons and the
height whereon the English troops were stationed,
and not now above five or six miles distant from
the cape , lay the great galleon mentioned, rolling
and laboring very heavily in the sea , and seeming
to be in no small danger. She evidently was
a war-ship of the very largest class, and as she
drew every moment nigher and nigher, it was easy
to perceive that she had suffered much from the
tempest , or the cannonading of her pursuers. All
her foremast was carried away, to within a few feet
of the deck ; and it was probably in consequence of
her inability to carry any head sail that she was
prevented from laying the same weatherly course
with her consorts ; and, all hope being lost of going
to windward of Cape Wrath, was thus compelled
to scud down the narrow straits between the Scot.
tish and Irish coasts, and then to run the gauntlet
of the English cruisers in St. George's Channel.
At the very moment when Lord Walsingham
called the attention of his officers to the Spaniard's
working - for she was now so near that they could
make out distinctly the peculiarities of her build -
the gale, dead before which she was now running,
had increased so frightfully , and the seas followed
her so fast, that she was evidently in much danger
of being pooped. A lubberly attempt was made to
get her head to the wind, but at that very instant a
fresh and more furious flaw struck her, and , quicker
than words can describe it , her main and mizen
masts went by the board , and she lay a helpless
hulk in the trough of the boiling sea .
“ Her tale is told ! ” exclaimed the man who had
spoken of the flibustiers, or buccaneers ; “ no human
skill can keep her timbers together half an hour
longer ; I would not be on her deck for fifty thou
sand of the best crowns of the sun that were ever
coined in Spain ! ”
“ Nor I” — replied Sir Nicholas Blount ; " she
is drifting down to us bodily — within half an hour
she will either dash herself to atoms on this cape,
or go into the breakers yonder on the reef — in
either case God help the poor souls aboard of her."
“ And see — see" -- exclaimed Walsingham ,
pointing broad off to windward , where two small
frigates, which had evidently been in chase of the
galleon , were seen putting up their helms and
standing off toward the fleets in the offing. “ See,
our fellows there are of the same opinion ; they
look upon him as so surely lost that they don't hold
him worth the waste of gunpowder."
24
X
HONOR O'NEIL ; OR THE DAYS OF THE ARMADA .
" Or the risk , ” said Darrington, “ of getting
themselves embayed among these cursed rocks and
whirlpools. But ha ! there goes a signal ! "
And indeed, as he spoke, a bright flash was
seen from one of the bow ports of the leading fri
gate , and after the lapse of many seconds the heavy
roar of a piece of large sized ordnance came boom
ing down the wind.
“ They see the tower here and suspect that we
are on the outlook , " replied Walsingham . “ Run
one of you up thither, and let them fire the falconet
yonder, and run up the English ensign."
His orders were obeyed almost as quickly as
they were issued, one of the younger officers run
ning as fast as he could up to the old tower on the
hill, and shouting to a man or two who had come
out upon the battlements ; a minute had not cer
tainly elapsed since the first signal gun from the
frigate, yet she fired two more in quick succession,
setting the English colors in several parts of her
rigging, and receiving no reply, had already altered
her course a second time, as if to resume the chase,
when the long gun at the turret-head belched forth
its volume of white smoke, and the broad snowy
field and blood -red cross of St. George's glorious
standard ran up to the staff-head and blew out fair
and free on the wind which appeared to love it , so
fondly did it dally with the folds. A fourth gun
from the frigate replied, and again she stood away
for the offing, as if now certain that the fate of her
enemy was decided. But it appeared that from
the very imminence of their peril the Spaniards had
derived fresh courage. Laboring with all the
ready wit and quick courage of seamen , in that day
second to none in the world , they had already got
up a spar on the stump of the foremast and were
busy making sail, in the hope of clearing the
dreadful reefs on their starboard bow. For a little
while it appeared doubtful whether this expedient
might not prove successful; for in the first in
stance it did so far answer that the galleon an
swered her helm and was enabled for a time to lay
a course that, could she have held it, would have
carried her clear of her more imminent perils.
And now her crew might be seen from the height
by the watchers, exerting themselves to the utmost
to get up another jurymast and spread more sail.
Better had it been by far for them to spend that all
precious time in making secure the spar which
they had already temporarily fixed, for so violently
did the wind rise, in fierce and gusty squalls, each
more tremendous than that which preceded it, and
so inertly did the crippled vessel rise upon the bil
lows, that, when she was within a short mile's dis
tance of the promontory , the fragile jurymast was
blown clear out of her, the fastenings and stays
snapping like whip cord , and was carried by the
action of its sail over the bows into the yeasty foam
which covered the whole surface of the deep .
101
“ Poor souls ! ” cried Sir Nicholas Blount, once
more ; " poor souls ! they will be lost here - close
in here - under our very eyes we shall see them
perish ! ”
“ I hope they may so perish ,” returned Wal
singham ; “ it will spare us some painful duty if
they do."
“ But if she go to pieces here upon the reef, and
a few only come ashore, my Lord, surely you will
not think yourself ” –
“ Sir Nicholas, not one must come ashore - at
least living ! ” replied the young Lord gravely,
with a deep frown upon his brow and an almost
convulsive compression of his lips.
~ Good God ! Lord Wasingham,” cried a young
officer who had not yet spoken ; “ this is most
horrible - you do not mean to say" .
“ I do not mean to argue on the matter, Captain
Dacre ! Your duty is to obey my orders as my
duty is to obey those of our most gracious mis.
tress ! ”
And those are , my Lord ? ” — asked Blount.
And those are most precise, Sir Nicholas,” re
66
plied Lord Walsingham , " to suffer no Spaniard to
come ashore , under any circumstances whatsoever,
and in case of their landing to give no quarter ! ”
“ My God ! and if these miserable devils run on
the reef there and some few struggle shoreward,
must you and will you shoot them ? ”
“ I must — and I will ! ” Walsingham answered
sternly. “ And so no more words about it ! " and
he turned on his heel and stood gazing anxiously,
with an earnest eye and quivering lip, upon the
fated vessel as she now drifted helplessly in the
current which was setting her bodily upon the
rocks.
“ Now , gentlemen , " he said , raising his voice
harshly, more harshly than he was wont to speak,
for he did not dare to trust himself; “ be pleased to
go all of you to your commands. You , Darrington,
lead down the musketeers into the cove and draw
them up in single file on this side the ravine. You,
Captain Dacre , take half the pikes, cross over the
torrent in the bottom of the gorge and post yourself
beyond the point where the reef joins the main land .
Lindsay, go you with the rest, all out six men with
a lancepesade, who must awaii my orders, up to
the turret , to work the long culverin ; load it at
once and be in readiness. Sir Nicholas, stay with
me ! "
Then as his subalterns retreated from his imme
diate neighborhood and went about their several
duties, he looked even more wistfully than before
to the crippled war-ship , and bit his lip till the
blood sprang .
“ Nicholas," he said, grasping the hand of his
second in command with a gripe as of an iron vice,
“ Nicholas Blount, I would give the best limb of my
6
body that I had not said, ' God send them ! ' I
9*

182 THE COLUMBIAN MAGAZINE .
never dreamed of this, Heaven knows - never !
never ! ”
“ Think not of that, Walsingham — think not
of that - duty is hard enough without such thoughts
as these to make it harder. "
“ But I scoffed - but I jested at them but now ,
brutally ; yes ! brutally ;" Walsingham interrupted
him , almost sobbing.
“ No ! no ! ” replied Blount sturdily ; " soldierly !
soldierly ! You jested at the thought of a fair
field and no favor ; but neither you nor any of us
at all thought of this. Are you sure , my Lord , that
9
the queen ”
sure
“ Sure ! ” replied Walsingham fiercely ;
as that there is a sun in heaven , that did I swerve
one hair's breadth from the letter of her orders, my
head would roll on the scaffold.”
“ Then there is no help for it,” said Blount, who
now appeared much cooler and more stern than his
commander ; " and we must execute the letter of
them . Besides, however painful it may be or terri
ble , I am afraid that it is necessary , for the Earl
O'Neil and his people here are all more than
half disaffected now, and far less than half subdued ;
and with the discipline and guns of a few of the
Dons to aid their native valor, would be too much
for all the Englishmen we can muster hereabout;
and Philip is so strong, even now, in Flanders, and
gives us so much trouble on the seas, even if he be
not in Kent by this time , that a single cast of the
die against us now would turn fearful odds against
old England. Therefore I say, good my Lord" .
“ I understand you , Blount ; I understand you.
But it is to no purpose that you talk , old friend ;
I must do it , and for doing it , my name will be dis
graced forever as a cold blooded murderer !”
“ Notso, by God ! ” replied the rough old soldier ;
" not so , I tell you, Walsingham . If any disgrace
be in the matter, then will it fall, where fall of right
it should , upon the que — ”
“ Hush ! hush ! man ; " interposed the Earl, lay
ing his hand forcibly upon the old soldier's mouth ,
“you are mad — you are mad to speak so of Eliza
beth. Were you alone on a single plank in the
midst of the Atlantic , and were there to whisper
treason of her ,dy heaven ! and Him who rules it,
I do believe that the birds of the air, or the billows
of the sea , or the very winds to which you syllabled
your thoughts, I care not how discreetly, would
bear it to her jealous ears, that you should one day
rue it ; but see, they are fast drifting hither. Oh
God ! oh God ! what shall I do ? ” and he wrung
his hands in his great mental anguish , till the blood
started from beneath his nails. Say , Blount, what
shall I do ?”
“ Obey your orders ;" said the old soldier , who,
moved partly by his stern sense of discipline and
duty, inculcated by years of hard service in the
Low Countries, and yet more by observing the
*
reluctance of his superior, wag vastly more inclined
to act as his kind heart and noble feelings disap
proved , than he would have been , had Walsingham
continued resolute and energetical. “ Obey your
orders, sir ! there is no help for it ; and see here -
anything is better than shooting the men down or
piking them in cold blood as they come ashore ; if
the current should set them down upon this head
land , that they strike it clear head on , all will be
over in ten seconds, for not one of them , though
he should swim like a cormorant, will ever make
his way out of that devil's cauldron yonder. I see
they have got a rag of canvass out again , and are
trying to head her round the cape, so as to come
into the cove there ; if they should do so safely be
tween the rock and the surf, they will all get
ashore and we shall have our hands even but too
full, for there must be at least five hundred of them
in that great galleon . Now a few shot pitched
into them just now will confuse them ; it is very
likely that they will fail to round the headland and
so save us all the trouble , and, what is far worse , all
the heartache . Besides, it is one thing to fire on
an enemy's ship with a hostile ensign flying, and
another to shoot unarmed and shipwrecked fugi
tives. You were best let me go up to the tower,
my Lord, and let me take command of the old cul.
verin . She is in fair range now from this eleva
tion, and I would wager my sword to a turkey's
feather, I bring splinters once in three shots. How
say you , shall I go ?”
“ Yes ! go! go ! and Heaven speed you ; forthough
it seem a barbarous deed , 'tis the most merciful
that we can venture on ; and therefore , Nicholas,
I say Heaven speed you ! though God He knows
that my heart is very sore and heavy. "
Sir Nicholas awaited no more orders, but anxious
to spare , so far as he was able , the feelings of his
commander, and to avoid the terrible necessity of
murdering prisoners in cold blood , hurried up to the
stone tower far faster than he was often seen to walk.
And here , perhaps, I ought to pause a moment
for so far it is nearly history that I have written
for I feel that I owe some explanation to those of
my readers who may be tempted to ask how can
these things be, that the English nation, famous at all
times for humanity to the conquered, exclaiming
eyer against the fearful war-cry of ra victis, should
have been guilty of such barbarous cruelty as it is
my lot in this little tale to narrate .
Far be it — far from me - to palliate calm blood
shedding — to frame sophistical defences even for
my own nation , where truth and honor dare not
raise their trumpet tongues in her behalf. Yet this
much may be said , that if ever in the history of the
world there was a time, or there were circum
stances under which such conduct is less liable to
condemnation than another, that was the time and
those were the circumstances.
 HONOR O'NEIL ; OR THE DAYS OF THE ARMADA .
It must be remembered that England of the
sixteenth was far different, even in the glorious
reign of good Queen Bess, from England of the
nineteenth century ; that in those days the ocean
isles had not begun to gird the round world about
with a zone of colonial empires ; that her tongue
was not then spoken upon every shore , her flag
seen floating over every sea , her morning gun -fire
the first sound saluting the sun's advent in every
angle of the habitable world. No, she was then
but England ; Scotland a kingdom more than half
hostile within the limits of one island, Ireland a
collection of wild hordes, fierce and untamed , and
ready to spring up in broad rebellion against the
shadow - the mere shadow of foreign power which
trembled insecurely on her coasts.
What England now is, in some respects, Spain
then was. She had her colonies of exhaustless
wealth , her El- dorados in the new world ; she had
her mighty armaments swelling unconquered over
every known sea , and challenging that supremacy
which , till the day of which I write, had never been
disputed.
At this period Philip, the able and indefatigable
monarch of the latter kingdom , enraged at the
assistance which Elizabeth had furnished under
handedly to the persecuted Protestants of the low
countries, then struggling for civil and religious
freedom — ambitious at the same time of universal
empire — and above all especially desirous of clasp
ing in his diadem " that precious isle-gem set in the
silver sea ” - Philip, I say, had launched such an
armament, containing such an army, as Europe
had never perhaps known heretofore. The cru
cifix or the sword was to be the people's option —
submission to the king of Spain or absolute anni
hilation ! It is true that the Lord of Hosts had
arisen in his might, calling upon the giant billows
to arise , and the winds, which are his instruments,
to strew the narrow seas with wrecks of the fierce
invader — and they arose and performed his bid
ding ! It is true that the light frigates of Drake,
and Effingham , and Frobisher, and Hawkins, had
burned, and sunk, and taken, many of those which
the tempest spared. But there were still enough
afloat and unharmed, though dispersed and mo
mentarily crippled, that if they should but reunite,
and be favored with calm weather - for storms
cannot last forever — they might unquestionably
work sore detriment if not destruction to the Eng
lish navy .
Nor would the descent of large bodies of men,
at that time reputed the best soldiers in the world,
upon the shores of Ireland or the Hebrides, have
been less perilous to England's domination .
Brave themselves in the highest , bigoted, burn
ing for revenge and conquest, hating the very name
of England , they would have found themselves on
either side the channel among a race brave as
103
themselves, and hardier, professing the same faith ,
burning with the same thirst for vengeance , cherish
ing the same hate toward the mutual foe – fierce,
crafty , vigorous, untamed and almost irresistible in
onslaught. What wonder then that the subtle and
imperious queen, who swayed in those days so
ably if so rigorously the sceptre of the British em
pire, dreaded to hear that the castled flag of Spain
was displayed among the kindred sons of Fingal.
That, powerless to detach large armies for the de
fence of distant coasts, when her very seat of em
pire was so menaced, she endeavored by the terror
of her arms to make up for the numerical weak
ness of those who bore them.
Be this however as it may, certain it is that
Elizabeth , and all the sagest of her advisers, were
fully of opinion that the landing of aa Spanish force
anywhere in the midst of the hostile and Catholic
races, which held the Highlands of Scotland and
the whole of green Erin , would be the signal for
instant and inveterate hostility against her throne
and faith , against the very existence of the nation
she represented .
Under these circumstances she adopted the only
means she saw feasible - barbarous means it is
true - unjustifiable means it may be — but it is too
late in the day now to deny that both nations and
individuals, when striving blindly and almost hope.
lessly for self -preservation , will do many things from
the bare idea of which they would shrink in abhor
rence in calmer and more peaceful moments.
Be this however as it may, many minutes did
not elapse before old Sir Nicholas, shaking off his
reluctance by dint of his desire to spare the feelings
of his chief, and yielding to a spirit of professional
zeal which began to rise up in his bosom at the
sight of the Spanish flag, reached the stone tower,
mounted its battlements, and forgetting all his
milder feelings was busily engaged in training the
long culverin , and levelling it against the ill- fated
galleon.
She was now so near to the perilous headland
that Lord Walsingham , who still lingered on the
precipice's verge , gazing with a strange sort of pain.
ful fascination upon his destined victims, could dis
tinguish the personages of the numerous crew which
crowded her decks, could mark their despairing
gestures, nay almost fancied he could hear their
wild cries for assistance, as he stood in full view of
all on that towering elevation.
At this moment a light, soft footstep fell on the
grass beside him , but so preoccupied was his mind
by what was passing below that he did not hear,
or at least did not heed it ; the next moment a
sweet toned voice said, with that slight and pecu
liar accent which shows the speaker to be using an
acquired and not a native language –
“ Jesu - Maria ! they will all perish — they will
all perish !” The earl turned quickly round , for
 104 THE COLUMBIAN
he recognized in the voice the tones of one whom ,
despite her wild origin, he had already learned al
most to love -- but as he turned , and ere he met
her eye, a strange howling rushing sound passed
over his head , accompanied by a glare of light
clearly visible in the growing darkness of the eve
ning, and followed almost instantly by the roar of
the heavy cannon. Moved though he was by the
near presence of the speaker, he could not choose
but follow with reluctant yet greedy eyes the flight
of the heavy missile. It was not ten seconds before
he saw it plunge into the sea within three feet of
the galleon's bow, dashing the spray over the shat
tered bulwarks - a long wild shriek at this dread
augmentation of their perils went up from all on
board , above the deep and thunderous booming of
the surf, above the shrill raving of the tempest. Wal
singham started back with an expression of the
most awful anguish that ever was written on the
lineaments of mortal man pervading all his features
- he pressed his hands wildly to his ears as if to
exclude those awful cries, but as he did so a light
hand was laid upon his arm ; recalled to himself
he again turned, and met the eyes, full of strange
and half indignant surprise, ofher who had so lately
spoken.
She was a tall and slender girl, habited in a
singular yet beautiful fashion, whose hand yet rested
on his arm , and whose whole face, as I have said ,
was full of strange and eager wonderment. Her
hair, which was black as jet , fell down over her
shoulders completely unrestrained by any band or
diadem , except a slender fillet of green and gold
passing around her brow nearly after the manner of
a modern ferroniere, and restraining the redundant
curls from falling over her features. All the rest
of her dark tresses flowed down in rich silky masses,
not curls or ringlets, though they were full of soft
and natural waves on which the light played in a
hundred glittering reflections, till they almost
reached her knee. Her brows and eyelashes were
like her hair, as dark as night, though the clear
beaming eyes which flashed from out the fringe of
those long lustrous lashes were of the brightest and
most sparkling blue. Her features were regularly
beautiful, and above all the mouth , that most ex
pressive feature of the face, of the ripest and most
living crimson, might well have wooed an angel's
kiss by its delicious combination of arch mirth and
melting tenderness. Her complexion was pure as
the driven snow -so pure indeed , that you might
see the myriads of small azure veins all interlaced
and glowing beneath the pearly skin . From the
whole style and character of her face it might be
judged that in general her soft cheeks were over
spread by a warm peach -like hue, but now they
were as pale as death — for the terror that glazed
for the moment her beautiful blue eyes had banished
every shade of color from her features. Her figure,
MAGAZINE .
which was considerably taller than the ordinary
height of her sex , and exquisitely delicate and
graceful , was clothed from her neck downward to
the ancles in a long robe of fine white linen, for
the fabric of which the Irish were already famous,
with aa deep fringe of gold about the hem , and a
massive chain of the same material, native of the
isle, wound twice about her waist for a girdle. An
ample robe of some green silky looking tissue reach
ing the ground, and spreading out into a short train,
covered her back and shoulders, confined to her
waist by the same girdle which restrained the loose
folds of her white tunic ; but neither garment had
any sleeves, her beautiful white arms being bare
quite to the shoulders, with many bracelets of gold
and Irish diamonds setting off their voluptuous
roundness. Her little feet were likewise bare all
save a pair of slight sandals, consisting merely of
a slender sole fastened by gold cords attached upon
the instep by a diamond clasp.
Such was the figure of the girl who had caught
the arm of the English leader, with an air of digni
fied and native grace , equally remote from vulgar
familiarity and wild boldness. It was the action of
one innocent alike , and ignorant of evil thoughts —
of an equal addressing an equal — of a lady claiming
the due attention of the sterner sex .
One only ornament she bore which I have left
unmentioned , a long slight staff of wood, as black
as ebony, for which it might have easily been taken ,
though it was in reality of bog oak, adorned with
many studs and symbolical devices wrought in pure
gold , and having for a head a large star very inge
niously wrought in the native diamonds of the
largest size , set in the same rich metal with her
bracelets and girdle.
When Walsingham's eye fell upon the figure of
this lovely girl, she was leaning a little forward ,
her left hand resting on the hollow of his arm , and
her right extended with the wand or sceptre point
ing toward the shattered galleon, quite over the
verge of the precipice , on the extreme point of
which she was standing, and her superb eyes fixed
on his face with an expression between fear, and
wonder, and regret, as if she would have perused
his very soul.
“ What does this mean ?” she said in a low,
piercing whisper, that went to his very soul –
“ what does this mean , my Lord Walsingham ?”
But ere his lips had parted to reply , her question
was answered ; for again the gun on the battle
ments belched forth its flame and smoke, and again
the heavy ball bowled through the murky air over
their heads, but this time it struck the fated ship
full on the deck, and tearing its way clear through,
passed out of her farther side a little space above
the water line ; again the awful cry went up from
the decks, appealing to the righteous heavens from
the unspeakable cruelty of man . Several of those
 HONOR O'NEIL ; OR THE DAYS OF THE ARMADA .
on board, it was evident, had been struck down
either by the shot itself or by the splinters it drove
hither and thither in its passage. There was a
rush for one oment toward the stern , where the
Spanish banner was still floating, as if with the
intent of lowering it — so to appease the anger
of their unpitying foemen -- but it was checked in
stantly by the officers, whom the English earl could
see, as they rushed forward sword in hand to pro
tect their country's honor, and reduce their men to
prompt obedience.
“ Honor, " he replied , in deep hoarse tones
" Honor — my heart is broken - pity me ! spare
me ! ”
“ Do you see ?” she answered quickly — " do
you see -- do you know that these men are sink
ing - perishing -- going down, there before our
eyes ? and do you fire upon them ? ”
“ I do ! I do see it -- know it — feel it - ay !
feel it, Honor O'Neil, feel it to my heart's core ---
and weep tears of blood for it — yet still — still I
-
must do it ” She raised her voice shrilly as she uttered the
"Must ! must ! " she answered , grasping his arm
yet more tightly than before, and gazing full into
his eyes which were almost abashed by the clear
light of her superb falcon - like glance - - “ You , a
man and a soldier, and say must ! Come, come,
why must you ? "
“ The queen ! her orders are precise — I must
obey them , or be mansworn and traitor -- ”
“ The queen ! ” she replied in a voice full ofthe
most concentrated scorn , flinging his arm off as she
spoke , with a gesture of majesty and contempt
strangely mingled - “ The queen ! and do you , a
man, a soldier and a gentleman, obey such orders
- and from a woman's tongue ? Is this thing pos
sible , or do my ears deceive me? ”
" They have not, Honor, they have not deceived
you - it is so — hark ! listen ! there goes another
shot -- it misses them - lo ! how the splinters fly
- hark , how the wretches yell ; ay, yell on !
yell on ! soon shall your cries be quenched in the
deep earlegs sea ; and on my soul shall be the
sin , the anguish and the shame forever !”
Honor gazed on him steadily with a sorrowful
eye , and then said in accents wherein contempt
and pity bore nearly equal parts,
“ And art thou such a one, Earl Walsingham ?
art thou such a one ? ” and she paused for a mo
ment or two, seemingly buried in deep, wild med
itation , but as the fatal gun again bellowed from
aloti, and was again rechorused by that cry of ago.
ny, her eye lightened angrily , and she cried out,
“ and being such a one , how did you dare , I say
how did you dare to seek the love , the high and
noble and pure love of an O'Neil — of me -- me ,
Honor - Honor O'Neil, I say — how dared you
seek my love -- the daughter of the great Earl
Turlough ! Man ! man !” she went on, warming
105
with the excitement and vehemence of her delivery ,
“ Man ! I have loved you — loved you even while
I cursed, nay , scorned myself for loving you ; and
now how well art thou paid — well art thou
avenged on me , O my country , for that brief dream
of disaffection ! I tell thee , man , wert thou the
ruler of all the realms which cringe beneath the
footstool of the vain cruel woman whom thou dost
crawl to as thy queen , and didst as thou now doest,
knowing and feeling as thou dost know and feel
the depth and baseness of thy infamy, I would spit
on thee as I now do , and defy thee ! Never dare
look me in the face again — never dare syllable my
name in thy most secret moments — never dare
even think upon Honor O'Neil, whom , if thou didst
once win , thou hast now lost forever. Yet think
not think not thy cruelty shall prevail. I tell thee
by God's aid that these shall yet be preserved. Fare
thee well , Walsingham — fare thee well, forever
and forever ! Ho ! Murtough ! Murtough ! where
be the horses, Murtough ?”
last words, and obedient at her call , a small urchin
clad in a dress fantastically wrought in blended
hues of green and saffron , with his head covered
with wild elf -locks, came up at the full gallop, riding
one clever, active pony , and leading another, snow
white, and of rare beauty, with mane and tail that
literally almost swept the ground.
“ Fare thee well , Earl of Walsingham," she re
peated, as she caught the slight bridle in her hand
and sprang to the embroidered pad, which filled
the place of a saddle — “ Fare thee well, and re
member how thou didst lose Honor !"
Whether she intended a play on the words in
her bitter speech may not now be known, but she
waved her hand to him with a haughty gesture,
shook the rein on her palfrey's neck , and darted
away over the smooth, short turf with speed little
inferior to that of the swallow.
The wretched man to whom she spoke replied
not , but stood stunned , as it were, and seemingly
unconscious of all that was going on around him .
Again and again and again the culverin bellowed
forth from the turret's head the storm of iron hail,
and three times at least out of four the ponderous
missiles took effect on the unarmed and helpless
wreck, cumbering her decks with slain ; yet still
the gallant captain stood to the helm where waved
his country's ensign, and with a chosen band
guarded it still. “ To lower it," he said , “ will
but gratify the pride of those dog islanders, us
will it profit nothing - it is our blood they crave ,
and it seems like that their cravings will be satis
fied.”
Meantime despite the constant fire which had
indeed thrown the crew into fearful confusion , the
galleon was swept round the cape unharmed, and
the next moment was sheltered by the projection

106 THE COLUMBIAN MAGAZINE .
of the cliffs from any farther firing. All grim and
besmeared with gunpowder, Sir Nicholas came
down to join his chieftain.
“ All in vain , " he cried ; " she will either land
in the cove, or go upon the reef beyond it —let us
run down and see.” And followed by Lord Wal
singham , he advanced rapidly across a broad space
of level turf which intervened between the place
where they were standing and the opening of the
gorge from above , where the mountain stream first
entered it. Before he reached it , however, or could
gain any view of what was going on below , three
regular deep rounds of cheering, the immemorial
battle cry of England, were heard, multiplied a
thousand fold by the echo of the rocky pass , and
immediately succeeding it the long, sharp, rattling
crash ol musketry.
“ Hurra ! hurra ! Darrington is at it, ” shouted
old Blount, losing all thoughts of sympathy or
mercy in the excitement and fierce fury of the mo
mentt- " Forward , or we shall be too late to see
it -- forward ! they must be landing ! ”
Almost simultaneously with the utterance of
these words there came up from below the sharp
explosion of a cannon shot, followed by a dozen
others, fired in close succession. Even these war
like sounds scarcely sufficed to arouse the unhappy
Walsingham from the dread stupor which appeared
to have completely overpowered all his faculties,
since his brief conversation with the lovely girl
whose language had so utterly confounded him .
Nevertheless he ran forward, drawing his sword
as he did so , and followed closely upon the heels of
Sir Nicholas.
In a moment or two they had reached the head
of the ravine or gulley which commanded the
scene of action ; and then about three hundred
feet below them lay the small bay or cove between
the great rocky promontory and the dangerous reef,
into which the Spanish man -of-war had driven
and where she had made an attempt to anchor.
This attempt it was, successful too, as it appeared
on the first instant, that had called forth the volley
from the musketeers of Darrington, who , seeing
that there was really now some chance of the ves.
sel being saved , and knowing that her crew must
be numerically superior to the handful of English
men who were stationed in that wild corner, began
to be seriously solicitous to prevent their landing.
The warm reply, however, which had just been
given by the cannon of the galleon, had already
compelled him to disperse his men , with orders to
skirmish as best they might from behind the cover
afforded by the rocks and trees upon the beach,
and to prevent the Spanish sailors from doing any
thing on deck. By the time, however, that Wal
singham and Sir Nicholas with their little guard
of honor had come into full view of the belligerent
parties, the scene had again changed. The mus
"A
keteers had fallen back for shelter to the nu.
merous blocks of basaltic stone behind the beach, 1
or to the feathery coppice which grew so richly on
the banks of the ravine. Immediately beyond the
mouth of the little torrent the long black reef ran
1
out nearly a mile in length into the boiling sea,
and beyond this on the shore was drawn up the
little band of pikes which had been ordered thither
under Captain Dacre.
The thing, however, which most attracted , and
I might almost say alarmed the wary veteran who
accompanied Lord Walsingham , was an immense
body of the Irish natives several hundreds strong,
and at least mustering twice as many as the Eng.
lish soldiery, who occupied all the slopes of the hills,
collected probably by the reports of the cannona
ding, and eagerly looking out to see what should
come of it. The greater part of them were indeed
unarmed, except that a few of their leaders, who
were mounted on small, active, shaggy horses, held
long spears in their hands, and none of them had
any firearms ; but well did Sir Nicholas know that
every one of those stout , rugged looking kernes
was provided with a long, keen , double edged
knife, which he was accustomed to wield skilfully
and fearlessly, and the old soldier doubted not for
a moment that should they by any burst of passion,
to which their quick and enthusiastic tempers ren
dered them peculiarly liable , be sufficiently excited
to rush in and come to close quarters with the sol
diery, all the discipline and bull -dog courage of
the latter would be hard set to repel the onset of
those superior numbers, armed with that savage
and effective weapon .
It was clear to him likewise that a crisis was
now close at hand, for the anchors of the galleon
had begun to drag, and she was driving bodily to
ward the reef ; and her crew, as it was apparent
she must go to pieces almost instantly on striking,
had commenced jumping into the comparatively
calm water above the reef, in a sort of desperate
hope that the Englishmen on shore might be moved
to spare them . The musketeers, however, under
the orders of the fierce Darrington , kept up a con
tinual dropping fire, and that with an aim so delib
erate and effective that not a soul had yet reached
the shore of above a hundred who had leaped over
board, only to anticipate a doom which at all events
had now become inevitable.
(6
My Lord ! my Lord ! we must get over to the
pikemen, yonder ; they will need good command.
ing ere long if I be not the more mistaken ,” ex
claimed Blount ;; and he did not speak without
good reason , for as every shot was fired by the
concealed musketeers a wild hoarse yell arose
from the multitude of Irish on the hill side ; and
as each after each the Spaniards sank in the whirl
ing waters, cut down by the well aimed death shots
of their unseen foemen , the motley concourse
***
wang
HONOR O'NEIL ; OR THE DAYS OF THE ARMADA .
३
swayed to and fro , like a single body actuated by
strong passion , and was restrained only from rush .
ing down upon the pikemen by the efforts of their
the chiefs, who seemed to be undecided and in expect
ma
ation of some person who had not yet arrived.
503,
Walsingham saw the truth of Blount's assertion,
and the young nobleman appeared to gather fresh
energy and to recover from his momentary stupor,
as the imminence of the peril which surrounded
them became more and more apparent. Descend
ing the hill side at a rapid pace , they crossed the
ravine, giving a word of encouragement to Darring
ton as they passed him in the coppice. “ Keep
your men in hand , Darrington," cried old Blount,
“ suffer them not to disperse more than they needs
must to find cover, for I fear we shall have to beat
off a charge of these Irish rapparees, and perhaps
ed to retreat before them , ere half an hour is past ! ”
“ Best bring the pikemen over, then ," answered
Darrington , quite coolly. “ I have been looking
for a rush of the kernes these last ten minutes.
Bring them across the stream , and form them upon
the hill-top there between us and the fort, so that
if they break down upon us, we may run for it
singly as fast as we can empty our guns, and rally
in the rear of the pikes. We can hold off these
Spaniards easily enough. All that can swim , I
trow, at all, have tried it already, except a hand
ful of officers who will not leave the ship till she
strikes. There is one fine fellow yonder — he who
will not allow them to lower the Spanish flag
means, I can see, to have a try for it — he has
taken his armor off, and his boots - it will be a
pity almost to shoot him ;; but it can't be helped.”
“ It cannot , Darrington — the more's the pity !”
answered Sir Nicholas ; " as for the rest, you are
quite right - I am going to do precisely as you
-
propose , and do you, as soon as we have formed
on the hill , and all down here is over, come in as
quickly as you can , and form in our rear. Once
under the guns of the fort I care not a maravedi if
there were five thousand of them !"
And with the word, he passed on after Walsing
ham , who had preceded him and had already
reached the pikemen, but Darrington muttered to
himself -- “ Nor I either - nor I either, if we were
once under it , but we are not, nor do I think we
ever shall be for that matter. But never heed -
all's one to Ned Darrington !”
Just as he spoke, there pealed a louder burst of
cries and acclamations from the Irish than any
which they yet had uttered , for simultaneously Honor
O'Neil , the lovely daughter of their great chief,
galloped across the ridge into the midst of them ,
followed by the boy Murtough , and the Spanish
ship struck violently on the reef — was lifted off it
by the tremendous surge , and dashed down upon
the angular basaltic columns, till almost in a short
er space than it has taken to describe it, she went
107
to pieces, and for a moment all seemed over- for
who could so much as dream that any human being
could stem the awful whirlpool of white foam , which
writhed and boiled about those fearful reefs ?
Walsingham at this moment had formed the little
brigade of pikemen into an open column , and was
in act of leading them across the stony channel
of the rivulet when a fresh roar from the Irish on
the hill, and the sudden discharge of at least a
dozen muskets, followed by a sharp dropping fire,
induced him to halt , and attempt to re- form his
troop which had been shaken somewhat in cross
ing the rough ground ; but the warning voice of
Blount rang in his ear— “ Push on, my Lord , push
on ! They will be over us ! ”
And in obedience to the suggestion he did hurry
forward and succeeded in crossing the ravine nearer
its source than the place where the musketeers
were stationed, and desiring the veteran to form
the men , he looked back to the cove to see if he
might discover the cause of the fresh outbreak.
It was too evident ; the Spanish captain , distin
guished by his splendid uniform , when all was
over and his ship was actually going to pieces, had
drawn his sword , placed it between his teeth, and
leaping into the surf, struggled forward with so
much energy and success that he was within fifty
feet of the shore before any one of the musketeers,
whose attention was directed to the Irish on the
hill, had discovered him . Then Darrington , startled
at seeing him so near, and alarmed at the idea of
a man so dauntless escaping perhaps to lead on the
Irish to avenge his murdered comrades, called on
his men to fire -- they did so ; but neither by the
first volley nor in the subsequent dropping fire
was a hair of his head injured.
At this moment, at a cry from Honor, the whole
mass of Irish rushed madly down the hill with
wild whoops and cries, although it was still doubt
ful whether their intent was hostile or not ; and
now they were within thirty paces of the Spaniard
who, as if he had borne a charmed life, had strug
gled unharmed through the surf, through the storm
of balls which fell thick as summer rain about him ,
and now had gained his feet, waving his sword
above his head. He shouted his bold war-cry of
St. Jago ! and seemed about to rush forward to
meet the advancing Irish , when Darrington stepped
forward into full view with a dozen of his best
marksmen, and gave the word for half of them to
“ mark him well , and fire ! ” They did so , with
long and deliberate aim , but strange to relate , again
they all missed him . Wilder and wilder waxed
the yells of the Irish of mingled rage and exulta
tion, and rapid almost as the charge of cavalry was
their headlong rush to the rescue ! But fleetly as
came on , they were still outstripped by the
snow-white steed of Honor.
“ Spare him ! ” she cried— “Spare him , Eng
108 THE COLUMBIAN
lishmen ; my life, my faith shall be the surety of
his honor ! ” and her clear tones rang above all the
din like the peal of a silver trumpet.
But stern and steady came the notes of Darring
ton's deep voice -- " present! steady, men - all
gether — take good aim
“ Through me , then , through me , cowards !”
rang the high sustained accents of the girl as she
dashed her steed between the muzzles of the level.
led muskets and their intended victim !
And in the same breath came the one word -
“ Fire !” and the sharp volley followed, and the
white smoke for an instant veiled the scene , and
when it cleared away there lay , beside the margin
of the yeasty surf, the snow -white paltrey and the
lovely girl, and the young gallant Spaniard , whom
she had vainly died to rescue -
“ Friend, horse and foe in one red burial blent !"
One moment more and the live torrent of the
INTERCESSION OF THE INDIANS FOR THE CHARTER OAK OF
CONNECTICUT.
BY MRS. L. H. SIGOURNEY .
" On ! not upon that massy trunk
Let the dire axe descend, –
Nor wreck its canopy of shade,
So long the red mau's friend, —
Nor to the cold, unpilying winds
Those bannered branches give,
Smite down the forest, if you will -
But let its monarch live.
For far away , in olden time,
When here the red deer flew ,
And with his branching antlers swept
In showers, the morning dew -
Up, like a solemn seer, it rose,
By houry years unbent,
Marking the seed - time, and the frost,
Which the Great Spirit sent.
The planter watched its tender * leaf
By vernal skies unrulled,
Before his golden corn he placed
Beneath the investing mould —
And though our fullen 1 thers sleep
Within their mounds of clay ,
To us, it spends their words of yore
Sbred nut its boughs away !”
* Thehighly interesting lectures of Isanc Wm . Stuart , Esq .,
on the charter of Connecticut, recently delivered before the
Historical Society ot lurtfurd , illustrate with animuteness and
elegi nce , the history of thu ancient ouk, which for eighteen
months, provided in asylum in its heart for the endangered
charter, and remarks, that the Indians, who greutly velle
rated that time-honored tree, were in the habit of planting
their car , when its first unfolding leaf bud guined the size of
a " mouse's eur."
MAGAZINE .
frantic Irishmen was on them - shriek, shot , and
shout, and groan , and stab, and imprecation. Ten
minutes and the whole was ended , and not one
living Englishman was left to look upon the obse
quies of her whom they had so foully slaughtered.
More than a human hecatomb were offered to her
manes, and Walsingham , who had so dearly loved
her, who would have died to save her, perished
upon her bosom ; and well was she avenged ! B
Not avenged only then and there — for the rebel
lion which arose thereafter, the most sustained and 6
terrible that ever checked the career of Ireland's
woman conqueror, was wakened from one end 10
The other of the green island by Turlough, the great
Earl , the direst and most dreaded enemy of Eng
land's lion queen ; and it was whispered through 0
the realm that he unsheathed his glaive in ven
geance for a murdered child, though history's pen
&
has made no record of the sweet life or untimely
death of the young Irish princess. e
lo
of
And so the white men spa red the tree,
The Indian's prayer to bless, –
Not dreaming that its giant arms
Would aid their own distress,
Not dreaming that its grateful breast,
Responsive to their sigh,
Would like a nursing -mother shield
Their germ of liberty.
But when the tyrant Stuart fled
And left the British throne,
And stern Sir Edmund Andros found
His briefdominion gone,
Out laughed the vak, and o'er its leaves
A shivering rupture crept,
To tell the secret that so close ,
Full many a month was kept.
Out laughed that hoary oak , and oped
Its bosom's secret cell,
Anil brought the entrusted trensure forth
Which it had guarded well ;
Not like that pale , perfidious king
Whose suul with paid wus wrung ,
To give the Magna Charla birth ,
When Englund's laws were young, -
But like a brave, true-hearted friend,
Who loves a nuble deed ,
And closest clings to thuse he serves
In darkest hour of need , -
For this, may circling centuries bid
Ils veins with vigur swell , -
And on its prnise, our unborn sons,
Like us , delight to dwell .
 6

EYES TO THE BLIND .

The power of education to supply defects ofthe senses, whether congenital or the result of disease or accident, is too familiar
now to require illustration . We have all seen it manifested, over and over again, in the acquisition both of knowledge and
capacity by the deaf-mutes and the blind . But there are some incidents of this manifestation that do not readily occur to the
mere casual observer ; and one of these is strikingly brought to view in the by no means unmeritorious poem which follows.
We allude to the faculty possessed by the blind, and abundantly exhibited in the poem , of forming, in the mind, distinct images
of external objects.
The writer of the poem , Miss Frances Jane Crosby, has been for nine years a pupil in the New-York Institution for the
Blind, which she entered at the age of thirteen . Her blindness is almost congenital, having been caused by a disease of the
eyes which attacked them when she was but six weeks old. Of course, therefore, she has been through life as destitute of aid
from the faculty of vision, in acquiring ideas of form , color, size, distance and other properties and relations of external objects,
3 as one born blind. Her parents are in humble circumstances, and until she entered the institution she had no more ample or
available means of acquiring knowledge than are possessed generally by poor children in the country - limited , of necessity,
1
and greatly limited , in her case, by her misfortune. In fact her intellectual existence may be said to have commenced only at
the time of her admission among the pupils of the institution .
The great achievement of benevolent ingenuity,exercised in behalf of this unfortunate class , is doubtless success in teaching them
to read, by means of raised letters -- substituting the sense of feeling for that of sight. A sort of creative power is thus exerted, to
speak figuratively, supplying eyes to the blind . We can understand , then, how the mind of one so deprived may yet be stored with
2 ideas of external objects, either by reading or hearing descriptions of them ; but the mystery is how they obtain distinct and
accurate ideas; precisely such ideas, in short, as we obtain by the use of our eyes. That they do is clearly shown by the poem
of Miss Crosby, which abounds with descriptive passages ; and it will be noticed that the descriptions are invariably true, the
epithets appropriate, the comparisons faithful. There would be nothing wonderful in occasional accuracy of this kind ;
nothing very wonderful even in GENERAL accuracy ; but here is INVARIABLE accuracy, proving that the objects are as truly
pictured on the mental vision of the blind as on ours, where it has been placed by actual vision. Now this is a puzzle, if you
look closely into it. Consider, for instance, how difficult it is to form a conception of some object, from mere description,
which we have never seen and which is declared to be unlike anything we ever have seen . The conception may be very
distinct, but how seldom do we find it accurate, when the object itself is examined.
Some naturalists are of opinion that the bat enjoys a sense distinct from either of our senses, by which it is enabled to avoid
collision in its rapid and irregular flight. They conceive that neither sight, hearing nor the sense of smell can be the guiding
agency, and therefore infer that there must be another faculty, thenature of which is of course utterly beyond our conception.
Can the blind possess some analogous faculty, imperfectly yet still to a great extent supplying the vision of which they are
deprived ?
But we will not longer detain the reader from Miss Crosby's poem ; only adding that she has written others, which, we un
derstand, it is intended to collect and publish.

THE BLIND GIRL .

Her home was near an ancient wood , The tears warm gushing on her cheek
Where many an oak gigantic stood ; Told what no language e'er could speak .
And fragrant flowers of every hue While their young hearts were light and gay,
In that sequestered valley grew . Her hours passed heavily away ;
A church there reared its little spire, A mental night was o'er her thrown,
And , in their neat and plain attire, She sat dejected and alone.
The humble peasants would repair Yet no ! a mother's accents dear,
On Sabbath morn , to worship there . Came softly on that blind girl's ear.
And on the laughing breeze would float While all were locked in dreamy sleep,
The merry warbler's choral note , That mother o'er her couch would weep,
When at Aurora's rosy dawn, And as she kneeled in silence there,
She decked with light the dewy lawn. Would breathe to God her fervent prayer,
A pearly stream meandered there, That He, all merciful and mild ,
And on its verdant banks so fair, Would bless her sightless, orphan child .
From school released at close of day, " Twas eve — the summer's sky was bright,
A group ofhappy girls would play. The crescent moon unveiled her light,
With their gay laugh the woodlands rang ; And many a mild and radiant star,
Or if some rustic air they sang, Its lustre spread o'er climes afar.
Those rural notes of music sweet, That mother to her throbbing breast,
Echo would in mock tones repeat. Her lovely daughter fondly pressed ;
Amid these scenes of mirth and glee, She on her bosom leaned her head,
That sightless girl, oh ! where was she ? And thus in mournful accents said ;
Was she too blithely sporting there, " Tell me dear mother, what is sight ?
Or wreathing garlands for her hair ? I hear you say the stars are bright
She sat beside her cottage door In yonder sky of azure hue -
Her brow a pensive sadness wore ; I wish I could behold them too !
And while she listened to the song You tell me of the summer flowers
That issued from that youthful throng, That blossom in the greenwood bowers ;
10 109

110 THE COLUMBIAN
Their balmy breath is sweet to me,
And shall I ne'er their beauty see ? "
There Anna paused - her mother sighed .
Then in a low sweet tone replied ;
" On earth these joys may ne'er be thine,
But why, my child, why thus repine ?
' Tis thine Almighty Father's will,
He bids thy murmuring heart be still.
There is a fairer world than this ;
A world of never fading bliss ;
There let thy heart, thy treasure be,
And thou its purer joys shalt see."
The summer and the autumn passed,
And wildly blew the winter blast.
" T'was midnight; nature slept profound ,
Unbroken stillness reigned around,
Save in a little cottage, where
Was heard a dying mother's prayer.
" Oh God ! my helpless orphan see ,
She hath no other friend but Thee !
She on a heartless world is thrown
Sightless, heartbroken and alone.
Father, all merciful and mild ,
Oh God, protect my orphan child : ”
One last farewell that mother breathed ,
One parting sigh her bosom heaved,
And all was over- she had fled
To mingle with the silent dead .
The dreary winter passed away,
The spring returned, and all was gay ;
O'er hill and vale, and verdant plain,
The warbling choir was heard again,
Yet Spring or Nature's cheerful voice
Made not that orphan's heart rejoice.
Her mother's grave was near her cot,
And Anda to that lonely spot,
Led by some friendly hand, would stray
To kiss the turf that wrapped her clay .
"Twas evening's melancholy hour
And zephyrs fanned each lovely flower ;
O'er her soft lute her fingers ran,
And thus her mournful lay began :
“ Alas ! how bitter is my lot !
Without a friend - without a home,
Alone, unpitied and forgot,
A sightless orphan now I roam .
Where is that gentle mother now,
Who once so fondly o'er me smiled,
Who gently kissed my burning brow,
And to her bosom clasped her child ?
I could not see that angel eye,
Suffused with many a bitter tear,
But oh ! her deep heart- rending sigh ,
Stole mournful on my listening ear.
I knelt beside her dying bed ,
I felt her last expiring breath
. God bless my child ,' she faintly said ,
And closed those lovely eyes in death.
Oh ! how I long to soar away,
Where that departed one doth dwell,
To join with her the choral lay,
Angelic choirs forever swell."
86
MAGAZINE .
She ceased — she heard a footstep near,
A voice broke gently on her ear.
" Maiden, I've heard thy tale of wo,
And more of thee I fain would know ;
Oh tell me why thy youthful brow
Is mantled o'er with sorrow now ? ”
“ Sir," she replied, “ well may I weep .
Beneath this little mound doth sleep
All that on earth to me was dear ;
My mother's lifeless form lies here,
And I , her only child, am left
Of kindred, and of homebereft ;
But He who marks the sparrow's fall,
Will hear the helpless orphan's call ;
My mother bade me trust his care —
Ile will not leave me to despair."
The stranger sighed — “ Maiden ," said he,
“ Thou hast my warmest sympathy ;
No longer friendless shalt thou roam ,
I'll take thee to a happier home -
A home erected for the blind,
Where friends, affectionate and kind,
Will o'er thee watch with tender care,
And wipe away the orphan's tear."
"Forgive me, sir," the maiden said ,
As modestly she bent her head ;
" I cannot bear to leave this grave ,
Where these pale flowers so sadly wave ;
But oh ! while here I sit alone,
And listen to the wind's low moan,
Methinks my sainted mother dear
Smiles on me from her starry sphere,
And softly then she seems to say,
“ My child , my darling, come away
To the bright mansion where I dwell,
And bid that world of care farewell.' "
The stranger wept, his generous heart
In other's sorrows shared a part.
“ Thou must not linger here," said he,
“ Haste , I entreat thee, haste with me,
Thou lone one, to that dear retreat,
Where thou a sister band shalt meet ;
Yes, maiden , they are blind like thee,
And they will love thee tenderly . "
How changed that sightless orphan now !
No longer clouded is her brow ,
Her buoyant step is light and free,
And none more happy is than she.
For education's glorious light
Hath chased away her mental night;
Contentment smiles upon her face ,
And with delight her fingers trace
The page, by inspiration given,
To guide her to a brighter heaven .
If o'er the past her memory stray,
Then music's sweet and charming lay
Drives each dark vision from her breast,
And lulls euch heaving sigh to rest.
Her grateful lips brenthe many a prayer
For him who kindly placed her there.

GEORGE WASHINGTON
THE MAN WHO LIVED FOR HIS COUNTRY.
BY H. HASTINGS WELD .
It has been queried whether party newspapers are
or are not a public blessing. Mrs. George W.
Wilkins has no doubt that they are a domestic
nuisance.
It has been debated whether caucus, spontaneous
or newspaper nomination is the proper way to bring
a candidate before the public. On this, as on the
first point, Mrs. Wilkins has but one opinion –
that all party machinery tends to domestic de
rangement.
In the fable , the comparative merit of the party
who first touch the heel , and ot that which first
plants the toes in walking , remains an open ques
tion . So do parallel cases in our own republic.
On such subjects again Mrs. W. is quite unanimous.
Her motto is, “ a plague o' both your houses ! ”
There are more women of Mrs. Wilkins's “ po
litical faith ” than there would be, if there were
more men of the right kind . Public spirit is lauded
in the newspapers and greeted with three times
three cheers at the “ Head Quarters " — but a
man's spirit should not run so entirely into public
channels as to leave him no interest in domestic
matters . Mr. Wi's did . His heart was in what
ever canrass might be on foot, till his dear duck
at home found herself entirely forgotten. Ilis
thoughts were oftener on election returns than on
his own profit- and -loss account ; and he knew the
salary and value of every office in the state and
Union , better than he did his own baker's bill .
Domestic matters pressed upon his notice were re
garded as inopportune and unimportant intrusions ;
just as the real business of the nation is set aside in
Washington, while the Congressmen are more
agreeably employed in talking of themselves against
time , and for party. His children fared as ill as
private claims do on the Congressional docket ; the
principle in both places being heroically to scout
and neglect what should be attended to , and to
give the whole thought to what were better left
undone and unsaid.
Mr. Wilkins soothed his conscience with the
plea that he “ lived for his country." No doubt his
country is very much obliged to him , but it has un
fortunately hitherto taken no method to make its
sense of that obligation apparent, or to lessen any
of its weight. Meanwhile, as we have hinted, his
*
WILKINS ,
own affairs were falling not a little behind hand ;
and it did not require more than the ordinary pene
tration of a woman to discover that fact. Still , with
the recklessness of a gambler, the more he suffer
ed by his negligence toward his own affairs , the
more inattentive did he become ; seeking in the
excitement of partisan politics and the hazards of
party chances, that occupation of his mind which
should enable him to shut his eyes upon the finan
cial difficulties that were accumulating about him ,
and the domestic discomfort which had now in
vaded his once happy house. At the time when our
sketch opens he had become desperate. His pa
triotism was no more a thing of volition or a mere
amusement. It was life and death with him. He
had spent time and money so liberally , so extrava
gantly, that office alone could make him whole, or
failing in that, could provide him with a refuge
from absolute want . At least so he thought. Still
he endeavored to conceal his dilemma. He suc
ceeded , but only partially. His heaviest creditors
suspected the truth , but they were too politic to
betray him . Wise after their generation , they very
disinterestedly turned their influence in aid of his
hopes. In another man's case , with Wilkins for a
looker-on , he would have comprehended their mo
tives. In his own he was too blind to see them , or
if he suspected the state of the case ,> he would not
acknowledge it , even to himself.
Mrs. George W. Wilkins grew impatient. We
have said that she had penetration enough to dis
cover that he was embarrassed , but she did not un.
derstand the whole of his difficulties, nor all of his
motives. Irked at his neglect of her, she resolved
to make an effort to bring him back to domestic
habits again. On one Monday morning she begged
him for the evening of that day to be hers.
66
Beg pardon, my dear, " said the husband as he
peeped at her for a moment over the top margin of
a political newspaper, “ but this evening I am un
fortunately engaged with the committee of safety.”
The wife was disappointed, but she persevered.
66
Well, then , George , to-morrow evening will do .”
“ Unlucky again " -- the husband really began to
feel sorry but to-morrow evening I must meet
the county delegates."
County fudge !” Mrs. George W. was going to
111
la
112 THE COLUMBIAN
say , but she did not . It would have been both un
wifelike and unladylike. She drew a long breath
and said, " perhaps then, my dear, on Wednesday
evening ?”
Mr. W. had glanced down the leading column of
his paper, and reddened — parily with confusion,
partly with impatience -- as he peeped under the
margin and answered, “ really, Ann, I am sorry ,
but I am engaged on that night to meet the ward
committee on important business.”
“ Thursday night ?”
Wilkins bit his lips. He was tempted to say
something hasty. He looked at his children and
thought better of it. “ I should be happy to be
with you every evening, but the other party are
straining every nerve ; we must employ all our
tactics, and on Thursday night the list of nominees
for the city watch is to be examined and fixed upon.”
“ Say Friday night , then.” This was
W
spoken in
a voice a little sharp . Both husband and wife were
now restrained by good breeding alone from what
would have seemed very like a quarrel.
Wilkins had now reached the top of his paper
again, and, foreseeing that he was to be compelled
to answer for every night in the week , he said : “ I
perceive you are determined, Mrs. Wilkins, to
have the whole arcana of party management out of
me. On that evening we have to decide between
the claims of two 6boss sweepers,' to determine
which of them is likely to marshal most voters in
his troop of scavengers.”
“ Very important business, certainly, Mr. Wil
kins. But after having thus spent five nights out
of six abroad, you will give us the sixth at home ?"
“ I would , but ” - -
“ Come, now , George ” .
“ I am really sorry , but I have promised myself
to two or three of our fellows. The truth is, that
some people are to be managed one way and some
another. We have on that night a little supper."
“ And you are wanted to pay the whole bill , as
usual, I presume," said the wife, out of all patience.
Wives never look at such things through their hus
bands' spectacles.
You know I am never guilty of such extrava
gant folly," said George W. with some heat.
“ But you do ó become responsible, "” said hiswife,
“ and that amounts to the same thing in the end."
“ Ann ," said the husband in a softened tone, “ I
am sorry to find you prying so much into my busi
ness . It is unlike you ."
George ," she answered , cadence for cadence
in his manner, for both were grieved, “ I regret
that you force it upon me ;" and stretching her
hand up for the card -rack, she took out and handed
him quite a parcel of tradesmen’s bills. “ I am
deeply mortified that you do not, as you did once,
either anticipate these or leave me the means to
pay them .”
MAGAZINE .
“ Tell them to call at the counting room , " said
the husband , as he left the table and took his way
nominally to his business. He was in a sad state
of perplexity. It lasted until he met the first poli
tical friend ; dissipated then for an instant , the
feeling of uneasiness returned with every business
step that was forced upon him . He was, indeed ,
like all gamblers , most miserable while the mighty
stake was pending ; but he counted on a relief from
all , when his appointment should reach him . On
this he firmly counted . He really earned it twice
over, as party services are estimated , and still daily
he was struggling, “ playing the patriot” 10 “ make
assurance doubly sure ." What a life for a free
man !
Hardly had Wilkins left his house when No. 1 of
the applicants whose " address " Mrs. Wilkins had
packed in the card -rack sent his daily messenger.
She knew the rest would follow , and afraid of the
saucy look the servant would give her as the stereo
typed answer would be given to each dun , she put
on her hat and hurried out, unfashionable as was
the hour. The child's heart , let whatever other
ties may grow about it , tends ever back to its ear
liest support, and Mrs. Wilkins's steps mechanically
carried her to her father's house . Her mother,
after a word or two of greeting, left the room .
The daughter rose to follow .
“ Ann ! ”
She started at her father's voice , and as she
tumed, perceived that he had folded up the paper
he had been reading, and was placing his specta
cles in his pocket. The daughter awaited what he
might have to say to her.
“ Close the door, my child , and sit down by me."
Without knowing to what this all might tend ,
she complied. There was a moment of silence and
embarrassment. The father abruptly said , at
length
“ Ann, I refused to-day to endorse your hus
band's paper. "
The poor woman turned pale, then red, then
burst into tears and buried her face in her hands.
This was so cruel ! And how had she deserved it ?
But the skilful physician probes deep before he
attempts to apply the remedy. The old gentleman
proceeded -
“ You know your husband is in difficulties ” .
The wife nodded .
“ And that he never can recover himself.” This
was said in the kindest of tones, and her father had
taken her hand and was looking with all a parent's
earnest affection into her face. He proceeded ---
“ I am not poor, at any rate. I could have done
him the favor he desired - and much more -- but
it were only to throw a bubble to be swallowed in
the ocean of his losses. He does not appear to
know it , but he is a hopeless bankrupt.”
The wife had now nerved herself for the worst,
 GEORGE WASHINGTON
and sat erect, pale but composed. It was now the
father's turn to give way, and the old man wept.
“ Your husband should have told you this , but I
know he has not. I saw you coming and wished
to spare your mother the pain of this interview . I will see about that," as Jane asked him if she was
have no reproaches for you ; you must have none
for him . It will do no good.”
The daughter's lips trembled.
“ You must not want ; your dear children must
not."
“ Their father ? ” whispered the wife .
« And he must not either. But Ann, he must
not ruin me first, and then make a double ship
wreck of character and substance.”
The father rose and paced the floor. Ann re
volved these deeply discouraging matters in her
mind. She thought of herself, her children
worse than all , her husband - dependant and beg
gared. She felt almost as if her father was no
more a father, and resolved at one moment to go
away without accepting or thanking him for his
vague, and , as it seemed to her, his ungracious
offer of assistance . Then she remembered the
tradesmen's bills — the very servants unpaid, and
--
felt as if she had no more a home to return to.
Her father did not keep her long in suspense , for
the mother, thinking probably that he had had
abundance of time, now returned. The presence
of a third person gave new collectedness to both,
and the old gentleman proceeded to tell her that he
had settled upon her enough for comfortable main
tenance ; and he pressed upon her acceptance the
first quarter's income, from his own hand. “ And
now ," he said , “ there is but one condition which I
exact. Not a word of this to-day or to-morrow,
to your husband ; keep your secret till he makes
you his confidant."
It was hard to promise. It was hard to thank
her father. It was impossible to control her feel
ings, and she burst afresh into tears . He escaped
the contagion by hurrying away, and Ann returned
home to find a tradesman's boy just turning chop
fallen from the door. She called him back, and
enjoyed that cheapest of all luxuries, the satisfac
tion of paying the demand. We say cheapest, be
cause when you give another but his own and
receive pleasure thereby, you certainly buy joy
with arivther's capital.
Now once more happy, how did she burn to let
out the secret ! She saw her husband post away at
night ; she knew now his nervous anxiety for oc
cupation and was half inclined to quarrel with him
that he did not make her his help -meet. How
much do those mistake who fancy that the wife
cannot be aa man's best counsellor !
Ann was almost miserable in her happiness.
She felt that with a word she could stay his unea
siness, for now , with the key to his conduct, she
could read in his moody countenance the anxiety
WILKINS . 113
he felt for his wife and family. She saw his hand
tremble as he passed his fingers through Jane's
flaxen curls ; she knew that it was not a cold
which made his voice husky when he said, “ We
not to join the new music class at school. And as
the boys clambered upon his knees and dinned their
begging petitions into his ears, she saw that he .
would have pushed them rudely away , in his agony
of hoarded and concealed perplexity, if he had only
dared to say , what they must soon feel, that their
father was a beggar !
Still he went to the meeting of the committee.
Can a gambler stay from his dice ? His all was
staked on party devotion ; he must play his part
down to the last instant, and while hope remained.
Should he fail after all !
That fear haunted his dreams. He groaned in
his sleep, and then the groan was followed by a
mumbled party shout — and then an exclamation
of disgust — of loathing. Then her own name,
“ poor Ann ! ” Oh , how she longed , as she
watched his face , in his troubled sleep, to shout
joy in his ear and read to him her father's deed of
settlement ! But she was pledged to silence,
though her heart ached .
A strange enigma is human nature. Will it be
believed that after all , before she slept, she had
determined upon tormenting him more still ? And
yet she did. It is a trick of the fondest friendship,
when you see one whom you love in despondency,
to add to his vexation, that the relief may be more
exhilarating.
Mr. Wilkins almost feared that the furnishing of
the next breakfast would be wanting. He started
with puzzled pleasure at the well spread board ; but
he asked no questions. It seemed to him an omen
of good, and he took hold of the morning paper
with an affectation of more than ordinary engaged
ness , lest his wife should obtrude some unwelcome
news upon him . He would not have been sur
prised to hear that his baker had cut off supplies,
his butcher refused another steak , or his cook struck
for arrearages. But no such word caine ; no word
of any kind. His coffee was sipped to the lees,
and no kind voice asked for “ his cup ." He looked
over, and then let the paper down to the floor to
gaze in undisguised astonishment at the breakfast
scene.
The sugar-bowl was crowned with a ragged
pamphlet. The toast was hidden under a news
paper. The tea -pot was turned into a Chinese
pagoda, with more roof than body, by an open
document which rested upon it. The whole
breakfast paraphernalia was thus displaced, and
Mrs. W. was deep in the columns of a society re
port or some such matter. Little Johnny had
quietly doubled up his spoon to make a bridge from
his bowl to his saucer, of the same comparative
10*
114 THE COLUMBIAN
an
cost to his bread and milk that the future Harlem
bridge will be to its purpose . Little Sam , on the
other side, had straightened the sugar tongs, as an
approach to the demonstration of the problem that
a good rule works both ways ; and little Jane was
mapping diagrams on the table with slops.
“ Mrs. Wilkins ! ” he cried . The children start
ed, and Mrs. W. leisurely looked up. “ Your chil
dren are doing all manner of mischief ! ”
“ Ah ! " said the lady, keeping her finger on
the place where she was reading, that she might
not lose it, “ Well, I do really wish that you would
take care of them ."
66
The father sent them from the room .
he began, “ this practical joke is unkind. If you
only knew ! ” — The door bell rang, and a note was
brought in for “ George Washington Wilkins,
Esq.” He read it turned pale — and, rising
from the table , stood staring out of the window to
conceal his face from his wife . She went up, and
resting her hand upon his shoulder, looked anxiously
and affectionately into his face. He would have
shaken her off ; his heart melted and he could not.
He saw each of his children's faces in hers. He
read the chronology of their married life in her
features ; the first happy year ; the contented ones
that followed ; the care which had dimmed her fine
features as he went abroad for that companionship
he should have sought at home. He kissed her pale
forehead, and dropping into a chair, uttered not a
word. She sat down beside him, and passing one
hand round his neck, took the open note in the other.
“ Is that all ! " she asked.
“ And is not that enough ? Yesterday Preston
promised me that he would take care of my note
to-day, on which he is endorser. To-day he writes,
in cold, cramped terms, that he cannot.
that enough — my paper protested ; my house
falling about my ears ; my wife and children beg
gars ! But it isn't all. My everything depended
upon an appointment under government, which
Preston's influence had all but secured. If he
refuses this trifle, of course it is because the appli
cation has failed.”
" TWINE NOT AROUND THE ACHING HEAD . "
BY MATILDA P. HUNT.
TWInz not around the aching head
A wreath of roses ;
Deck not with gaudy robes the bed
Where pain reposes.
Let not hope's joyous footstep seek
Grief's bow of sa : The tearful treasure ;
Nor to the homesick stranger speak
A tale of gladness.
MAGAZINE .
Oh , how Ann longed to shout, “ I'm glad of it !"
How did her heart ache for her husband. But
they were interrupted, and Wilkins composed his
face, as a political friend was announced.
“ So , ” said the caller, “ Preston himself has that
berth he promised you ! A shabby trick he has
played the whole of us."
Wilkins controlled himself wonderfully well. It
was all explained. While working to procure
Wilkins a place, to pay himself and others, he had
found it aa better speculation to take the office him
self, and let the debt go. The visitor soon bowed
himself out, to bruit the news, and the husband and
Ann ," wife were again alone.
“ Tell me all, anreservedly ,” begged the wiſe.
“ It would not be idle curiosity if I did desire,
merely as a wife, to know the whole ; but I have
still another reason . Tell me all — trust me ,
George ; do, and I will not betray you ."
He did. It was a painful narrative to both while
it lasted ; to him that his friendswere thus hollow ;
to her that her husband had been thus duped. But
the sun soon broke the clouds away. She told her
news. The first fear of want to his beloved ones
was over, and the mother of his children seemed
dearer than ever.
Many years have passed. Our hero still “ lives
for his country ; " but he has learned that a good
citizen's first duty is to that “ imperium in imperio, "
his own family , loyalty to which is the guaranty
of good citizenship. Who serves his own house
hold best, best serves his country , his whole kind
and his God ; for neglect of one's own comports
with neither patriotism nor piety.
Fortune has once more smiled upon him , and
his wife's patrimony is swelling, untouched , for her
Is not children. The traitor, Preston , retained office long
enough to ruin him for all other pursuits, and now
supports a miserable consequence as fugleman for
whatever faction will best pay, and whipper-in of
such partisans as are self conscious of being even
less than he .
SONG .
Lead not the wandering wretch to gaze
Where crowds rejoice ;
Bid not the pining mourner raise
The tuneful voice.
Let not thy mirth from anguish start
Nor offer to the breaking heart
The cup of pleasure.
. Så
 THE BROTHER'S TEMPTATION .
BY T. S. ARTHUR.
“ COME, Henry,” said Blanche Armour to her
brother, who had seemed unusually silent and
thoughtful since tea time, “ I want you to read
while I make this cap for ma. "
“Excuse me, Blanche, if you please, I don't feel
like reading to -night, " the brother replied, shading
his face both from the light and the penetrating
glance of his sister, as he spoke.
Blanche did not repeat the request, for it was a
habit with her never to urge her brother, or, indeed ,
any one , to do a thing for which he seemed disin
clined. She, therefore , took her work -basket, and
sat down by the centre -table , without saying any
thing farther, and commenced sewing. But she
did not feel quite easy, for it was too apparent that
Henry was disturbed about something. For seve
ral days he had seemed more than usually re
served and thoughtful. Now he was gloomy as.
well as thoughtful. Of course , there was a cause
for this. And as this cause was hidden from
Blanche , she could not but feel troubled. Several
times during the evening she attempted to draw
him out into conversation , but he would reply to
her in monosyllables, and then fall back into his
state of silent abstraction of mind. Once or twice
he got up and walked across the floor, and then
again resumed his seat, as if he had compelled
himself to sit down by a strong effort of the will.
Thus the time passed away , until the usual hour
of retiring for the night came, when Blanche put
up her work, and rising from her chair by the cen
tre-table , went to Henry, and stooping down over
him, as he lay half reclined upon the sofa , kissed
him tenderly ,and murmured an affectionate “ good
night."
“ Good night, dear," he returned, without rising,
or adding another word .
Blanche lingered a moment, and then, with a
repressed sigh, left the room , and retired to her
chamber. She could not understand her brother's
strange mood. For him to be troubled and silent
was altogether new. And the cause ? Why should
he conceal it from her, toward whom, till now, he
had never withheld anything that gave him either
pleasure or pain ?
The moment Blanche retired , the whole manner
of Henry Armour changed. He got up from the
sofa , and commenced walking the floor with rapid
steps, while the deep lines upon his forehead, and
his strongly compressed lips showed him to be la
boring under some powerful mental excitement.
He continued to walk thus hurriedly backward
and forward for the space of half an hour, when,
as if some long debated point had been at last de
cided , he grasped the parlor door with a firm hand,
threw it open, took from the rack his hat, cloak
and cane, and in a few moments was in the
street .
The jar of the street door, as it closed, was dis
tinctly heard by Blanche , and this caused the trou
bled feeling which had oppressed her all the eve
ning, to change into one of anxiety. Where could
Henry be going at this late hour ? He rarely stayed
out beyond ten o'clock ; and she had never before
known him to leave the house after the usual bed
time of the family. His going out had, of course ,
something to do with his unhappy mood. What
could it mean ? She could not suspect him of any
wrong. She knew him to be too pure-minded and
honorable. But there was mystery connected with
his conduct - and this troubled her. She had just
laid aside a book, that she had taken up for the
purpose of reading a few pages before retiring
for the night, and commenced disrobing herself,
when the sound of the door closing after her bro
ther startled her, and caused her to pause and
think . She could not now retire, for to sleep would
be impossible. She , therefore , drew a shawl about
her, and again resumed her book , determined to
sit up until Henry's return. But little that she read
made a very distinct impression on her mind. Her
thoughts were with her brother, whom she tender
ly loved, and had learned to confide in as one of
pure sentiments and firm principles.
While Henry Armour still lingered at home in
moody indecision of mind, a small party of young
men were assembled in an upper room of a cele
brated refectory, drinking, smoking and indulging
in conversation , a large portion of which would
have shocked a modest ear. They were all mem
bers of wealthy and respectable families. Some
had passed their majority, and others still lingered
between nineteen and twenty-one , that dangerous
age for a young man especially if he be so un
fortunate as to have little to do, and a liberal sup
ply of pocket money.
66
“ Confound the fellow ! What keeps him so
long ?” one of the company said , looking at his
115
116 THE COLUMBIAN
watch . “ It's nearly ten o'clock, and he has not
made his appearance."
“ Whom do you mean ? Armour ? ” asked an ."
other.
“ Certainly I do. He promised to join us again
to -night."
“ So he did ! But I'll bet a pewter sixpence he
won't come.”
“ Why ? "
“ His sister won't let him . Don't you know
that he is tied to her apron string almost every
night , the silly fellow ! Why don't he be a man ,
and enjoy life as it goes ? "
“ Sure enough ! What is life worth , if its plea
sures are all to be sacrificed for a sister ? ” returned
the other sneeringly.
“ Here ! Pass that bottle of champagne,” inter
rupted one of the company. “Let Harry Armour
break his engagement for a sister if he likes. That
needn't mar our enjoyment. There are enough of
us here for a regular Jerry . "
“ Here's a toast," cried another, as he lifted a
sparkling glass to his lips — “ Pleasant dreams to
the old folks ! '
“ Good ! Good ! Good ! " passed round the
table, about which the young revellers were gather
ed , and each drained a glass to the well-under
stood sentiment.
In the mean time, young Armour had left his
home, having decided at last , and after a long
struggle with himself, to join this gay company , as
he had agreed to do. It was, in fact , a little club,
formed a short time previous, the members of which
met once a week to eat , drink , smoke, and corrupt
each other by ridiculing those salutary moral re
straints which , once laid aside , leave the thought
less youth in imminent danger of ruin.
Henry Armour had been blessed with a sister a
year or two older than himself, who loved him ten
derly. The more rapid development of her mind,
as well as body, had given her the appearance of
maturity that enabled her to exercise a strong in
fluence over him . Of the dangers that beset the
path of a young man she knew little or nothing.
The constant effort which she made to render
home agreeable to her brother by consulting his
tastes, and entering into everything that seemed to
give him pleasure , did not, therefore, spring from a
wish to guard him from the world's allurements ; it
was the spontaneous result of a pure fraternal af
fection . But it had the right effect. To him , there
was no place like home ; norany smile so alluring,
or voice so sweet, as his sister's. And abroad , no
company possessed a perfect charm , unless Blanche
were one of its members.
This continued until Henry gained his twenty
second year, when , as a law student, he found
himself thrown more and more into the company
of young men of his own age , and the same stand
MAGAZINE .
ing in society. An occasional ride out with one
and another of these, on which occasions an hour
at least was always spent in a public house , opened
to him new scenes in life, and for a young man of
lively , buoyant mind , not altogether unattractive.
That there was danger in these paths he did not
attempt to disguise from himself. More than one,
or two, or three, whom he met on almost every
visit he made to a fashionable resort for young men ,
about five miles from the city , showed too strong
indications of having passed beyond the bounds of
self-control, as well in their use of wines, and
stronger drinks, as in their conduct , which was too
free from those external decent restraints that we
look for even in men who make no pretensions to
virtue. But he did not fear for himself. The ex
hibitions which these made of themselves instinc
tively disgusted him . Still , he did not perceive
that he was less and less shocked at some things he
beheld , and more than at first inclined to laugh
at follies which verged too nearly upon moral de
linquencies.
Gradually his circle of acquaintance with young
men of the gay class extended, and a freer parti
cipation with them in many of their pleasures came
as a natural consequence .
“ Come, ” said one of them to him , as the two
met in the street, by accident, one evening, “ I
want you to go with me."
“ But why should I go with you ? Or, rather,
where are you going ?” asked Armour.
“ To meet some of our friends down at C
replied the young man .
“ What are you going to do there ? ” farther in
quired Armour.
Nothing more than to drink a glass of wine,
and have some pleasant chit- chat. So come
along. "
“ Will I be welcome ? ”
“ Certainly you will. I'll guarantee that. Some
half dozen of us have formed a little club, and each
member has the privilege of inviting any one he
pleases. To- night I invite you , and on the next
evening I expect to see you present, not as a guest,
but as a member. So come along, and see how
you like us."
Armour had no definite object in view. He had
walked out, because he felt rather listless at home,
Blanche having retired with a sick headache. It
required, therefore, no persuasion to induce him to
yield to the friend's invitation . Arrived at C - 's,
a fashionable house of refreshment, the two young
men passed up stairs and entered one of the pri
vate apartments of the house, which they found
handsomely furnished and brilliantly lighted. In
this, gathered around a circular, or rather oblong
table, were five or six young men , nearly all of
them well known to Armour. On the table were
bottles of wine and glasses -- the latter filled.
 THE BROTHER'S
“ Just in time ! ” cried the president of the club.
“ Henry Armour, I bid you welcome! Here's a
place waiting for you ," placing his hand upon a
66
chair by his side as he spoke. And now ,” as
Armour seated himself, “ let me fill your glass.
We were waiting for a sentiment to find its way
out of some brain as you came in, and our brim
ming glasses had stood untasted for more than a
minute. Can't you help us to a toast ? ”
“ Here's to good fellowship ! ” said Armour,
promptly lifting his glass, and touching it to that of
the president.
“ To be drunk standing," added the president.
All rose on the instant, and drank with mock
solemnity to the sentiment of their guest.
Then followed brilliant flashes of wit, or what
was thought to be wit . To these succeeded the
song, the jest, the story — and to these again the
sparkling wine cup. Gaily thus passed the hours,
until midnight stole quietly upon the thoughtless
revellers. Surprised, on reference to his watch, to
find that it was one o'clock, Armour arose and beg .
ged to be excused.
“ I move that our guest be excused on one con
dition,” said the friend who had brought him to the
company. “ And that is, on his promise to meet
with us again, on this evening next week .”
' “What do you think of the condition ? ” asked
the president, who, like nearly all the rest, was
rather the worse for the wine he had taken, look
ing at Armour as he spoke.
" I agree to it, with pleasure," was the prompt
reply.
“ Another drink before you go , then," said the
president, “ and I will give the toast. Fill up your
glasses."
The bottle again passed round the table .
“ Here's to a good fellow !" was the sentiment
announced. It was received standing. Armour
then retired with bewildered senses. The gay
scene that had floated before his eyes, and in which
himself had been an actor, and the freedom with
which he had taken wine, left him confused, almost
in regard to his own identity. He did not seem to
himself the same person he had been a few hours
before. A new world had opened before him , and
he had, almost involuntarily, entered into , and be
come a citizen of that world .. Long after he had
reached his home, and retired to his bed, did his
imagination revel amid the scenes he had just left.
In sleep, too, fancy was busy. But here came a
change. Serpents would too often glide across the
table around which the gay company, himself a
member, were assembled. Or some other sudden
and more appalling change scatter into fragments
the bright phantasma of his dreams.
The sober morning found him in a soberer mood .
Calm , cold, unimpassioned reflection came. What
had he been doing ? What path had he entered ;
TEMPTATION . 117
and whither did it lead ? These were questions
that would intrude themselves, and clamor for an
answer. He shut his eyes and endeavoured again
to sleep. Waking thoughts were worse than the
airy terrors that had visited him in sleep. At
length he arose , with dull pains in his head, and an
oppressive sluggishness of the whole body. But
more painful than his own reflections, or the physi
cal consequences of the last night's irregularity,
was the thought of meeting Blanche, and bearing
the glance of her innocent eyes. He felt that he
had been among the impure , — and worse, that he
had enjoyed their impure sentiments, and indulged
with them in excess of wine. The taint was upon
him , and the pure mind of his sister must in
stinctively perceive it. These thoughts made him
wretched. He really dreaded to meet her. But
this could not be avoided.
“ You do not look well , brother, ” Blanche said ,
almost as soon as she saw him .
“ I am not well,” he replied, avoiding her steady
look. “6 My head aches, and I feel dull and heavy."
“ What has caused it, brother ? ” the affection
ate girl asked, with a look and voice of real concern .
Now, this was, of all others, the question that
Henry was least prepared to answer. He could
not utter a direct falsehood . From that his firm
principles shrunk. Nor could he equivocate , for
he considered equivocation little better than a
direct falsehood . “ Why should I wish to conceal
any part of my conduct from her ? ” he asked him
self, in his dilemma . But the answer was instant
and conclusive . His participation in the revelry of
the last night was a thing not to be whispered in
her ear. Not being prepared, then, to tell , the
truth , and shrinking from falsehood and equivoca
tion, Armour preferred silence as the least evil of
the three. The question of Blanche was not, there .
fore , answered . At the breakfast table , his father
and mother remarked upon his appearance . To
this he merely replied that he was not well . As
soon as the meal was over, he went out, glad to
escape the eye of Blanche, which, it seemed to
him , rested searchingly upon him all the while.
A walk of half an hour in the fresh morning air
dispelled the dull pain in his head , and restored his
whole system to a more healthy tone. This drove
away, to some extent, the oppressive feeling of self
condemnation he had indulged. The scenes of the
previous evening, though silly enough for sensible
young men to engage in , seemed less objectionable
than they had appeared to him on his first review
of them. To laugh, involuntarily, at several re
membered jests and stories, the points of which
were not exactly the most chaste or reverential,
marked the change that a short period had pro
duced in his state of mind. During that day he
did not fall in with any of his wild companions of
the last evening, too many of whom had already
118 THE COLUMBIAN
fairly entered the road to ruin . The evening was
spent at home, in the society of Blanche. He read,
while she sewed ; or he turned for her the leaves
of her music book , or accompanied her upon the
flute , while she played him a favorite air upon the
piano. Conversation upon books, music, society
and other topics of interest filled up the time not
occupied in these mental recreations, and added
zest, variety and unflagging interest to the gently
passing hours. On the next evening they attended
a concert, and on the next a party . On that suc
ceeding, Henry went out to see a friend of a differ
ent character from any of those with whom he had
passed the hours a few nights previous — a friend
about his own age, of fixed habits and principles,
who, like himself, was preparing for the bar. With
him he spent a more rational evening than with
the others ; and what was better, no sting was left
behind.
Still , young Armour could never think of the
“4 club, ” without having his mind thrown into a tu
mult. It awoke into activity opposing principles.
Good and evil came in contact , and battled for su
premacy. There was in his mind a clear convic
tion , that to indulge in dissipation of that charac
ter would be injurious both to physical and moral
health . And yet , having tasted of the delusive
sweets, he was tempted to farther indulgence.
Meeting with some two or three of the “ mem
bers ” during the week , and listening to their ex
travagant praise of the " club," and the pleasure of
uniting in unrestrained social intercourse made
warm by generous wine , tended to make more ac
tive the contest going on within . For the good
principles that had been stored up in his mind were
not to be easily silenced. Their hold upon his
character was deep. They had entered into its
warp and woof, and were not to be eradicated , or
silenced , in a moment. As the time for the next
meeting of the club approached , this battle grew
more violent . The condition into which it had
brought him by the arrival of the night on which
he had promised again to join his gay friends, the
reader has already seen . He was still unable to
decide his course of action. Inclination prompted
him to go. Good principles opposed. “ But then I
have passed my word that I would go, and my
word must be inviolable." Here reason came in to
the aid of his inclinations , and made in their favor
a strong preponderance.
We have seen that , yet undecided, he lingered at
home, but in a state of mind strangely different
from any in which his sister had ever seen him .
Still debating the question he lay half reclined upon
the sofa , when Blanche touched her innocent lips
to his, and murmured a tender good night. That
kiss passed through his frame like an electric shock .
It came, just as his imagination had pictured an
impure image, and scattered it instantly. But no
MAGAZINE .
decision of the question had yet been made, and
the withdrawal of Blanche only took off an exter
nal restraint from his feelings. Ile quietly arose,
and commenced pacing the floor . This he con
tinued for some time. At last the decision was
made .
“ I have passed my word , and that ends it,"
he said , and instantly left the house. Without
permitting himself to review the matter again, al
though a voice within asked loudly to be heard , he
walked hastily in the direction of the club -room .
In ten minutes he gained the door, opened it with
out pausing, and stood in the midst of the wild
company within . His entrance was greeted with
shouts ofwelcome, and the toast , “ Here's to a good
fellow !” with which he had parted from them ,
was repeated on his return , all standing as it was
drunk.
To this followed a sentiment that cannot be re
peated here . It was too grossly obscene. All
drank to it but Armour. He could not , for it in
volved a foul slander upon the other sex, and he
had a sister whose pure kiss was yet warm upon
his lips. The individual who proposed the toast ,
marked this omission , and pointed it out by say
ing,
“ What's the matter, Harry ? Is not the wine
good ? "
The color mounted to the young man's face as
he replied , with a forced smile ,
“ Yes, much better than the sentiment "
“ What ails the sentiment ? " asked the pro
pounder of it , in a tone of affected surprise.
“ I have a sister," was the brief, firm reply of
Armour.
“ So Charley, here , was just saying," retorted the
other, with a merry laugh , “ and what is more ,
that he'd bet a sixpence you were tied to her apron
string, and would notbe here to-night ! Ha ! ha !”
The effect of this upon the mind of Armour was
decisive. He loved , nay, almost revered his sister.
She had been like an angel of innocence about his
path from early years. He knew her to be as pure
as the mountain snow flake. And yet , that sister's
influence over him was sneered at by one who had
just uttered a foul-mouthed slander upon her whole
sex . The scales fell instantly from his eyes. He
saw the dangerous ground upon which he stood ;
while the character of his associates appeared in a
new light. They were on a road that he did not
wish to travel . There were serpents concealed
amid the flowers that sprung along their path , and
he shuddered as he thought of their poisonous
fangs. Quick as a flash of light these things passed
through his mind, and caused him to act with in
stant resolution . Rising from the chair he had
already taken , he retired, without a word , from the
room . A sneering laugh followed him , but he
either heard it not, or gave it no heed.

COLUMBUS AND
The book which Blanche resumed after she had
heard her brother go out, soon ceased to interest
her. She was too much troubled about him to be
able to fix her mind on anything else. His singu
larly disturbed state , and the fact of his having left
the house at that late hour, caused her to feel great
uneasiness. This was beginning to excite her im
agination, and to cause her to fancy many reasons
for his strange conduct, none of which were calcu
lated in any degree to allay the anxiety she felt.
Anxiety was fast verging upon serious alarm , when
she heard the sound of footsteps approaching the
house. She listened breathlessly. Surely it was
COLUMBUS AND THE EGG .
( See the engraving .)
It would probably be quite safe to say that eve
rybody knows the story told in the engraving at
the commencement of this number ; but it is pos
sible that one reader has never heard or read it,
and for the sake of that possible one it may as well
be told here. The story goes, then, that after Co
lumbus had returned in triumph and success, the
actual discoverer of that distant and unknown land
which he had so confidently promised, he was one
day taunted by some courtiers with remarks in dis
paragement of his great performance. To deny
that he had discovered the new world was impos
sible ; but envy found its solace in the sneering ob
servation that there was nothing so wonderful in
the discovery after all ; anybody could have made it.
The illustrious and venerable Genoese made no
immediate reply, but quietly summoning a page , he
desired that a salver should be brought to him , and
half a dozen eggs. When they came, without any
allasion to the subject of the discovery , he gravely
invited the courtier who had last spoken to make
one of them stand upright upon its point. The
young man scornfully replied that it was impossi
ble ; an assertion in which the others joined, some
with and some without a previous trial of their skill
in this new art of balancing. Columbus mildly
averred that to make the egg stand upon its end
was possible ; and when the curiosity ofall present
was aroused and intent upon the solution of the puz
zle, he gave the egg a gentle blow upon the smaller
end, so as slightly to break in and indent the shell,
after which it stood safely and firmly enough upon
the salver. The courtiers were loud and contempt
uous in their remarks — as was to be expected -
declaring that anybody could do that. “ Yes ,"
answered Columbus, “anybody can do it now,
when I have shown how it is done ; doubtless it
96
THE EGG . 119
the sound of Henry's footsteps ! Yes ! Yes !
It was indeed her brother . The tears gushed from
her eyes, as she heard him enter below and pass up
to his chamber. He was safe from harm , and for
this her heart lifted itself up in fervent thankful
ness ! How near he had been to falling that pure
minded maiden never knew ; nor how it had been
her image, and the remembrance of her parting
kiss, that had saved him in the moment of his
greatest danger. Happy he who is blest with such
a sister ! And happier still , if her innocence be
suffered to overshadow him in the hours of tempta .
tion !
would be just as easy , under the like circumstances,
for anybody to discover the new world . ”
The rebuke was quiet but effective ; and the
story is so much in accordance with the character
of the man that there is little difficulty in believing
it to be true . It must be admitted, however, that
in our day, and with our knowledge, it is not easy
to conceive how the theory of Columbus met with
so much opposition. The spherical form of the
earth , though not universally or even generally
known and admitted, was yet recognized by the
scientific and must have been well understood by
navigators, of whom there were many both in
Spain and Portugal, as well as in England and the
Italian republics. The mystery is to conceive how
navigators, familiar with the idea of the earth's
convexity, or rather sphericity, could help perceiv
ing that a ship sailing westward from Europe must
finally encounter land somewhere ; and when we
consider that Columbus expected to find the land
known as the East Indies , and had no conception of
a distinct continent, there really does not appear
to be any remarkable display of either science or
sagacity in his convictions.
But we must not forget, lest we do him great
injustice, that the condition of knowledge was very
different then from what it is now. We must not
judge him by the light that shines in our day. To
be a great man is to stand out boldly in advance of
the age — pointing the way to achievements far
greater than the age has accomplished. Such a
great man was Columbus ; and though we can see
that his knowledge was not much and his perception
but imperfect, we must remember that the know
ledge of his time was absolute ignorance , and its per
ception almost total blindness. Then we discover
his greatness, and are able to do him fitting homage.
 FALSE ETHICS OF THE LAW .
BY THE EDITOR .
The first month of the year was signalized, chiefly ,
in our civic annals, by a trial in one of the criminal
courts, the progress of which was a daily topic of
interested observation and comment, while its re
sult, though what everybody expected , gave rise
to a more general feeling of satisfaction than is
often exhibited or experienced in connexion with
the judicial fate of any individual.
The history of the case — by this expression
meaning the relative position of the parties accusing
and defending, and the series of events which had
their climax in the alleged offence against the law
that was the immediate subject of the trial — pos
sessed , unhappily, but little of novelty. In its
general outline it was only the repetition of a tale
that has been told a thousand times ; and though
it had some features of peculiar atrocity , it is but
too probable that could all the stories of the class to
which it belonged be narrated with the same com
pleteness, in these features also it would be found
to constitute but one of many. Profligacy and
passion are causes which in all times and all com
munities are apt to produce the same effects .
But the case was remarkable as bringing home to
public knowledge and public consideration certain
defects in the administration, or rather the constitu
tion of the law. In it , more than in any other of
recent occurrence , was it made manifest that there
are
a rules of law at war with reason and the univer
sal sense of justice ; and the result of this antago
nism was a verdict which everybody pronounced
righteous, while everybody was forced to admit,
also, that, according to law, it was not right ;
a verdict at which all rejoiced , looking only to the
parties, but which has also been much condemned ,
with reference to its effect upon the administration
of what is called public justice. Much has been
written upon this verdict ; but we must say that in
all the comments which have come under our ob
servation, there has been no exposure — we might
say no approach even to an exposure of the real
principles involved. The case has been treated , on
the one hand , as a flagrant demonstration of legal
inadequacy to the punishment of a certain class of
wrongs ; on the other, as a startling instance of the
tendency which feeling has to disregard and over
rule the obligations of justice. It seems to us that
there is something deeper and more important than
either of these to be considered in judging of the
120
case ; that a far more vital question is suggest
ed , to wit , the question whether, in such cases
as the one referred to , law and justice are synony
mous.
A briefexposition of the facts is necessary . The
accused, a young woman , was indicted for stabbing,
in the public street, a merchant of the city of New
York. It was proved, by the prosecution, that on
a certain evening, as he was about entering the
Astor House , the young woman accosted him , and
after a brief parley struck him with a small kniſe,
inflicting a wound in the region of the heart, which,
according to the evidence of the physicians, failed
only by half an inch of causing immediate death.
This was all the prosecution proved ; it alleged ,
however, in the indictment, that the assault was
committed with intent to kill. This allegation it
is needful to remember, for, obvious as the intent
would seem to be from the act, it will be seen here
after that the question of intent became , curiously
enough, the turning point in the rendition of the
verdict.
Well : the prosecution having achieved its brief
and easy task , the line of defence was indicated to
the jury, according to custom , by the counsel for
the prisoner, in a long and impassioned address ;
the substance of which was a history of the wrongs,
extending through a series of years, inflicted on the
accused by the man whose life she had assailed.
As we have said , the story had little of novelty to
distinguish it. A deliberate attempt upon her vir
tue , carried on for months and finally successful
when she had but little more than passed the age
of childhood ; a prolongation of the commerce for
six or seven years, ending in heartless abandonment
on one side, and in shame, poverty , distress and
suffering on the other. There were darker fea
tures , also, in the tale ; charges of compulsion to
unnatural and criminal practices, fearfully detri
mental to health of body and quietude of mind,
while the intercourse continued , with a view to the
prevention of its consequences; and of insult and
outrage in the manner of its termination . Such,
in brief, was the story related to the jury by the
counsel for the prisoner - of course with all the
eloquence and spirit-stirring effect he could sum
mon to his task.
Observe, all this was told to the jury , without
question , or interruption , or denial. The law, or
1
FALSE ETHICS OF THE LAW .
the management of law in courts, allows the coun.
sel for either party to make out whatever case he
chooses in his opening address ; subject only to the
inconvenience of failing to establish it by his wit
nesses. An inconvenience sufficiently operative in
some cases as a check upon the zeal or confidence
or imaginative power of counsel, but sometimes,
as in the present instance, altogether obviated and
made of none effect by the exigencies of the law
itself and the interests of the prosecution .
But to proceed : so far the trial has gone on
smoothly enough ; the prosecution has told its sim .
ple tale and proved it ; the defence also has told
its tale and next prepares to enter on its proof.
Now comes a check . The first witness for the
defence is called ; and the first question put to him
is concerning the situation, character and deport
ment of the prisoner before she had the misfortune
to become acquainted with the man whose life she
has assailed ; the defence intending and proposing
to go on and establish as a sequel all the allegations
made in the address to the jury. The prosecution
vehemently objects ; the admissibility of theevidence
is argued at great length, and finally the court pro
nounces its decision. We give this in the very
words of the presiding judge :
Is the evidence admissible as affording a justifi
cation for the alleged offence?
In examining this question , I will remark that
the same evidence is admissible in justification of
the alleged attempt to kill that would be allowed
in justification , had the act been consummated.
In the case of murder, to rebut the evidence of
malice it must appear that the provocation was
recent, for in every case of homicide, says Roscoe,
p. 474, however great the provocation may be, if
there be sufficient time for the passion to subside
and for reason to interpose , such homicide will be
murder -- Foster, 296, and the authorities cited in
Roscoe. The object of the inquiry is, whether the
suspension of reason arising from sudden passion
continued from the time of the provocation received
to the very instant when the mortal stroke was
given ; for if the party reflected , deliberated or
cooled before the injury was inflicted , the killing
will amount to murder, however grievous or exas
perating the provocation might have been.
While the law, therefore, makes great allowance
for the infirmity inseparable from the human cha
racter, it carefully distinguishes between acts which
are induced by the promptings of exasperated feel
ings and pressing wrongs, and deep rooted , medit
ated revenge .
The same principles are applicable to the case
now under consideration ; and can it be urged that
provocations commencing more than two years
since , but continued down to within a short time
antecedent to the alleged attempt to murder, can
be embraced in the first class of cases to which I
have alluded ? or was not the assault induced by a
consciousness of long continued wrongs, over which
she had brooded until sorrow and despondency had
ripened into revenge ? It is not proposed to prove
that the assault was induced by any immediate
provocation . The acts constituting the provoca
VOL . 1. - 11.
121
tion must be contemporaneous with the intended
homicide, or the immediate moving cause . The
evidence sought to be introduced is not of that
character, and therefore, in my judgment, is not
admissible on that ground.
The reasons for the adoption of this distinction
are too obvious to require much remark . To allow
an injured party to seek revenge upon his op
pressor, at his discretion, for real or supposed
wrongs, instead of appealing to the laws of his
country for redress, would break the ligaments that
bind society together, would destroy the stability
of our institutions formed for the preservation of
peace and order, and justify popular violence and
anarchy.
Now there are two questions incident to this
decision of the court : First, was it right ? not right
according to law, for of that there is no doubt, but
right according to reason and justice ; and, second,
was it operative ? Let us take up these questions
in their order.
The evidence is inadmissible , says the judge, be
cause it is an established principle of law that when
a wrong has been done , the injured party shall not
be excused for taking his revenge if he has had
time to reflect or “ cool.” He may sorely hurt, or
even slay the wrong - doer, provided he does it on
the instant -—" in the heat of passion ,” is the
phrase ; but if he permits a certain quantity of time
to elapse — an hour, a day or a week, as the case
may be -- and then inflicts the punishment, the
law will punish him in turn . Very good ; a fair
seeming rule enough, and doubtless considered ad
mirable by cool law makers and law expounders,
sitting calm and undisturbed upon their woolsacks
or in their mahogany armed chairs, lined with
crimson velvet. But what says the heart ? What
is the testimony of fact upon this question ? What
is the cry of the wounded and agonized spirit,
writhing under the infliction of a continuous wrong,
as was that of the prisoner on trial ? For, be it
observed , we must not look upon her wrong as a
thing done and completed, either at the moment of
her fall or at that of her abandonment. After the
first came remorse and shame - banishment from
the home of her childhood, the averted faces of those
who had been her friends, the consciousness of de
gradation , the feeling that she was known only to
be scorned ; and after the second, to all these were
superadded the evils of poverty — the pinching of
hunger — the pains of a broken constitution - all
the miseries of an outcast and a beggar, and worse
than all, more maddening than all, the wailing cry
of a feeble infant for whose wants she, the unhappy
mother, could make no provision , and the father
would not. Had she time to “ cool ” under the
ever- present, grinding, maddening pressure of these
evils ? Were not these " wrongs " of daily and
hourly renewal ?
But, says the law, there was ample time for
reflection between the injury and the revenge.
122 THE COLUMBIAN MAGAZINE .
Let us say it was so, and then ask , not of law
or law makers, but of every man's own experi
ence and knowledge of mankind, what is the
consequence of reflection . What is the despairing
cry of one who bears about with him , by day and
night, the torturing sense of overwhelming injury ?
Is it not — “ Oh that I could escape from reflection ?
Let me not think — let me not reflect — if I think
I shall go mad.” Is not this the voice of the spirit
goaded to agony by the sense ofwrong ? We know
that it is. We know that feelings excited by cruel
injury seek relief in action, not in reflection ; and it
is a consequence of human imperfection that the
channel of action through which relief seems most
available and sure is that of returning wrong for
wrong.
Ah, exclaims the moralist, here is a hole in your
argument; religion enjoins the return of good for
evil — religion forbids the rendering of wrong for
wrong. Under favor there is no hole at all. We
are not speaking of religion but of law ;we are not
discussing the relative duty of man to man, but the
duty of society, which is the creator of laws, to
those by whom its laws are violated. And we
conceive that when society undertakes to punish it
should , as far as its own imperfection will permit,
give ample heed to all the motives and causes in
volved in the commission of an offence against its
requirements and prohibitions ; just as we believe
and hope for — else how fearful would be the condi
-
tion of every child of humanity — that the infinitely
just Arbiter on high will take account of motives
and causes in pronouncing judgment on our
offences.
But, it may be suggested, as was suggested by
the court, in pronouncing its decision, that if injured
parties may seek revenge upon their oppressors , in
stead of appealing to the law, the ligaments that
bind society together would be broken, &c. Doubted.
For the apprehension of revenge would restrain
from the commission of wrong, more potently, we
conceive, than the fear of legal retribution. In the
present case, for instance, would the wrong -doer
have pursued the course he did pursue, if he had
foreseen or fore -imagined all the consequences to
himself that have resulted ? The very exposure of
his conduct which was effected on the trial, imper
fect as it was, has been to him aa fearful punishment.
Suppose it were the rule of law that complete ex
posure shouid be always practicable — should in
evitably be effected — would not this be a most
effectual check upon the first wrong-doer ?
Besides, we are not contending for immunity
when it is proved that the offence has been pre
ceded by injury ; but only for the justice of taking
that injury into consideration when the offender is
on trial. We contend for the justice of making
both parties stand on equal terms before the jury –
not one as an offender without provocation and the
other as the victim of wanton malice, when per
haps, as in the present case , the prisoner at the bar
has in truth a terrible balance of suffering and pro
vocation standing to his credit.
Submitting, then, that the rule excluding evi
dence of prior injury is shown to be unjust, the
second query arises — Is it operative ? Can it be
made operative ? The answer is given by the re
sult of the trial referred to. The judge might in .
deed , with exemplary gravity, announce that the
evidence was excluded ; but it had been let in al
ready, and how was he to drive it out again ? He
might instruct the jury to disregard , but could he
make them forget it ? The counsel for the prose
cution might insist upon its rejection , but he was
placed in the anomalous position that , in the very act
of insisting upon its rejection, he was admitting it
to be true ; admitting its truth more broadly, per.
haps, in the judgment of the jury, than its truth
could be proved by the witnesses. Such was the
first effect and practical condemnation of the false
rule of law — a rule perfectly in accordance , it may
be, with legal philosophy, but not at all in accord
ance with human nature.
But it is the nature of falsehood to beget false
hood ; and the practical absurdity of declaring
evidence excluded which in truth was virtually
both heard and admitted to be true, was quickly
followed by another. The counsel for the defence,
apparently denied the right of showing that their
client had been tortured into the commission of a
crime , were driven to the expedient of contending
that it had been committed under the influence of
insanity. Now we have not the remotest idea that
they believed her insane ; that they had even a
faint suspicion of her insanity. But the false and
unjust rule of law compelled them to raise the
question, as a possible means of gaining her acquit
tal. Let us see how the judge disposed of it:
As to the second question — Is the evidence
proposed admissible , as facts, to go to the jury, to
enable them to judge of the sanity of the prisoner's
mind at the time of the alleged commission of the
act charged in the indictment ?
It is proposed by the introduction of this evi.
dence to prove causes which might or might not
produce certain effects — to show a course of treat
ment for a succession of months which might pro
duce that state of insanity which would exonerate
the prisoner from the legal responsibility for her
acts.
This position is objectionable on various grounds.
Ist, Because the same causes will not necessarily
produce the same effects upon differently constitu
ted minds. A slight cause will sometimes produce
violent effects with a person possessing a sensitive
and irritable temperament, while another is for
bearing, and views the aggression with sorrowing
calmness.
The causes, then , can never form a safe test for
the judgment of a jury in judging of the ganity of
an individual , unless accompanied by evidence of
the effect. When the effect is shown , as bringing
1
FALSE ETHICS OF THE LAW .
the party within the class of irresponsible beings, the
cause of that imbecility of mind that exonerates
from the responsibility may be proved.
2d. Some act should be proved that indicated a
deluded state of mind when, or about the time
when , the assault was committed — some act from
which a jury might infer that the mind was diseas
ed , and that the power of distinguishing right from
wrong had fled .
It is not every high excitement of the mind that
dethrones it of reason — where that consciousness
exists that enables the party to know that the act
about to be committed is a violation of law, that
delusion does not exist which is necessary to render
the violator of the law irresponsible for his acts.
To secure immunity from the effects of crime,
insanity must be clearly and conclusively estab
lished. The law presumes the sanity of every per
son who violates it ; and if he seeks exemption
from the consequences, his right to exemption must
be clearly made out to exist when the offence was
committed.
The question is, can the accused be permitted to
prove the previous existence of facts from which
insanity may be inferred to have originated , or do
the rules of evidence applicable to this case require
evidence of the positive, present existence of that
irresponsible condition of the mind that exempts
from accountability ? I am clearly of that opinion
and that the testimony offered is not admissible.
We might have something to say upon this de
cision , but it is not necessary , and the length of our
article reminds us that we must hasten to a conclu.
sion . We only advert, therefore, to one obvious point
in which the rule laid down by the court, though
sustained by the authorities, seems to be more than
questionable. The rule, in effect, is this :: you
must first prove the insanity , and then you may
show its cause . Admitting this to be just, would
it not have been just also to consider the insanity
sufficiently proved by the act itself, to open the
door for proof of cause ? To stab a man in the
public street, when detection must be instant and
inevitable , is not an evidence of calm reason and
self-possession ; it proves great mental disturbance,
at any rate, if not absolute overthrow. There
might be positive insanity in a hundred cases, of
which no other proof could be obtained, while
abundant proof could be adduced to establish
cause of insanity. Why is it not as rational and
as just to argue from cause to effect as from effect
to cause ?
But we have not yet done with the false pre
tences set up on this trial, inevitably resulting from
the false rule of exclusion with which the judge,
in faithful obedience to the law, be it remembered,
set out in the beginning. We have seen that he
was compelled to declare evidence excluded which
he knew, and everybody knew , was not excluded ;
next that the defence was driven to set up the plea
of insanity, having no faith in it whatever, as we
believe, except as an available item of the prison
er's case ; we have seen evidence excluded which
123
was offered to prove cause of insanity , and a dis
tinction drawn between cause and effect, in regard
to a matter which is notoriously the most obscure ,
both as to cause and effect, within the range of
human inquiry ; and now we come to the crowning
absurdity of all — one perfectly legal, doubtless,
and in accordance with the best authorities, yet to
the judgment of plain common sense so preposter
ous that the mere statement of it is sufficient to
prove it utterly destitute of foundation .
The court was evidently impressed with a con
viction that the prisoner ought to be acquitted ; but
the rules of law had interposed a barrier against
acquittal on the true ground, and therefore it was
necessary, to meet the requirements of justice and
humanity, that another ground should be suggested.
It was found in the declaration of another rule,
obviously technical and , it may be presumed, quite
consonant with legal deduction, but directly at war
with common sense and the plain relation between
fact and inference. It was referred to in a former
portion of this article and was arrived at by á
notable refinement on the question of intent. The
court instructed the jury that the indictment charg.
ed an intent to kill or do some grievous bodily
harm , and it was within their province to consider
whether that intent had or had not been proved !
The jury, moved by the sense of justice, caught
eagerly at this suggestion , and in ten minutes re
turned a verdict of not guilty.
Now this is felt by all to have been a righteous
verdict ; but what a perversion of reason to place
it on the ground of unproved intent ! Why the
act proved the intent. The woman stabbed
the man ; is it conceivable that she did so with
any other intent than to kill or hurt him ? Can it
be supposed that she only meant to tickle him , or as
tonish him , or give him some other merely innocuous
sensation ? The very suggestion is preposterous ;
yet to this were the expounder of the law and the
jurors driven by the false ethics of the law which
forbade them to render justice on just grounds.
A few words now in relation to the principles,
or inferences, which have been almost exclusively
dwelt upon in the newspaper discussions of this
verdict. As has been said , the case has been
treated, on the one hand, as a flagrant demonstra
tion of legal inadequacy to the punishment of a
certain class of wrongs — those inflicted by man
on woman in the pursuit of licentious pleasures ;
and on the other as a startling evidence of the
tendency which feeling has to disregard and over
rule the obligations of justice .
As to the first, we advocate as warmly as any
others the enactment of laws for the punishment of
such offences ; but we contend that laws enacted
for that purpose would not meet the exigency of all
cases, or obviate the injustice ofthe rule laid down
in the case under consideration . The fear of pun
%
124 THE COLUMBIAN MAGAZINE .
ishment would probably reduce, in some degree,
the number of attacks upon female virtue ; but
some attacks would still be made, some women
would still fall victims, and the punishment of the
betrayer would do little to redress the wrongs or
alleviate the miseries of the betrayed. Women ,
goaded to desperation by shame, remorse , insult
and suffering, would still attempt to wreak ven
geance for themselves, and still the law would
raise its arm to punish them , unmindful of the
wrongs by which they had been tortured to the
commission of homicidal crime. Society would
revenge itself upon the betrayer - but it would
still demand an equal, perhaps a greater revenge
upon the victim .
In regard to the second point a curious inconsist
ency is manifested . The verdict of acquittal is
condemned as holding out assurance of impunity
for those who seek to right themselves by violence ,
yet it is declared that aa free pardon from the execu
tive should and would follow instantly upon con
viction . Here again we see the innate sense of
justice prevailing as to the result but not as to the
means -just as it prevailed in the bosoms of the
CAUGHT NAPPING .
( See the engraving .)
WHETHER a pun was or was not intended in the
naming of this picture we are not advised . It is
possible that the idea meant to be conveyed was
that the lady had been taken unawares , or at dis-
advantage — as boys in school are said to be when
the master, with stealthy step, approaches softly
and detects them in the act of playing fox and
goose when they should be cyphering ; but the
actual, positive idea of sleeping is also conveyed
with as much distinctness as by any remark con-
cerning the habitual vigilance of aa watchman. We
suspect the pun strongly.
One thing is clear, however, that the lady sleeps.
The artist has contrived to throw an expression of
unconscious repose upon her features which cannot
be mistaken. We could wish that he had as clearly
intimated the story of his picture ; what we are to
understand by the terrific countenance of the fe-
male in the gipsy bonnet or by the alarming pro-
pinquity of the young person with wings at his
shoulders. It is to be presumed that there is a
story of some sort ; some tale of peril encountered
and perhaps fortunately escaped. Is the “ caught
napping ” young lady -- she is very pretty by the
way - to be killed, or carried off, or only kissed ?
An active imagination might build up several
touching theories on the subject. As the Spaniard
says, Quien sabé ?
It is to be inferred that the story of the picture,
judge and the jurors. But how or to what extent
would the deprecated impunity be less assured by
a pardon than by an acquittal ? In the case under
consideration - it being conceded by acclamation
that the unhappy woman ought to go free — what
would have made it better for her to go free by
parchment with the great seal than by the “ not
guilty ” of twelve just men ? The result would
have been precisely the same, to her and to public
morals ; and it behoves us in this connexion to
look at things, not names.
To sum up, we have shown, or our labor has
been vain , 1 , that the rule of law which governed
the case is false ; 2 , that its tendency is to work
injustice ; 3 , that it is incompatible with the prac
tical administration of law ; 4, that it is therefore
inoperative, being set aside by unworthy shifts and
devices ; 5, that whenever it is brought fairly to
view , in its intent and consequences, the innate,
universal sense of justice revolts at it ; and there
fore that it ought to be blotted from the law books.
There can be no good , or virtue , or practical utility,
in a rule of which those five positions can be as
serted and maintained.
whatever it may be , had its origin or existence in
some remote period of the world's history ; because,
in the first place , young gentlemen with wings are
not now recognized as belonging to either of the
zoological genera , and , in the second , it is not cus
tomary for young ladies either to make their
couches in open groves or to exhibit themselves in
public (except on the stage) in costumes so little in
accordance with dress -makers' regulations. If any
gentleman is inclined, therefore, to fall in love with
the sleeper, let him take heed of the probability
that she grew up to be old and wrinkled some time
before the death of Socrates. It may save him a
useless heart-ache.
Byron speculated with touching eloquence and
effect on the antique tomb of a Roman lady, of
whom he knew nothing save her name. We have
not even that knowledge concerning the lovely
sleeper in question. The artist has shown us what
she was doing at one moment of her existence, but
nothing more -- neither where she lived, nor her
rank, nor the names of her father and mother, nor
whether she lived to get a husband , nor why she
chose such an improper place to nap in . We may
put all manner of questions about her, save one --
(Was she pretty ? ) - and the eternal Quien saté of
the Spaniard still comes in as the answer.
Perhaps she never had a being save in the fancy
of the painter. Quien sabi !
 THE BELLES OF
BY THE AUTHOR OF “ A NEW HOME, " ETC.
The little village of Etherington, situated some
where near what is commonly termed “ the lines ”
- meaning the boundary between the United
States and Canada once boasted two belles, each
endowed with charms enough to turn the heads of
the few beaux to be found in that vicinity. Both
together certainly absorbed more of the gallantry of
the village than was quite fair. It was only on
fete days — Independence, Thanksgiving and the
like public occasions, when mere number became
an object — that the young men of Etherington
seemed to recollect that there were any others to
be visited besides Cornelia Beverley and her cousin ,
Fanny Aston. We need not add that these young
ladies did not enjoy any great share of popularity
among their companions of the dependent sex , to
whom the attentions of the arbiters of (girls') des
tiny were a matter of some consequence. Fanny
Aston was called a flirt, and Cornelia Beverley a
“ proud thing," oftener than would tell well for the
equanimity of the less fortunate damsels of Ether
ington, or their manners either. Bellehood is in
fact a perilous condition in many respects. It in
volves some extra responsibilities, while it is but
too apt to prove unfavorable to the prudence and
self command which should meet them. We
shall see how the two fair cousins endured the
ordeal.
Miss Beverley was not so handsome as her
cousin, but we must not say she was less attractive ,
since she was supposed to have those “ solid charms"
which marrying men are apt to joke about until
the time comes for making a choice , and then to
place at the top of the list in good earnest. « « There
never was the odds of a cow between two girls
@
yet, ” said some prudent rustic lover long since ;
and the principle is still in vogue. We may there
fore reckon Miss Beverley as a very charming girl;
and she was by no means deficient in personal
attractions. She was tall and well made , with
light hair and hazel eyes ; a description which
might apply to a very handsome person . But there
was a certain arrogance in her carriage which ,
whatever the novelists may say, does not belong to
a well balanced mind. Then her eyes were too
-
near together and had a peering look - enough to
spoil the prettiest eyes in the world . And , in
truth , Cornelia Beverley was a young lady of al
most preternatural prudence . The old proverbial
11 *
ETHERINGTON .
9)
expression, " you cannot put an old head upon
young shoulders," was not devised in her behalf.
Many a head thatched with silver might have
learned care and forethought from a girl of twenty.
She was the daughter of the rich man of the vil
lage, and she had that intuitive high respect for
wealth, and that reverent care of it, which are no
where to be found so surely as among those who
are born to it.
Fanny Aston , the dependent cousin of Miss
Beverley, might be called a flirt by her ill wishers,
but she had real and delicate beauty of face and
form , and, withal, that indescribable fascination of
manner which is more irresistible even than beauty.
As to flirting, it is an impalpable sort of vice, and
one which is apt to be ascribed to the attractive by
those to whom society allows more leisure to make
moral reflections. Her childhood had been passed
in her uncle's family, and all agreed that a lovelier
being had never lived. Gay and joyous by nature,
yet docile and affectionate to all about her, she had
never known sorrow ; and it need scarcely be mat
ter of suprise if she sometimes forgot the considera
tion and deference for others which are generally
taught by years and misfortune. Yet even this
fault had never been observed in her until a certain
almost inevitable rivalry began to spring up be
tween herself and her cousin . Their claims were
too nicely balanced to be definitively settled. If
Cornelia had possessed Fanny's beauty, or if Fanny
had been born to her cousin's wealth, jealousy
might have existed, but rivalry would have been
out of the question. As it was, a secret anxiety
existed on Cornelia's part, which did not make her
more amiable or more happy ; and this was destined
to be embittered by unforeseen circumstances.
A disease supposed to be highly contagious had
broken out in Etherington, and whether through
its real virulence or through the unskilfulness of the
village physicians, it seemed likely to depopulate
the neighborhood. Mr. Beverley, the father of
Cornelia, was attacked with the rest, and in a
manner which from the first threatened a fatal
result. Most unfortunately, Cornelia, whose organ
of cautiousness was, as we have said , preternatu
rally developed , was panic -stricken at once, and
really incapacitated from rendering any aid to her
father. Her distress and terror were so excessive
that her brother ( for her mother had long been
125
%
Segui
126 THE COLUMBIAN
dead) insisted on her leaving home and remaining
with a friend at some distance until the danger
should be past, or at least until her own fears had
subsided. To this she consented, but only on con
dition that Fanny should accompany her ; for the
nascent jealousy to which we have alluded made it
doubly agonizing to think that Fanny would be
performing the duties from which she herself felt
obliged to shrink. And here arose the first open
rupture between the two cousins ; for Fanny, feel.
ing something nearly akin to contempt for what
seemed to her a shocking selfishness, refused abso
lutely to leave home , and in her agitation dropped
sume expressions which Cornelia chose to construe
as reproaches, whether they were so intended or
not . But Fanny was determined , and Cornelia at
length departed without her ; and through a dis
tressing illness the niece performed the part which
the daughter should at least have shared with her.
Illness has often the blessed effect of softening
and warming the hearts of all concerned - one of
the reasons for never asking why suffering and
weakness are permitted in this world of ours.
After the danger was over and Cornelia had re
turned, Fanny, who had not even a recollection of
the offence she had given, received her cousin with
a heart overflowing with joy and affection . And
Mr. Beverley's recovery made all so happy for the
time , that even Cornelia felt disposed to forgive, if
she could not forget, Fanny's having appeared to
advantage at her expense.
But a more severe blow was in preparation. As
soon as Mr. Beverley was capable of any exertion
he called his family and servants together, and in
terms which melted all who listened, solemnly an
nounced his intention that Fanny Aston should
inherit his property equally with his son and daugh
ter, desiring all to witness his promise, in case he
should never be able to provide formally for its
fulfilment.
Cornelia Beverley stood like one thunderstricken .
Fanny, in tears, kissed her uncle , but had no words
to thank him , and hurried out of the room , too un
suspicious to give herself a moment's thought as to
the probable feelings of her cousin on this occasion.
Mr. Beverley closed his eyes as if needing rest after
so great an effort, and his son and daughter with
drew together, to confer upon this unexpected tumn
in affairs.
“ A pretty thing father has done , indeed ! ” said
Cornelia, a burst of passionate tears accompanying
the first effort to speak. “ Fanny had everything
her own way before ; now there will be no living
with her ! Her handsome face would have been
fortune enough for her, and she is sufficiently dis
posed to make the most of it. I don't believe father
knew what he was saying. He is very weak yet,
and Fanny has had plenty of opportunities to get
him completely under her thumb by her artful ways.
MAGAZINE .
Do you think he is sensible , Edward ? Do you
think he will really " . and here her voice was
choked with sobs, and she walked the floor as if in
absolute despair.
“ You take the matter too hard , Cornelia , ” said
her brother reprovingly. “ I think it certain that if
my father lives he will make good all he has said .
Fanny was unceasing in her attentions to him
while you were absent, and he has many times
declared to me his intention to provide for her.
But there is enough for all of us ; why should you
care ? "
“Care ! because money is money, and Fanny
has enough without money ! She had advantages
enough before ! But pray what makes you so phi
losophical, Edward ," she continued, stopping di
rectly in front of her brother and regarding him
with one of her most scrutinizing looks. “ You
like money, I think , at least as well as I do ; what
makes you so wondrous willing to give it away ?
Perhaps you are thinking of taking the pretty doll
yourself, and so keeping the property in the family ,
eh , Edward ? ” And there was no very amiable
twinkle in Miss Beverley's eye as she said this.
“ And if I were, ” said Edward, “ I should be
thinking of nothing very marvellous, I suppose. If
I marry her she will be out of your way at least. I
am much mistaken if you would not be willing to
accept Fanny for a sister-in -law , for the sake of
having Fred Leaming all to yourself. He will
never think of you while Fanny is single, depend
upon it ! So be aa reasonable girl and treat Fanny
kindly, if only for your own credit's sake.”
But Cornelia's passions were still too rebellious,
and she knew her brother too well to care much for
this prudential advice, and the selfish brother and sis
ter parted at last in no good humor with each other,
although Edward , who thought to be the gainer by
the new arrangement, could afford to assume the
aspect of a calm and rational counsellor to his sister's
rather ungovernable temper. Fanny Aston's life
was no very enviable one from this time. Cornelia's
cautious and calculating disposition prevented her
from open enmity, but she contrived to make Fan
ny's bread bitter by a thousand ways and means
which could occur only to a cold and sordid spirit.
Mr. Beverley carried out his intention in due form ,
although before that time arrived Fanny's eyes had
become enough enlightened in this world's ways to
perceive that such a proceeding would be anything
but an addition to her happiness. She remonstrated
with her uncle , but in vain. He persisted in be
lieving that his children were well pleased with the
plan , and at all events he declared that a vow
registered in Heaven must and should be fulfilled,
cost what it might.
This Fred Leaming, to whom Edward Beverley
had alluded so bluntly in his conference with his
sister, was a handsome young man, whose good
22
%
THE BELLES OF ETHERINGTON .
address and frank , off -hand manner, made him
very acceptable in the village circles, and nowhere
more so than in that of which Mr. Beverley's man
sion formed the centre. Come what might, rain
or shine, funeral or merry -making, every evening
found the gallant on the sofa or by the centre table,
chatting wisely with Mr. Beverley, talking politics
with Edward, or holding sewing silk for the girls,
as quietly and securely at home as a pet spaniel.
Other beaux there were, but Fred's shadow was
none the less for it. He was always acceptable
and always at ease. He “ never talked of love,"
but such young Edwins are shy of breaking up so
pleasant a state of things by suffering any one
young lady to appropriate them . The envious said
that both the damsels at Mr. Beverley's were in
love with Fred Leaming and that he had only to
ask and have. But when Edward Beverley began
to show unequivocal signs of a wish to play the
agreeable to Fanny, the village belles, judging by
themselves, perhaps, came to the conclusion that
the rich lover would undoubtedly carry it over the
oor one . We shall see .
Some little time elapsed before Leaming seemed
to be aware that Edward Beverley's attentions to
Fanny were intended to be serious . He did not
awake very gradually, but as it were with a start,
and that of no pleased surprise. On some such
important occasion as the choosing of partners for
the dance or companions for the sleigh-ride , the
truth fashed upon him, and it was not long before
he exchanged very fierce glances with his umquile
friend Edward . Not till then did Fanny Aston
distinctly own to herself that she preferred Fred
Leaming , not only to her cousin Edward , but to
all other people whatsoever - and here began dis
cord of a new character .
The fair Fanny, as we have already hinted , was
not entirely without certain foibles ascribed to her
sex by the disappointed of the other. She knew
her power, and she could not always resist the
temptation to exercise it, even at the expense of the
feelings of others. She took especial pains to dis
guise her preference for Fred Leaming by accepting
Edward Beverley's attentions on all occasions ;
thus misleading the cautious suitor, while she
nearly maddened the passionate one , and cherish
ing at the same time the delusion of Cornelia, who
had persuaded herself that Leaming , to whom she
was excessively attached, would choose under
standingly after all.
This ambiguous state of things could not last
long. When the passions are fully interested we
feel any certainty to be better than suspense. The
young men were constantly coming into collision,
and some occasion of very high words having be
trayed to each that the other had never yet declared
himself to Miss Aston , it became the settled inten
127
tion of both to ascertain the lady's sentiments at
the earliest possible moment.
It was December, and the cold region bordering
on the Canadas was already buried in snow. Of
course sleighing was in vogue , as the chief pleasure
for the young and active. A sleighing party was
on the tapis, and each of the competitors was
anxious to secure the company of Miss Aston and
to make this the crisis of his fate. Leaming spoke
first, and Fanny was about to answer, when Ed
ward Beverley urged his claim, pleading a half
forgotten promise of Fanny's. “ I have already
invited Miss Aston ,” said Fred, fiercely enough.
“ Miss Aston will take her choice ," said Beverley,
with a coolness which his fiery rival chose to con
sider insulting.
“ You intrude, sir ! ” he began ; “ I shall not
suffer any "
But Fanny, as soon as she could speak, broke in,
much agitated , and declared she would go with
neither.
“ Not go ! Miss Aston !” said Leaming ; " you
surely will not give up the excursion on account of
Beverley's impertinence ! "
" Non - nor on account of yours, either, Mr.
Leaming,” said Fanny, trying to laugh off the mat
ter, but with a very pale face. “ I shall go, but not
with such quarrelsome people. I mean to go with
old Mr. Hardacre," ( this was the oddest and most
crusty old bachelor of the village,) " and if you and
Edward do not promise me to be friends again , I at
least will speak to neither of you all day, and I hope
nobody else will. "
A hollow truce was concluded on the spot , and
Fanny ran off to write her note to Mr. Hardacre ;
but there was yet another tinge added to the bitter
ness of Cornelia's spirit, and she made up her mind
to refuse Fred Leaming's request when he came to
her, as she could not doubt he would , as a last
resort . Her firmness was not tried, however, for
he took his leave with a hasty bow and left Edward
and his sister to arrange their plans at their leisure.
“ I told you Fanny would be intolerable," said
Miss Beverley, “ and so she is, you see .”
6
“ Poh ! ” said Edward, “ she did not want to go
with Fred Leaming. If she had, she would have
said so, for he asked her first. You are jealous,
Cornelia , but wait a little and Fred will be all your
own ; that is, if you really can like a fellow who
has nothing, and who never will have anything,
since he throws it away as fast as he earns it.”
Cornelia was too angry to reply. Her common
sense told her that Leaming's preference for Fanny
was but too evident, while her strong inclination
led her to hope that either Fanny's coquetry would
disgust him , or that Edward's intervention would
drive him from the field . This state of anxious
uncertainty did not enhance her charms, and she
dressed for the sleigh ride with a face almost as
 28 THE COLUMBIAN MAGAZINE .
blue as the lining of her hood. She took a seat
in an enormous sleigh loaded with young men and
maidens. Fanny went off, all smiles and white
plumes, with old Mr. Hardacre ; and Fred Lea
ming drove himself in sulky dignity , entirely
alone in his own sleigh, much to the amusement of
certain mischievous youngsters, who were know
ing enough to suspect that some slight from one of
the two belles was at the bottom of this odd pro
ceeding.
It is too late in the day to describe a sleigh ride.
The very torrid zone people know all about it as
well as we do ; so we need only say this one was
like others. It embraced about fifty persons, gene
rally young, but furnished here and there with a
maiden aunt or bachelor uncle by way of ballast.
The drive was to be a long one. A dinner was
to be eaten twenty miles off, and a ball and supper
were to come off at the Etherington Hotel after
the return . So there was a whole day and even
ing in which to flirt, to pout , to look pretty or to
look cross, as the case might be. All the horses
in the neighborhood were in requisition, for most
of the sleighs were furnished with four ; and as
such teams were the result of contribution, that
grand resource in rural merry -makings,) the colors
and paces of the steeds were various enough to
furnish some amusement and a good deal of con
versation . There occurred the usual number of
difficulties. One drove too fast, another too slow
One turn - out had not buffalo robes enough , another
had so many bells that not a word could be heard .
Miss Beverley complained that Mr. Hardacre kept
his horses' mouths directly over her head as she
sat on the back seat, and upon this, her brother,
who was charioteer of that bevy , shouted back to
the pink-faced bachelor.
.“ Mr. Hardacre, Mr. Hardacre ! you're too
quick for me! ”
“ It's you that are running behind hand ! ” was
the reply, and each understood the other to have a
meaning beyond that which met the ear.
These agreeable squibs were passing and re
passing, when, in descending a hill, full speed, one
of Hardacre's trace - hooks slipped out , and the
horses, drawing unequally, whirled the sleigh about
and spilt its occupants very expeditiously into the
deep snow on one side of the road. Great confu
sion arose ; for all the vehicles were under such
headway that it was impossible to stop them sud
denly enough , and the screams of women , with the
plunging and rearing of the excited horses, gave
each driver as much as he could attend to. In the
midst of all this, Fred Leaming's sleigh , being
light, was easily brought round to the scene of
action , and he had jumped out and invited Fanny
to take a seat with him before Edward Beverley
had persuaded his ill mated steeds to use their
fore feet for anything but pawing the air.
Mr. Hardacre chose to take his broken sleigh to
a blacksmith's shop which happened to be near, and
have it mended ready for the return ; and the
young people drove on with no other evil effect
from the accident than the tete-a -tete of Fred and
Fanny and the consequent ill humor of Edward
Beverley and his sister .
Neither Leaming nor his stolen prize seemed
very miserable when the party reached the hotel
where they were to dine. Fanny said but little
and seemed in a remarkably blushful humor, while
her companion was so unusually civil to Beverley
that Edward felt strongly tempted to knock him
down. The dinner went off as such dinners gene
rally do. Many good things were eaten , few
said . Talk was abundant, however ; some of it
natural, more forced. Certain of the company
were too much engaged in watching others to be
duly solicitous about their own behaviour. Some
few were quite taken up with their ladye - loves,
and others again with their own sweet selves.
Wine made some people gay , others sentimental,
others pugnacious, and a good many stupid - and
so ended the dinner party, quite a l'ordinaire.
The retum was easily arranged ; for be it known
that rural etiquette does not permit any change in
the coupling. Every gentleman must go and re
turn with the lady whom he invites, if he does not
intend a regular overturn --- not of the sleigh , but
of the rules of good breeding. So Fred and Fanny
rode back together as far as the blacksmith's shop,
where Mr. Hardacre , who had succeeded in get
ting his sleigh set up again and secured a good
nap beside , was waiting, all smiles, to reclaim his
companion. No record of their conversation has
reached us , but we have reason to think that Mr.
Hardacre dozed a little , in spite of his nap ; and
о
that Fanny, absorbed in her own thoughts, was not
solicitous to keep him awake. Edward Beverley,
who was more anxious than ever to try his fate
with Fanny, had a good many minds as to the
feasibility of popping the old gentleman into a
snow bank and taking his place ; but he kept the
peace and deferred his intended demonstration till
the evening.
The ball was yet to come off, and fortunately,
since the days of cotillions, there is no law which
restricts one to a single partner for a whole even
ing. Mr. Hardacre did not dance and Fanny was
at liberty to take her choice among the beaux who
thronged about herself and her cousin , to the great
annoyance of certain other young ladies, who felt
theirown claims to be quite as good as those of the
two belles. Once again did Leaming and Beverley
at the same moment seek Fanny's hand ; and this
time she gave it very decidedly to Beverley, though
a flash in Leaming's eye told her quite intelligibly
that he thought for this once he might have
claimed it.
%
THE BELLES OF
What trifles serve to make us believe what we
wish ! Beverley was so elated by his success that
he forgot all the settled inferences of the morning
and persuaded himself that he had been too hasty
in interpreting Fanny's blushes. Nay , so com
pletely was he inspired, not with wine, but with
something far more intoxicating, that his whole
nature seemed changed . His habitual caution and
reserve had disappeared ; he talked and laughed
with a joyous abandon quite foreign to his usual
manner ; and toward the close of the dance , as he
held Fanny's hand , he committed the overt act of
squeezing the said hand most energetically, ac
companying the same with a suitably tender look.
“ Oh ! cousin Edward ! ” exclaimed Fanny, with
something like a grimace ; “ I declare you have
driven my ring quite into my fingers ! Look here !”
and she ungloved the pretty hand and showed the
cruel dent which was the result of Mr. Beverley's
ardor.
No wonder that the sanguine suitor bit his lip
and colored ; this was to be expected. But this
was not all. He fancied that Fanny cast a look of
intelligence at her vis - a -vis, who happened to be
Leaming, and that the look was returned in a way
which stung him to the quick. Whether he was
right or not, that slight circumstance turned his
blood to gall , and he became from that moment
the deadly enemy of Leaming and scarcely less so
of Fanny herself. Bitterly did the poor girl suffer
for the thoughtless levity of that evening.
Cornelia Beverley very soon discovered that
Fanny and Fred were engaged, and she sympa
thized fully with her brother in his hatred of both.
It would be vain to recount the thousand ill offices
which these two disappointed people contrived to
do the lovers. Scarcely a day passed without some
injury or some effort of petty malice against them ;
and so open was Edward's enmity, that Fanny
would not allow Leaming to visit her at her uncle's,
but chose rather to meet him elsewhere ; an impru
dence which was used most effectually to alienate
Mr. Beverley's affection from her. In short poor
Fanny was completely in the toils. Leaming's
circumstances were such that he dared not ask her
of her uncle , and she found her life made miserable
by the cruel persecution of her cousins, while this
very persecution served to strengthen her affection
for Leaming, in proportion as it awakened the
latent energies of her character.
As for Leaming, the fates seemed to conspire
against him. His mind was agitated and his at
tention too much absorbed by one single subject to
allow him to attend properly to his business, so that
everything went wrong, and he saw the gulf be
tween him and Fanny growing ever wider and
wider. He had not the strength of virtue which is
needed at such conjunctures as this, and it was soon
rumored that he was learning to snatch a tempo
ETHERINGTON . 129
rary relief from that wretched resource , the bottle.
Poor Fanny ! It was at this time, when her
heart was wrung with newly awakened suspicions
of the worth of him she loved, that Mr. Beverley,
now completely under the influence of Edward and
Cornelia, sent for her and required of her a formal
renunciation of Leaming, as the price of his future
favor and affection . Without a moment's hesita
tion Fanny met this requisition with a decided re
fusal - for what is too timid to stand at bay in the
-
last extremity ? — and the scene finished by Mr.
Beverley's revoking his will and leaving Fanny
scarcely a pittance that might guard her against
absolute want.
Her uncle's house now became a place of torment
to her, and Leaming resolved to take her from it
at all hazards. Roused to a sense of his own situ
ation and hers, he determined, with characteristic
impetuosity , to make a new effort, and in a new
line, for some means at least of present support.
It has been said that there is scarce a crime on
the catalogue which has not in some age or in some
country been sanctioned by public opinion. The
borderer’s morality may be strict enough on other
points, yet it is hard to persuade him that smug
gling, a crime made by the law, is in fact any crime
at all. He thinks, with the Spartan, that the sin
as well as the shame lies in being caught. At least
such was the creed of many a bold youth at Ether
ington , and Fred Leaming, who might in his
happier days have scorned such prowling business,
was induced to undertake the bringing in of a large
quantity of valuable goods from Canada, upon the
promise of a sum of money which would enable
him to provide for Fanny a home that should at
least be more tolerable than her present one.
It happened that this, the only expedient which
presented itself to Leaming, was a proceeding very
likely to bring him into direct collision with his
inveterate enemy ; for Edward Beverley was the
very officer of the customs whose vigilance he must
elude in order to accomplish his project. But this,
far from deterring him , acted rather as an extra
spur to his willingness to undertake the affair, since ,
in his excited state , a hostile encounter with Bever
ley was rather desirable than otherwise. So only
telling Fanny that he was going on business into
Canada, he set off, in company with several other
young men, as bold and desperate as himself, to
accomplish his perilous adventure.
Fanny passed the time of his absence in unmin
gled wretchedness ; for Beverley had received in
telligence of the expedition and was not slow in
seizing on the means of farther annoyance to
Fanny, hinting darkly at something likely to occur
to Leaming, and predicting disgrace and ruin as
the consequence of his present undertaking. Fanny
was thus enduring all the tortures of the most fear.
ful suspense , when she had a single line from
 130 THE COLUMBIAN
Leaming, saying that she might be sure of seeing
him on a certain evening. She had by this time
guessed his errand, no uncommon one, as we have
said. The time arrived and the evening passed
without any farther tidings. Fanny, anxious and
unhappy, wrapped herself in her cloak and wan
dered to the river side , where she paced the snowy
bank in solitude and silence , gazing at the dark
waters and almost longing to be at rest beneath
them . The moon was rising and casting long,
spectral -looking shadows on the snow , while the
screaming of the night-birds in the neighboring
forest seemed to her saddened sense like the wail.
ings of human wo. She gazed fixedly on the
tract which stretched far away on the opposite side
of the deep and rapid river, and often deceived
herself by taking the shifting shadows for an ap
proaching vehicle. But at last a train of sleighs
did actually appear, and so silent was their pro
gress that not a dog barked to warn the guardians
of the law of this trespass upon authority. Fanny
watched them in silence until the foremost had
reached the opposite bank of the river.
The stream , like others of that region , was to
be crossed only by means of a scow which de
pended on a rope stretched tight from shore to
shore. Leaming, ever foremost, drove his horses
into the scow which lay on the side of the river
next him , and drew himself swiftly to the opposite
bank . Fanny was there, to warn him of his dan
ger, but it was too late. Edward Beverley and his
followers were in sight, and Leaming had not a
moment, even to speak to Fanny. He seized the
rope and was in the act of returning, when Bever.
ley and his followers, taking the other scow , fol
lowed him so hotly that he saw his efforts to
outstrip them must be in vain .
“ There is but one way , then !” he said , and
holding fast by the rope, he cut it asunder just
behind his hand.
“ You would have it ! ” he shouted after Bever
ley, as the boat, completely unmanageable, went
whirling down the stream.
HUSH ! HUSH !
Husn ! hush ! I hear a voice ; a guest is at the door ;
Nay , cease , my foolish heart, and cheat my ear no more !
Hush ! hush ! a footstep falls ! oh ! sure I know that tone !
Ah ! no , ' tis not his voice ; 'tis but the tempest's moan !
Alas ! alas ! to hope, yet always hope in vain !
And always still beguiled, to clasp the thorn again !
At morn to look for noon, at noon for twilight ray ;
At twilight, sick at heart, await another day.
Yes ! ever sick at heart, for who may hush my fear ?
Who whisper that he thinks of me, although I am not near ?
He never spoke of love, but every look and tone,
Uttered they not more to me than words could ever own ?
he
MAGAZINE .
“ Yes ! and you would have it ! " was the grim
reply, followed instantly by the discharge of a
pistol.
Thereins dropped from Leaming's hand and he
fell forward between his horses' feet, a dead man !
Fanny, who saw all but too plainly, was carried
back to her uncle's, scarcely more alive than her
lover.
It was not until the next morning that Edward
Beverley's party found their way home , and they
brought with them only the lifeless body of their
chief. As he fired the fatal shot, the boat struck
a tree in the windings of the stream and he fell
backward into the ice-cold water, benumbed and
helpless, while the boat drove on and on till it was
stopped by some obstacle which enabled the men to
crawl, half frozen , to the shore. Time softened
sorrow , but the once gay and thoughtless Fanny
Aston, completely sobered by this dreadful catas
trophe, even after the bitterness of grief had sub
sided , never felt any inclination to resume her
place in society. Her life from that time was
passed in efforts to do good , perhaps from the natu
ral feeling that all she could do for others would be
too little to atone for the levity with which she had
begun her career. Her uncle, touched by her un
happy situation, restored her to his favor and
adopted her as his daughter ; and even Cornelia ,
softened and humanized by sorrow and remorse,
forgot her cruel jealousy of Fanny and joined her
in alleviating the woes of others. The belles of
Etherington are both unmarried , but the traces of
passion which might once have been discovered in
their faces, have given place to a serenity which
belongs only to a sense of duties well performed,
under the influence of the highest principles. In
the eyes of all who know them , they are far lovelier
than in their early days of careless pride ; but since
the fatal night of the two deaths, neither Fanny
nor Cornelia can be induced to listen to any of the
suitors who would willingly persuade them to forget
the past.
I HEAR A VOICE !
Alas ! alas ! they say I must not trust to this ;
That reckless of our wo, man seeks the present bliss ;
But 'tis not kind to doubt, to think he would deceive ;
How cruel to my heart, would none my truth believe !
But ah ! more cruel thus to drag hope's weary chain ;
Each mom renew the link that evening breaks again ;
Yet never shall ne guess how wearily I wear
The chain he idly wrought, but I alone must bear !
Shall I remember scenes, quick from his memory torn ? .
I could endure his bate , but never brave his scorn .
Another sun has set ! elsewhere he seeks for bliss
Oh ! heaviness at heart ! what burthen equals this ?
H. S.
 RECOLLECTIONS
BY MRS. CAROLINE H. BUTLER .
The Chinese appear to have a great reverence
for the beauties of nature -- always selecting the
most lovely spots wherein to erect their pagodas or
temples.
From almost every grove the glistening tile and
sound of the gong proclaim that amid its shades a
temple is erected for the worship of their gods, and
thither at the rising of the sun , at mid-day and at
early eve, go the deluded worshippers, to bow down
before their idols of wood and stone. Macao con
tains several of these temples, well worthy the at
tention of a stranger.
The sun was just rising when in company with
a few friends I proceeded to visit the Teen -how
kung, or temple of the Queen of Heaven. After
various windings through the narrow crooked
streets, we at length arrived upon the shore of the
inner harbor ; passing by a long row of small Chi
nese huts, whose squalid inmates were seated
around the open doors, busily plying their chop
sticks, or cooking a few fish over a little pan of
charcoal, we found ourselves at the entrance of the
grove , where the temples, four in number, dedica
ted to the Queen of Heaven, are situated.
It is almost impossible to conceive a more ro
mantic spot. Vast ledges of rocks, some rising al
most perpendicularly from twenty to thirty feet -
others stretching along in rugged and broken
masses, seemingly held together by the twisting
fibres of the mighty banians, whose branches throw
a solemn shade over these fanes of idolatry. As
cending a few steps excavated from the solid rock ,
we stood before the entrance of the first and largest
temple. It is built of granite, one story high, and
the façade left entirely open. The roof ascends in
the peculiar style of Chinese architecture, covered
with rows of blue tile, shining as glass, and each
corner bearing hideous figures carved in stone, re
presenting gods, dragons, demons, &c. , and colored
in the most whimsical manner ; thus gods were
frowning upon us with blue cheeks and yellow eyes,
while dragons, with green backs, elevated high
their red and purple wings.
Fronting the entrance was an altar, bearing a
huge marble basin, to contain the ashes of the gold
and silver paper burntbefore the Queen of Heaven ;
and on each side were lighted tapers, by which her
worshippers may kindle their offerings. In order
to save the heads of the idolists from coming in too
OF CHINA - NO . II .
close contact with the marble floor, large mats are
spread around the base of the altar, on which they
may devoutly knock them until their consciences
are appeased.
Behind the altar, in a niche, hung around with
strips of gilt and colored paper, festoons of gay
flowers and branches of artificial fruit, was seated
an image much larger than life — and this was
the Queen of Heaven. She seemed rather the
Queen of Hades. Around her brows was a coro
net of stars , and the whole adornments of her per.
son were singularly absurd . The walls too bore a
variety of grotesque figures, which were certainly
guiltless of bearing likeness to anything " in the
heavens above or the earth beneath ."
While we were viewing these absurdities, Chi
nese of both sexes were constantly running in and
out of the temple. First approaching the idol, they
would prostrate themselves before the altar, knock
their heads with much fervor upon the mats then
rising, light their papers, cast them into the basin
and hurry rapidly away. These offerings appeared
to be graduated by the rank of the idolist. The
poor half - starved beggar lights his little strip of co
lored paper. The captain or sailor from the junk
floating in the harbor throws in the sheet of gilt ;
the artisan kindles a stick of sandal-wood and adds
to the consuming mass, while the stately mandarin ,
borne in his palankeen, burns his savory offering of
olibanum.
A flight of stone steps leads to the second tem
ple , situated about twenty feet higher, on the sum
mit of a rock, and nearly concealed from view by
the overshadowing branches of several banians. It
is of much smaller dimensions, yet the decorations
are much the same as those of the one we had just
left. A curtain of green gauze was suspended be
fore the sacred niche , containing the gods of the
winds and clouds. This temple is much frequent
ed by sea - faring people.
From this rocky eminence the view was charm
ing, comprising the inner harbor of Macao, with
numerous vessels at anchor - while on the opposite
shore rose the majestic Lapa, towering seemingly
to the skies. The third and fourth temples are
much in the same style as the two described, and
adorned with all the skill and taste of the Chinese
architect .
Upon our return we visited the beautiful garden
131
132 THE COLUMBIAN MAGAZINE .
of Mr. Beale, * one of the greatest objects of attrac
tion to a stranger visiting Macao. This gentle
man, after a long residence in China, had collected
a rare assemblage of the most beautiful birds and
plants, from almost every portion of the globe.
After passing through a large massive gate we
entered a paved court lined with orange trees, the
Indian fig, firs, &c. , interspersed with vases of
flowers, while the sweet notes of hundreds of feath
ered songsters fell upon the ear. On one side wa
a little area, hung around with cages containing
those birds not admitted into the large family in
the aviary ; these doubtless were the aristocrats,
scorning to mingle in the mixed company collected
therein. Among these was the unrivalled and
magnificent bird of Paradise, fully answering the
most glowing descriptions. It would be impossi
ble to convey an idea of the richness and elegance
of its plumage , or of the grace with which it bent
its beautiful neck to receive its food from the hands
of Mr. Beale. The head was of a deep chocolate
color -- its breast of the richest yellow — around
the throat a gorget ( if I may so express it) ofbright
emerald green . The tail is about nine inches in
length, of delicate straw color shaded with black ;
from the centre gracefully droop two long narrow
feathers, more than a foot in length, to whose delicate
and fragile texture I can form no comparison more ap
propriate than the beautiful and feathery frost -work
decorating the leafless branches on a cold autum
nal morning. One would suppose the voice of so
lovely a bird must equal the splendor of its plu
mage ; on the contrary, it utters a sharp loud cry ,
harsh in the extreme.
In another cage , hopping restlessly to and fro,
was a beautiful magpie ; his dress, a coat of light
blue, with green and purple trimmings — black
small clothes and a vest of pure white, his whole
appearance extremely dandyish. Here were also
several varieties of parrots, macaws and parro
quets ; some of them were very splendid.
The garden is situated on a gentle rise ofground,
laid out in terraces, which were literally planted
with vases containing an almost endless variety of
flowering shrubs and plants. In the centre of the
garden is the aviary. From the summit of two
igh rocks is thrown a fine wire grating, entirely
overtopping the highest branches of several large
trees embraced in the enclosure — which also con
tains a beautiful little fountain, and several of the
Chinese rock -work grottoes.
In this beautiful and novel aviary were hundreds
of the most splendid birds, apparently as happy as
amid their own native groves - someperched upon
the trees, sweetly tuning their little notes — some
gaily sporting from branch to branch — others
* This gentleman has since been murdered . His body was
found buried beneath the sand on the shore of Casilha Bay ;
and no doubt existed that his death had been one ofviolence.
walking stately and grand around their lovely do
1
main ; nor was the fountain left solitary, for on its
brink many of the little songsters had collected as
if for a concert — first dipping their little bills in the
water, then turning up their heads to the skies,
burst forth at once into a joyous carol; some had
even ventured in, and were frolicking and flapping
their wings in the sparkling fount.
Here was the superb golden pheasant,its back
glittering as the rays of the sun glanced upon it,
as though spangled with gold. The Argus pheas
ant, the king-necked pheasant, the Impeyan
pheasant, and others of the same species — all
beautiful. The fire -backed jungle fowl, so called
from the fiery orange of its back — also the famed
mandarin duck, strutting around the aviary with
all the importance of the Celestial Emperor Taou
Kwang himself, apparently most vain of his gaudy
attire, which in coloring is extremely rich and va.
ried.
of this bird Mr. Beale related to us several an
ecdotes which prove it not destitute of sagacity.
Upon one occasion one of these birds was for a few
days removed from the aviary ; his mate seemed
inconsolable, sitting by herselfnear the brink of the
fountain, apparently absorbed in sorrow at the loss
she had sustained. Another duck – a gay and
dashing fellow — attempted to pay his addresses to
the forlorn one, ducking around her, and whisper
ing doubtless many flattering things in her ear –
but the faithful bird heeded not the charmer, and
seemed highly to resent his assiduous attentions.
At length the absent one was restored to the avia
ry ; when after a few moments the duck was ob
served in close confab with her mate , which seem
ed much ruffled at her recital ; and no sooner was
it ended than , advancing straight to his daring ri
val, a furious battle ensued, and ere they could be
separated , the injured bird had laid the aggressor
dead at his feet.
The most exquisite and beautiful little birds, with
plumage of jewel brilliancy, were continually flit
ting around the aviary ; and here , also, perfectly at
home , were a moose deer and several rabbits,
mingling in friendly companionship with the feath
ered race. Apart from the aviary, under the shade
of a low palm , were two cockatoos ; in another
enclosure, several magnificent peacocks, Javanese
pea -fowl, as also many other varieties ; over these
a long-armed ape , seated on the branch of a large
banian tree which grew near, seemed to be holding
guard.
At the base of some large rocks, in one corner
of the garden , is a pond, bordered with aquatic
plants, containing a variety of the beautiful gold
and silver fish , taken from the Golden Lake in the
province of Che-kyang. They were very splen
did, flashing through the water with the brilliant
and beautiful hues of the kaleidoscope.
52
%
REST
After an hour or two spent in rambling around
the garden, we were poluely invited by Mr. Beale
to enter his spacious mansion, built in the Portu
guese style. Here we were attracted anew by his
rare collection of shells , exquisite paintings, and
beautiful specimens of Chinese skill, exhibited in
various carved articles of shell and ivory.
REST IN THE
WRITTEN IN A TIME
BY MRS. M. ST . LEON LOUD ,
“ My soul is weary of life.” — JOB.
Oh ! peaceful grave ! how blest
Are they who in thy quiet chambers rest;
After the fever strife -
The wild, durk , turbulent career of life.
E'en as the traveller
Fainting amid some burning waste afur,
Longs for the sucred spot –
His quiet home – his low-roofed sheltered cot,
Where shadowy trees in the cool night breeze wave
I long for thee, oh grave !
There shall the throbbing brain,
The heart with its wild hopes and longings vain ,
Find undisturbed repose –
No more to strugzle with its weight of woes .
No passionate desires
For some bright goal to which the soul aspires,
Forever unattained, consume like quenchless fires.
Rest - my soul pants for rest,
From all its burning feelings unexpressed ,
Its restless strivings with a wayward fute —
From dreams which leave the heart more desolate -
From ties which bind it to the earth u slave,
Freeduin is thine, oh grave !
WASHINGTON- A SONNET .
BY RICHARD GRANT WHITE .
Hion over all whom might or mind made grent,
Yielding the conqueror's crown lo harler hearts,
Gaining no grandeur by the suutesman's arts,
Yet with a mind to meet and master tale ,
And power ww rule a young, divi.leil state,
Greater by what was not, than what was done,
Alone un history's height stands Washington ; -
12
IN THE GRAVE . 133
end of the saloon the windows, which extend to the
floor, open directly into the aviary ; and Mr. Beale
observed that he olten amused himself by throw
ing them open, and giving admission to his " pets, "
which fly delighted around the apartment, warb
ling their little songs with perfect freedom .
At one
GRAVE .
OF DEEP DEPRESSION .
Oh ! for a dreamless sleep,
A slumber calm and deep,
A long and silent midnight in the tomb,
Where no dim visions of the past might come.
No haunting memories — no tears,
Nor voices which the startled spirit hears,
Whispering mysteriously of ill in coming years.
Peace - peace unbruken dwells,
Oh grave ! in thy lone cells.
And yet not lone, for they
Who've passed from earth away,
People thy realms – the beautiful, the young,
The kindred who around my pathway flung
All that earth had of brightness - and the tomb
Is robbed of all its gloom.
There would I rest, oh grave !
Till thy “ unstormy wave,"
Hath overswept the whole of life's bleak shore ;
In thy deep stream of calm forgetfulness
My soul would plunge - no more
To brave within a frail, unanchored bark,
Life's lossing billows, and its tempests dark .
Columbus, E. Florida.
And coming time shall furnish not his mate,
For he by God upon the earth was sent
To show how mighty is the mind's integrity,
And men were blind to what his mission meant ;
But that his glory might eternal be,
A boundless country is his monument,
A mighty nation, his posterity.
Brooklyn , L. I.
 SOME THINGS OF DE BÉRANGER .
BY PARK BENJAMIN.
DEAR, delightful de Béranger ! Art thou not,heart
and soul, a Frenchman ? Art thou not , as we
know thee by thy songs, the type of good humor ?
There is mirth even in thy sadness, joy in thy sar
casm . What tenderness is there even in thy
strength - how soothing and pleasant a tone per
vades thy very strains of triumph and of war !
Other poets we may admire, but thee we love ;
thee , when the long twilight deepens into night,
and the curtains are let down and the study -lamp
sheds its mellowed rays upon the table , thee do I
greet with thanksgiving for thy happy thoughts,
thy sparkling fancies, thy elevating spirit. It is
something in this working-day world to have such
a companion as this fat little book of thine, three
volumes bound into one , frontispieced by thy most
agreeable , most gentle , most kindly and most
French figure ! This book have I had always ;
I was never without it, and never expect to be.
I missed it once during Lent (it was never lent)
and became dejected to an alarming degree. I
mourned and fasted — but finding it at last in some
snug shelf where I must have bestowed it in a fit
of waking somnambulism , I kept carnival for a
week without reference to Saints' days — except
thine , Saint de Béranger !
I have my favorites ; but I am persuaded that
J. P. de Béranger is my favorite of favorites. He
seems to me the darling child of Nature. She has
dowered him with her choicest treasures. Nig
gard to most men of the peculiar gifts of genius, to
him has she been most prodigal. He seems to me
always conscious of the extent and quantity of his
endowments ; he draws upon them for all occa
sions, a victory or a defeat, a funeral or a festival,
with a most liberal hand ; like Fortunatus, he cares
not how much he takes at any one time from his
purse , sure to find it full when he goes to it again .
I am rather intolerant of de Béranger in an
English dress ; one of his songs done into our ver
nacular puts me in mind of a beautiful young girl
I once saw in a tableau , dressed in brocade and a
hoop, with her sunshiny hair in powder like our
great-grandmothers. The translations lack ease
and grace of movement. They are starched and
laced and have on high -heeled shoes. Now the
French dances about like Taglioni in a ballet ; it
floats airily , and the music ringles with the motion
in most bewitching harmony.
There has been a collection of translations, so
134
called, published recently in Philadelphia. The
design was laudable and we wish it success, and
we are not going to review it or to say anything
severe . It is better to have a taste of a good thing
than nothing at all. But the pieces in the pretty,
parchment-covered Philadelphia volume should ,
for the most part , be entitled “ Linęs suggested by
such and such a song of de Béranger. " Maginn
wrote several of them—“ The Garret, " for in
stance , which is by far the best and very charming.
Read it :
THE GARRET .
Oh ! it was here that love his gifts bestowed
On youth's wild age !
Gladly once more I seek my youth's abode
In pilgrimage :
Here my young mistress with her poet dared
Reckless to dwell ;
She was sixteen, I twenty, and we shared
This attic cell.
Yes ! ' twas a garret ! be it known to all
Here was love's shrine ;
There read in charcoal traced along the wall
Th' unfinished line
Here was the board where kindred hearts would blend ;
The Jew * can tell
How oft I pawned my watch to serve a friend
In attic cell.
0 ! my Lisette's fair form could I recall
With fairy wand !
There she would blind the window with her shawi
Bashful yet fund !
What though from whom she got her dress I've since
Learned but too well,
Still in those days I envied not a prince
In attic cell.
Here the glad tidings on our banquet burst
Mid the bright bowls ;
Yes, it was here Marengo's triumph first
Kindled our souls !
Bronze cannon roared ; France with redoubled might
Felt the heart swell !
Proudly we drank our consul's health that night
In attic cell.
* There are no Jews in Paris who are pawnbrokers. Eve
rybody knows that this business, like tobacco, is monopolized
by the government, municipal or general. The Mont de
Pietó is the only establishment of the kind in that city of
cities .
 SOME THINGS OF DE BERANGER .
Dreams ofmyyouthful days ! I'd freely give,
Ere my life's close,
All the dull days I'm destined yet to live
For one of those !
Where shall I now find raptures that were felt
Joys that befel,
And hopes that dawned at twenty, when I dwelt
In attic cell ?
Is this a translation ? Hardly. I have a friend
who has done it for me , appreciating that shrinking
innate modesty which forbade my doing it myself.
I wish I could do it half as well. Knowing that
Maginn's is exceedingly admired, (as it ought to be
for its original merit,) I give the French and my
friend's English, side by side, begging the reader
to go back after reading them and compare the
other with the French.
LE GRENIER .
Je viens revoir l'asile ou ma jeunesse
De la misère a subi les leçons.
J'avais vingt ans, une folle maitresse,
De francs amis et l'amour des chansons.
Bravant le monde et les sots et les sages,
Sans avenir, riche de mon printemps,
Leste et joyeux, je montais six étages —
Dans un grenier qu'on est bien à vingt ans !
C'est un grenier, point ne veux qu'on l'ignore .
Là fut mon lit bien chetif et bien dur ;
Là fut ma table , et je retrouve encore
Trois pieds d'un vers charbonnée sur le mur.
Apparaissez, plaisirs de mon bel age,
Que d'un coup d'aile a fustigés le Temps.
Vingt foix pour vous j'ai mis ma montre en gage —
Dans un grenier qu'on est bien à vingt ans !
Lisette ici doit surtout apparaitre,
Vive, jolie, avec un frais chapeau ;
Deja sa main à l'étroite fenetre
Suspend son schall en guise de rideau .
Sa robe aussi va parer ma couchette ;
Respecte , amour, ses plis longs et flottants,
J'ai su depuis qui payait sa toilette -
Dans un grenier qu'on est bien à vingt ans !
A table un jour, jour de grande richesse,
De mes amis les voix brillaient en cheur,
Quand jusqu'ici monte un cri d'alégresse ;
A Marengo Bonaparte est vainqueur !
Le canon gronde ; un autre chant commence ;
Nous célébrons tant de faits éclatants ;
Les rois jamais n'envahiront la France -
Dans un grenier qu'on est bien à vingt ans !
Quittons ce toit ou ma raison s'enivre,
Oh ! qu'ils sont loin ces jours si regrettés !
J'échangerais ce qu'il me reste à vivre
Contre un des mois qu'ici Dieu m'a compté.
Pour revers gloire, amour, plaisir, folie,
Pour depenser sa vie en peu d'instants,
D'un long espoir pour la voir embellie -
Dans un grenier qu'on est bien à vingt ans !
135
THE GARRET .
I see once more th ' asylum , where my youth
The lessons learned that to the poor belong ;
I had a score of years, friends full of truth,
A doting mistress and the love of song.
Braving the world, its wise and simple men ,
Rich in my spring, no future hopes or fears,
Active and gay, I climbed six stories then -
Oh, for my garret and my twenty years !
It is a garret - let them know it, all !
There used to stand my poor and humble bed :
My table THERE ; and charcoaled on the wall
Still may three- quarters of a verse be read .
Rise up, ye pleasures of my life's bright dawn !
Though Time to scourge you with his wing appears,
Full oft for you I've put my watch in pawn !
Give me my garret and my twenty years !
But first before me here Lisette should stand,
Lively and fair in most bewitching bonnet ;
See ! at the narrow window how her band
Suspends her shawl just like a curtain on it !
My bed is decked , too, with her fav'rite dress ;
For its neat folds, oh love, respect her fears !
I know who paid for it, but ne'ertheless,
Give me my garret and my twenty years !
Feasting one day- the feast had cost us dear -
As loud the chorus of my comrades pealed,
A shout of joy broke on us even here ,
“ Napoleon conquers on Marengo's field."
The cannon thunder ; we our songs renew,
And greet such triumphs with resounding cheers ;
Invaders, back ! France dreads no kingly crew -
Oh, for my garret and my twenty years !
My soul is drunk - away ! from the loved spot,
When joys far off, much mourned , upon me crowd ;
I'd give the years that still may be my lot
For one such month as Heaven to me allowed.
While glory, pleasure, folly, love are rife,
And while her castles Hope enchanting rears -
In one brief span to concentrate my life -
Oh , for my garret and my twenty years !
Less tender and heart -moving than the first, but
a better translation , perhaps — no, not perhaps,
but certainly -- and rather more spirited I may be
excused for adding. Let me now give a few trans
lations of poems which I have never seen attempted
before, and which , like fifty other capital ones I
could name, are not in the Philadelphia book, but
have the honor to make their first appearance in
the Columbian Magazine --- long life to it !
-
GAULS AND FRANKS .
(Les Gaulois et les Francs, Janvier , 1814.)
Gayly, gayly, close the ranks !
On , advance,
Hope of France :
Gayly, gayly, close the ranks,
Forward, forward , Gauls and Franks !
136 THE COLUMBIAN
The barbarians hear the call
Of Attila, and around
Come swarming at the sound ,
And a second time shall fall
Vanquished on the fields of Gaul.
Chorus.
Gayly, gayly, &c.
Leaving his wild boys behind
Mark how the rude Cossack ,
Scorning his bivouac,
Trusts, on English faith, lo find
Ease within our halls reclined
CHORUS .
Gayly , gayly, & c .
Girt with snows forever spread
Round him , the trembling boor
of Russia can no more
Relish acorns and black bread,
Craving ours so white instead
CHORUS
Gayly, gayly, &c .
of our wines the luscious store
Laid up, for us to toast
The victories we boast,
Shall we see the Saxons pour ?
Shall we sing and quaff no more ?
CHORUS .
Gayly, gayly, &c.
For the Calmuck's rough ernbrace
Shall we our daughters spare ,
So gay , so debonaire,
Or our wives supreme in grace ?
Their sons should be French in race .
CHORUS.
Gayly, gayly, &c .
Wbat ! these monuments so dear,
That now as tropbies stand ,
The glory of our land ,
Must in ruins disappear !
What ! in Paris ! Prussians here !
CHORUS. +
Gayly, gayly, & c .
Noble Franks and honest Gauls !
Peace, man's enduring friend,
Soon shall to earth descend,
And repay within your walls
Your high deeds and festivals .
Gayly, gayly, close the ranks !
On , advance
Hope of France !
Gayly, gayly , close the ranks,
Forward , forward, Gauls and Franks !
THE EDUCATION OF GIRLS
( L'education des Demoiselles )
A pretty fellow , Fenelon ,
To teach the girls at school !
He prates of map and needle -work --
But, mother, he's a fool!
MAGAZINE .
um
Balls, concerts and the piece just out
Cun teach us all that we care about.
Tra, la, lira, tra, la, lira -
' Tis thus that girls are taught, mamma !
Let others learn embroidery,
I'll pluy, and try my voice ;
There's in Armida a duet,
My singing master's choice .
If Renaud felt love's burning flame,
I do believe I feel the same. 1
Tra , la, lira , tra, la, lira ,
' Tis thus that girls are taught, mammo !
Let others keep the house accounts ,
I'll dance an hour or two,
And from my master learn a step
Voluptuous and new ;
This skirt's too long and does not fit,
So, mother, loop it up a bit.
Tra , la , lira, tra, la, lira,
" Tis thus that girls are taught, mamma !
Let some one else my sister watch ,
Mamma, I'd rather trace
At the saloon, with skilful hand
Th' Apollo's matchless grace.
Throughout his figure whal a charm !
" Tis naked , true - but that's no harm !
Tra , la, lira , tra, la, lira ,
" Tis thus that girls are taught, mamma !
Mamma , I must be married soon,
E'en custom says no less ;
Besides , there is an urgent cause
I'll candidly confess ;
The knowing world begins to sneer,
But we can laugh at that, my dear.
Tra , la , lia, tra , la, lirra ,
' Tis this that girls are taught, mamma !
SO BE IT .
(Ainsi soit - il.)
I'm gifted with prophetic eye,
Dear friends, and by mine art descry
What's promised to us, by and by !
So be it.
The poet shall no puffs indite ;
The greatshall shun the flatterer's sight;
No courtier swear that black is white !
So be it.
No Jews or gamblers will we brook,
No bankers in the peerage book ,
Even clerks shall wear a civil look !
So be it.
Then friendship her delights shall shed ,
No more that formal thing and dead ,
On which misfortune snaps the thread !
So be it.
The girl, a novice at fifteen,
In three years more may chat, I ween ,
With lovers and not cause a scene !
So be it.
 THE POETS HEART .
The woman shall avoid display
In dressing, and her husband may
In safety be a week away !
So be it.
Then shall they show in all that's writ
Of genius more and less of wit,
Nor jargon puerile admit.
So be it.
Authors of elevated mind,
Actors less foppish shall we find ,
While criticism shall be kind .
So be it.
If great men and their pimps do ill,
We'll jest and rhyme upon them still
Nor fear to see the alguazil.
So be it .
Now taste in France renews her reign,
No longer justice pleads in vain,
While truth from exile comes again.
So be it.
Then, friends, give forth a thankful cry,
These things for Anno DOMINI
THREE THOUSAND are decreed on high !
So be it.
Here are a couple of graceful trifles, tending to
THE POET'S HEART .
“ They learn in suffering what they teach in song."
Ir o'er the wind-harp's gentle strings
The wild wind never flew ,
The voice of song that slumbers there
Would rest in silence too ;
And ' tis the cold and wasting storm ,
Earth's bitterness and strife,
That wins the spirit-lyre to pour
Its music forth on life.
It may not be the broader ills
That daily meet our eye,
The common ills of life, for which
We all have sympathy ;
The tempest rends the quivering chord
Ere music can awake ;
It is the finer hidden ones
That wring, but do not break.
The struggling of the spirit's wing
To soar beyond its chain,
And ever, like a wounded bird ,
But to fall back again :
The thrilling of each finer chord,
Then floateth gently by,
The wild , mysterious note of some
Bewildering harmony.
The burning thoughts that come and
Like meteors in the sky ;
The searching of the restless heart
For love and sympathy ;
12 *
137
display a softer mood in the variable temperament
of our de Béranger.
MY CONTEMPORARY .
( Written in the album of Madame de V
You boast our ages are the same,
But Cupid never will believe it,
For the Fates found our warp of old
So tangled that they could not weave it.
And thus their share of time to each ,
These matrons did by chance assign ;
The springs and summers were your lot,
The autumns and the winters mine.
VERSES .
( Written in the album of Madame Amadee de V
Long may this album of the songster speak
Whose ripened age his tender tone belies ;
Who, finding thee so candid , fair and good,
Was for a moment duped by thy bright eyes.
Through love - ah, no ! his loving days are o'er –
But through thy flattering notice led astray,
He deemed — fond fool! - that beauty's passing smile
Beaming on him was glory's lasting ray.
The thirst for knowledge, and the land
Where living waters roll
For clearer views of Nature's face
“The weary thirst of soul !”
To weave bright visions, and to kneel
And worship in their ray,
And see them vanish as we gaze
Like hues of parting day :
To catch upon the waste of life
A distant gleam of heaven,
And as you grasp it, see it die
As fire flies' light at even .
To feel alone, unblessed, umroved
In this dark , chilling clime i
In sad and secret weariness
To tread the shores of time :
To pour the riches of the heart,
Its deathless love and trust,
In wild and fond idolatry
On but the fleeting dust.
" Tis these that wring the spirit's harp,
Call forth its gushing lay ;
The many sounding winds of life,
That ever round it play ;
And it is but a broken strain
That stirs this earthly air,
An echo of the deathless one
That wakes for ever there.
Shelter Island. N.G.
 ERIS ; A SPIRIT RECORD .
BY WALTER WHITMAN .
Who says that there are not angels or invisible
spirits watching around us ? The teeming regions
of the air swarm with bodiless ghosts — bodiless to
human sight, because of their exceeding and too
dazzling beauty !
And there is one, childlike, with helpless and
unsteady movements , but a countenance of immor
tal bloom, whose long -lashed eyes droop down
ward. The name of the shape is Dai . When he
comes near, the angels are silent , and gaze upon
him with pity and affection . And the fair eyes of
the shape roll , but fix upon no object ; while his
lips move , but a plaintive tone only is heard , the
speaking of a single name. Wandering in the
confines of earth , or restlessly amid the streets of
the beautiful land, goes Dai , earnestly calling on
one he loves.
Wherefore is there no response ?
Soft as the feathery leaf of the frailest flower -
pure as the heart of flame — of a beauty so lus
trous that the sons of Heaven themselves might
well be drunken to gaze thereon — with fleecy
robes that but half apparel a maddening whiteness
and grace — dwells Eris among the creatures beau
tiſul, a chosen and cherished one . And Eris is the
name called by the wandering angel, — while no
answer comes, and the loved flies swiftly away ,
with a look of sadness and displeasure.
It had been years before that a maid and her
betrothed lived in one of the pleasant places of
earth . Their hearts clung to each other with the
fondness of young life, and all its dreamy passion.
Each was simple and innocent. Mortality might
not know a thing better than their love , or more
sunny than their happiness.
In the method of the rule of fate, it was ordered
that the maid should sicken , and be drawn nigh to
the gates of death --- nigh, but not through them.
Now to the young who love purely, High Power
commissions to each a gentle guardian , who hovers
around unseen day and night. The office of this
spirit is to keep a sleepless watch , and fill the heart
of his charge with strange and mysterious and
lovely thoughts. Over the maid was placed Dai ,
and through her illness the unknown presence of
the youth hung near continually.
To the immortal, days, years and centuries are
the same .
138
Erewhile, a cloud was seen in Heaven . The
delicate ones bent their necks, and shook as if a
chill blast had swept by — and white robes were
drawn around shivering and terrified forms.
An archangel with veiled cheeks cleaved the
air. Silence spread through the hosts of the passed
away , who gazed in wonder and fear. And as
they gazed they saw a new companion of won
drous loveliness among them - a strange and timid
creature , who, were it not that pain must never
enter those borders with innocence, would have
been called unhappy. The angels gathered around
the late comer with caresses and kisses, and they
smiled pleasantly with joy in each other's eyes.
Then the archangel's voice was heard — and
they who heard it knew that One still mightier
spake his will therein :
“ The child Dai !” said he .
A far reply sounded out in tones of trembling
and apprehension ,
“ I am here ! "
And the youth came forth from the distant con
fines, whither he had been in solitude. The placid
look of peace no more illumined his brow with
silver light, and his unearthly beauty was as a
choice statue enveloped in mist and smoke.
64
Oh , weak and wicked spirit ! " said the arch
angel , “ thou hast been false to thy mission and thy
Master ! "
The quivering limbs of Dai felt weak and cold.
He would have made an answer in agony - but at
that moment he lifted his eyes and beheld the
countenance of Eris, the late comer.
Love is potent, even in Heaven ! And subtle
passion creeps into the hearts of the sons of beauty,
who feel the delicious impulse, and know that
there is a soft sadness sweeter than aught in the
round of their pleasure eternal .
When the youth saw Eris, he sprang forward
with lightning swiftness to her side. But the late
comer turned away with aversion . The band of
good -will might not be between them, because of
wrongs done, and the planting of despair in two
happy human hearts.
At the same moment, the myriads of interlinked
spirits that range step by step from the throne of
the Uppermost, ( as the power of that light and
presence which is unbearable even to the death
 STRIFE .
less, must be tempered for the sight of any created
thing, however lofty, ) were conscious of a motion
of the mind of God. Quicker than electric thought
the command was accomplished ! The disobedi.
ent angel felt himself enveloped in a sudden cloud,
impenetrably dark. The face of Eris gladdened
and maddened him no more. He turned himself
to and fro, and stretched out his arms — but though
he knew the nearness of his companions, the light
of Heaven, and of the eyes of Eris, was strangely
sealed to him . The youth was blind forever.
So a wandering angel'sweeps through space
with restless and unsteady movements — and the
sound heard from his lips is the calling of a single
name . But the loved flies swiftly away in sadness,
and heeds him not. Onward and onward speeds
the angel, amid scenes of ineffable splendor, though
to his sight the splendor is darkness. But there is
one scene that rests before him alway. It is of a
low brown dwelling among the children of men ;
and in an inner room a couch , whereon lies a
young maid, whose cheeks rival the frailness and
paleness of foam . Near by is a youth ; and the
filmy eyes of the girl are bent upon him in fond
ness . What dim shape hovers overhead ? He is
invisible to mortals ; but oh ! well may the blind
spirit, by the token of throbs of guilty and fiery
love beating through him , know that hovering
form ! Thrust forward by such fiery love , the shape
dared transcend his duty. Again the youth looked
upon the couch, and beheld a lifeless corpse.
This is the picture upon the vision of Dai. His
brethren of the bands of light, as they meet him in
his journeyings, pause awhile for pity ; yet never
STRIFE .
In the battle's fearful hour,
In the rush ofhuman power ;
When oppression's dreaded hand
Comes with tyranny's command ,
Bidding freemen good and brave
Bow ignobly as the slave ;
For thy life, and for thy right,
Be thou valiant in the fight !
Mingle in the earnest strife,
In the flow of blood and life ;
Pressing to the battle's van ,
First for freedom and for man,
Serike - with courage in thy heart ,
With the strength thy wrongs impart :
But in mercy strike thy foe,
And thy God will guide the blow.
When the foe no more shall come,
With the trumpet and the drum ,
Clad in warrior-armor bright,
Marshalled for the field of fight,
139
min
do the pangs of their sympathy, the only pangs
known to those sinless creatures, or arms thrown
softly around him, or kisses on his brow , efface the
pale lineaments of the sick girl -- the dead.
In the portals of Heaven stands Eris, oft peer
ing into the outer distance. Nor of the millions
of winged messengers that hourly come and go,
does one enter there whose features are not ear
nestly scanned by the watcher. And the fond joy
resides in her soul, that the time is nigh at hand ;
for a thread yet binds the angel down to the old
abode , and until the breaking of that bond, Eris
keeps vigil in the portals of Heaven.
The limit of the watch comes soon . On earth ,
a toil -worn man has returned from distant travel,
and lays him down , weary and faint at heart, on
a floor amid the ruins of that low brown dwelling.
The slight echo is heard of moans coming from
the breast of one who yearns to die. Life, and ro
sy light , and the pleasant things of nature , and the
voice and sight of his fellows, and the glory of
thought — the sun , the flowers, the glittering stars ,
the soft breeze — have no joy for him. And the
coffin and the cold earth have no horror; they are
a path to the unforgotten.
Thus the tale is told in Heaven , how the pure
love of two human beings is a sacred thing, which
the immortal themselves must not dare to cross.
In pity to the disobedient angel he is blind, that
he may not gaze ceaselessly on one who returns
his love with displeasure . And haply Dai is the
spirit of the destiny of those whose selfishness
would seek to mar the peace of gentle hearts, by
their own unreturned and unhallowed passion .
When the strife of war shall cease,
And our glory shall be peace –
Rest not - I will show you then
A better, nobler strife for men .
Have we not , our hearts within,
Some forgotten taint of sin ?
Cherished memories of a wrong
Garnered in our breasts too long ?
Hopes of the revenging hour,
The unceasing prayer for power ?
And the foolish love of gain,
Time hath truly proved in vain ?
Wage with these unceasing war ;
God thy guide, and love thy law.
Living never in disguise ,
Envy none and none despise :
Learn men are not made to fear.
In well-doing, persevere.
Hoping all things, pressing on
Till the goal of life is won. I., Jr.
South Allleboro ', Mass.
 THE VOICE OF
A sound is heard, a sound is heard, approaching from afar,
It whispered first where broke the dawn, and beamed the
morning star ;
Hark ! for centuries on its way, hark ! 'tis drawing near
Coming from eternity – the voice , the voice is here !
Like a mighty bird with my pinions spread,
From the unseen hand on my mission fied,
And for agesºspeeding with arrow's flight,
To earth I am coming at dead of night,
And hovering, hovering 'neath the sky,
While I watch as the stars go wheeling by.
A scroll I am spreading for earth to see,
And with fearful haste must the reading be,
As breathless I number each setting sun,
For my work it is great, and must be done.
I have come to lighten the load of him
Whose shoulders are stooping, whose eye is dim ;
I have come for the child in joyous play,
And whispering softly, “ away ! away! "
On a parent's prayers will he gather wings,
And behold in Heaven the angel sings !
I have come to quench the fire -side blaze,
Where lips have forgotten the voice of praise ;
I have come to kindle where none was known,
And with gentle deeds to move hearts of stone ;
I have works of darkness and guilt to unfold ,
I have wings and rust for the hoarded gold ;
I have come every broken vow to date -
A volume vast, and the work it is great !
I have boards to spread where the lordly feasts
Will no hunger find amid all the guests ;
I have famine to send with piteous cry,
With its brain bewildered , and sunken eye ;
I have kingdoms to rear, and kings to dethrone,
And hope for the exile banished alone ;
I come with whispers of love and blessing
NIGHT .
BY MRS . M. ST . LEON LOUD .
Night, beautiful and starry, hath come down ;
Upon her brow a radiant diadem
Of living gems. Seed-pearls from heaven's blue depths,
More purely lustrous in their chastened light,
Than the famed orient orbs by divers found
'Neath the blue waters of the Indian Beas,
Are richly broidered on her sable robe,
And gleam amid its ſoldings.
Thou, oh Night!
Art all unrivalled in magnificence,
When in thy solomn beauty thou dost reign
O'er the dim realm of mystery.
Thine the key
Which can unlock the casket of the soul,
And lead it forth uncumbered by the clay
or dull mortality.
To some thou bringest dreams,
And lo ! the spirit which perchance hath bowed
Beneath a galling weight of earthly care,
140
THE NEW YEAR .
To the contrite heart its sin confessing ;
And I come to hurry that mighty host,
Who'mock while they're rushing to join the lost ;
I have come to gather in peaceful sleep
The soldier that's toiling the truth to keep ;
I have quivers filled with arrows of light,
All ready for him who bewails the night,
And the curtains of death to gather round
Where wilful blindness of heart is found -
While all in the bush of that boding gloom ,
Will those spirits pass on to meet their doom !
With gentle zephyrs I come to bring
Fresh buds, and the dews and the hopes of spring ;
I have summer suns, and their ripening glow,
O'er the flowers and fruits and grains to throw ;
I have frost for the nut and the forest leaf
With the autumn winds when the days are brief -
And the winter snows, and the tempest cloud,
When nature is weaving her icy shroud .
Not sorrows alone do I bring to earth,
But music and sunshine, blessing and mirth .
Yet hurried I number each setting sun,
For my work is mighty and must be done.
Already my pinions are plumed for flight,
And away , away in the stealth of night,
A witness I swiftly 'mid darkness fly,
With another scroll for another oye.
Write as ye list, mortal ! write as ye will —
That record for good , that record for ill !
As morning dawns the voice is hushed, yet while the echoes
tell ,
Like far -off whispers, clear, distinct, each wondrous word
that fell,
So joyously are glittering beams the infantyear caressing,
The sunny earth marks not the voice hath uttered else than
blessing ! H. S.
Quitteth its prison -house and treads the fields
Of bright, etherial fancy, gathering
From trees immortal , stores of golden fruit,
Or roams through gorgeous palaces at will .
Thou lay'st thy cold hand on the brows of some
Hot, tbrobbing brows — and straight forgetfulness
Seals up the very consciousness of life.
For me thou hast a deeper spell , oh Night !
Thine is the magic power which can fling wide
The portals of the tomb wherein repose
The dust of buried years.
Tho past ! The past !
Oh ! come unto my pillow, shadowy Night ,
With visions of the past - the bright - the blest -
Wrap thy dim mantle round me -- bear me hence ,
And steep my weary spirit once again ,
In the fresh - gushing lountain of my youth .
Columbus, East Florida.
%
BOOKS OF THE MONTH .
LETTERS OF Porace WALPOLE. Concluding series. Vol.
1. Philadelphia. Lea & Blanchard .
Critics of all classes have vied with each other in eulogy
of Horace Walpole as a letter.writer ; placing him , by
general consent, at the side of Madame de Sevigné, and
exhausting epithets in his laudation. For instance, the
London Quarterly ascribes to his correspondence “ unri
Valled beauty and brilliancy," " ense and liveliness of ex
pression , terseness of remark and felicity of narration ;"
the Edinburgh says his letters " are full of wit, pleasantry
and information, and written with singular neatness and
sprightliness ; " the Literary Gazette declares them “full of
information, full of anecdote and full of amusement; " the
Athenæum says they are " unequalled in ou : language; "
and , inter alia, the London Times, with juster apprecia
tion, says of the published collection that " as a book of
gossip it is perhaps the completest work of the kind in the
English language."
The 'Times expresses our opinion . Walpole's letters ,
with all their wit, their easy turns of expression and their
occasional shrewdness of remark , are the merest gossip in
the world ; and for the most part gossip about things and
people that may ns well be forgotten . At least this is the
case with the letters to Sir Horace Maon , for whose infor
mation and amusement his " pen was chiefly employed
through a long series of years , while Sir Horace was
residing in a diplomatic capacity at Florence. All the cur
rent scandal of the day was assiduously collected and
distilled by the indefatigable scribbler, with an industry and
perhaps an undiscriminating avidity in which he is surpass
ed only by modern newspaper correspordents ; and the
result is a picture of profligacy in morals and politics which
places the latter years of George the second and the early
part of his successor's reign on a disgraceful equality with
the times of the fourteenth and fifteenth Louises in France .
Walpole, in his writings at least , was a true aristocrat.
The only men and women of whose existence he was con
scious were those connected with the court ; and it was his
delight to chronicle their vices and follies in felicitous and
sparkling phrase. A precious catalogue of fools, knaves,
contemptible men and unvirtuous women he exhibits !
Such being the character of his revelations, we cannot
say that the addition of two more octavoes to the four
already published is a theme for very warm congratulation ;
the very reason assigned for the suppression of the new
volumes until this time — that there were persons living –
“ the immediate descendants the subjects of some of
Walpole's racy anecdotes " — who might be pained by their
early publication – gives them an objectionable character.
There is enough written and published , Heaven knows, the
tendency of which is to debaso and vilify human nature ;
we would rather see it exalted and improved . Horace
Walpole was a mere scandal-monger; a clever one cer
tainly, but for that very reason more to be disliked . It may
be different with others, but a very small portion of his
scandals is quite sufficient for our profit or pleasure.
LOVE AND Money. By Mary Howitt. New York : D.
Appleton & Co.
Good , genial , kind - hearted, right-minded Mary Howitt !
What nice little books sho writea for young people, and
what a painful exhibition she has lately made , in a foolish ,
ill-tempered preface to one of her trauslations from Frede
rika Bremer, of the facility with which people can make a
difference between preaching and practice. Very indignant
because somebody in America was beforchand with her in
translating two or three of the Bremer tales , and because
9
some London publisher thought fit to 46“ pirate " the Ameri
can translation, and so forestall the market , she has scolded
in the preface aforesaid like a literary virago ; imputing all
sorts of offences to the interloping translation, many of
which do not exist at all, while others exist niore flagruptly
in her own . A foolish thing for Mary Howilt to do ; but
we can forgive her for the sake of the many wise and good
things she has written .
The CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN BURNS AND Clarinda.
New York : R. P. Bixby & Co.
The most remarkable feature of this book is the manner
of its publication . It is not beyond precedent for a man of
ardent temperament and rather loose morality , and for a
pretty woman, although married , to flirt and sentimentalize,
on paper or viva voce ; it is nothing very new or wonderful
for such a pair to write silly epistles, which might be for
given to a girl and boy not out of their teens ; but it is
astonishing that a Scotchman could be willing so to wrong
the memory of Burns , a grandson care so lightly for tho
good name of his venerable ancestress as to be instrumental
in dragging their follies to the light. The love of money
must be very strong , or the perception of conjugal propriety
very weak , in the mind of ono standing in such relation to
the parties, when he could deliberately sit down to " ar
range and edit " these letters for publication .
Every body knows that Burns was a worshipper of every
pretty face that came in his way. The Clarinda of this
correspondence - a Mrs. M'Lehose — had a pretty face
and a husband in the West Indies – a voluntary separation
having taken place in consequence of disagreemenis, jea
lousy and mutual loss of affection . Mrs. M'Lehose, thus
left alone, thought proper to fall in love with Burns — in
Platonic love -- and for some years this pair of turtles kept
up a hot correspondence under the fancy names of Sylvan .
der and Clarinda . There is nothing in the letters which
might not have been written by any silly couple in liko
circumstances — nothing creditable cither to their intellect
or their morals. The editor has done tho unkindest thing
he could to their memory , in rescuing the record of their
fault and folly from the oblivion to which it should long
since have been consigned .
HINTS ON ETIQUETTE. New York : A. V. Blake.
Written and originally published in London , where , the
author takes care to inform us, it has gone through twenty
two editions, “ and been made the standard of modern
society." Adapted to American society by the author .
It is not worth while to use a paving stone in demolish
ing a fly ; and we feel no inclination to waste many words
upon this very pretending volume, ridiculous as it is in
many respects . It may not be amies, however, to note one
point wherein the authors of all books on etiquette , or the
usages of society, are altogether at fauli. They assume
that rank in society is a specific something, to the attain
ment of which character and deportment are but a
means . It is so in England, where society recognizes
arbitrary distinctions between man and man ; where differ.
ent kinds of clay are supposed to have been used in the
formation of different individuals. But in this count ry
141
142 THE COLUMBIAN
deportment and character are rank in society - not simply
the indications or evidences of rank . Therefore, in this
country, no sensible man concedes the right of any set or
circle to establish precedents ; no sensible person admits
anything to be genteel because it is done or countenanced
by certain sets or individuals. A gentleman or lady may
be extremely well bred , very genteel and very agreeable,
without knowing or practising any of the rules laid down
in the " standard of modern society in England," and
simply by the exercise of good feeling and intelligent self
respect. There are , of course, bad and ungraceful habits
which it is proper to avoid ; and so far as they contain
admonition against these , books like the one before us are
useful; but as for etiquette. properly so called , every
social organization had better make laws for itself, by the
application of a few general principles , than follow the
nonsensical directions even of a book that has " gone
through twenty -two editions in London."
POEMs . By William James Colgan. New York : Leavitt,
Trow & Co.
A buodred and twelve pagos, containing ninety four
fugitive pieces. The subjects are of the usual class
Hope, A Mother's Grave , The Birth -day of Washington,
Sunset, The Port's Grave , & c. &c. The writer is evidently
20 intelligent man , and his compositions are metrically
correct, with here and there a flash of true poetic feeling.
But how many collections there are of which all this can
be said -- and no more !
INFANT TREATMENT, &c . By Mrs. Barwell ; enlarged
and revised by a physician of New York , Nero York :
Mowatt & Co.
We are bound to believe this little work good and
useful, because it has the emphatic commendation of Dr.
Mout and Dr. Lee . We have oot read it, but in dipping
here and there among its pages we observe that its direc
tions for the treatment of babes and sucklings are both
minute and comprehensive — founded 100,as far as we can
judge, upon sound principles of physiology --or, which is
much the same thing , upon common senso .
RIMINE AND OTHER POEMs. By Leigh Hunt. Boston :
W. D. Ticknor & Co.
We remember the time when it was considered a duty
in all modest women to be shocked at the supposition , or
suspicion , that they had read Mr. Leigh Hunt's Rimini ;
such a prejudice had been wrought against it by the savage
sneers of Blackwood and the affected moral indignation
of the London Quarterly. In truth a harmless poem
enough - exemplary indeed, compared with much that
enters into the composition of every body's reading now a
days ; and though not a great poem , or without faults of
style , rich in beauties both of thought and expression .
NOTICE TO CORRESPONDENTS .
Since the publication of the number for February, the
editor has read , besides several of the articles in the
present number, forty-one manuscripts ranging in length
from one page to almost fifty ; making in all five or six
hun Ired pages of manuscript, some of it cramped and
crabbed enough . Of these the following are retained for
publication : - A Chapter on Woman, The Game of Chess,
Lucy Maynard , Emilia Galotti, A Chapter on Fashion ,
The Indian Rock , Love and Fame, The Wind , The Spirit
of Beauty, To the Loving Unloved, The Power of Song
and Mutius Scævola .
Among the articles not included in this list are some
which the editor is obliged to decline on account of their
length ; one for instance of forty- eight foolscap pages,
which is quite threo times as long as a magazine article
should be. Another, of twenty-seven pages, ( The Yacht )
MAGAZINE .
This new and handsome edition proves that it has outlived
the prejudices by which it was overwhelmed on its original
appearance .
THE COMPLETE CONFECTIONER . By Parkinson . Phila
delphia : Lea & Blanchard .
Cookery , after all , is the first fruit of science. It is a
matter of secondary importance to mankind whether the
moon is or is not inhabited ; whether the pyramids of
Egypt were designed for tombs or temples; wheiber the
aboriginal populations of America came from Tartary or
were indigenous ; whether Junius was Horne Tooke, or
Sir Philip Francis, or nobody ; but it is of the first impor
tance that what wo eat be properly dealt with in the
kitchen . Add that Parkinson is the confectioner of Pbil
adelphia, and the tale of this book is told .
EL DORADO . New York : J. Winchester.
The subject of this work is curious, and the author's
management of it is satisfactory. His purpose in writing it
was twofold : - first, to explain and account for the strange
tales carried home to England by Sir Walter Raleigh, and
other early adventurers, of a city resplendent with gold and
silver, baving its existence somewhere in the interior of the
South American continent; and , secondly, to vindicate
the fair fame of Raleigh from the imputations of mendacity
to which it has been exposed , in consequence of his asser
tion that a nation of Amazons, or warlike women , with
peculiar customs and polity, were among the wonders of
the same extensive and wonder -teeming region.
The author, Mr. Van Heuvel, of Heuveltoo, St. Lawrence
county , had passed some years in the South American prov
ince of Guiana ; and while there had collected a mass of
information which proved of infinite service to him in his
subsequent studies concerning the South American abon
rigines. He visited in person the supposed site of the fabu
lous golden city ; and we are bold to say thai bis explana
tion of the fable is both ingenious and plausible . We shall
not say what it is , because the book is not so large but that
any one,with a very moderate share of leisure , may appease
his curiosity at the fountain head .
The story of the Amazons Mr. Van Heuvel treats in ano
ther fashion . He maintains its truth , and has constructed
a very romantic and striking theory to account for it. He
maintains that the original Amazons were the priestesses
of the Sun in Peru , and that on the overthrow of the Peru
vian empire by Pizarro they abandoned their fallen country
and established themselves in freedom as a separate nation,
maintaining their peculiar socialorganization by the strength
of their own right arms. The proofs cited by Mr. Van Heuvel
in support of this theory are at least ingenious if not con
vincing
is relatively too long ; if it were a strong , thoughtful article,
the editor would contrive to make room for it ; but it is
only a pleasant , sketchy tale, of which the chief merit is
the lively, agreeable style, and for that kind of reading he
is reluctant to give up so much space. And here, perhaps,
it may be as well to remark , once for all , that there is no
kind of article less desirable to the editor than stories, the
only aim of which is to excite and satisfy curiosity by the
mere detail of incidents ; he aims at something higher than
the monthly issue of so many entertaining pages ; and will
always prefer, in his selection of tales , such as develope
some profitable thought, enforce some wholesome moral ,
or illustrate some passage or epoch in history.
The articles not enumerated above are left at the office
of the publisher for their respective writers .
*
 143

NEW ENGLAND CHURCHES .

THE SYMPHONIES AND ACCOMPANIMENTS COMPOSED AND DEDICATED
TO

MISS M. A. SAYER , OF BROOKLYN ,

BY MISS AUGUSTA BROWNE .

LLAH
Con Spirito
2
6 4
The

Moderato
>>
> e > 0
5 :2

church - es on New Eng land ground, How thick · ly do they stand ! The

Ə:

pride of an cient vil · la .

ges , The bea - cons of the Jand. In

Ə :
144 NEW ENGLAND CHURCHES .

climes re . mote, on gild - ed tow'rs, They say the

2
sun • beams fall; But churches

3 #

of the moun tain land,

. Are love
>
- lier than them all.

***
2. 3.

For they are ofa snowy white,
With blinds of darkest green ;
And , when they stand ' midst leafy elms,
No better sight is seen.
With spires that rise more beautiful,
Than e'er did Grecian domes ;
Ah ! sweet, in June, the churches look,
Amid New England homes.
Those brown church isles.--those pine church isles !
How firmly are they trod,
By the staunch -hearted worshippers,
'Whu fear no one but God ;.
And always do the tolling bells
Bring there the old and young,
Although no chime, nor royal round,
Those bells have ever rung.

Ifothers want, 'neath sculptur'd roofs

Rich marble isles to see ,
White chnrches of the mountain land,
Ye re fair enough for me .
And there's a bell , far, far away,
And ringing at this hour,
Whose peals I'dsooner hear than chimes
From any English tower.
 1

d by Theodore L.ar " "IỂas typ cliet

 N
E

Painted by Steuben Engraved by H.S.Sada NI.

T NIE IE MIPER OR & THE KING .

Engraved expressly tòr the Columbian Magazine

 %
THE

COLUMBIAN MAGAZINE .

APRIL , 1844 .

IDLE HOURS . - A CHAPTER ON FASHION .

BY MRS. JAMES G. BROOKS .

“ What ! up and down, carved like an apple tart,

With snip, and nip, and cut ! "
SHAKSPEARE.

Fashion ! thou compounder of absurdities and
exacter of almost impossibilities — thou multipli
cation of folly and subtraction of comfort — thou
queen of dominions unbounded -- for once thou
shalt be the theme of grave discourse ! Thy sway
is over us, felt and acknowledged , yet, like those
penetrating gases chemists talk of, invisible and
impalpable ; thy very greatest perfection is “ a cer
tain something , ” vague , shadowy, indefinite, in
describable, to be reached by some sixth sense ; a
thing whose beauties are not conveyable in words
--all this thou art , and now, in the absence of
wiser matters, our talk shall be of thee.
Whether the spirit of fashion be a thing some
where existent proprià persond, as wise ones affirm
of the spirit of evil, or only (as others say of the
same spirit) a mysterious, all- pervading influence,
others may discuss ; on some points all are agreed,
and first, she is feminine, she is capricious, unrea
sonable , imperative, and as many know full well
to their sorrow, she allows no rival in the hearts of
her true followers.
As I said before, her dominions are boundless ;
she has laws not only for dress, but for talking, and
walking, and riding, and dancing, and laughing ;
and more than this, for building and speculating ;
now she patronizes railroads and anon steamships.
VOL . 1.- 13.
For what is this great crowd of speculators, all
rushing in one direction, but a following of the
fashion ? and what other reason can be given for
this mad-cap peril of purse and name , than that
others led the chase ?
The moralist has said , “ man is aa bundle of
habits ; ” say rather, “6 man is aa bundle of fashions ; "
for the quiet jog- trot reign of old habit has gone
by , the days of quiescence and contentment ; and
this very “ habit,” so venerable in antiquity , has
borne violence which flesh shrinks from , as man ,
like a reed in a tempest, has turned hither and
thither at the bidding of fashion .
Ever changing, a Proteus in stability - let meta
physicians talk of innate ideas, and there may be
such touching right and wrong in ethics, but who
can define right and wrong in fashion ? Here to
day and gone to -morrow . A year, yes a month
sees a complete change in our notions of beauty
and propriety. Is it possible that the discarded
drapery of yesterday ever seemed otherwise than
shocking and vulgar, and will the becoming ca
price of this hour be displaced by a new one the
next ? “ Can it be really true, ” says little miss
in her teens, “ that grandmamma with pow
dered hair, high-heeled shoes and farthingale, ever
charmed the beaux, and listened to precisely such
145
16
146 THE COLUMBIAN
sentimental speeches as steal through my glossy
curls ?” Even so, pretty one, and in a little time
your own beauty will be equally apochryphal !
It should rather be called custom , perhaps, or a
something more stable than fashion, which makes
the very marked difference between civilized and
uncivilized nations, as regards the relative dresses
of the sexes. The savage, we observe, is loaded
with ornaments, while his humble toiling partner
is contented, ay , even happy, in her sombre habili
ments beside him ; but see the change as civili
zation and mental cultivation advance -- he lays
aside his beads and feathers, and she picks them
up, until at last — only glance your eyes, reader,
around any fashionable assemblage, and you will
confess that the first condition of things is entirely
reversed ; man has fairly doffed his finery, and
the fair sex arrayed themselves in his cast -off gew
gaws.
Fashion is a comprehensive subject ; little has
been written , but volumes have been said on it ;
and grave ones have discoursed gravely, and pretty
lips become eloquent ; and she has planted wrin
kles in fair brows, and stolen roses from many
cheeks, and emptied many a full purse , and wrought
some, not a few , heartaches, and many — ah , very
many, headaches. Has she not much to answer
for ? yes, and a chapter would soon swell into a
book in noting all that crowds on thought; while
words might fail in depicting a thing made up of
contradictions.
Fashion is omnipotent now and therefore not to
be lightly spoken of, but her claims have not al
ways been so universally allowed , nor her reign so
quiet; like all monarchs who grasp at universal sove
reignty , she has met at times sturdy opponents in
laws and lawgiverz, and it may be interesting in
this chapter to trace through what opposition and
vicissitudes she arrived at her present unlimited
power.
Moses, as we read , ordained that “ a woman
shall not wear that which appertaineih to a man ,
neither shall a man wear woman's garments ; "
praiseworthy, yet vain attempt of the Hebrew law
giver to crush the aspirations of the softer sex .
Among the oriental nations, priests and kings held
it not beneath their wisdom to prescribe forms of
garments ; and they have ever very effectually re
pressed the vagaries of the eccentric divinity by
restricting certain classes or castes to certain habits.
With what ideas the people of these countries con
trive to fill the vast portion of brain which with us
is occupied by fashion , would be a pleasant subject
of inquiry.
In Rome , of old , heavy sins were laid to her
charge , and wise ones predicted that her luxurious
suggestions would ruin the empire long before that
event happened. In vain were edicts and orations
- such touch only the head , fashion ruled the
、
MAGAZINE .
heart ; and to this day she is believed to have had
no small share in the downfall of that queenly city.
What her claims were may be gathered slightly
from a few remarks scattered through the pages of
some ancient writers.
Pliny tells us that he had seen Agrippina , the
wiſe of Claudius, seated at his side during the ex
hibition of a naval combat, clothed in a robe of
gold, woven without any other material ; and
Lampridias, the historian of Heliogabalus, says
that among his other kingly fopperies he boasted
a tunic of the same cloth of gold. Dion Cassius
describes a cloak of this costly texture worn by
Agrippina, and other authors might be cited to
show the exactions of fashion , exactions so im
perative and exorbitant that she fell at last ,
Sampson like , crushed in the ruins she herself
had drawn down . Then came the barbarous
hordes from the north ; with thoughts bent on
other matters, and made of stuff too stern to be
suddenly moulded by her will, and slowly and by
small degrees did she emerge from obscurity and
once more aspire to power.
Following down the chain of events, ever and
anon does some historian turn aside from the mo
mentous recording of battles and the rising and
falling of nations to note some of her encroach
ments or some of her absurdities. The English
monarchs have at times waged fearful wars with
her, for there, ay in merrie old England , fashion
has more than once been brought before a royal
tribunal ! Had this arbitrary stretch of kingly
power gone no farther than the adventitious cover
ings of mortality , it might have been endured ; but
mustachios and whiskers ! think of that , reader --
a law touching mustachios and whiskers ! It is
all too true ; there was a time when such things
were not left to flourish as now , unmolested — now
is their golden age , and since , (according to re
port,) a proper cultivation of these appendages
leaves their owners but little time for antiquarian
researches, they will doubtless thank us for throw.
ing some light on their history.
Toward the ninth century , when the Normans
came over middle Europe , they vowed destruction
not only to castle and hovel but to that which is
now the very glory of man's soul, the celestial
splendor (as Hajji Baba would say) of Broadway
and Chestnut, the pearl without price at the Tre
mont and Astor - in short they vowed that no
unshaven phiz should be found in their dominions !
Ledwick in his volume of antiquities says :
“ The Gauls, Germans and Britons all wore
mustachios, and so did the Anglo Saxons and Irish ,
till the Normans their masters forbade it."
He goes on to relate that they stigmatised the
practice as barbarous, and compelled the Irish to
part, not only with their beards, but with a goodly
portion of their hair also, “ which did hang too
 IDLE HOURS.- A CHAPTER ON FASHION .
long behind them." These fastidious Normans
are described as — “all gallant , with coats to the
mid knee, heads shorn, beards shaven, and faces
painted."
In some way, not recorded in books, these ex
ploded customs must have again crept into favor ;
for in 1295 Edward the lst of England, although
involved in the wars of the Holy Land , and ha
rassed by the Scottish rebellions in the northern
part of his kingdom at home , found time to raise
another crusade against the unfortunate mustachios.
An especial statute of his “forbids the English to
throw back the hair in the coolen, ( this mode re
sembles the crest of a helmet) and also obliges
them to shave the upper lip .”
Thrice blessed are the mustachios of the nine
teenth century ! Kings and congressmen have
found more legitimate subjects for discussion - re
peal laws and tobacco trade, union and disunion ,
bank charters and petition rights, happily in this
age monopolize senatorial wisdom — thrice blessed
are the mustachios of the nineteenth century !
Another civil war between statesmen and fashion
occurred about fifty years after Edward , in 1356.
Sir Thomas Rokeby convened a parliament at
Kilkenny in Ireland, and among other laws passed
for the purpose of reclaiming what he was pleased
to call the degenerate English, one was promulga
ted against liberty of conscience in the affairs of
dress. As this was "sanctioned by the Duke of
Clarence it fell on the people with due weight, and
doubtless retarded for a long time the budding of
those grotesque whimsies which have since been ,
by degrees, so hopefully developed. The professed
object of this famous statute of Kilkenny was to
prevent the English from imitating the Irish, and
it annexes the highest penalties to an adoption of
the Irish costume. What these garments were ,
the writers that it has been our chance to see say
not ; but the English dress of that period they de
scribe as follows :
6
“ The commons were besotted in excess of ap
parel, in wide coats reaching to their loins ; some
in a garment reaching to their heels, close before
and strutting out on the sides, so that on the back
they make men seem women ; and this they call
by a ridiculous name gown . Their hoods are
little, tied under the chin, and buttoned like the
women's ; their liripipes reach to their heels all
jagged ; they have another weed of silk which
they call paltock ; their hose are pied or of two
colors or more, with latchets which they call
harlots, and tied to their paltocks without any
breeches ; their girdles are of gold and silver, some
worth twenty marks. Their shoes and pattens
are snouted and peaked more than a finger long,
crooking upward , which they call crackowees,
which resemble the devil's claws, and which are
fastened to the knees with chains of gold or silver."
147
Of what shape could the disreputable robes of
the Irish possibly be , that drew contempt from
neighbors thus attired , we are left quite in the
dark, except the slight mention that — “ On the
arrival of the English they wore close capuchins
covering the shoulders and coming down to the
elbows ; under which they wore fallins or jackets,
and breeches and stockings, all of one piece !”
pleasant method, truly, of simplifying the labors
and mysteries of the toilet.
Fashions ! alas for the human race ! How their
wants have been multiplied ; how invention has
been taxed , how trouble has been accumulating
over them in the shape of hats, coats, cloaks,
frocks, ay and even boots and shoes, since those
days of happy ignorance, when creatures like
ourselves were contented to walk abroad with a
complete covering comprehended in two simple
pieces ! How many alterations and refinements
has each article of dress undergone before it as
sumed its present form and texture ! In bonnets
and hats alone, for instance , how many progressive
steps have been , from the time when it first entered
some wise man's head to detach his hood from his
cloak , down to the intricate structures of the pre
sent day ! Then the dress - coats of Monsieur tail
leur Parisien , and the robes à la mode of Madame
de Paris, how difficult to find in them the least
vestige of their originals ! yet each might be traced
back through its gradual changes, and indeed some
parts of modern attire not only boast a most remote
lineage, but seem to have undergone compara
tively but slight alteration. Dost thou know, vain
man, what a halo of antiquity invests the straps
of thy pantaloons ? those things thou didst deem
but cunning contrivances of yesterday ? Listen
then :
“ In an Icelandic chronicle of 1129 , the Irish
dress was named as a skirta or shirt, brockur the
trowse , mottu the mantle , and hott a cap ; the
trowse was tied with thongs which passed under
the sole of the foot.” ( Vide Johnstone quoted in 3
Ledwick's antiquities.)
The large sleeves also, which a few years ago
grew to such a magnitude that it was difficult to
discover their fair owner between them , are by no
means of modern invention ; neither do they seem
to have originated with the female part of the com
munity ; they class perhaps with those things re
ferred to in the beginning of our chapter, which
man grew wise and cast aside , and woman picked
up and appropriated to herself. Spencer tells us
that in his day men wore garments -- “ With
sleeves exceeding wide , and hanging to their
knees , " and that some sported a vest scarcely
reaching to the elbows, and , he says, “ Well cal.
culated to display the barbarous finery of monstrous
sleeves."
 148 THE COLUMBIAN
Shane O'Neil , at the court of Queen Elizabeth ,
in 1562, was attended by his galloglasses, with
battle-axes, heads bare , locks hanging down, &c.,
&c., and shirts with enormous sleeves. Moryson ,
in a chronicle of the olden time , says that in 1588
the quantity required for one of these garments
was about 30 English ells, or nearly 38 yards,
“ folded in wrinkles (he continues) and dyed with
saffron ! ” Several other writers mention the enor
mous sleeves of those days , or allude to them as
a remnant of barbarism ; nevertheless they flour
ished with us not long ago , as the very climax of
refinement.
Fashion, if we may judge from the ridicule
pointed at her by the writers of those times, must
have cut odd antics in the reigns which immedi
ately followed Queen Elizabeth , for she incurred
the displeasure of royalty, and was destined again
to meet royal opposition. James II. was the next
bold man who ventured to interfere with “ woman's
gear. ” Sibald informs usu that he issued an edict
which forbade “ them to come to kirk ormercet
with faces so muffied or covered that they may not
be kenned .”
But alas ! for that gentle submission and amia
ble compliance which ought to distinguish the sex,
he is compelled by truth to add, “ This act of
parliament notwithstanding the ladies continued
muffaled during three reigns.”
Another law of King James was procured doubt
less by a caucus of street sweepers ; it forbade ladies
wearing garments whose extreme length “ Did
sweip the causy clene." Whether this met with
less determined opposition than the first mentioned
we know not, but it evidently was happy to receive
some auxiliary assistance , and Sir David Lindesay
lent it his evil aid in the form of ridicule ; he wrote
a long poem entitled -- " In contemplation of syde
taillis. "
This seems to have been the last attempt to in
vade by law and force the dominion of fashion , for
royal mourning and a few military regulations are
the only barriers now opposed to her universal
sovereignty in civilized countries . Her throne is
at last built ( where it will not easily be shaken ) on
that rock in metaphysics, woman's will . Her
freaks and absurdities, like those of mortal belles,
are converted in the minds of her followers into
beauties and fascinations, her most extravagant re
quisitions are
a
cheerfully complied with , and in
short she sways an empire co -extensive with
Christendom , and unrivalled in power by any of its
monarchs.
&
MAGAZINE .
Much character is seen in dress. Not only have
great epochs in national prosperity and virtue, and
effeminacy and dissoluteness , been marked by a
corresponding modesty or extravagance in attire,
more especially in female attire , but the very indi
vidual qualities of mind are often , to an astute ob
server, revealed by external decorations. Delicate
or gaudy and ill combined colors — the form of a
robe -- a few simple, well -chosen ornaments well
arranged - just sufficient to compliment the occa
sion , not to index with elaborate display the
wearer's wealth — all convey an irresistible im
pression of character ofttimes ineffaceable. It is
impossible to pronounce any one costume intrin
sically beautiful, for the reigning mode seems
always most so , and although fashion is omnipo
tent and it be treason to oppose her laws, she
pardons aa little evasion.
Well ! after all there is no accounting for tastes,
and Mr. Catlin prefers the equipments of a Mandan
squaw to all the exquisite inventions of Madame
Beaujon. In a letter from the west he says --
“ Their beautiful white skin dresses, made from
the mountain sheep, extend from their chins down
quite to the ground , and are studiously formed to
hang loose over them , without showing anything
of the shape of the person , instead of drawing and
cording themselves up into angles and protuber.
ances, as our fair ladies do to attract the gaze and
admiration of the world .”
The regulations of the Mandan tribe seem the
very reverse of those existing in là belle France ,
where a lady is nobody until she is married , for
Mr. Catlin goes on to tell us that after that event
66
they wear a dress of elk skin , a coarser material ,
shorter and better calculated for the laborious du
ties they have then to perform .” Though it is
barely possible that our fair mademoiselles inight
be induced to adopt the fascinating white skin dress,
it is rather doubtful whether they would follow
farther.
A fitting close, reader, if indeed you are beside
me yet, a fitting close to our chapter would seem
to be , a sketch of the reigning modes, as a picture
in advance of that which will descend to posterity ,
and call forth from them pity and contempt for
our barbarous tastes , and our stupid misconceptions
of the beautiful. But it would be like sketching
flying clouds, or passing waters, that even while
I wrote were swiftly hurrying onward — and long
ere this vile chirography can be transformed into
fair type, they will have passed, and left
“ No trace behind, whereon the thought ofman
Could write the things which had been ! "

GENIUS AND
BY MRS. EMMA C. EMBURY.
What a glorious giſt is that of eloquent utter
ance ! The laurels of the warrior are only achiev
ed on the field of blood ; the honors of the states
man depend on the fickle breath of the multitude ;
but the author - the creator - he who in the se .
clusion of his closet can commune with the solemn
majesty of truth, whose oracles he has been chosen
to interpret ; he who can people the narrow limits
of his solitary chamber with images of beauty ; he
who, amid the sands of worldliness has found the
“ diamond of the desert,” while its sweet waters
are welling up in all their freshness and purity -
what a noble power is his ! And what a strange
and mystic faculty is that which gives to “ airy
nothings ” such shapes as make them seem , even to
the coarse minded worldling, like familiar friends ;
which imparts to unsubstantial dreams a visible and
life - like presence ; which invests the impalpable
shadows of the brain with the attributes of human
ity, and demands for these fairy creatures of the
fancy ourkindliest and warmest sympathy ! What
a godlike giſt is that which enables the lonely stu
dent to sway the minds of myriads on whom his
eye may never rest with a glance of friendly recog
nition ; to move as if by one impulse the hearts of
thousands ; to stir up high and holy feelings in bo
soms which the commerce of the world and the
exigencies of life had chilled and hardened !
Yet it is with the mind as with the body ; the
exercise of our physical energies is delightful in
proportion as it is the act of unfettered volition.
The man who, in the sportiveness of health and
*
spirits, will go into the woodland and make the
strokes of his axe ring through the forest aisles,
would find little pleasure in the same labor if ne
cessity had driven him to become a hewer of wood.
The well trained dancer, whose lithe form moves to
the voice of music as if she were but an embodi
ment of the spirit of harmony, feels none of the
pure joy which once possessed her, when , in the
freedom of childish mirth, her dance was but the
evidence of a lightsome heart. It is only when the
will is left free to direct the faculties that we can
derive full gratification from our consciousness of
power ; and if this be true of the body — that mere
machine which , from its earliest sentient moment,
is submitted to restraint and subjection - how
much more so is it of the free and unchained mind.
It matters not whether the fetters that are laid
13 *
$
ITS REWARDS .
upon the soul be forged from the iron sceptre of
necessity, or wrought from the golden treasures of
ambition ; still they are but chains, and he who
would feel the true majesty of mental power must
never have worn the badge of thraldom .
It is not the triumph of satisfied ambition which
affords the highest gratification to the truly noble
minded . Intellectual toil is its own exceeding
great reward. The applause of the world may
gladden the heart and quicken the pulse of the
aspirant for fame , but the brightest crown that was
ever laid on the brow of genius imparts no such
thrill of joy as he felt in that delicious moment
when the consciousness of power first came upon
him . It is this sense of power —this innate con
sciousness of hidden strength , which is his most
valued guerdon ; and well would it be for him if
the echo of worldly fame never resounded in the
quiet , secluded chambers of his secret soul ! Well
would it be if no hand ever offered to his lips the
cup of adulation , whose magic sweetness awakens
a thirst no repeated draughts can slake ! Well
would it be if the voice of a clamorous multitude
never mingled with the sweeter music of his own
gentle fancies ! Well would it be if he could
always abide in the pure regions ofelevated thought,
leaving the mists and the darkness , the lightnings
and tempests of a lower world , beneath his feet !
Titian, living amid wealth and honors, and dying
in the arms of a weeping monarch , presents to the
eye of thought a far less noble picture than the
poor, unfriended, humble Correggio, when , at the
sight of some glorious works of art , the veil which
had hidden his own resplendent genius was sud
denly lifted from his eyes, and he exclaimed, in the
ecstasy of an enlightened spirit, “ Io anche son
pittore ! ” I too am a painter !
With the first knowledge of innate power to the
mind of genius comes also the desire of benefiting
humanity, and , at that moment , when the fire
which God has lighted within the soul burns up
ward with a steady light toward Heaven , while it
diffuses its pure splendors on a darkened world
around — at such a moment man is indeed but
little lower than the angels.
“ Could he keep his spirit to this pitch
He might be happy ; "
but, alas ! the mists of earth rise up around him ;
the light is dimmed upon the altar ; less holy gleams
149
150 THE COLUMBIAN
shoot athwart the growing darkness, and , too often ,
the fading flame of spiritual existence is rekindled
at the bale - fires of the nether world.
There is something fearful in the responsibility
which attaches to the expression of human thought
and feeling. “ We may have done that yesterday,"
says Madame de Stael , “ which has colored our
whole future life.” Appalling as this idea is, the
reflection that in some idle mood and in some un
counted moment, now gone past recall , we may
have uttered that which has influenced the opinions,
the feelings, perhaps the fate of another, is even
more terrific to the conscience. Who cannot re
member some single word , some careless remark ,
which , coming from lips fraught with eloquence ,
or uttered from a heart filled with truth , has af
fected our early fortunes and perhaps our life-long
destiny ? Who cannot look back upon some mo
ment in life when the unconscious accents of ano
ther have withheld the foot which already pressed
the verge of some frightful precipice ? Who can
not recall , in bitter anguish of spirit, some hour
when the “ voice of the charmer " has won the
soul to evil influences and late remorse ? If such
things come within the experience of each one of
us, (and that they do no one can doubt,) may not
every human being, however humble , feel awed
before the simple power of human expression ?
Oh ! it is a fearful thing to pour out one's soul in
eloquent utterance ! fearful, because it opens the
inner sanctuary to the gaze of vulgar eyes ; fearful,
because its oracular voice is rarely interpreted
aright ; doubly fearful because even its most truth
ful sayings may be of evil import to those who
listen to its teachings.
“ When the gifts of genius inspire those who
know us not with the desire to love us, they are the
richest blessings that Heaven can bestow upon hu
man nature.” This is a woman's sentiment, but
it is one to which every gifted soul will respond . I
once heard it asserted by one , who has but to look
within himself to behold the richest elements of the
good and grand most harmoniously commingled,
that “ there is something essentially feminine in
the mental character of a man of genius, while
there are also decidedly masculine traits in the
intellectual developments of a gifted woman.”
The idea was at first startling, but it is undoubtedly
true . The delicacy of perception, the refinement
of thought, the tenderness of fancy which mark the
man of genius, approach very nearly to the finest
traits of womanly nature ; while the vigor of
thought and magnanimity of feeling which belong
to an enlarged and occupied mind in the gentler
sex , are certainly borrowed from the stronger nature
of man . There is an assimilation between them,
which , while it does not prove the assertion that
“ there is no sex in genius," goes far to establish a
theory and account for apparent incongruities. It
MAGAZINE .
is those very faculties, compelling each, as it were ,
to trench upon the privileges of the other, which
involve and almost ensure the social unhappiness
of genius. How difficult is it for thought to fold
its wings beside the household hearth , or brood
with fostering care over the petty duties of life !
How much more difficult for the delicate and sensi
tive nature to assert its manly strength , when every
pulse is thrilling with refined emotion ! Yet the
diligent culture of the affections, the unselfish devo
tion to social duties, may and do preserve to each
its true nature. Hence it is that while others seek
for palpable and tangible rewards, the children of
genius find so much to prize in the distant and far .
off affection which their gifts awaken in loving and
humble hearts.
What can impart more pure delight than the
consciousness that we have given consolation to
the wretched ; that we have deepened the thrill of
joy in the breast of the happy ; that we have ele .
vated the thoughts of an awakened mind , by the
expression of unconscious sympathy ? How many
hearts, aching with excess of feeling, have found
vent for their fulness in those exquisite lines of the
poet of nature — those lines which contain an em
bodiment of all the romance , I had almost said of
all the poetry , of life :
“ Had we never loved sae kindly,
Had we never loved sae blindly,
Never met or never parted,
We had ne'er been broken-hearted."
How many have felt the wild surges of feeling
heave with a calmer swell when they listened to
the solemn music uttered by the great master of
passion :
“ Ave Marin ! 'tis the hour of prayer !
Ave Maria ! ' tis the hour of love !
Ave Maria ! may our spirit dare
Look up to thine and to thy Son's, above ? "
How many “ nel tempo dei dolci sospiri," have
echoed the strain of that passionate emotion which
thrilled the heart of Petrarca when he exclaimed :
“ Benedetto sia 'l giorno , e 'l mese, e ') anno,
E la stagione, e 'l tempo, e l' ora , e 'l punto,
E'l bel paese, e 'l loco ov 'io fui giunto
Da duo begli occhi, che legato m' hanno."
How many, while listening to the voice of nature's
great high priest, learn to love the giſted beings
who have power to interpret the vague oracles of
God within their souls ; how many would fain
utter in nobler language the sentiment which dic
tated this grateful barst of feeling to one of our
country's greatest bards :
To W.C.B.
My thanks are thine, most gifted one ! to thee
I owe an hour of intellectual life,
A sweet hour stolen from the noise, and strife,
And turmoil of the world , which , but to see,
Or hear of from afar, is pain to me .
I thank thee for the rich draught thou hast brought
To lips that love the well -springs of pure thought
Which from thy soul gush up so plenteously.
 GENIUS AND
The hymnings of thy prophet voice awake
Those nobler impulses, that, hushed and still,
Lie hidden in our hearts, till some wild thrill
Of spirit-life has power their chains to break ;
Then from our long , inglorious dream we start,
As ifan angel's tone had stirred the slumbering heart.
It is true , such thanks may come from one
whose name is writ in water” – from a mind
which is only endowed with power to enjoy a music
it never can create ; yet surely it is pleasant to feel
that we have imparted pure and intellectual gratifi
cation to one of God's creatures, however humble ;
and that we have awakened , for one brief hour, the
joy of inner life .
Well may such things be prized , for they are
among the few earthly joys which cheer the heart
of genius when the darkness of self distrust gathers
around him . The smile of Heaven may beam
upon him with unfading brightness, but he must
tread an earthly path, and dangers and sorrows
beset him on every side. They who are his daily
companions are those who see not into the mys
teries of life. They weigh him in the balance of
worldly prudence and he is found wanting ; they
watch his moods and bring them up in judgment
against him , as if every variation of a sentiment was
a deviation from a moral principle ; they try him by
tests from which even the enduring spirit of calcu
lation would shrink ; they stand afar off and then
wonder that he is not of themselves ; they seek to
despise that which they may not comprehend, and
they receive his teachings rather as the ravings of
the Delphian Pythoness than as the solemn voice of
a prophet. Weary and heart-sick, how often does
he pause on his lonely way ! how often does he
faint in very heaviness of soul ! how often does he
long to fold his weary pinion in the still chamber
of death :
Yet comfort is still for him . The multitude
may know him not ; the laurel may never wreath
his brow to guard it from the lightning which hal
lows even while it scaths ; yet will his clarion
voice be heard afar off, and while those pause to
catch its tones who have never listened to his
household words, it will echo widely through the
dim shadow of the future . His thoughts will find
a response in hearts that knew him not, and his
memory will live , embalmed in sweetest fancies,
when he shall have lain down like a weary child
to sleep the dreamless sleep of death. His life will
be one offevered hope and chilling disappointment ;
he will ever grasp after some unattained delight,
for it is in vain yearnings after the spiritual that
men utter the hymnings of their noblest nature ; he
will wander unsatisfied through a world which
seems green and beautiful beneath every foot save
his ; he will drink of many a Circean cup, but his
thirst will be still unslaked, his joy still untasted !
But " coraggio e pazienza " must be written
upon his heart and upon his banner. Life has only
ITS REWARDS . 151
its transient joys and sorrows, while his course is
still onward and upward. He may be of those
whom the world knows not, but while he guards
the sacred flame within his bosom , he is not for
saken of Him who gave that spark of celestial fire.
In his journeying across the sands of worldly care, .
he is guided as were the Israelites of old. When
the day-star beams on high and all around seems
bright, his eye may see only a pillar of cloud ; but
when all earthly light has departed , then does it
beam forth a heaven-sent flame to direct his steps
to the better land !
Let him never forget that his gifts are not his
own. “ Is not this the great Babylon that I have
built," was the arrogant thought of him who became
as the beast of the field , Others may be endowed
with the power of gathering the treasures of world
liness ; wealth may fall to the lot of some ; power
may be the destiny of others ; popular applause
may follow the steps of others ; but to him has been
given a nobler faculty, and for aa nobler aim. ' They
are “ of the earth , earthy ; ” in the providence of
God all these his creatures are needed to fulfil their
mission , and verily they have their reward. But
thou , child of genius, art chosen for a higher pur
pose . It is thy privilege to guard the sacred shield
on whose safety depends the welfare of thy fellow
beings. Thou art chosen to watch over truth, to
interpret the voice of conscience, to utler the ora
cles of love and wisdom. No selfish dream must
fill thy fancy ; the dark form of ambition must fling
no shadow over the pure stream of thought within
thy bosom.
The world may sneer at the nobleness of soul it
cannot imitate ; friends may rebuke the nature they
cannot comprehend ; even affection may be blind
to the deep mysteries of a high and holy purpose of
life ; but still faint not thou ! Like the fabled bird
of Eden, it is only in upward flight that thy pinions
give out their radiant hues of paradise ; thou wert
not meant to fold thy wing above thy weary heart
and rest on earth.
To be poor in worldly goods, despised by the
worldly wise, half dreaded by the worldly ambi.
tious and only half loved by those on whom thy
best affections have been poured forth ; such is thy
earthly destiny, 0 genius ! Thou wilt give thyself
out like incense to the wind, like music on the
tempest. Yet rejoice thou in thy destiny. The
incense may be borne afar off, but it will yet breathe
sweetness upon some weary brow ; the melody
may be wasted on the blast, but some faint tones
will reach and cheer a brother's sinking heart.
Truly is the gift of genius a glorious one, even in
its grief. The fruits which are given to its thirsting
lip may be bitter to the taste, but they are plucked
66
from the tree which is " for the healing of the na
tions."
Brooklyn, L. I.

RECOLLECTIONS
BY MRS . CAROLINE H. BUTLER .
Of the most pleasing reminiscences of my sojourn
at Macao is that derived from the acquaintance
formed with Mr. Gutzlaff and his amiable lady.
Mr. Gutzlaff is too well -known as a traveller to
require any explanation as.to who or what he may
be. When speaking of China, Mr. G. appeared
perfectly enthusiastic , and willing to devote all his
time and labors to the conversion and improvement
of the natives. On Sundays he usually preached to
them in their own language. He has penetrated far
into the interior of that vast empire, and describes
those parts he has visited as being wonderful. In no
country on the face of the globe , he observed , had
the hand of man accomplished such stupendous
works as in China. Their dykes and canals he
considers the eighth and ninth wonders of the
world. The conversation of Mr. Gutzlaff is ex
tremely versatile and entertaining.
Mrs. Gutzlaff at that time had a large school at
Macao, which on their invitation we visited several
times. It was a pleasing scene to view Mrs.
Gutzlaff sitting in the midst of her scholars, giving
them instruction from the New Testament, in lieu
of the four celebrated books of Confucius, which
are considered the summum bonum of Chinese
education. There were between thirty and forty
pupils attached to this school, of whom only two
were girls, and those blind ! These scholars all
reside under the same roof with Mr. Gutzlaff, at
whose expense , as I was informed, they were fed
and clothed.
Blindness and ophthalmia prevail to a distressing
degree in China. One cannot walk through the
narrow , crooked streets of Macao without encoun
tering many of these miserable beings. At the
gate of Lazarus, in particular, there are always
congregated the most wretched objects it is possible
to conceive — the lame, the halt and blind ; poor
famishing beggars, all rags and filth, here stretch
themselves under the large India fig trees or around
the brink of the fountain which is there excavated.
There is probably no nation in which there is so
much suffering as among the lower orders of the
Chinese.
The Caza Garden at Macao is celebrated for
containing within its precincts the cave in which
Luis De Camoens composed his Lusiad, and being
one of the greatest lions of the place, on one
152
1
OF CHINA – NO . III .
bright and balmy afternoon, attended by our com
pradore, we strolled thither.
The coup d'æil as we entered the garden was
truly beautiful ; it was like an actual peep into
fairy land. It is of great extent , covering some
acres of ground, and embraces within its precincts
some of the most retired and romantic spots one
can imagine . It seems as if nature , in one of her
wildest moods, had here combined all her powers
to form a scene of perfect romance, with which art
has so nicely blended as to increase instead of
diminishing the effect. Large masses of rocks from
twenty to thirty feet in height, their summits
crowned with beautiful trees, rise in different parts
of the garden . Some of these rocks are entirely
bare, while others are covered with a delicate
creeping vine , or the roots of the banian tree form
a beautiful and curious net-work over them . The
walks are broad and bordered with a variety of
trees and shrubs -- the orange tree, the double
flowering peach, magnolias, Japonicas, pomegra
nates, beautiful roses and carnations, and many
others whose names were unknown to me, but
whose fragrance filled the air.
One roves through these delightful alleys, charm
ed by the sweet odor of roses and the melody of
the birds. One moment finds you encircled by
immense rocks, pile upon pile ; a step or two
farther, and you are beneath the shade of the ban
ian , its rich dark foliage waving over you, while
the roots are twisting and twining in a thousand
fantastic shapes over everything around. At
almost every turn a new and beautiful view was
presented to us. From one quarter rose the ma
jestic Lapa — the waters of the inner harbor gently
laving its base , while the numerous Portuguese
and Chinese craft, floating on its bosom , were
plainly reflected in the calm transparence. Again
you are looking down as from a precipice upon the
busy tumult of a Chinese village, with its gay
decorations of colored paper hung around the doors
and walls as propitiatory offerings to “ Josh ; ” the
hum of voices, the yelping of their ugly yeilow
dogs, the beating of gongs and cries of children
coming "full and thick upon the ear.” From an
other quarter the island of Kean -shan stretches
far in the distance , and over the narrow neck of
land connecting it with Macao , a party of English
% **
RECOLLECTIONS OF CHINA .
and Americans were gaily galloping along the
beach.
From the centre of the garden rises a high and
irregular peak , on which is erected a summer
house. To this we commenced our ascent- at
one time almost sliding along a hard clay path as
smooth as marble , or by steps excavated in the
solid rock — the whole distance guarded by ele
phants, bisons and dragons formed of clay, with
orange and peach trees, magnolias, pinks and ma
rigolds sprouting from their backs. When we had
nearly reached the summit a quiet path diverged
to the left ; into this we turned and in aa few mo
ments found ourselves before the cave of Camoens.
The cave is formed by the close approximation of
three large rocks, which , uniting at the top, form a
circular little cell, not large enough however to
. contain more than two persons. Here it was, then,
that the unfortunate poet , banished from his coun
try, and from his fair mistress Catherine D'Attayde ;
here it was that , shut out as it were from the world ,
he sought to forget, amid the scenes of nature , the
cruelty of his king and country. But the muse ,
fickle goddess as she is, deserted him not ; how
could she ? for every breeze that played amid the
branches waving before his rocky abode, came laden
with the richness of the orange blossom , and his
ear caught no sound save the sweet melody of the
birds, or the dashing of the surf on the rocky beach
below him . When afterward recalled to his
country , a few years saw him a beggar in the streets
of his own “fair Lisbon,” dependant upon the alms
bestowed by the hand of charity on his faithful
slave , did not his heart yearn for this hallowed
retreat ?
Leaving the cave, we continued our ascent to
the summer house , from which the view is very
fine. The Praya- Granda with its white dwellings,
sweeping in such a graceful curve from the water
- the several forts , convents and churches, crown
ing each lofty eminence around, and the extensive
view of the ocean, with Lantau , the Nine Islands,
and Lintin Peak in the distance, combined to ren
der the landscape most enchanting.
As we returned we passed through the campo,
and ascended Mont Charil, on which stands Fort
Guia. The campo is a large open field, covering
some acres , and ascends gradually to Mont Charil,
the whole surface being thickly scattered with
graves. Indeed every hill is a sepulchre in China.
These graves are in the form of a horse -shoe, and
from little stakes placed at their side usually flutter
small strips of white cloth or paper. Once a year,
in the month of August, the Chinese celebrate the
“ Festival of the Dead.” They then visit the
graves of their departed relatives, taking with them
such provisions as they can afford , which they place
at the head of the grave. They then burn quan
tities of gold and silver paper, believing that the
153
ashes of the same will become money in the other
world ; this their friends receive, and will be there
fore enabled to subsist comfortably until another
festival returns!
The respect and affection the Chinese bear the
dead are an object of admiration. They will de
prive themselves of any comfort to procure the gold
and silver paper for the use of the deceased ; and
unhappy indeed is he who dies, knowing that he
has no relative that may thus reverence his remains.
This festival for the dead lasts nearly a week, and
during that time, it is said , the hills seem to be on
fire .
Pursuing our walk through this vast cemetery,
we soon reached the highest elevation of the campo ,
and looked down upon the green paddy fields
stretched below us. These are on a flat which is
sometimes overflowed ; here they cultivate their
rice and vegetables. There is no division by fen
ces , but all is one bright green surface. Several
Chinese laborers were busy watering their respect
ive tracts ; they have large reservoirs of water
around the border of their land ; two men stand,
one on each side, holding a long wire or flexible
pole, to the middle of which hangs a bucket ; this
they dash into the reservoir , and then swing the
contents over the field . They perform this novel
mode of watering with great apparent ease and
rapidity.
We at length reached the summit of Mont
Charil, and passing through a large gate , from
which waved the flag of Portugal, we entered the
fort. There was not an officer or soldier in the
garrison, they having all marched over to the Monte
Fort, to celebrate the installation of a new gover
nor ; and while we were admiring and pointing
out to each other particular views of beauty, the
firing from the Monte Fort commenced ; the loud
reverberation echoing and re-echoing through the
islands and hills around. Everything within the
fort was neat and orderly ; the court was paved
with large flat stones ; on the walls were mounted
eighteen bronze and iron cannon , and at one ex
tremity rises a huge stone cross . We entered the
chapel attached to the fort; it is very small, the
walls white and painted around the ceiling with
wreaths of flowers, and in various niches are waxen
images of the Virgin and Saints .
Upon our return we passed the foundation (laid
many years since) of what would undoubtedly have
been a princely edifice, to judge by the massy and
extensive wall, had not the superstition of the
owner prevented its completion. It was intended
for the dwelling of a rich old Portuguese lady, who
commenced the work upon a scale of grandeur
correspondent to her wealth, which is said to have
beer nmense. Shortly after its commencement
some unexpected domestic calamity befel the lady,
this the wily priests resolved to turn at once to their
 154 THE COLUMBIAN
own advantage. Instead of breathing comfort to
the poor afflicted woman, they poured out their
anathemas upon her — they assured her that her
punishment was just , that had it not been for her
pride in erecting so fine a dwelling the misfortune
would not have happened, and that if she wished
to avoid others equally severe , or rescue her own
soul from purgatory, she must renounce the pomps
TO THE CLOUDS .
A DREAMER'S
Warmper so fast, with your light graceful motion,
Soft vapory shapes ever onward that fly ;
Pray tell us the cause of this wondrous commotion,
And where do ye glide thus athwart the blue sky ?
Lovely things ! are ye bound for the far distant billow,
Your own native element striving to gain ?
On its milky white foam to recline as a pillow,
And mingle your crest - tops with those of the main ?
Or are ye poor vagrants, thus ruthlessly driven,
The sport of unpitying currents of air ?
Not alone do ye roam o'er the wide face of heaven -
Of blasts of adversity, man hath his share .
Say, have ye not seen him in pain and in sorrow ,
Observed his vain struggles through life's waning years ?
And seen how the light of each hope for to -morrow
Scarce dawned ere 'twas quenched in new darkness and
tears ?
Ye have seen the dark shadow of gloom on his spirit
Like the dull sombre hue which ye oftentimes wear ;
And the bright shining gifts which he claims to inherit
Oft fated like yours to be wasted in air.
Ye have known too the faith of the young and pure hearted
While firmly around some fond idol it clings,
Till blighted by falsehood, or hopelessly parted —
Then grief, how the heart of the victim it wrings !
Do ye pity the fast falling tears of a mother,
When they flow like your rain drops so heavily shed ?
And kindly lament with a sister or brother
When struck with bereavement they mourn for their
dead ?
Of scenes such as these ye will pass over ever,
And weep for such ills as ye speed on your way ;
Ye may mourn for man's doom, but avert it, ah never !
His fate to endure until life shall decay.
76
MAGAZINE .
and vanities of the world , and bequeath her wealth
to the Holy Church. “ Give your money,” said
they , “ to the holy Madre de Dios, and your sal
vation is secure.” It is needless to say the fright
ened woman did as the reverend padres advised ,
and shut herself up in the convent of Santa Clara,
leaving this relic of earthly pride and superstition
to crumble to the ground.
FANTASY .
Then tell us of forms and of scenes that are brighter,
Aerial forms to our fancy displayed ;
Whose fleecy white garments than snow -drifts are whiter,
And oft by the sunlight so luminous made.
We see you a band of fair angels appearing
With feathery wings all in beautiful play ;
We mark when ye move a dark body careering
Like the pomp of a host drawn in battle array.
Oh ! soft do ye sleep on your couches of amber
When linger the sunbeams your forms to enfold ;
And gorgeously bright is each tapestried chamber
With air-woven tissues of crimson and gold.
At dawn ye arise tinged with soft, rosy blushes,
And don your light garments oft dappled with grey ;
Then ere the horizon is spread with morn's flushes
Ye wave an adieu, and ye scud far away .
Anon ye appear- in large bodies assemble -
And traverse the sky then so brilliantly blue ;
Soft floating, your gossamer robes seem to tremble,
While spots of the azure come glimmering through .
Oh ! pleasant and fair seems the path that ye travel,
And bright your existence, though transient it be ;
The thread of my being if I might unravel,
The path of the clouds should be the pathway for me.
O'er the blue plain above I would roll round in lightness,
My silvery car should be dazzling to see ;
No other fair cloud should excel me in brightness,
Or e'er in its motion than mine swifter be.
Through the sunlighted day, with his rays on me shining,
My course I'd pursue to the far-brilliant west :
And when his last glories were dimly declining,
With a beam for my pillow I'd sink down to rest.
J. C. H.
 THE ARTIST'S
BY MRS. E. F. ELLET .
In a room meanly furnished, of a small house, No.
857 Windmill street, Leipzig, a man in the begin .
ning of middle age was reclining on a seat, one
morning in 1789. He was well built and slender,
and his features were rather handsome than other
wise ; but they were sharpened and bleached by
dissipation , and his whole person bore the marks
of excess. He wore a flowered silk dressing gown,
torn and frayed in various places ; his collar was
open and soiled, though it displayed the whitest of
necks; and a dirty velvet cap had just been re
moved from a head that seemed as if it had not in
many days known the discipline of a comb. This
individual was leaning on a table, turning over
some pages of music carelessly ; a violoncello lay
beside him .
The sun was high in heaven , the day cloudless
and beautiful ; a soft and balmy air came in at the
open window and door and stirred the disordered
locks of the student, if such he might be called. He
seemed now occupied in thought, and pushed away
the music ; anon he heaved a deep sigh, shook his
head and began once more to pore over the notes.
“ Bon jour, mon cher ! ” cried a merry voice ,
and looking up, the student recognized Heinrich
Ferrin , one of his neighbors and boon companions,
and briefly returned his salutation .
“ What the mischief are you about here ? ” asked
Heinrich
“ Ah, mon ami,” replied the other, “ if I could
only hold it fast ! But it flies and whirls about my
head - worse than the fumes of the champagne
and is gone as quickly. "
" What do you mean ?”
“ I had a dream last night - such a dream ! I
and my fellow there," pointing to the violoncello,
“ were alone together in the woods ; and so glori
ous an air came to me - so graceful — so moving
- so entrancing ! Tartini's witch music was no
thing to it ! and it seemed that a spirit voice said
to me, * Do this — Mara — you can ! ' Oh, Hein
rich ! I have been striving ever since I waked to
catch it, but in vain ; and I was looking over these
notes to find something that might recall it. ”
“ Pshaw - 'twas but the wine we drank last
night. ”
“ No, no, Heinrich — but I'll tell you what it
was ; the voice of my genius " -
“ You make me laugh, Mara ! "
LESSON
“ Then what think you of this ? " and catching
up the instrument, the musician ran over the
strings several times, bringing forth snatches of
melody so exquisite that Heinrich himself sturted ;
but melody broken and incoherent, mir , wg the
wildest and most touching harmony with what was
frequently commonplace and harsh.
“ Ah ! ' tis not that yet ! I cannot catch it !” and
throwing down the instrument with a gesture of
despair, the disappointed artist buried his face in
his hands.
“ Come, do not take it so ," cried the friend ;
“ 'twill come to you to-night ! Who thinks, ha !
of work in the morning ? and you, Mara, of all
others, whose inspiration is always in the bottom
of your glass ! ”
“ True, true, Heinrich ! and we will dive for it ,
eh ! ” and rising, the artist went to a closet and
brought out a couple of Alasks and two tumblers.
“ Here's what will drive away melancholy . ” He
poured out the wine and they pledged each other.
“ Come, I have a thought," cried the violoncel
list. “ It was at Rosenthal, in my dream , that I
heard the witch music . I will go there to-day,
with my good fellow , and perhaps it will come
back to me. I cannot compose in this house , but
in the green vale and under the blue sky - ah , -
Heinrich ! "
“ I suppose Madame Mara favors you with an
accompaniment sometimes — ha ! ha ! ” cried the
friend, laughing.
Mara held up his finger significantly and shook
his head. “ The public are enchanted with Ger
trude's singing, but ' tis anything rather than adagio
with me ! Ah, mine is a sad lot ! And what
think you ? she will give me no more furniture to
my room , though I have had to part with piece
after piece to pay for our suppers, Heinrich ! You
see to what I am reduced ! but two chairs and a
bench and table, and my fellow here," hugging his
instrument , “ which I will die rather than pawn.
And Madame Mara rides in her carriage and dresses
like a queen , at the concerts , and wins all hearts,
and gives me nothing of all the money she has paid
her ! It all goes to the bank, laid up for herluxury,
while I have to sell the furniture for this ” -- point
ing to the wine. “ But I'll outwit her. I have a
jewelled broach she thinks lost , and mean to sell it
to -morrow ; 'twill keep us in good liquor for a
155
界
156 THE COLUMBIAN
month, and then I know where to find more of the
same plunder ! ”
The degraded artist chuckled over the idea of
robbing his wife ; his friend laughed with him , but
observed that were he blessed with a wife who
could make money, he would know how to obtain
it without stratagem .
“ Oh, as to that , mon ami, remember her foster
father — Hiller, the music director ; ' tis he en
courages her obstinacy, and I should not like to
break with him altogether. As to Gertrude, I do
not mean to say she has not also her amiable quali
ties — au contraire ! She thinks she acts for my
good ; and then , when I fell into difficulty at Ber
lin , did she not come forward nobly and pay my
debts ? Did she not quarrel for my sake with the
King ? Did she not give up her appointment,
worth two thousand a year, at the court of Frede
rick the Great , because the King and I could not
pull together ? Then , after all , I am not fit, as she
says , to be my own master ; and I would rather
submit to her than the monarch who shut me up
three months, or the corporal who thrashed me !
'Sdeath ! that corporal with his stout cane ! it
makes me foam to think of it ! But I'll pay him
back some day or other. ” And with hand already
tremulous from drunkenness , Mara filled and
emptied his glass again , signing to his companion
to do the same, with a ludicrous expression of hi
larious hospitality.
At this moment the clock struck , and a door
opened opposite the one leading into the street. A
lady of fine figure, and elegantly dressed in a
riding habit, came into the room . She stopped as
if about to speak, but seeing the wine on the table
and the condition of both the tipplers, she cast on
them a look of profound and withering contempt
and passed on to the outer door without saying a
word.
“ Bravo , Madame Mara !” cried Heinrich, when
he had recovered from his surprise after she had
gone out. “ Her ladyship likes not to find us
drinking so early. Where goes she ? ah ! to the
rehearsal ; and that reminds me , Mara , of what I
had nearly forgotten. We must go also ; so no
more wine till supper time! ”
“ I will not go !” said Mara, doggedly.
“ Yes you will . Do you know who is to be
there ? The chapel master from Vienna ! ”
“ What do you say Mozart ? ” cried the vio
loncellist, springing up, half sobered by surprise.
“ The very same, mon cher."
“ To-day --- at rehearsal ? "
“ Exactly ; father Doles, Hiller, Weisse and
others have arranged a concert for the chapel
master, and it is to take place to - night. Master
Wolfgang arrived yesterday. You must go with
me to rehearsal and see him ."
“ That I will , Heinrich . Do you know it has
MAGAZINE .
been the desire of my life to know the great Mo
zart ? "” Oh, to think of his quarteties ! I have
painted him before me as I played his music
grand, noble, of towering form, dark , flashing eyes
and trumpet voice ” .
“ Hold , Mara , you are out there ," interrupted
Heinrich, laughing heartily . “ The little master
Wolfgang never sat for such a picture ! In the
first place, he is not towering, but low of stature
and insignificant in appearance."
“ But no less the great Mozart ! ” cried Mara ,
with enthusiasm . “ The creator of Idomeneo , of
Don Giovanni ! I must know him , if only to tell
him how I adore his music. Allons — mon ami ;
but stay ; Imust put on my coat."
And pulling off his dressing gown , assisted by
Heinrich , the musician in trembling haste put on a
coat that had once been a fine one, though it lacked
now much of its lace and several buttons ; and
clapping his cap on his head, ard taking up his
stick , after locking up his violoncello, the two
worthy companions made their way to the theatre .
Almost all the distinguished musical characters
in Leipzig were at the rehearsal of Mozart's last
concert , for it was the last he ever gave in that
musical capital of Europe. There was the vene
rable Father Doles, whose guest Mozart was ; this
old man , the cantor of St. Thomas's church , loved
him as if he had been his own son ; there was the
cynical director Hiller, whose sternness was not
proof against the gayety of the chapel master ;
there were pupils of his and Doles, and many other
connoisseurs. When our two tipplers arrived, the
music and the company seemed to bewilder the
brain of the violoncellist , already fuddled by the
wine he had drunk. He walked unsteadily to one
of the side scenes and looked on . The performers
were rehearsing a scene from Don Giovanni ; a
little, pale , thin man stood on the stage and seem
ed much interested , for he stopped them several
times and forced them to go over what they had
sung. Several times he stamped violently on
the floor, and once he seized one of the singers
by the shoulders and shook him , crying, “ Prestis
simo ! I will not have my music dragged out in
that way !”
His friends laughed , the singers looked angry ,
Mozart cried “ Da capo ! ” and they went on , sul
lenly , but with more spirit than before. Then he
encouraged them with “ Bravo, friends, I have
you now ! ” and clapped his hands.
“ Ah, Wolfgang !” said an old man in the boxes,
“ you are too rough with them . ”
“ Never fear, master Friegang," replied the
composer ; " they have need of my ill humor and
will thank me for it to -night. The audience
would fall asleep if I did not put some fire into the
singers. Now the thing will go off decently ."
 THE ARTIST'S
66
“ Yes, but at the expense "
“ Ofa costly shoe -buckle, given me by a Viennese
amateur, which I have broken in stamping at them ,"
interrupted Mozart. “ Allons, Messieurs ! ” and
throughout the piece's rehearsal the master contin.
ued to play the same part ; running hither and
thither, stopping one , correcting another and
swearing at another, till the performers at last
caught his spirit and excelled themselves to please
him .
“ Is that the man ? ” asked Mara of his compan
ion when the rehearsal was at an end ; and being
told that it was Mozart, he took off his cap, went
up to him and made a low, ceremonious bow,
rolling his red eyes and stammering an expression
of his sense of the honor of standing in the presence
of so distinguished a person .
“ Eh, who is this ?” inquired the composer,
turning to Hiller.
“ One whose company does us no honor, " re
plied the director, angrily surveying the slovenly
figure before him . “ I wonder he dares intrude
himself here."
“ Who is he, then ? ”
“ Mara , at your service — Mara, the violoncel
list, " answered the tippler, with another scraping
bow ; “ I would thank you, sir, for your excellent
music .”
“ Mara ? I have heard of you ; you are a famous
player. I am happy to make your acquaintance."
“ I thank you , master Mozart; I am most hon
ored and happy to make yours ; I have long wished
for this good fortune. I am aware , sir," with a
glance at Hiller, “ that I have enemies who mis
represent me ; and that is easy, too, for I sometimes
misrepresent myself. But I would have you ap
preciate me. I should like to hear your judgment
on my playing ;: I should hold it an honor, sir, to
be permitted to play before you. I should esteem
it aa favor if you would visit me. I live at 857
Windmill street, and shall be happy to see you at
any time -- before noon . It would give me great
pleasure "
“ I will certainly visit you,” said Mozart.
“ You — visit this drunken wretch ?” exclaimed
Hiller in unfeigned surprise. “ No, he is not wor
thy of your acquaintance. " Just then Madame
Mara passed out and descended to her carriage.
“He is the torment of his excellent wife, who has
made sacrifices enough for him , and now that he is
wholly lost and there is no hope of his reformation ,
she allows to him the necessaries of life, even while
she leaves him forever. ”
“ How ?-Gertrude my wife - " stammered
-
Mara, mechanically,
66
Yes, your injured wife : * repeated the music
director. “ You have outraged her feelings by your
miserable excesses ; you have destroyed her rest by
your midnight orgies ; she is weary of you. She
14
LESSON . 157
will return no more to your house ; she will see you
no more . To-morrow she departs for Paris."
“ Bravo, Heinrich , what fun we shall have ! ”
cried the violoncellist , with a flourish of his stick.
" Eh bien , foster father."
66
In pity to you, degraded wretch,” continued
Hiller, “ she has directed me to supply you with
provisions as you need, but with no money to
minister to your depraved passion for drinking.
Now you know what you have to depend upon ."
Your most obedient, my lord,” said Mara,
bowing with a flourish almost to the ground, from
which obeisance he recovered himself with great
difficulty, amidst the laughter of the bystanders.
" I am wholly at your service, most excellent
director of music — at your excellency's service !
But I shall not draw on my banker. I am beholden
to Madame Mara , but I can play the violoncello as
well as she ; and mine is a venerable Cremonese,
a capital instrument , I assure you , ” turning to Mo
zart. “ You should hear me play ; I can give you
a first rate dance, if you will come to my house.
These gentlemen, here, can tell you something of
my taste in music ."
Oh , yes,” cried several in a breath ; “Monsieur
Mara is a first rate player on the violoncello. You
are too severe with him , Monsieur Hiller.”'
“ Oh,much too severe ! " repeated others. “ Ma
ra is a good fellow -- an excellent fellow - and the
best of company. What should we do without
him ? He is the life of our suppers.” Hiller, in
disgust, drew Mozart away ; Doles and his party
had already gone. They left the theatre while the
inebriated musician was making a grateful speech
to his “ good friends," and gesticulating in a manner
to kill them with laughter.
We change the scene to the celebrated Rosen
thal, the beautiful retreat where Goethe passed so
many hours of leisure when a student. It was in
deed a valley of roses ; for the season was early
summer, when flowers are most abundant and the
tender green of the rich foliage is freshest and
brightest. It was a lovely afternoon, but not sul
try ; there was no cottage as yet to accommodate
guests, but a large awning was spread for tempo
rary use ; and just in the shade of a group of trees
was set out a table with refreshments. There were
not more than a dozen seats arranged round it, evi
dently for a small and select company, Ere long
carriages drove up and some ladies alighted and
began to arrange the collation. Two of them were
the wife and daughter of Doles ; they brought
flowers which they had gathered , and decorated
the table, placing a wreath of roses and laurels
over the seat destined to be occupied by their
honored guest. The rest of the company soon
joined them, and it would be interesting, had we
space , to relate the conversation that formed the
26
158 THE COLUMBIAN
most delightful part of their entertainment. They
were a few choice spirits, met to enjoy the society
of Mozart in an hour sacred to friendship. There
was no lack of humor and mirth ; indeed the com
poser would have acted at variance with his cha
racter had he not beguiled even the gravest by his
amusing sallies ; but the themes of their discourse
were the musical masters of the world and the state
and prospects of their art .
“ You have in truth some reason to quarrel with
our good Leipzig," said one of the company to
Mozart. “ We are slow and cold ; we hang back
from what they call your innovations, but time will
bring us along ; and you must not, meantime, judge
us incapable of appreciating the wonders you have
made known to the world .”
66
“ Far from it,” replied the composer ; " or if I
should be vexed at the caution of your public taste,
unwilling to admire at once what is new , I should
be rebuked by your eminence in concerts and
church music . You are unrivalled in your artists,
and to please your connoisseurs I should esteem
the highest triumph in my life.”
“ But could we only entice you to live here ” .
" No, the atmosphere does not suit me ; the re
serve would chill my efforts, for I live upon the love
of those who suffer me to do as I please. Some
other time, perhaps, I may come to Leipzig ; just
now Vienna is the place for me. By the way, what
think you of Bonn ? ”
“ You cannot think of Bonn for a residence ? ”
CG
Not I ; but never despair ! Had you asked
me where art had the least chance of spreading
her wings for aa bold flight - where she was most
securely chained down and forbidden to soar , I
should have answered , · Bonn. But that unpro
mising city has produced one of the greatest
geniuses of our day."
“ Who — who ?” eagerly demanded several
among the company .
" A lad - - a mere lad who has been under the
tutelage of the Elector's masters, and shocked them
all by his musical eccentricities . They were ready
to give him up in disgust. He came to me just
before I left Vienna ; modest , abashed , doubting
his own genius, but eager to learn his fate from my
lips. I gave him one of my most difficult pieces ;
he executed it in a manner so spirited, so admira
ble — carried away by the music, which entered
his very soul -- forgetful of his faint heartedness -
full of inspiration ! 'Twas an artist , I assure you ;
a true and noble one , and I told him so ."
“ His name ? ”
“ Louis Von Beethoven ."
&
“ I know his father well,” said Hiller.
“ Then you know one who has given the world
a treasure ! For mark me ; railed at as he may
be for refusing to follow in the beaten path, de
cried for his contempt of ordinary rules, the lad
MAGAZINE .
Beethoven will rise to a splendid fame ! But his
forte will be sacred music."
The conversation turned to the works of Bach
and Handel.
As the sun declined westward the company rose 1
and returned to the city. When they had left the
grounds, a figure came forward from the conceal.
ment of the foliage and walked pensively to and
fro . He had heard most of the conversation unob.
served ; it was the artist Mara.
" Well, well,” he said to himself, “ Ihave heard
and know him now. His taste is the same with
mine ; he glories in Handel and old Sebastian ;
and yet, how much may still be done ! Ah, that
music in my dream ! ” He struck his forehead .
6
3 * But I can keep nothing in my head ; Mara -
Mara -- non e piu com era prima . If ' twere not
for this vertigo , this throbbing that I feel whenever
I strive to collect my thoughts and fix them on an
idea ; if I could but grasp the conception, oh,
'twould be glorious ! ”
The spirit of art had not yet left the degraded
being it had once inspired ; but how sad were the
struggles of the soul against her painful and con
taminating bonds !
“ Why,” resumed the soliloquist, “ why was I
not invited to make one among the company as
sembled here to welcome the great chapel master ?
I too am a famous artist ; I can appreciate music ;
the public have pronounced me entitled to rank
among the first . But nobody will associate with
Mara in the day time ! It is only at night, at the
midnight revels, where such grave ones as the di.
rector scorn to appear, that Mara , like a bird of
evil omen , is permitted to show his face. Then
they shout and clap for me and call me a merry
fellow ; and I am the merriest of them all ! But I
do not like such welcome ; I would rather be rea.
sonable if I could, and the wine would let me
the wine -- am I a slave to that ? Ha, a slave !
Alas ! it is so ; wine is my master, and he is jealous
of every other, and beats me when I rebel, till I
cry mercy and crouch at his feet again. Oh , if I
had a friend strong enough to get me out of his
clutches ! but I have no friends -— none — not even
Gertrude. She has left me, and there is no one at
home now , even to reproach me when I come back
drunk , or make a noise in the house over the table
with a companion or two. Heinrich — no — he
laughs and makes game of me like the rest. I am
sick of this miserable life ; I am tired of being
laughed at and shunned ; I will put an end to it all,
and then they will say once again , Poor Mara ! '”
With a sudden start the wretched man rushed
away and was presently hid among the branches of
the trees. A whistle was heard just then , and a
lad , walking briskly , followed, hallooing after him.
He came just in time. A stream , a branch of the
Pleysse, watered the bottom of the valley ; Mara
 THE ARTIST'S
was about to throw himself into it in the deepest
spot, when his arm was caught by his pursuer.
“ What in the fiend's name are you about ? ”
66
Let me alone ! " cried Mara, struggling.
“ Do you mean to be drowned ? "
Yes ; that is just what I want. I came here
for that purpose . And what have you to say against
it, Friedrich ? ”
4
“ Nothing, if your fancy runs that way, ” replied
the lad, laughing. 6
Only you have plenty of
leisure for it hereafter, and just now you are
wanted .”
“ Wanted ? ”
“ Yes ; I came to look for you ."
“ Who wants the poor drunkard Mara ? ”
“ They want you at Breithoff's to -night, at the
supper given to Mozart after the concert, and you
must bring your instrument ; we are to have some
rare fun . Come , if you are obedient, you shall go
with me to the concert."
Mozart's concert ! Surprised and pleased that
some of his acquaintance had remembered him ,
Mara suffered himself to be led away by his com-
panion.
The concert was a splendid one and attended
by all the taste and fashion of Leipzig. The or-
chestra was admirable , the singers were full of
spirit and good humor, the audience delighted, the
composer gratified and thankful. The good effect
of his drilling at rehearsal was ovidont ; but those
who listened to the noble music and rewarded the
performers by frequent bursts of tumultuous ap-
plause, knew not the source of their unusual ani-
mation and gave them all the credit. Mozart
thanked them in a brief speech , and as soon as the
concert was at an end was led off in triumph by the
connoisseurs, his friends.
Magnificent beyond expectation was the enter-
tainment prepared, and attended by many among
the wealthy and the noble , as well as the most dis-
tinguished artists. The votaries of art had indeed
superior claims, for the feast was in honor of art
and her noblest son . The revelry was prolonged
beyond midnight, and as the guests became warmed
with good cheer, we are bound to record that the
conversation lost its rational tone, and that comical
sallies and uproarious laughter began to usurp the
place of critical discourse. They had songs from
all who were musical ; Mara , among the rest, was
brought in , dressed in a fantastic but slovenly man-
ner, and made to play for the amusement of the
company. When he had played several pieces,
the younger guests began to put their practical
jokes upon him and provoke him to imitate the
noises of different animals on his violoncello. Mara
entered into all their fun, convulsing them with his
grotesque speeches and gestures, drinking glass
after glass, till at last he fell back quite overpowered | I reproach myself as much as you.
LESSON . 159
and insensible . Then his juvenile tormentors
painted his face and clipped his mustaches and
tricked him out in finery that gave him the look of
a candidate for Bedlam , and had him carried to his
own house , laughing to imagine what his sensations
would be next morning, when he should discover
how ludicrously he had been disfigured. In short,
the whole party were considerably beyond the
bounds of propriety and sound judgment. Mozart
also
ft was considerably after noon the next day, that
poor Mara, the victim of those merciless revellers,
might be seen sitting disconsolately in his deserted
home. He had no heart even to be enraged at the
cruelties practised on him. Pale as death , his eyes
sunken and bloodshot , his limbs shivering, sat this
miserable wretch , dressed in the same mockery of
finery which had been heaped upon him in wicked
sport.
The door opened and Mozart entered.
At sight of the composer Mara rose and me
chanically returned his salutation. Mozart looked
grave and sad.
“ You are much the worse for last night's dissi
pation , my good fellow ," said he.
“Ah, master Mozart,” said the violoncellist,
with a faint smile , “ it is too good of you to visit
such a dog as poor Mara . ”
“ I have something to say to you, friend,” an
swered the composer in a voice of emotion. “ In
the first place, let me thank you for your music
last night.”
The bewildered artist passed his hand across
his forehead .
“ I say, let me thank you. It is long since I
have heard such music."
" You were pleased with it ? ” asked Mara,
looking up, while a beam of joy shot into the
darkness of his soul.
“ Pleased ? it was noble — heart- stirring! I
must own I did not expect such from you. I ex
pected to be shocked, but I was charmed. And
when you played the air from Idomeneo - sacré !
but it went to my soul. I have never had my
music so thoroughly appreciated - so admirably
executed. . Mara, you are a master of your art ! I
reverence you ! "
“ You ? ” repeated the artist , drawing his breath
quickly.
“ Yes ; I own you for my brother, and so I told
them all last night.”
The poor man gave a leap and seized the master
by both hands; rapture had penetrated his inmost
heart. “ Oh, you make me very happy ! ” falter
ed he.
" I am glad of it ; for now I am going to say
something painful.” Mara hung his head. “ Nay,
We both

160 THE COLUMBIAN
behaved ill last night; we both forgot the dignity
of the artist and the man ."
Again the poor violoncellist looked bewildered .
“ We forgot that such as we are set up for an
example to the uninitiated, and yielded to the
tempter, wine ! Art - our mother — has reason
to blush for us."
“ For me," cried Mara , deeply moved.
not for you ."
“ Yes, for me, " repeated Mozart ; " and for
all who were there. It was a shameful scene.
What," he continued, with rising indignation,
« what would the true friends of art have thought
of such beastly orgies, celebrated in her name ?
6
Why, they would have said , perhaps, these men
are wild fellows, but we must let them have their
way ; we owe the fine music they give us to their
free living ; they must have stimulus to compose or
play well.' No, no, no ! it is base to malign the
holy science we love. Such excesses but unfit us
for work ; I have never owed a good thought to
the bottle. I tell you I hate myself for last night's
foolery ."
“ Ah , master ; you who are so far above me! "
sighed Mara.
“ And lo, here, the wreck of a noble being ! ”
said the composer, in a low voice and with much
bitterness ; then resuming, “ Listen to me, Mara .
You have been your own enemy ; but your fall
is not wholly your own work. You are wondrously
gifted ;3 you can be, you shall be, snatched from
ruin . You can, you shall, rise above those who
would trample on you now ; become renowned and
beloved and leave an honored name to posterity.
You have given me a lesson, Mara - - a lesson
which I shall remember my life long — which I
shall teach to others. You have done me good
THE HOUR
BY MRS. FRANCES S. OSGOOD .
Too late -- too late - ye steal before me,
Fond thoughts of home, of love and joy !
The wings of fate cluse darkening o'er me .-
Oh God ! my wife ! iny boy !
My own sweet wife ! I see thy face --
Thy pure, young face upraised to mine,
Thy glossy ringlets' waving grace,
Thy blush , thy smile divine !
Thy pleading eyes, that drooped like flowers,
Beneath a cloud, when I was cold -
Oh ! to win back the wasted hours,
My brief life's lavished gold !
My child ! my heart's own hope and pride,
My dark-eyed , blooming, glorious boy !
Thou comest- oh ! in mercy hide
That gaze of thoughtless joy !
%
MAGAZINE .
- I will do something for you. Come with me to
Vienna . "
The poor violoncellist had eagerly listened to the
words of him he so venerated — whom he looked
on as a superior being. While he talked to him
as an equal , while he acknowledged his genius,
lamented his faults and gave him hope that all was
" But not yet lost , the spirit of the degraded creature
revived within him. It was the waking of his
mind's energies ; the struggle of the soul for life ---
for life against the lethargy of аa mortal malady .
Life triumphed ! Mara was once more a man ;
but overcome by the conflict and by the last gene
rous offer, he sank back, bowed his face upon his
hands and wept aloud.
“ Come,” cried Mozart, after a pause, during
which his own eyes were moistened , “ come, we
have no time to lose . I go out to-night ly the
evening post for Vienna ; you must accompary me .
Take this purse , put your dress in order and make
haste. I will call for you at eight. Be ready
then. Not a word more.”
And forcing a well filled purse into his trembling
hands, the master hastened away too quickly to
hear a word of thanks trom the man he had saved
from worse than death.
The great composer was early summoned from
this and many other works of mercy and benevo
lence. But if his noble design was unaccomplished,
at least good seed was sown , and Mara placed
once more within the view of the goal of virtuous
hope. Rescued from the mire of degradation, he
might, by perseverance, have won the prize ; if he
did not, the fault was this time wholly his own .
Whatever the termination of his career, the moral
lesson is for us the same.
BEFORE THE DUEL .
( See engraving .)
Yes , Honor ! ' gainst thine idle name,
A bubble that a breath may break,
To 'scape the knave's or fool's false blaine,
Their happiness I stake .
I yield to thee my bope, my love ,
Her life that yet in joy has smiled ,
My peace on earth -- my bliss above
Oh God ! my wife and child !
I'll dream no more ! I'll nerve my soul
Hurrah ! the wild -- the magic wine !
Fill up --- fill high — the glorious bowl !
Drown care in draughts divine !
The past -- the future ! hence, away !
Fears, dreams and doubts -- my spirit's strife --
I dare not think , or feel, or pray
Oh God ! my boy --my
-- wife !

A CHAPTER ON
Ν WOMAN ;
OR THE BEAUTY OF CONSISTENCY .
BY STELLA .
IF women are not perfect it certainly is not from
want of proper instruction . Tome after tome
is written for our benefit, and though at the first
glance it may seem somewhat singular that one
half of the human race is so painfully solicitous for
the improvement of the other half, upon the whole
it is gratifying as affording us conclusive evidence
that men are willing to occupy the same world
with us, and that we are not regarded as intruders.
The present age is peculiarly rich in this species
of literature, written of course with various degrees
of talent, but all agreeing in some important par
ticulars. In the first place, we are considered sig.
nally blessed in being the chosen companion of a
superior intel ce ; and in the second , we are
exhorted so to improve the little capacity with
which nature has endowed us, that we may be
able to meet on some terms of equality. We must
attend to the science of numbers, that we may be
able to account for every penny that may be en
trusted to us ; and grammar , that we may not use
two negatives, when even one was not intended -
in short, we must so perfect ourselves in every
branch of human learning, that if a sudden pinch
becomes necessary , we shall be qualified to educate
our whole family , and thanks to nobody.
But if the culture of the mind is important, how
much more so that of the heart and the affections !
From the moment when we assume the sacred
name of wife, we must take leave of every human
imperfection. Faults that were scarcely noticed,
and indeed were rather liked before marriage, be
come insupportable afterward. We must there
fore so oil the machinery of domestic life, so clear
awaythe thorns and nettles ofexistence , by receive
ing them if necessary in our own bosoms, that
when the chosen one steps within his bower, all
may be harmony and peace - or to drop metaphor
and express in one brief sentence the crowning
grace of womanhood , “ always to meet our hus
bands with a smile ! "
“ What, always ?”
Yes ! not on Sundays merely, or two or three
times a week , but always ! It may be a vacant
smile , a sardonic smile, an anguished smile , or as
in the case of those whose partners are always
hanging about the chinney corner , a stereotyped
smile, but still it must be a smile of some descrip
tion or other.
14 *
X
“ You alarm me — what , no allowances for
casualities, contingencies, & c. ?”
None whatever ; it matters little what is your
situation . If the twins are both down with the
measles and “ the babe ” hampered with “ the
snuffles " - iſ the news is just promulgated that“ ile
is spilt all over the new carpet,” or the “ biggest
chany tureen is broke all to smash ," or if biting
tenpenny nails has reduced your stock of teeth, so
that you would fain be excused from even the
slightest draw ; or more painful still , if your senses
forewarn you that a favorite dish is burnt to a
cinder ; still it is all the same — teethi or no teeth,
cinder or no cinder, it must be done ! Martyrs
have smiled at the stake and you can.
Oh ! ye spinsters who are sighing to preside over
a household , little ye wot of the trials of your mar
ried sisters, who, tremblingly alive to the uncer
tainties of undone, or overdono , never seat them
selves at their noontide meal , without dreading
the first plunge of the knife , like the poor wretch
under the hands of his surgeon .
It must not be supposed that we are thus urged
on to the performance of tluty without a fair sea
soning of flattery. Far from it - words are cheap
things, and it is lavished upon us without stint or
measure .
“ Without the smile from partial beauty won,
Oh ! what were man ? A world without a sun ! "
was the agonizing cry of aa distinguished poet,
( though we must be pardoned for suggesting that
if aa different vowel had been substituted in the last
word it would have been more strictly “ truthful,")
and the changes have been so constantly rung upon
s heaven's last best gift,” that, perfectly and entirely
convinced of our own incomparable sweetness and
excellence , and exasperated at being paid in such
worthless coin , we are ready to exclaim “ nuf
ced ;" a phrase which we take — for we value our
selves on our knowledge of the defunct languages
- to be good Latin.
Now, if anything was really meant by all these
flourishes, we could forgive them were they ten
times more flat and absurd than they are ; but we
can all recall the remark of one of our red brethren ,
when fobbed off with “ talk " instead of his favorite
beverage. If they sincerely wished to give us some
tangible proof of their regard , why not send us to
161

%
162 THE COLUMBIAN
the Legislature, or to Congress, or let us taste the
sweets of office ? This would amount to some
thing ; and yet I will venture to say that with all
their vaporing about our ineffable loveliness and
goodness, if the very best of us were to run for
sheriff or constable or even captain in the militia,
the meanest article in “ hose and doublet ” would
be preferred before her. But we will not aggravate :
let us essay a little cool argument. Suppose, for
instance , we occupy the Presidential chair ! not
that we would wish the exclusive possession of it ;
oh, dear, no ! We are not grasping, and would be
content with every fourth term. Now what could
be a prettier compliment to the governments of the
old world than that we , seeing how well they pros
pered under female domination , were inclined to
copy their example ? And I will leave it to every
candid person to say whether the sight of a fair
young face, (tor she must be handsome, as beauty
is everything in a woman ,) surrounded by her
female Cabinet , would not be a far more attractive
spectacle than a parcel of ancient male countenan
ces , wrinkled and screwed up by cares and politics.
There would doubtless be difficulties in making a
- some would be for a blonde, others
selection --
for aa brunette , for we “ are best distinguished by
black , brown or fair.” The proper age too might
be a question ; but aged females, I believe, must
waive their claims, since the prejudice in favor
of youth and beauty is so strong that they never
could secure an election . We have our own views
on this point , and if closely pressed we should say
that , if a woman is ever in her prime, it is at the
exact age of thirty -five ; but we would not dictate.
She must be single, for if it is undesirable to have
“ a brother near the throne, ” how much more so a
husband. Consider a moment , how many precious
reforms could be effected, for it is not in our nature
to refuse when properly solicited. Up steps an
advocate for a change in the post office. ** My
66
dear Miss, look at the postage — think of love
letters - I am separated from a lovely creature ,
and having to pay both ways, it's trying, very
trying. Love is love, but money's money , and if
I can't have the one without relinquishing the
other, the thing is settled, that's all. ” Who can
doubt that being the soul of sentiment herself, and
anxious to promote the spread of disinterested
affection, she would reduce them to their exact
value — nothing ?
And here comes a son of Mars, brimful of wrath
and valor, and manfully does he expostulate upon
the reduction of the army, and the paltry policy of
economising administrations, and earnestly does
she listen to him. “ Say not another word - I
have ever regarded it as the most atrocious act of
this or of any other government- a pretty business,
truly, to cut off the only decently personable
fellows we have ! Such favorites of the ladies,
AMVN
MAGAZINE .
too, and such splendid uniforms! I declare , if it
would not offend the sovereign people , I would
issue a ukase that every third man should slip into
regimentals, for what saith the poet —
" Oh ! would upon this earth there stood
Some more of such a frame !
Then life would be all poetry
And weariness a name! ' ”
And lo ! a deputation from the far west , praying
for appropriations to clear out the father of rivers ,
(a fine example he sets to his juniors indeed ,) for
really the dear old gentleman has become so choked
up with planters and sawyers and what not , as to
cause a frightful annual loss to the country of free
independent voters, to say nothing of women and
children . • Put your hands into the treasury," she
would say, “ and help yourselves ; and if you need
hands as well as money , take some of my members
ofCongress and let them do something to earn their
eight dollars a day. They had far better be grub.
bing up snags than making dull speeches. Talk
of a woman's tongue, forsooth ! I thank my stars
it's no part of any business to listen to them , for if
it were I would throw up my office and retire to
the shades of private life .”
These remarks, rambling and discursive though
they be, were called forth by two works which
have recently fallen under my observation . One is
entitled “ Woman's Worth, or Hints to raise the
female character, etc.; and the other, “ Romance
of Biography, or memoirs of women loved or cele
brated by poets,” etc. etc. ; another proofofthe regard
felt for us by the other sex. Such immense strain
ing to elevate us to the proper level has not been
without its effect; and they have so overdone the
business, as it were, that it will not be amiss to
give a little pull on the other side . It is kind thus
to sacrifice their own improvement for the sake of
ours ; though we cannot help saying that,generally
speaking, example is at least as good as precept,
and that if a small portion of the pains devoted to
us, had been bestowed where it was as much needed ,
it would have been quite as well all round.
My object, however, in alluding to these publica
tions, was not so much to speak of their merits as
to introduce to the favorable notice of the public
iwo new works which are in the course of publica
tion , and which are intended as aa set off to them .
To make the compliment more specific they have
similar titles, only making the necessary alterations.
The first is entitled , Man's Worth, or Hints to
raise the Male character, &c.; and though it is
somewhat unusual to review a work before it is
fairly in print, I cannot deny myself the gratifica
tion of giving the public a foretaste of the rich treat
in store for them . It is written by a lady, and
though the title would imply that the class to which
it is addressed might occasionally be guilty of
乐
 STANZAS .
“ short comings," the general scope of the work
does not sustain that idea. The introduction treats
of man's mission generally, and so strong is the
author's sense of his influence upon “ society, " that
if she is correct, it is no uncommon thing for his
nearest female relative to be “afraid to call her
soul her own." She draws a masterly parallel
between the sexes, but here I cannot but dissent
from the correctness of her views. No one, we
believe, ever doubted our sincere regard for that
portion of the human family, and yet , adoring and
reverencing them as we do from our inmost souls,
and ready in comparison to take the lowest round
in the human ladder, I cannot believe that “ socie
ty " would have been as well or better without us,
for to such lengths do her arguments go ; and
though I know we are " matter too soſt a lasting
mark to bear," still as we are women and cannot
help it, philosophy and self respeet should lead us
to make the best of it. Our author, however, has
her own views, and she maintains them with an
eloquence and force of reasoning worthy of the
6
palmy days of Burke and Sheridan. “ If women
were alone the occupants of this earth ,” she ex
claims, “ who would armount our pires with
weathercocks, construct our mill-dams or build our
frigates ? or if built , who would promenade the
quarter -deck , tug for life at the hausers, rig out
the spanker boom or clew up the mainsails ? Let
that female who is not afraid of climbing, answer !"
The other work is of a less general character,
being entitled (“ Romance of Biography, or memoirs
of men loved or celebrated by distinguished women
a series of anecdotes showing the influence
which manly goodness and valor have exercised on
women of genius." Its very name, I should think ,
would secure for it a general perusal. This is also
from a female pen , and though written in a less
elevated style than the preceding, it is not less in
teresting, for her heart is as it were bathed in the
STANZAS .
BY MRS . JAMES HALL ,
By the red sun gleaming
In its crimson dye,
By the glory streaming
O’er the evening sky,
Thoughts and fancies onward sweeping
Where those sunset rays lie sleeping
To thy presence fly ;
Thoughts of each delicious scene
Where together we have been .
We have watcned together
Many an evening's close,
When the autumn weather
Shed its sweet repose i
163
subject. She begins, as she should do, with the
beloved of the lamented Sappho, the Lesbian boy !
and it is an interesting fact that the character of
boys has been the same from time immemorial.
The same dogged obstinacy and indifference to
the feelings of others, the same perversity of mind.
Of course he rejected her love, he did ; he had no
occasion for the article. Think of a boy's loving
any body but himself ! The thing is preposterous
- it is not in him— and if she chose to destroy
herself instead of suing for damages, what was it
to him , pray ?
My limits will not permit me to follow her
through the host of individuals, loved and valued
by queens and titled dames, from Catherine of
Russia down to Lady Blessington ; and we turn to
those of our own land who have been blessed by
the hearts and hands of our distinguished country
women. And here our author has shown uncom
mon tact, for though her materials were scanty ,
very scanty , she has managed to concoct a dish
that cannot fail to gratify. The part doubtless has
its advantages, though it cannot be denied that its
effect is rather to cast them a leetle into the back
ground , so to speak ; a fact which I record , not in
the least to their disparagement but simply to con
* sole those of their sex who have never been loved "
by any but ordinary women. The work is to be
enriched with portraits, which will add immensely
to its value.
I have thus endeavored in my poor way to exhibit
the public sentiment in behalf of two meritorious
female writers ; and whatever difference of opinion
may exist as to their literary merits, there can be
none as to the dutiful and pious feeling which per
vades their every page. It is a beautiful tribute of
gratitude to that sex “in whose smile we live, in
whose frown we die, " and it is a meet offering
for such a shrine.
When the sunset soft and tender,
Likened to the noon in splendor,
Till the moon arose,
And the mingled day and night
Shone with too surpassing light,
Far apart and lonely
Each is gazing now ;
Autumn's glories only
Shine with half their glow ;
Till in distance and in dreaming
We have met in fancy's seeming ;
Then the shadows grow
Beautiful once more, and bright,
As the loved and olden light.
a
LOST AND WON ; OR THE GAME OF CHESS..
BY MISS EMILY E. CHUBBUCK .
A FROLICKSOME little creature was my cousin Fanny
Fay ; a perfect sunbeam in this dark world ; a dew
gem in a desert. You would never have dreamed
that Fanny Fay was made to think. She was too
fresh and beautiful ; too gladsome and warm
hearted . People seemed to take it for granted
that the child's little head, elegantly classic though
it was in its contour, was made for nothing in the
world but to carry about its sunny flaxen curls and
nestle down lovingly on the bosoms of those who
chose to pet her ; that is, everybody but us chil.
dren. We indeed knew that Fanny was just the
knowingest, cunningest, most delightfully wise little
body that ever dressed a doll , set a baby -house in
order, made mimic tea-parties or told fairy stories .
Oh, what delightful times we used to have , down
in uncle Fay's meadow, beneath the old butternut !
that darling old butternut which I love better than
all the rest of the trees in the world. Think not
this is a tree unknown to story, either. My good
aunt Fay could tell how, when a whole troop of
raging Mohawks came like the Goths and Vandals
of yore upon a little frontier house , close beside it ,
its green old arms had received her blessed mother
with the babe that slept upon her bosom ; and then
we would all laugh and wink knowingly at each
other, and measure with dancing eyes the stalwart
form of our hearty old uncle Charley, immeasurably
tickled at the odd conceit of his ever having been a
baby. The butternut was endeared to us because
to Fanny's mother it was a kind of sacred relic, a
keepsake to remind her of dark days and brave
hearts. Then it was dear for other reasons ; it had
just the thickest foliage and cast the broadest and
coolest shade of any tree in the vicinity. And
moreover, there was a clear, joyous stream that
gurgled over the smooth pebbles close beside it ;
and beneath it was a large flat stone , grown over
with rich, soft, golden moss, that nature must have
placed there on purpose for just such a troop of glad,
free, loving spirits as we were. Oh , how we made
the mocking old woods just beyond ring again with
shouts of merry laughter ; and how the groups of
laurel and fragrant azalia yielded up to us their
honors, to say nothing of the spicy wintergreen ,
. betrayed by its crimson fruit into the most depre
dating of little fingers. But these days passed as
happy days always will ; though sorrowful ones
cling to us and lengthen out their thread , somewhat
164
.
as my grandmother's fingers used to hang upon a 1
thread of worsted. These days passed, and we
were all immured within the walls of a school room .
My uncle Fay was a good sort of man , but he had
some queer notions ; as, from a single specimen , I
am sure you will readily admit. He had somehow
got it into his head that — you will hardly believe
me when I tell you — that girls must study mathe
matics. It was perfectly ridiculous, and Fanny's
red nether lip, when she looked for the first time
over the dry, unmeaning pages of her arithmetic ,
showed that she regarded the subject in the proper
light. But Fanny was a wonderfully good natured
child , and , I suspect, in a few moments resolved ,
if it was her destiny to become a martyr, to suffer
cheerfully ; for, as soon as she left the school room
her clear, silvery voice burst forth as wildly musical
as ever. From that hour Fanny Fay commenced
her tedious march among the nine digits, in every
variety of their combination , with the magical
nothing , that, like a born sovereign as it is, owes
all its mighty greatness to position ; and on she
went , among xes and square roots , and cubes and
angles, and spheroids and trapezoids, and other
queer things, invented by stiff old men , to make
young minds as square -cornered and ungraceful as
their own. How we all pitied Fanny Fay ! And
well we might; for while we were storing our
memories with choice bits of French and Latin and
becoming initiated into the mysteries of water
colors, my poor cousin puzzled her brain over the
odd conceits of crazy geometricians. The worst
of it was, however, that Fanny didn't seem to
know but her studies were just as pleasant as ours.
How strange ! Why, our tasks were just the most
delightful in the world . There was botany ! We
were like so many bees among the flowers. We
only sipped the honey of the science. And can
any one ask what the honey is ? Gentleman
reader, I cannot tell you ; you would never be able
to appreciate it if I did . But , dear lady, look back
a moment and you will wonder how you could have
asked . Did you ever take a stroll on a real sum
mer's day, when the sleepy clouds, seemingly lulled
by the rich haze of the atmosphere, could scarce be
seen to float, and the breeze that brushed your
cheek was heavy with the broad earth's wealth of
fragrance ? Did you ever go forth , on such a day,
with those you loved ? I don't mean with those
 LOST AND WON ; OR THE GAME OF CHESS.
you love now, but those you then thought the only
beings on earth you cared to please. Then you
remember the cool dingle where you halted and
brought forth the contents of your baskets, prepara
tory to filling them with flowers ; and you recollect
the old log, grown over with moss and lichens, and
the dainty little violets that peeped out from be
neath it ; and you have not forgotten the half
manly , half boyish face of one who filled your cup
from the gushing spring, and brought you flowers,
making you at the same time the envy and the
proud butt of your companions. Then , with your
baskets strung on your arms, their floral treasures
bursting through every mesh in the twisted willows ;
can you forget the walk homeward ? and the half
hour, while , loth to part, you all lingered around the
garden gate ? and then the reluctant good night !
Ah, fair lady , you well know what is the poesy of
the little maiden's favorite science. That was all
we had of botany, for there were two or three in
dustrious “ elder scholars ” to take the trouble of
species and genera and puzzling Latin names ; and
so of course we had nothing to do but copy the re
sult of their observations in our neat herbariums,
to be as wise as the wisest. Indeed we tripped it
gaily over the field of science, gathering for our
selves a sprig of this and a bud of that, as fancy
dictated , until we made up a multifarious bouquet
that not a human being would think of carrying
forth into the world , And all this time poor Fanny
Fay was loaulug her brains with studies heavy and
dry enough for a lawyer. To be sure , Fanny
didn't seem to suffer much under her father's op
pressive system ; she was as happy and seemingly
as free as a bird . She had always joined us in
botanical excursions, for the fun of the thing ; but
she put the flowers in the parlor vases, instead of
drying them for a herbarium , as her father insisted
that she should not dabble in the matter till the
time came for her to examine it thoroughly. At
last that time came.. Fanny Fay took up Italian
and French and Spanish, and all the other delight
ful studies that we more blessed beings had revelled
in so long ; and you would have been struck dumb
with amazement, could you have seen the progress
she made. Why, she outstripped us, as Cary Cole
said , “ in no time.” She disentangled difficult
passages that we had always left to a teacher, as
patiently and surely as aunt Nabby would bring
smoothness out of a snarled skein of sewing silk ,
and she was a very Hercules at hard kernels. ' I
never in my life saw anything like cousin Fanny
Fay. Even her drawings, that we were sure would
suffer from the undiscoverable intellectual stiffness
that she must have contracted , were as much dis
tinguished for a bold , free touch and a delicacy of
finish, as for correctness. We were perfectly
astonished, and some of us said as much to uncle
Fay.
165
“ It is because ," said the old gentleman , “ her
mind has been well disciplined , her reasoning
powers improved, habits of attention and reflection
cultivated , a due regard to method "
We didn't hear uncle Fay out, for we were
sure he was reciting from intellectual philosophy,
or logic, or rhetoric, (we rather thought it was not
chemistry,) or some other science that we had com
pleted long since ; and we thought it was an insult
to our understandings for him to suppose that we
were not- familiar with the whole subject. Finally,
we all left school, and Fanny Fay among the rest.
Still my beautiful cousin, as in her childhood, was
looked up to and admired. Was there a pic-nic,
or any other rural fete in contemplation, the whole
of the lady-planning devolved on her. And Fanny,
notwithstanding her clear head, had the gayest heart
among us all ; a glad buoyancy of spirit, a fresh
ness of feeling, peculiarly delightful. Her intellect
and heart never clashed, but they walked on to
gether right strong and lovingly. It must not
however be denied that Fanny had some mathe
matical propensities ; a love for order and regu
larity, leading to habits that young ladies usually
consider peculiarly irksome. Fanny arranged her
time so as by a shrewd mathematical calculation
to make the most of it, and she never allowed the
duties or pleasures of one hour to intrudo upon
those of another ; but this plan was followed out so
ingeniously that no one would have discovered that
the whole anair was not accidental, had not my
good uncle Fay betrayed the secret of her having so
much more leisure than other young people.
But the whole strength of Fanny's character was
at last called forth , and her powers of doing tested
to the utmost, on an occasion that was, to her loving
heart, deeply trying. My dear old uncle Fay died
suddenly, and, notwithstanding the good sense that
he had shown in the education of his daughter, he
left his affairs in the utmost confusion. It was
said that after his business was settled there would
remain no more than enough to pay the fees, leav
ing the widow and her daughter penniless. And
now what think you Fanny Fay did, but, assisted
only by one legal adviser, undertake the arrange
ment for the whole herself ? She literally buried
herself in day -books and ledgers, and notes and
receipts, and bonds and mortgages, decyphering
musty old letters and smoothing out crumpled bits
of paper , till at last all was settled and a little
competency for herself and mother saved from the
wreck. And now Fanny Fay was a greater phe
nomenon than ever. If you had heard her praises
sounded by the wondering old people of our village
you never would have dreamed that the object of
all these fine sayings was a modest little maiden,
who never spoke without a blush and a smile . No,
for the life of you, you could not have helped pictụr
ing a bony, hard faced woman, in green spectacles

166 THE COLUMBIAN
and a high crowned cap, with a voice like a man's,
“ holding forth ” by the hour together, on the sub
ject of science in general and her own knowledge
in particular. But it was really wonderful how
Fanny managed to sink the “ bleu .” She was less
gay now than formerly, for her heart had been
touched by its first grief. And though this may
not diminish happiness, it is fatal to the light,
joyous carelessness of childhood. She was less
gay, but she was just as simple -hearted and affec
tionate and unpretending as ever. Since my uncle's
death the homestead had become a lonely place for
the bereaved mourners, and so Fanny Fay and her
mother, at our earnest solicitation , came to live
with us. But though I had known my sweet
cousin all my life-long and loved her as a second
self, I little dreamed of the value of the acquisition
until it had been made. She was the very life of
our family parties. Fanny had a queer fancy that
nothing which would amuse or instruct others was
too trifling to learn ; and so she had on hand a
fund of petty iņformation , a variety of curious knit
ting, and netting, and embroidery stitches that
would have puzzled the tapestry -making lady of
the great Norman. This could not fail of being
agreeable to my young sisters, and when I at last
took my cousin to task for teaching the little girls
the art of killing time, she silenced me by sagely
remarking that it was better for them to knit yarn
only to ravel out again than to contract habits of
idleness. The unly thing that made my tuustu au
all disagreeable to me, (dear Fanny, if that word
disagreeable meets thine eye, think how little,
how very little, it must necessarily mean ,) was a
certain calculating spirit that I had always been
led to suppose was utterly at variance with the
character and habits of a lady. For instance ,
when one day I set my heart on the purchase of an
elegant silk, that I really thought was the most
beautiful thing for second mourning I had ever
seen , Fanny, after praising it full as much as even
I could wish, said she would think of it and decide
the next day. The next day she had concluded
that she did'nt need the dress at all. And what,
think you, decided the lady ? Why, she had been
consulting her little account- book . But this was
not all. Fanny not only kept an account - book
herself, but she beguiled little Rosa and Nannie
into doing the same thing, very careful , however,
not to trouble me with her strange notions. Yet
all this was an under -current in Fanny's character,
and those who had every day reason to bless her
generosity and benevolence, never would have
dreamed of her knowing the value of what she
lavished so profusely. Fanny's heart was as easily
read as the large letter -press so grateful to dim
eyes, and yet it seemed to me that I never should
know her. She went on like a good humored,
happy girl as she was, making caps for her own
www
MAGAZINE .
mother and mine, playing chess with my delighted
father, ( by the by, I must tell you about that chess ,)
helping my brother with his lessons, or covering his
ball, it seemed indifferent to her which ; amusing
and teaching the little girls and joining in all my
whimsicalities with a right good will ; in public or
private the same enthusiastic , joyous creature , and
yet I knew she was calculating. I had seen the
bright tear spring to her eye at the recital of a tale
of sorrow , and even that puzzled me ; it was so
strange that one like her should have so much feel.
ing. Every now and then some good deed planned
and executed by an invisible genius would be a
nine days' wonder to us, and it would turn out in
the end to be the work of our darling Fanny. She
was the tenderest of nurses, the gentlest of coun
sellors and the most sympathetic of friends. She
was full of kindness to all and she almost idolized
the few on whom she bestowed her love. And
yet , sometimes I was led to doubt the reality of
those outgushings of heart which I often saw ; and
acts that I knew sprang wholly from the generous
impulses of a noble nature, threw me into a state
of great perplexity. Because my cousin was calcu
lating I thought she must needs be cold ; because
she had a head capable of guiding and governing
as womanly a heart as ever beat, I thought she
could not have the heart, And now epoaking of
Fanny's heart leads me direct to a matter that
I ought to have mentioned hefore. But I dare say ,
dear itadcı , you have thought it all vut, tur wliv
would dream of a beautiful and accomplished
young lady of twenty without a lover ? Not that
Fanny had but one ; there was one more formida .
ble than any of the others ; one who, without
knowing it , made the heart of my pretty cousin
cast her head quite into the shade. Without
knowing it, I say, for it would have been very im
pudent in Harry Raymond to observe a slight tre
mor that now and then affected the lady's voice, or
discern anything more than health and joyousness
in the mysterious crimson of her cheek. And Mr.
Raymond was not an impudent man ; so far from
it , he was a little afraid of my fair cousin Fanny ;
not of her real self, such as he had seen her, but her
reputation for cleverness had alarmed his jealous
supremacy. Harry Raymond had a maiden aunt
66
who was a violent litterateure," and that may
account for his peculiar prejudices on this point ; at
any rate , he never would have fallen in love with
pretty Fanny Fay if he could have helped it. And
Fanny , simple soul, never dreamed that her young
admirer, who was always hovering about her path ,
was drawn thither in spite of his better judgment.
The lovers had not committed themselves, in so
many words ; that is, no vows had been spoken ;
but their eyes had conversed pretty extensively,
and everybody seemed to know how the matter
must end . And so they went on from week to
2
LOST AND WON ; OR THE GAME OF CHESS .
week. Harry, every now and then , would so far
forget himself as to whisper heart-warm words into
the lady's ear — at least , if a looker-on might be
allowed to judge from the effect they produced ;
and then he would go home to dream of the be
witching Fanny. Oh , such delicious dreams !
Sometimes he was elose beside her, pouring into
her ear more than he would ever dare breathe
when waking ; sometimes he was walking or
riding in some exquisite fairy land , with this
brightest of all fairies for his only companion ; and
sometimes he stood by the altar, with her small ,
white hand clasped close in his, and Fanny Fay
all , all his own ; but in all cases the dream termi.
nated alike. The harsh , cold, masculine voice of
his aunt answered his eloquence ; his fairy turned
into a she -dragon, bearing a close resemblance to
his aunt, and the little quivering hand grasped his
with the tightness of a vice , becoming large, red
and bony, while the features of his bride grew stern
and sharp, and her large hazel eyes contracted until
they resembled those of a weasel; he held the
hand and looked upon the face of his aunt. Con.
sidering the internal conflict, Harry Raymond cer
tainly led a dog's life of it , and whoever reads this
story I am sure will pity him . The head -born
lady of the symbolical owl must certainly have
entered into a compact with her mischievous scape
grace of a nephew , to ruin poor Harry's peace of
mind , for never was a sensible young fellow in such
a quandary, and never did human being engage in
a strife with so little hope of victory.
But Fanny Fay's chess -playing! I had quite
forgotten that. There was nothing my father
liked so well , of a long winter's evening, as his
quiet game of chess . He had been a soldier, and
it was delightful to arrange the ivory men upon the
field and win a battle without stirring from the fire
side. It was “ a celebration " peculiarly adapted
to times of peace. The game of chess came as
regularly as the cup of hyson ; and that came as
regularly as the evening. I had often vexed my
dear old father by my stupidity in this truly intel
lectual game ; for, though he had no objection to
being victorious, he liked the glory of a close fight.
When Fanny Fay came to live with us he made
her at once his pupil, and soon she usurped my
place entirely. It was not long before my father
was quite satisfied with the skill of my calculating
cousin , and declared her to be a wonderful player
- for a woman . Fanny was delighted with the
game, and in whatever she loved she was sure to
excel.
I jumped almost as high as the table and clap
ped my hands right joyfully , the first time she
check -mated my father, and careful was I all the
next day to remind the discomfited party of hav
ing found a match at last. I was not so observing
as Fanny, or might have seen that my raillery was
167
annoying, that my would -be witticisms were far
from being relished . That evening, however , my
cousin was again victorious, and then even I dis .
covered that the dear old gentleman was a good
deal nettled. Notwithstanding, he congratulated
the lady on her skill , meanwhile remarking, in an
atttempt at a careless tone, that he believed he had
brought home too much of his business with him ,
for he was not very clear- headed . His mortifica
tion was quite apparent, though he endeavored to
conceal it ; and I had never in my life seen him
so discontented and out of humor. After that,
though Fanny played admirably, she always lost
the game ; that is, when playing with my father,
for there was no one else that could compete with
her. I never knew of her being check -mated ex
cept by him , save indeed on one occasion . Mr.
Carlton , a kind of privileged he was a
“ particular friend of my father," inquisitive reader .
Well , Mr. Carlton check -mated Fanny in two
successive games ; but truth obliges me to ac
knowledge that it was owing to no superiority in
him. A handsome, manly face, belonging to ano
ther individual , overlooked the board , and a pair
of deep , dark eyes regarded with intense interest
the movements of her pretty fingers ;; and I saw that
the eloquent, tell- tale blood went careering from
my cousin's heart to her bright cheek , and thence
spread abroad till it gave a rosy hue to the very
tips of those carefully watched fingers. No won
der that Fanny was confused and allowed the red
knight to put her king and queen in check ; and
no wonder that after she had almost retrieved this
blunder , she lost herself in her own manæuvres
and deranged her plan by her absence of mind .
66
Raymond thinks me a simpleton ! ” said Fan
ny , almost petulantly , as soon as we were alone,
66
and , ” she added , with a desperate attempt to
cover her chagrin , by a laugh got up for the occa
sion , “ and I believe he is not far from the truth."
Fanny Fay a simpleton ! The idea to me was so
perfectly ridiculous that I fell into a convulsion of
laughter, and my poor cousin, perhaps attributing
my merrimeut to another cause , was fain to hide
her burning face in the bed drapery. In the morn
ing Fanny told me, in confidence, that she should
retrieve her reputation as a chess-player on the
ensuing evening.
“ Is Harry Raymond to be the witness ?” I in.
quired, very demurely.
“ The more witnesses the better,” she replied in
a gay tone. “ Mr. Carlton shall not give me ano
ther such triumphant look as he did last night."
Poor Mr. Carlton ! He had borne his honors as
meekly, I had almost said as sheepishly, as an
orator whose maiden speech calls forth unexpected
applause ; cousin Fanny must have had her rea
sons for venting her spleen on him.
Evening came, but no Mr. Carlton, though the
 wari
168 THE COLUMBIAN
witness was true to his -- Fanny would never for
give me if I should say appointment. Fanny could
not help wondering, in an aside, that things al
ways must go wrong with her when some people
were present ; not that she cared anything for Mr.
Raymond — at least no more than for any other
individual, but It is a saucy thing to laugh
in a lady's face when she is so eloquent in uncalled
for self justification , and in this instance it fairly
broke the thread of Fanny's discourse in such an
exceedingly rude manner that no effort could splice
it together. Fanny Fay did not attempt another
aside that evening. She avoided, too , all mention
of chess ; but avoid it as she would , there was one
who did not sympathize with her. My father, in
the pride of his heart, insisted on Mr. Raymond's
seeing what a good general his litile mathema.
tician, as he always called Fanny, would make.
“ But supposing I should beat you, uncle ? " she
inquired gaily .
The good old gentleman bowed, and while
every feature of his face combined to say, “ ne
ver!” his lips framed a very gallant speech, pur
porting that none but a stern old fellow like him
self would have the assurance to enter the lists
with her at all.
“ Don't spare him ! ” said I , gliding up to the
chair and putting my lips close to her ear, “ don't
spare him , at least to- night , Fan ! ” And my
calculating cousin looked as though she had re
solved and could execute. Fanny Fay evidently
did her best, and though the troublesome Raymond
stood where he could command a view of her face
as well as the board , her fingers were not in the
least tremulous. How beautiful she was with that
expression of thought on her clear, young brow ,
and all the sacred heart-revealings that nestle in
curves and dimples, clustering about a mouth of
surpassing loveliness. Fanny played on as merci
less as I had advised, and, after awhile, my father
began to be fidgety. He actually pulled out his
snuff -box, but recollecting himself, he immediately
dropped it back into his pocket. It was evident to
me that he was cornered and had just discovered
his predicament. He cast furtive glances at the
calm countenance of my cousin , and then at the
board , as if to satisfy himself whether she really
could appreciate her advantage. At last Fanny
looked up, and the troubled expression of her un
cle's face wrought a wonderful change in hers. A
sense of shame seemed to steal over it, and I, who
knew her so well , read every line . “ And so ," it
said, “ my silly vanity, my cold, careless selfish
ness has led me to annoy one to whom I owe all
love and reverence.” I don't believe Fanny once
thought of the smallness of the thing, or her right
to exercise her skill ; Fanny might reason , but on
such a subject she never reasoned coldly. All this
time my father was looking out a way of escape,
MAGAZINE .
but it was not to be found ; and at last, as if re
signing himself to his fate, he made an unimpor.
tant move .
“ Mr. Raymond,may I trouble you ? " and
my cousin pointed to her fan on the side -table.
She hardly looked at the board, but I saw the ivory
tremble in her fingers, as, with the greatest seem
ing heedlessness, she extricated my father from his
difficulties. The astonished gentleman looked up
with an interrogation point in every line and fea .
ture of his face, but as Fanny was chatting gaily
with me, his momentary suspicion vanished and he
said , in a tone ol pleasure rather than of chiding,
“ Fanny, child , you play very carelessly to -night. "
Fanny begged pardon as though she had com
mitted an offence ; lor , in his estimation , she had , a
grave one. My cousin I presume thought her ruse
very ingenious, and so another individual thought
too. It is strange how some people will calculate
on some other people's blindness. As though such
intensely black eyes as Harry Raymond's could be
blinded ! Our hero first glanced at the board in
surprise, then at Fanny , looking a little startled, but
yet quite demure ; then at Fanny's uncle, chuckling
inwardly at his narrow escape, while drawing an
argument therefrom in support of a certain favorite
theory of his ; and lastly he fixed his large , question
ing eyes on a little maiden less able to bear their
scrutiny. The whole scene was too ridiculous. I
strove to stifle a laugh, which, nevertheless, would
break forth ; Fanny's cheek crimsoned , and she
threw one supplicating glance upon me , then rested
her long, dark eye lashes upon her cheek ; my fa
ther cautioned me against distracting my cousin
with my untimely mirth , and Harry Raymond's
face, at first bewildered , literally glowed with joyful
surprise, and -- and -- admiration. My father
won the game, and Fanny , by losing it, won all
that she had not before appropriated of a noble
heart. I do not know what Harry dreamed that
night, but he did not seem in the morning as though
he had been disturbed by visions of his learned aunt.
My sweet cousin Fanny has long since written
herself Mrs. Harry Raymond ; and, strange to say ,
her husband's happiness, when he sits down by his
cheerful fire -side at evening, does not appear to be
at all lessened by the fact of his wife's having made
an entry of all the items of household expenditure
in her day - book half an hour previous. Neither
did he find the lady's calculating spirit in any way
troublesome, when , a short time since , the whole
nation seemed to be on the verge of bankruptcy ;
and even now, that brighter days are dawning, he
is not sorry to be able to trust the wife of his bosom
as he would trust himself. It might be otherwise,
however, if Fanny did not manage these matters
with extreme delicacy ; with good taste as well as
good sense .
A chess -board , now and then of an evening, ap
da
 THE EMPEROR
pears on the table of the Raymonds ; and some
times a white- haired old man sits down beside it,
while mischievous glances pass from one to another
of the group. Sometimes I am half tempted to tell
the darling old gentleman how he has been duped .
But when I look at my happy cousin and know
that the smiling face is but the cover of feelings too
THE EMPEROR
BY ISABEL JOCELYN .
( See the engraving .)
The form and features of “ the Emperor " no one can mis
take ; but there certainly is little kingly, according to the
prevalent notion of royalty, in the aspect of the fair child
sleeping so sweetly there. Yet that child was born the heir
of the most dazzling crown in Europe ; proclaimed King of
Rome even in his cradle, and destined , it was supposed, to
wield the sceptre of dominion over the many realms which
his mighty father had annexed as trophies to the military
sway of France . How little in keeping was the termination
of his mortal career with the present and prospective splen
dors of its opening! Descended by the mother's side from
the long and illustrious line of Kaisers - and having for his
father the wondrous man who, by the rudest proofs, had
demonstrated the real nothingness of lineage and hereditary
honors – it seemed as though he was born to unite in his own
person the antagonistic elements of human greatness, and
thus to give assurance of stability ; yet the coronet of mo
narchy never rested on his brow, the empire that was to be
his birthright was shattered while he yet sported in the sunny
realm of childhood, and almost before he had arrived at man's
estate, his bopes, his regrets, his ambitious aspirations, if he
had them all that pertained to him as the son of Napoleon
and all that he had lost as the child of France — were re
duced at once to nothing by the touch of a sceptre, mightier
even than that which had given laws to Europe.
The character of Napoleon was a marvellous compound.
From his military history it would seem that nothing was
less in his regard than human life -- that sympathy with the
race of man , and therefore with individuals of that race, was
an element that entered not into his composition ; yet nothing
is better established than the fact of his unvarying, ever
present, almost passionate affection for his child ---- the boy
sleeping there in the picture ) on the sofa by his side. Mene
val , in his “ Recollections of the Emperor, " gives a touching
and delightful representation of this strong attachment. He
says : - " Whether, seated by the chimney on his favorite
sofa, be was engaged in reading an important document, or
whether he went to his bureau to sigo a despatch, his son,
seated on bis knee or pressed to his bosom , was never a mo
ment from bim . Sometimes he would lie down on the floor
beside his beloved son , playing with him like another child,
attentive to everything that could please or amuse him . The
Emperor had a sort of apparatus for trying military maneu
vres ; it consisted of pieces of wood, fashioned to represent
battalions, regiments and divisions. When he wanted to try
some new combinations of troops, he used to arrange these
pieces on the carpet. While he was occupied with the dis
position of these pieces, working out some skilful manauvre
which might ensure the success of a battle, the child lying by
bis side would often overthrow his troops and put into con
fusion his order of battle, perhaps at some critical moment.
But the Emperor would re -commence arranging his men
15
AND THE KING . 169
sacred to be revealed, I forgive the innocent, kind
deception practised upon one whom we all honor
and revere .
Dear reader, I have only to add, Henry Ray
mond never yet regretted his wife's fondness for
chess.
Utica, N. Y.
AND THE KING .
with the utmost good humor. " And yet this was the same
man who could write such a letter as the following, to one
of his generals :
" General Wrede, I am displeased with the Bavarians . In
stead of fighting they cabal and get up intrigues against their
chief. I have ordered Generul Stenzel before a Court of In
quiry, for having abandoned Golling. Why did he not die
there? No man should abandon his post without an order
from his chief . The Bavarian troops are demoralized . Show
this letter to Duroc, and let me know whether the Bavarians
intend to deserve my esteem or my contempt. When troops
are demoralized their general and their otticers must reclaim
them or perish. There have been disgraceful faults among
you, which it comports with the honor of the Bavarians to
denounce und punish . Such was their permitting themselves
to be made prisoners in the gorges of ihe Tyrol, instead of
making good a retreat In ihe army there is no Prince . It
may be that the Prince Royal has cause of complaint against
the Duke of Dantzic, but that has nothing to do with the
bonor of arms. The enemy should have been marched
agitinst, even to the entrances of Salzburg , when he had in
sulted the Bavarian standards . I thoughtofsending a general
order to your army. That order would be perpetuated in
history. ' I have preferred writing to you , whom I esteem for
your talents and your courage . Speak to your comrades,
and see that they do not dishonor themselves. Let me not be
answered with if, or but, or because ; I am an old soldier.
Troops should conquer or die. At the first hint of attack the
Prince should have hastened to the outposts arid restored the
integrity of his division . As I know that you are attached
to the Prince, as well as myself, you will make such use of
this letter as you may deem'suitable. NAPOLEON .
“ Schoubrum , (Schænbrunn,) October 8, 1809."
In this letter we see only the warrior- no trace ofthe man
appears. Could the writer of it be imagined fondling a fair
haired child ?
But he himself has left upon record evidence that his sensi
bilities were not always dormant, though they could not be
roused by mere destruction of human life. In conversation
with one of his intimates he related this anecdote : - " In the
deep silence of a moonlight night a dog, leaping suddenly
from the clothes of his master, rushed upon us, and then
returned to his biding -place, howling piteously. He alter
Dately licked his master's hand and ran toward us ; thus at
once soliciting and seeking revenge. Whether owing to my
own particular turn of mind at the moment, the time, the
place, or the action itself, I know not, but certainly no inci
dent on any field of battle ever produced so deep an impres
sion on me. J involuntarily stopped to contemplate the scene.
This man, thought I, bas friends in the camp or in his com
pany,and here he lies, forsaken by all except his dog ! What
a lesson nature bere presents through the medium of an ani
mal! What a strange being is man , and how mysterious are
his impressions ! I had without emotion ordered battles
which were to decide the fate of the army ; I bad beheld
with tearless eyes the recution Jose operations by which
numbers of my countrymen were sacrificed, and here my
feelings were roused by the mournful howlings of a dog !”
de
LUCY
BY MISS MARTHA RUSSELL .
" A lily fair which God did bless,
And which from Nature's heart did draw
Love, wisdom , peace and beaven's perfect law ."
Reader, have you ever travelled in Connecticut,
over that part of New Haven county which lies
west of the fair city of that name ? I say travel
led - but in another sense than that which the
word seems to have with that class of blank neu
tralities who appear to feel that they must traverse
the country every season, from Maine to Louisiana,
and exclaim , “ Oh , beautiful !” “ Ah , exquisite ! "
as often as their guide book says it is proper. For
this class of persons the word has no other than
literally the definition of Webster ; “ Travel - to
journey ;" “ Journey - to travel.” Alas ! for
them ! This world , in which the true soul walks,
seeingGod and listening to the universe," the great
Æolian harp, " with its solemn and mysterious music
sounding from its countless strings, to them appears
spread out in its glory only to serve as a race ground
for fashion, and what Carlyle so expressively de
nominates “ gigmanity . ” There is another class
of travellers who , from defect of vision , caused not
by sun spots but by dollar spots, see before their
eyes , in the most beautiful landscapes, nothing but
mill -seats , timber -lots, railroad tracks , choice situ
ations for manufacturing establishments ; and were
it practicable, would sell the blessed sunlight which
brightens the flowers on their fathers' graves, for
" a handsome consideration.” Heaven defend us
from all such travellers !
But you , gentle reader, have you ever stood on
any of those broken chains of hills in the region I
refer to, and gazed over the rich landscapes, the
sunny valleys and fair villages, and felt how much
unwritten scripture there is on earth to gladden and
elevate the heart of man ? Whoever is familiar
with this region cannot fail to remember the little
village of Liston , with its white cottages nestling
on the hillside and scattered through the valley.
In the scenery around it , the hills , or as the in
habitants call them , the mountains, in some places
rise in isolated peaks ; but to the northwest they
sweep far away in an unbroken chain , here bare as
the heath where Fingal and Ossian fought, and
there grey old rocks, cliffs piled upon cliffs, “ here
dark with the thick moss of ages, and there of
chalky whiteness where the thunderbolt has splin
tered them . ” Then again , for miles the range
presents a continued sea of green, wave upon wave ,
170
MAYNARD .
up to the very summits. At intervals, in the most
6
precipitous places, are the " sliding paths.” These
are spaces, some yards in width , where brushwood
and soil are worn away by the furious descent of
logs, which in winter the farmer, after having freed
them from branches, precipitates from the summits,
to the no small content of his boasted Bent and
m
Bright, these finding it far more satisfactory to
stand quietly chewing their cuds below , waiting
to drag the loaded sled over the smooth road to
their master's door, than to be breaking snow -paths
up the almost impassable side of the mountain .
The village is entirely enclosed by these hills,
except on the southwestern side , where a noble
tract of land is displayed to view, stretching away
until its borders are lovingly embraced by the blue
waves of Long Island Sound. The village , with
its well kept plot of grass, proudly termed a green ;
the neat church and school- house gleaming forth
from among the trees ; the little river which hies on
its winding way, like a happy child , gaily singing
to each flower on its banks ; and , above all , that
gateway which leads from the transient to the
eternal — that portal through which so many of
earth's weary children long to enter and be at rest -
the graveyard — that place so dear to glorified spi
rits — not merely because through this gate they
expect to receive those dear ones whom they left on
earth, but also because there lie those mouldering
bodies in which, when on earth , they joyed , sor.
rowed , loved and were beloved , and which they
know they shall receive again , purified and beauti
fied by the loving kindness ofGod ; the graveyard,
here so appropriately situated and adorned , that
nothing is allowed to profane its spirit or wear away
its “monitory virtue ; ” these, and all things that
unite with them to make the scenery around Liston
so beautiful to the soul, speak emphatically to the
heart of the traveller that great watchword of
Christianity — PEACE ; and few can resist the influ
ence , whatever may have been their experience in
life . Oh ! how many such scenes there are in this
beautiful world of ours, speaking, like him of Beth
lehem , “ Peace and good will to men !”
In one of these fair valleys there is aa nook which,
for its retirement and singular beauty , well deserves
the name of Fairy Glen. Here, one beautiful day
 LUCY MAYNARD .
in the spring of 18— , sat a young maiden under
the shade of a huge oak, which, mother-like , spread
out its branches to screen the bubbling spring near
its foot. Her apron was filled with flowers, of
which she was busily twining a wreath to adorn a
pet lamb that stood gravely gazing at the reflection
of his own face in the pure waters of the spring.
She was one of those who, in a crowded saloon or
on a fashionable promenade, would be passed by
unnoticed, but who reveal a beauty that at once
surprises and gladdens us when met in situations
adapted to their character, so that we wonder at
our own stupidity in not discovering it before.
And surely no scene could furnish a finer setting for
the beauty of Lucy Maynard than that around her.
No circumstances could be more finely adapted to
call forth those quick changes of expression in
which her beauty consisted, than those under
which she appeared now. The dell and the moun
tain side displayed every variety of green , from
the pale yellowish hue of the aspen to the dark
green of the cedar. The deep blue sky, spotted
with light fleecy clouds, which, like wanton child
ren , chased each other toward the southwest, was
in perfect keeping with the changeful beauty of
the maiden's face. Had you seen her as she sat
there , now bent over her pet to ascertain if the
wreath had reached the required length, now sud
denly pausing and laying her wreath on her knee,
seeming not so much to think as dream , with an
expression in her deep blue eye that was pensive
and yet too clear and serene for sadness, and now
again , shaking back from her face the profusion of
bright hair, which in hue was
“ Like the waterfall, leaf- tinged with brown,
And lit with the sunrise , "
while a roguish smile, wakened by some wayward
fancy, flitted across her face, you would have said
that her heart was a dwelling- place for noth.ng but
joy.
At length, in answer to a bird in the branches
above her head, she sang -
1.
Gaze round thee and listen ! sweet spring is returning !
A chorus of welcome bursts forth from each spray
With offerings of flowers, see, the fruit trees are bending,
While shiny young leaves with a freshening life play.
2.
The tint on the cheek of the floweret is deepening,
The hoarfrost has hied to his cavern away
A life -giving impulse all Nature is moving,
As thrills in her bosom the spring's loving ray.
3.
Down the mount to the valley, the brooklet comes dancing,
And gaily it sings to each flower on its way ,
While deep in the wood sits the nightingale singing,
Where, through the close leaves, peeps the soft light of
day.
171
4.
O'er Nature's new glories the sunbeams are streaming -
All sisterly graces the gardens display,
And thousands of blossoms their tints are commingling,
Whose young dewy dyes spread the rainbow's array.
As the last murmur of her song died away in the
air, she placed the last wild honeysuckle in her
wreath . Her work was completed. She sat for
some moments gazing earnestly down the path
that led to the village , until her attention was sud
denly drawn to the opposite direction by the sound
of approaching footsteps. She had scarcely sprung
to her feet when a youth in a hunting dress, clear
ing the head of the spring at a bound, deposited his
gun and game at her side, exclaiming --
“ Ah ! Lucy, dear, I thought you would be here !
So I have come round by the mountain path , to
bring you some of your favorite flowers, these wild
violets and blood -root blossoms."
Thanks, Charles. Now, if you had brought
them before I had finished Daisy's wreath , how
beautifully the blue violets would have contrasted
with the white thorn and wild honeysuckle ! ”
“ Ah ! Lucy, what a serious misfortune ! But
they shall have the higher honor of being worn
by Daisy's mistress, my own pet, Lucy,” said
the youth, laughing as he twined them in her
hair.
“ Lucy, " said he , suddenly pausing from his
graceful employment,“ do you remember the day
when you and little Alice Granger, in spite of aunt
Esther's commands, ran away and followed me to
Green's Pond , to see father and Mr. Granger wash
sheep ?"
“ And what a ducking I got, as Alice tumbled
over me in our haste to escape from the big water
snake that lay asleep on the rock ; and how you
dragged me out, and wrapped me in your jacket,
and carried me home ; and the doses of mother
wort tea aunt Esther forced me to swallow ? Oh !
yes, I remember it all. I have detested the very
sight of motherwort ever since ."
“ Ah ! little Alice ! ” said Charles, “ I wonder if
she is as happy at the far west , as she was in those
days when her brother Fred and I drew you and
her back and forth to school , on our sleds. "
“ Yes, and turned us over into the snow drifts,
why don't you add ?” said the laughing girl. “ But
come, Daisy , you and I must go home, or aunt
Esther will rally the neighborhood to seek us.”
“ Stay one moment, Lucy ;" said the young
man, while his face expressed the working of
some painful emotion. “ Stay one moment .
This talk of our school days has well nigh
made me forget that we are not children . You
know that my mother's death has left me almost
isolated in the world. My stepfather is a kind,
well meaning man , but he cannot understand me.
He cannot appreciate my plans, and thinks it foliy
172 THE COLUMBIAN
for me to pursue my studies. Besides , if he were
willing to aid me , he has a large family of his own
children to care for. There is a brother of my
mother who is a merchant in Cincinnati . He
went there many years ago, and has recently writ.
ten for me to come to him . Mr. Clayton , who has
always been kind to me , and has advanced me in
my studies by every means in his power, advises
me to go. But it pains me , Lucy , to leave a place
associated with so many sweet remembrances —
the place of my mother's grave. And you, Lucy ,
you will not forget me ? ”
“ Charles ! Charles ! ” was the answer, and
those deep eyes filled with tears.
G
“Forgive me if I have pained you , Lucy," he
continued , “ but it is so sad to be alone in the
world ! With a heart full of kind thoughts and
feelings, to feel that no one understands you, and
that your existence is necessary to no one's happi
ness . Oh ! Lucy , if you knew how deeply I have
felt this, you would forgive me.”
But while we leave Charles to detail his future
plans to his gentle listener, as they slowly wend
their way home, we will look a little into their
earlier history.
Charles Stanton , who now, at the age ofeighteen ,
stood almost penniless in the world , at his birth
was envied as the sole prospective heir of the great
Stanton estate , situated in one of the most thriving
towns in eastern Massachusetts. His father was
one of those pleasant, genial souls, whom every
body calls “good fellows." Born to vast wealth,
and unaccustomed to labor, it never once occurred
to him that he or his family could by any possibility
become poor ; or that there was anything in life
for him to do but live as a " a good fellow ," and
make the world a pasture for his self -indulgence.
He kept horses and dogs. He hunted, drove and
fished ; always sure of finding companions in
abundance. Among the humbler shops which sur
rounded the green of S- , stood that of Messrs.
9 she was not wholly deficient in this, as she had
Gresham and Bartlett , which was denominated
“ the store ,” par excellence. This was his favor
ite lounging place , where he took precedence as
king of the idlers, and paid the bill . Henry Stan
ton was not then what was called a drunkard . In
common parlance he was termed a 66high fellow,"
one who liked a good spree.” Alas ! the gentle
attentions of his wife could not win him from the
love of strong drink. He went on spending, and
never so much as dreaming that the condition of
his property might require examination . His estate
was left to the careless care of others. Therefore
it was not mysterious to any one but himself when,
after a few years, the funds necessary to support
his mode of life were not forthcoming. He looked
grave. But his credit was good ; he could raise
money without difficulty. He borrowed ; mortgages
followed ; and on each new mortgage he doubled
MAGAZINE .
his drams, until at length a violent fever, the con
sequence of one of his " high sprees, ” laid him in
his grave. His sorrowful widow and little boy
were left with nothing save a small pittance, the
proceeds of her claims on the estate, which was
paid annually by the new owner.
Ellen Stanton , wishing to avoid a place which
could only remind her of the past, and influenced
perhaps by some movement of wounded pride, ac
cepted the invitation of an early and beloved friend ,
who offered her a share of her humble home, and ,
what was still better, one of the warmest places in
her noble heart. This friend was no other than
Lucy Maynard's aunt Esther. She was one of
that class of “ us women ” who, as some one has
said, or if it has not been said we say it now, are
born to keep the world in equilibrium . She was
an old maid ; and God bless all such , we say , for
we do not see how the world could well get on
without them . Lucy was the rich legacy left her
by an only sister, the widow of a sea captain ,
whose last resting place was beneath the blue
waves he had loved so well. His wife, a part of
whose very existence he was, seemed no longer a
creature of earth after the news of his death reached
her. She grew paler and paler, her eye brighter
and brighter, as the hour drew near when she felt
assured she should again meet him who had been
her life on earth , until at last her wish was realized ,
and she slept in the grave , and awoke in heaven.
At the time of her mother's death Lucy was
about five years old. A few hours before she died ,
the mother called the little girl to her side, and
imprinting a last kiss on her lips, said to her sister,
in the low, husky tones of death , “ Esther ! Esther !
make her true -hearted woman ! ” Nobly did
aunt Esther fulfil the dying injunction of her sister.
To this end she directed all her efforts. Her true
heart , superior mind, experience and strong good
sense counterbalanced the want of education ; but
received the benefit of the schools, such as they
were ,for persons in her circumstances, fifty years
ago. With rare tact she united the qualities of
companion and mother ; and while she taught her
adopted daughter all the mysteries of pastry, soup
and soap , she could also sing with her “ old songs,
the music of the heart, " and sympathize with her
admiration of the beautiful, whether in nature or
in books, if not always with equal enthusiasm , at
least with a hearty good will. When Charles
Stanton and his mother came to reside with her,
aunt Esther's heart, which before seemed to be
wholly occupied by Lucy, immediately expanded
to make room for Charles. He was two years older
than Lucy , and became her protector in all the
civil wars of the village school, participated in all
her studies and amusements, and was the com
panion of her visits to the old pastor, Mr. Clayton.
 LUCY MAYNARD .
The old man dearly loved the child, as he always
called Lucy, and would even lay aside his favorite
volume of Jeremy Taylor when her light knock
was heard at the study door. Charles soon became
almost as dear to him as Lucy ; and it was plea
sant to see the old man , with Charles and Lucy
seated by him , alternately reading aloud some of
his favorite volumes of history , poetry or romance ,
or listening intently as he pointed out some new
beauty of the author, or attempted to satisfy their
craving for knowledge from the rich and varied lore
of his own mind.
At length his mother's second marriage, which
by the way was a marriage of expediency, brought
another change for Charles. She accepted the
hand of a worthy farmer, and took Charles to re
side with her. But he still continued to call aunt
Esther's cottage “ home ; ” and every leisure mo
ment was passed either there or at the parsonage.
His mind began to advance into that world where
all is so much brighter than the “ light of common
day ;” but his admiration of nature and passionate
love of books often made him the butt of his step
father's good natured ridicule. The honest man
would say, “ He did not see what good there was
in so much larning. It neither he.ped hoe the
6
corn nor plant the potatoes ; and as for • land
ekips,' as Charles calls them , he had rather see the
deep red, shining sides of his four year olds than
all the skips in the world .” But Charles found a
dear and appreciating friend in Mr. Clayton. The
old pastor, delighted with the boy's quickness of
perception and eagerness to acquire knowledge,
willingly retraced with him the studies of his ear
lier years. In the interest he felt for the boy, and
the delight he found in superintending his studies,
he seemed to find again some of the long lost plea
sures of his boyhood and youth. Charles's mental
life advanced rapidly. As he grew older he be
came different from the young people around him
in the village. He no longer took the same inte
rest in their pleasures, though he sometimes min
gled with them, and listened kindly to their plans
of amusement. He was respected by them, yet
like all those who live more from within than from
without, he was neither understood nor appreciated.
After the death of his mother he felt more alone
than ever. He had indeed nothing left, save the
love of Mr. Clayton, aunt Esther and Lucy. But
this was a priceless possession . Its inspiration
made his soul strong and buoyant. He saw a
struggle before him as he looked into the future ,
but his eye grew clear, and his heart swelled with
gladness and courage . One week after his inter
view with Lucy at the spring, he was on his way
to the West .
We must now be allowed to transport our read
ers to the good town of S- It is no longer
the same as when Mrs. Stanton left it to reside
173
with aunt Esther in Liston. The spirit of " the
times ” has been there . The erection of factories,
and its proximity to the Boston and Providence
railroad, have greatly swelled its importance. Now
it not only boasts of three lawyers' offices and four
physicians, but “ the store " has grown to twice
its former size. Messrs. Gresham and Bartlett have
been compelled to enlarge it, in order to compete
successfully with numerous rivals round the green ,
who threatened to annihilate them by the superior
splendor of their sign -boards and extent of their
buildings. That large white house on the south
corner of the green is the residence of 'Squire
Benson , attorney and counsellor at law, as he styles
himself. That lady who is peeping from behind
the curtain of the parlor window, and, with an ex
pression of displeasure on her face, watching the
two young ladies who stand chatting on the side.
walk, is Mrs. Benson, his wife. That young lady
who has now left her companion and is coming
toward the house is Miss Julia Esther Benson , his
daughter, the would -be belle of the town.
“ Julia , my dear,” says Mrs. Benson , as her
daughter enters the room , was not that Caroline
Hawley with whom you spoke just now ? ”
“ Yes, ma ; I met her as she was going to the
shop, and stopped her to ask if Mrs. Shirley has
yet received the latest fashions from Boston .”
“ But I should think your own sense of propriety
would teach you that it is not fitting for Julia Ben
son to be seen speaking familiarly to a milliner's
apprentice in the public street, directly in front of
Doctor Seward's too ; and Mrs. Weldon , his wife's
cousin, the senator's lady and her daughters, who
are so exclusive, now visiting there ! "
“ Why ma , I am sure the Weldons did not see
me. Besides, Caroline Hawley dresses very gen.
teelly. Only last year you were so anxious to
have me intimate with her that you gave your great
Christmas party , merely to secure to me the right
of entrée to her father's brilliant parties.”
“ True, Julia , but there is some difference be .
tween Caroline Hawley, the reputed beiress of a
hundred thousand dollars, and Caroline Hawley the
milliner's apprentice. Really failures are so fre
quent that it is necessary for people of rank and
fashion to be exclusive."
“ Well, ma, I suppose' you know best. But
Caroline was always so pleasant ; I liked her very
much,” said Julia , as she left the room .
This short conversation will enable the reader to
gain some glimpes of the ruling spirit of lawyer
Benson's houss. Striving, ever striving ! but alas !
not for the inperishable, the eternal; not to realize
that truth by which the pure in heart see God -
but for the glitter, the glare, the pretension of that
conteviptible thing called fashion.
Inder a soft, complaisant and insinuating man.
not, Mrs. Benson concealed the most inflexible
15*
%
36
174 THE COLUMBIAN MAGAZINE .
will - a will that yielded to no obstacles and scru
pled at no means in attaining her ends, so long as
she could conceal them from the eyes of the world.
She was ever ready, and first, to subscribe to all
the fashionable charities and popular societies of
the day ; to do anything, in short, that could tend
to place her and her daughter in the first rank of
gigmanity ; while all her household operations,
which lay behind the curtain, were conducted with
all the stint of the most penurious retrenchment .
In his family Mr. Benson was a complete nonenity.
In more ways than one his wife made him feel that
she was indeed his better half. Julia was a pretty,
good tempered girl , with a fair share of intelligence .
She would have made an interesting woman if her
mother had not been constantly instilling into her
mind the lessons of vanity and pride. In this family
-- a lonely pupil of that stern teacher; poverty —
lived Lucy Maynard. Ay, lived - in the fullest
sense of the word — for the pure heart and earnest
soul, like a fair flower struggling for the blessed
sunlight, amid the weeds which surround it, will
ever stretch upward toward the great Father of
Light, even when crushed beneath those rank
weeds,pride and disdain. Yes ! even in the family
of lawyer Benson, Lucy lived. Two years after
Charles Stanton's departure for the West she wa
rendered doubly an orphan by the death of aunt
Esther. Before her death , aunt Esther made every
provision in her power to screen her beloved charge
from want ; and , after commending her warmly to
the care of her uncle , a brother of Captain May.
nard, who resided in D- , Massachusetts, and
much more strongly, and with far firmer faith, to
the care of the Father of the fatherless , she slept
the last sleep, and was laid to rest by the side of
her sister.
That was a sorrowful day for poor Lucy when
the oarth closed over that dear face and kind heart
with which had been her home so long, when she
found herself alone ! She heeded not , the setting
sun that night, as in her utter loneliness she knelt
between the two graves, and passionately wept .
At length a band was laid gently on her shoulder
the old pastor stood by her. He assisted her to
rise, and led her quietly, without speaking , to
his own house. The first burst of grief was over,
and she grew calm , for bier soul was too clear and
strong for despair.
Her uncle, John Maynard received the orphan
kindly ; and both he and his wife employed all
kind and gentle attentions to finder her happy.
And she was happy - happy to relay their kind
ness, in some measure, by her care for their young
children. If, when busy with memories of her
dear aunt Esther, and the days of her childhood
and early youth , thought, wandering to Charles
Stanton, would sometimes cause the work to trop
from her hand, and the tears to fill her eyes ; whe
was not unhappy, but fervently thanked God that
the bright beams of his mercy still rested on her
path . She had resided with her uncle about a
year, when sudden reverses reduced him from com
parative affluence to poverty. But John Maynard
was not of a disposition to sit down in despair
without an effort, or appeal to the sympathy of oth
ers, or complain of fate. Nor did his family bang
upon him like a mill- stone. With sunny faces and
cheerful hearts, from the oldest down to wee Jamie ,
the youngest, each felt strong to aid in retrieving
their father's fallen fortunes. Lucy, unwilling to
remain dependent on her friends in this change of
circumstances, entreated permission to leave them
and learn some trade, by which she might gain a
livelihood. But her gentle manners and kind heart
had won their warmest affection . They were not
willing to part with her, and gladly would have
persuaded her to share their humble fortunes in the
western world, to which they had decided to re
move. But Lucy, aware of the rigid economy they
would be compelled to practise, persisted in her
entreaties until at last they consented, and procured
her a situation with Mrs. Shirley, the most fash
ionable milliner in S
And now poor Lucy is indeed left alone, wear
ing away her life as a milliner's apprentice, with
not one kind , familiar face near her. Every day
she must devote the usual number of hours to her
trade ; and besides this, like many a poor girl under
similar circumstances, she must work for her board ,
and this is her position in lawyer Benson's family.
Mrs. Benson was very willing to give her board for
her services when she was not in the shop, as it
saved the expense of one servant. She was a con
summate mistress of the art of getting the greatest
possible amount of work out of all those who had
the fortune or misfortune to serve her. Poor Lucy
bitterly felt the difference between the kindness of
her relatives and the cold , unsympathising man .
ners of the Bensons. Uncomplaining, she minis
tered to the wants of the thoughtless, though really
not unkind Julia. With unwearied diligence she
performed all those duties of the household which
9
it pleased Mrs. Benson to term “ chores ; ” and
many a poor girl will bear witness to our truth
when we say that these “ chores” include much
of the heaviest and most laborious portion of the
housework.
Nor was this all. Mrs. Benson had one child , a
son , many years younger than Julia , who was
afflicted with a disease of the spine, and to whom
Lucy's sweet voice and winning mamers were
peculiarly attractive. An invalid almost from his
birth, Edward was peevish and fretful ; but his eye
always brightened when he heard her step on the
stairs that led to his room , as, weary with the la
bors of the day, she came to bring his supper and
prepare his drink for the night. Lucy soon began
%
LUCY MAYNARD .
to feel that even here was something to love ; and
when her mistress reminded her, as she not unfre
quently did , of her dependent situation, and talked
of her great benevolence in keeping her merely for
“ doing a few chores," though her heart swelled
and her eyes filled, she felt that there was one
whose joyless childhood was rendered brighter and
happier by her existence, and her heart grew
strong. Yet Lucy was not without her moments
of-- we were about to say unalloyed happiness.
The apprentice girl had not forgotten the lessons
of the old pastor ; and it was a joyful moment for
her when, after the last “ chore ” of the day was
done , her mistress bade her go and sit by Edward
until he fell asleep. Then, though the boy would
sometimes insist on having the story of Little Red
Ridinghood related twice over, and be more than
usually anxious to know how a wolf could talk
yet he was usually reasonable, and many sweet
hours did Lucy spend with her books, with which ,
thanks to Caroline Hawley and her father, she was
well supplied — storing her mind with rich lessons,
freely communing with the noblest and best of
earth .
One morning, as Lucy was removing the break
fast things from the table, Mrs. Benson and Julia
were discussing a brilliant party which they had
attended , the evening previous, at the house of
' Squire Lee , a rival attorney.
“ Was there ever anything equal to the pride
and vanity of the Lees ? ” exclaimed Mrs. Benson .
“ Their French china ! Nothing but earthen , I
dare say ."
“ But , ma, their dessert service is really silver.
I heard Mrs. Seward say so."
“ Yes ! child , as I said before, there is nothing
like their extravagance . But Mrs. Lee, with all
her silver plate , will never be anything more than
Fanny Daggett, the dress maker. She retains
even now the habit of feeling for her scissors while
talking. But Julia, who was that handsome young
man that came in so late with Dr. Seward ? He
must be somebody, if one may judge from the at
tentions shown him by Mrs. Weldon and the Sew.
ards."
“ Oh ! that was Dr. Stanton . He and his uncle
arrived at the hotel yesterday from New York.
Mary Seward told me that her family and the
Lees are old friends of his father, and that this is
his native place. ”
“ Why it must be Charles Stanton, the son of
Henry Stanton, who died but heaven help the
girl," she cried, springing to the table in time to
catch part of the dishes which the sound of that
long cherished name had caused Lucy to drop, as
she was about to place them on the waiter — " was
there ever such carelessness ? Two plates and three
cups broken ! my new breakfast set entirely ruined !
I don't believe there is another as careless girl in
175
town. There , take the fragments and waiter, and
see if you can carry them to the kitchen without
dropping them . ”
“ Mother,” said Julia, as the frightened girl left
the room , “ Lucy is very pale ; I don't think she
is well . "
“ She ought to look pale. Three of my new
coffee cups and two plates broken into inch pieces !
How many more cracked I don't know .”
“ But you know, ma , since Edward has been
worse she is often obliged to get up in the night, to
wait on him. He told me this morning that she
was up with him the greater part of last night.”
“ He told me the same. But I keep her to wait
on him . Edward has taken a great fancy to her ;
and, after all , she is as good as most girls. Servants
are always more plague than profit. But who did
you say accompanied Charles Stanton ? "
“ His uncle, a Mr. Gordon , from the West.”
“ Ah ! now I remember, his mother was a Gor
don, and had a brother at the West who was said
to be wealthy. We must pay them some attention ,
If Edward gets no better I will ask Dr. Seward to
call in his young friend to consult with him ."
“ Do, ma, I should like very much to be ac
quainted with him .”
But let us look into the kitchen, where poor
Lucy is almost breathless with delight at the
thought of Charles Stanton's return . It has brought
back to the care worn face much of the changeful
beauty of earlier days, and she sits forgetful of the
broken china — of her mistress's displeasure of
all save the happy days passed in her own sweet
home at Liston . “ He has returned ! I knew he
would come back ! " she murmured to herself,
when the well known step of Mrs. Benson roused
her to a consciousness of her situation . In that
short , sweet dream , she had forgotten all but the
past. She took no account of the change in their
relative positions in society. For the moment she
even forgot that, as she had reason to suppose ,
Charles himself no longer thought of her as former
ly. But now her cheek blanched and her lip quiv
ered with sudden thoughts of the vast distance by
which the forms of society separated them .
Once Lucy's mind could not have entertained
such thoughts ; but she had , oflate ,heard the sub
ject too often discussed - had heard Mrs. Benson
and her friends too often speak of rank in society,
and of the exclusiveness of “ their circle,” not to
be aware that she, Mrs. Benson's servant, was too
far from Dr. Stanton to think of intercourse with
him .
True, Charles's letters, which had never failed
during aunt Esther's life, were full of kind remem
brances of her, in which she was always connected
with his plans for the future. And even during her
residence with her uncle, their correspondence had
continued. But a short time after her uncle's fail
A
176 THE COLUMBIAN
ure she had written to Charles, informing him of
her design to learn a trade. To this letter she re
ceived no reply. Anxiously had she hoped and
waited for an answer, but none came. Slowly and
painfully the conviction forced itself on her mind
that he wished to forget her. Charles had been
the ideal of all her dreams. Unconsciously his
name ever trembled on her lips when , in the moments
devoted to her books, some new thought, beautiful
in its purity and truth, gladdened her heart and
shed light over the dim vista of the fature. Un
consciously the thought of Charles's approbation had
stimulated her to improve every moment, to make
every possible exertion for a high degree of cultiva
tion . And now he had returned — the beautiful
dream had vanished — faded before the cold , false,
heartless forms of society !
Oh ! those only who have dreamed, hoped,
longed and lived for such an ideal can understand
the bitterness of the disappointment when , just at
the moment of realization, we find ourselves sepa
rated from it by the inexorable hand of destiny !
But Lucy's experience had taught her more than
one of the great lessons of life . She now strove to
school herself to submission, and to fulfil with pa
tient endurance all the duties of her station . Early
in the ensuing spring the term of her apprentice
ship would expire ; and as Mrs. Shirley wished to
retain her in her employment, she looked forward
with pleasure to the time when the avails of her
labor would render her independent at least of Mrs.
Benson .
A few days after this, lawyer Benson informed
his wife that Mr. Gordon had purchased part of the
old Stanton estate , and that he was now busy fur
nishing the new cottage on the hill. This was
true . Mr. Gordon , wishing to gratify his nephew ,
and disliking the noise and bustle of a hotel , on
finding a part of Charles's paternal estate for sale,
immediately became the purchaser, and in a few
weeks they were enjoying all the quiet and comfort
of a New England home.
As rumor had represented Mr. Gordon to be far
more wealthy than he really was, their establish
ment in the place was an event of the first import
ance to the “exclusives.” They immediately re
ceived all sorts of attention from the many, and
more gradually found some who could appreciate
their worth and become sincerely their friends.
Mrs. Benson was not the only managing mamma to
whom Charles, especially, became an object of the
highest consideration .
The warm recommendations of Dr. Seward soon
procured for Charles quite an extensive practice.
Little Edward , who daily grew worse, was almost
entirely given over to his care , Dr. Seward only
looking in occasionally. As Charles's calls were
always made during those hours when Lucy was
at the shop , she never met him ; and although she
MAGAZINE .
frequently heard Mrs. Benson and her daughter
mention his name , and sound his praises, yet with
the sensitiveness of one who keenly felt the injus
tice and falseness of those conventional laws of
society which oppressed her, and which now regu
lated the character of Charles, as she had such
painful reason to believe, she avoided all that could
lead to a discovery of her early connection with
him.
Meanwhile rumor began to prophecy, in whis
pers, that the beautiful cottage on the hill would
soon have a mistress in Miss Julia. Mrs. Benson
managed — Charles paid Julia some attentions,
which gave rise to banter on the part of her young
friends ; and the manner in which Mrs. Benson re
plied to such remarks certainly was not calculated
to silence them . Rumor continued to whisper,
louder and louder, until the matter was spoken of
as a thing probably settled. Lucy heard all this in
silence , and sought refuge from all painful thoughts
in her ministry of love to Edward.
As he grew worse he clung to her with increas.
ing fondness, and at length Mrs. Benson procured
another to take her place in the kitchen, that all
her moments of leisure from the shop might be
devoted exclusively to the little sufferer, who was
evidently near death. One day, toward the last
of February, Dr. Stanton was detained from calling
at his ordinary hour, and drove to the door much
later than usual . Finding Mrs. Benson engaged
with company, he followed the servant directly to
Edward's room . He found his patient asleep.
After feeling his pulse and arranging some powders,
he turned to the nurse , who sat at the foot of the
bed almost wholly concealed by its ample drapery,
and commenced giving directions. But suddenly
interrupting himself, he inquired how long the boy
had slept. The answer was inaudible.
“ How long did you say, nurse ? ” he asked
again.
“ About half an hour," was the answer, in low ,
tremulous tones which thrilled through his whole
soul.
Charles sprang to her side, and grasping her arm ,
drew her to the light, exclaiming — " It is ! it must
be Lucy Maynard — my own Lucy ! Speaķ again !
For God's sake, speak again !”
Oh ! there are moments when the whole soul
comes forth to brood on the face ! Words could
not have brought so sweet an assurance to his heart
as did one glance of those deep blue eyes , as he
pressed her half fainting to his bosom .
“ And you have been near me so long, " he con
tinued — “ even in the house , and I have not known
it ! Lucy , was this quite right ? "
“ I have wronged you , Charles. As you did not
answer my letter, informing you of the change in
my circumstances, I thought you had changed.
Forgive me, Charles, but I have been made to feel,
2
LUCY MAYNARD .
somewhat keenly, the disdain which those of your
social rank and advantages feel authorized to be
stow on such as occupy my position. Oh ! if you
only knew what I have suffered , in thinking that
you too were influenced by this falseness of society
- that you too could neglect me, because of my
friendless poverty - you would forgive me.”
“ I changed ! I disdain you ! Society create
a distance between you and me ! Oh ! how could
you mistake me thus ? You must indeed have
learned some bitter lessons, my poor Lucy, or you
could not have wronged me so ! ”
“ But my letter, Charles, why did you not an.
swer my letter ? ”
“Because , dearest Lucy, I never received it. I last part of Mrs. Elliott's remark , “ and it is to be
was a long time travelling with my uncle, in vari.
ous parts of the country, before we came here ,
and must have left Cincinnati before it arrived
there . Before I came here I visited Liston . Our
kind friend, the old pastor, had been dead nearly a
year. In answer to my inquiries I was informed
that you still resided in D-, with your uncle. I
hastened to D , and was there told that you
accompanied your uncle's family to lowa. Weari
ed and dispirited , I rejoined my uncle, whose bu
siness had detained him in New York . We came
here, as it was a favorite plan of my uncle to repur
chase if possible a part of my father's estate. But
I had resolved to visit Iowa in the spring, to find
you if possible, and ascertain whether the sweet
playmate of my youth would not sustain to me a
still nearer and dearer relation."
“ But Julia - " of “ this queer affair,” finding no terms adequate to
“ Julia neither is, has been , nor can be to me any
thing more than a lively, good -tempered girl, spoil
ed by the over-management of her mother. But
first of all — even before you answer the question
which interests me so deeply - allow me to provide
you a more suitable home. ”
Lucy pointed to the sleeping boy. “ No !
Charles," she said, “ I cannot leave him now. He
will allow no one else to wait on him. You say
he has but aa few days to live. Let me, at least,
soothe his last hours, for he has ever loved me."
“ Let it be so, then ; - and now good night.”
Lucy's unwearied ministry of love was soon
over. One week after this meeting, Edward was
in his grave .
“ But were they married ? were they married ? ”
the fair girls ask. Indeed they were . And , if one
may judge from the animated conversation going
on in Mrs. Benson's parlor, their marriage had
caused no small stir among the exclusives .
“ An old acquaintance, did you say, Mrs. Ben
son ? ” exclaims Mrs. Elliott, her most intimate
friend ; “ old acquaintances are they ? And did
you never suspect it ? Did the girl never mention
it ? "
“ I am not accustomed to make myself either
177
the companion or confidant of my servants, Mrs.
Elliott," was the dignified answer.
“ But do tell us, Julia , what sort of creature is
this new edition of Cinderella ? Is she beautiful ? ”
“ Oh ! pray don't come to me for a catalogue of
her charms ! I really cannot tell whether her eyes
are blue, black or grey. You have seen her a
thousand times."
“ Yes, no doubt ; - but one never thinks of look
ing at a servant. Still, she must be superior to
most of her class, for she has interested Dr. Stan
ton, and it is acknowledged that he is a man of
taste ."
“ Yes, yes , ” says Mrs. Benson , in reply to the
regretted that one with his talents and refinement
should contract such a mesalliance . Of course , he
cannot retain his position in society - at least not
here . We, who have shown him some attention ,
as the descendant of the old Stanton family, shall
now be obliged to drop him . I wonder how we will
bear the changed manners of Mrs. Weldon and the
Sewards."
“ Then you will not call on the bride ? ”
6
“ No, indeed , I shall not do myself that honor,
unless it be to order a new bonnet."
“ Why, where can the Sewards be going ? ” ex
claims Julia from the window , - “ there are Mrs.
Seward, Mary, and the Weldons, in the carriage ."
“ They are probably going to talk over this queer
affair with the Lees,” replied her mother.
The two elder ladies continued their discussioni
express their wonder at the infatuation of Charles
Stanton , until another exclamation from Julia , who
had remained at the window , watching the car .
riage, drew them both to her side.
“ Look, ma ! look, Mrs. Elliott ! The carriage
has stopped at the cottage.”
“ Sure enough, Mrs. Benson , ” adds her friend,
" and there is Dr. Stanton receiving them from the
carriage. Well, this is a strange movement ! But,
if the Weldons condescend to call on them, no one
else can refuse."
Certainly this alters the case ," replies Mrs.
Benson . “ And now I think of it, perhaps it is bet.
ter that Julia and I should call likewise , as there
has been some little talk about some slight atten
tions Dr. Stanton paid her. If we refuse to call,
people may indulge themselves in ill -natured re
marks.”
That afternoon the bridal pair received the con
gratulations of Mrs. Benson and Miss Julia. These
visitors felt some awkward embarrassment on the
way, which Lucy's calm and dignified self-respect,
blended, as it was, with the most graceful polite
ness , did not contribute to lessen on their arrival.
But the Sewards have returned ; let us step over,
for a moment, and hear them.
178
THE COLUMBIAN MAGAZINE .
“ Believe me , my dear Mrs. Seward,” says Mrs.
Weldon ," I never in my life paid my congratula
tions, on an occasion like this, with such heart -felt
pleasure. I feared, indeed , that our young friend's
mind had been misled by some romantic idea of
obligation to one who stood in such close connec
tion with his boyish associations. But she is in
deed worthy of him . She is a delightful creature .
I could hardly refrain from calling her an angel my
self.”
“ No,” replies Mrs. Seward , “ he was not one to
deceive himself in such a matter. His mind is too
clear ; - his ideal too pure , too perfect, to allow
any false views to guide his conduct in so impor
tant an affair as this. The question with him was,
not whether she had wealth, station or beauty, but
whether she could speak to his heart , sympathize
with his life of thought , and sustain to his soul that
beautiful relation which , like all spiritual unions,
must be eternal. I cannot sufficiently admire his
independence of mind , in following out his own
convictions in this case, though some of his ac
quaintance will censure him severely.”
“ But aunt Seward ,” exclaims Grace Weldon ,
his wife is beautiful, and her manners altogether
charming and lady -like. How quietly and grace
fully she received our congratulations. She was
really beautiful in her simple white dress - was
she not , Mary ? ”
“ Oh , yes ! Grace , and the strangest thing of all
is that we have never noticed her before, when she
has lived so long with Mrs. Benson , only just across
the way.”
“ Ah ! my daughter, I fear that we, and a great
many others in the world , are ever looking too
much abroad or above us for the good and beauti
ful; and in so doing we miss diamonds that lie in
the dust at our feet -- neglect many of the noblest
and best of earth , leaving them to be crushed be
neath the stern hand of poverty — or, what is worse ,
to pass through life without kindness or sympathy.
The pride of fashionable liſe makes us too blind
and cold to see and love others as we ought."
And now, dear reader, if you are still anxious or
>
curious, walk with me, in this soft June moonlight,
to the beautiful cottage on the hill, and we will see
FOR MUSIC .
Go say to the bower of our childhood
That its form comes in light along,
With each flower that blooms in the wild wood,
With the voice of each bird's sweet song ;
Oh loved ones and kind and warm hearted,
Beneath the old roof tree that met
In the world's chilly crowd we are parted -
Yet say, do they think of us yet ?
them in their horne. We know all about them .
They have no secrets from us. Therefore we may
be as lawless as fairies, and peep in at the window.
Take care ! Do not be so hasty, and mind where
you step, or you will crush all the violets and sweet
clover. Now push away this honey-suckle , and
look into the room . “ How happy she seems ! ”
did you say ? Ay, she is indeed happy ! See
that white headed old man ! It is Mr. Gor
don .
How he raises his eyes from his book , and gazes
at her, through the open door of the library , with
an expression that seems to say, “God bless her ! ”
Hark ! there are footsteps in the passage ! How
eagerly she starts and springs to the door, just in
time to be caught in the arms of her busband.
“ I have not forgotten that it is your birth -day ,
Lucy, " he says. “ In the happy days at Liston ,
aunt Esther used to give us a kiss and a whipping.
Which do you think you deserve ? ”
“ Why, Charles, if I remember rightly, it was I
who received the kiss, and you the whipping."
“ Ah ! yes, I believe you are half right. But I
have brought you something surpassingly beauti
ful; the poems of one whose poetic vision of divine
things, and whose deep, serene, entrancing utter
ance of what is granted to that vision, are unrival
led among the rising generation of poets — one
who, if his mature years do not belie his early
promise , will become the poet and prophet of his
age. Read me one of those sonnets , dearest.”
Lucy took the book, and began, in an exquisitely
modulated voice, one of those beautiful sonnets .
As she read the closing lines,
" I dare not say how much thou art to me ,
Even to myself — and, oh ! much less to thee ! ”
there was so much earnest truth and deep tender
ness in the glance with which she met his eye , that
Charles felt assured, as he involuntarily caught her
to his bosom , that he held in his embrace
" Earth's noblest thing,
A woman perfected."
North Branford , Connecticut.
One gladness succeeds to another
In life's varied path as we roamn ,
But the heart, like a child to its mother,
Aye turns to its boyhood's home ;
That when loved ones awaken in pleasure
Those strains we can never forget
Oh mingle our names with the measure,
And bid them remember us yet !
 SUMMER FROLICKING AND WINTER RECKONING.
BY F. E. P. , AUTHOR OF THE PRIZE STORIES ,
“ On , mamma, who do you think is in town ?”
said Julia Rutherford, in such a peculiar tone of
mingled distress and drollery that Mrs. Rutherford
looked up, and with some little apprehension, as
she said , quickly —
“ Who ? ”
“ The Fenwicks,” replied her daughter.
“ Dear me ! the Fenwicks !” repeated Mrs.
Rutherford , in an accent more partaking of sur
prise than delight. How do you know — who told
you that they were here , Julia ?”
“ How do I know ? ” ejaculated the young lady,
“ did I not for my sins run right against them in
Broadway this morning ? They were on their way
here when I met them , as Mrs. Fenwick said, good
soul ! that she would not stand on ceremony with
you . "
“ You stopped them and spoke ? ” inquired Mrs.
Rutherford.
“ Oh heavens, yes, ” continued Julia , half laugh
ing, and yet with an expression of infinite vexation.
“ You never saw people so delighted as they were
to meet me ; shook hands and made such a time
of it that I really was afraid they were going to
kiss me in the street. I saw several persons turn
to look as they passed, and Mr. Devereux gave
them such an amused , surprised glance, as he
bowed to me , as much as to say, 'whom on earth
have you got there ? ' that it was as much as I
could do to bow back smilingly and carelessly, as
usual."
“ And pray who are these people , Julia , whose
arrival seems to disturb you so much ? ” inquired
her brother Frank .
“ The Fenwicks from 0- the family with
9 pitch of perfect decision by this enumeration of
whom mamma and I stayed some time last sum
mer, on our trip to the West. Don't you remem
ber ? ”
“ What, those charming people you were so de
lighted with ? ” exclaimed her brother, laughing ;
“ that hospitable , amiable , agreeable family, whose
warm hearts and hot cakes you used to praise in
the same breath , and talk alternately with such
rapidity and enthusiasm of their fresh butter and
cream and their fresh feelings, that I could never
separate one from the other in my imagination , until
there really was some danger of my mistaking Miss
Dolly herself for something eatable .” And Frank
laughed again most provokingly at the recollection
MARRYING FOR MONEY , " " HONOR AND MERIT," ETC.
of the past, contrasted with the present state of his
sister's feelings with regard to her summer friends.
“ That is all very true, Frank,” said Julia , join
ing in his laugh, “ we had a charming visit there,
and they were so kind and hospitable , nothing could
exceed it - and there is the mischief of it - now
here they are and what to do with them I do not
know . "
“ They will not stay long, I suppose," said Mrs.
Rutherford, in a voice in which hope seemed to be
struggling with doubt and fear.
“ Ah, don't comfort yourself with that idea,
mamma, " replied Julia. “ They mean to remain
at least a month, and calculate ,' as Mrs. Fenwick
said , upon seeing a good deal of us.”
Mrs. Rutherford could not repress a something
that sounded very much like a groan on hearing
this, as she said
“ Well, Julia , we must do the best we can for
them. Why did you not ask them to tea to -mor
row evening ?”
“ For two reasons, ” replied Julia ; " first, be
cause I felt that ' sufficient for the day is the evil
thereof, and I had enough of them this morning
without looking forward to to-morrow ; and se
condly , because we must have them to dinner.
Tea is nothing."
“ Oh, I can't have them to dinner,” replied Mrs.
Rutherford, impatiently ; " my new cook ismisera
ble, and Tom is so rheumatic that I hate to give
him more waiting to do than necessary , and they
would come by two o'clock , and it makes such a
long day - it is out of the question ," continued
Mrs. Rutherford, who had wound herself up to a
evils and inconveniences.
“ It would be a great bore, I grant you ,” returned
Julia , “ and I am sure I don't want them any more
than you do, only I thought — however, " she con
tinued , interrupting herself, " just as you please ,”
and quite willing to escape the infliction of a long,
dull day, she felt that if her mother did not choose
to do the decent thing, it was not her affair and
she would urge the point no more .
What kind of looking girl is the young lady ? ”
inquired Frank .
“ A very pretty girl indeed, ” replied his mother.
“ So we used to think in the country , mamma,"
said Julia, “ but I should hardly have known them
179
序
180 THE COLUMBIAN
to -day. You never saw such figures of fun as they
were , in Broadway.”
“ And pray what makes the mighty difference ? "
asked her brother.
“ That is more than I can tell you , " answered
his sister ; “ dress and contrast I suppose . In the
country , Dolly Fenwick never wore anything but
a plain white dress and simple gingham frock , with
a straw hat, or oftener a sun bonnet, in which her
bright face used to seem very pretty. But to-day !
I don't know where she could have bought all the
things she had on . Such a pink bonnet, with
flowers and feathers and lace , and a lilac silk dress,
that bright, strong lilac that country people are so
fond of, and so short that the first thing I saw of
her was her feet, which are none of the smallest,
and cased in a pair of shoes that were half an inch
too short and two too wide ; such odd , clumsy ,
country affairs ; and then the funniest thing of all
was the complacent, satisfied expression of her
countenance , as if she felt herself dressed to per
fection. Such a tout ensemble ! I could hardly
keep my countenance as I looked at her."
“ And how was Mrs. Fenwick ? ” asked Mrs.
Rutherford, smiling, although with some anxiety.
<<
Why, not quite as marked as Dolly, though
bad enough ; but an old woman never can be quite
so outrée as a young one. She had on a black
hat, with a feather fastened in with a jet spray,
which stood up and stuck out its branches in all
directions, and I don't know what her dress was,
for she was wrapped up in a large merino shawl ,
which had a great flower in the back - one that
must have been bought before the flood — probably
her husband's wedding present, and it was very
thick, and the poor old lady seemed almost suffo .
cated by its weight and heat . They asked me to
go and shop with them , and as we were near
Stewart's I went in with them ,"
“ And what did they buy ? " inquired Mrs.
Rutherford .
“ Nothing," replied Julia . « Mrs. Fenwick
seemed dreadfully alarmed at the price of every
thing, and her chief object appeared to be to match
two or three patterns she had of dresses that she
has had, heaven knows how long, and which, as
she told the clerks, were just as good as new , only
one wanted new sleeves and the other had got a
large stain ; and she went on and gave the history
of every gown she has, I believe, talking partly to
me and partly to the young man who was attend
ing to her and who did his best not to smile ."
“ What ! ” exclaimed Frank, laughing ,“ talking
to the clerks ?”
66
“ Yes,” said Julia ; “ in the country she is used
to talking to everybody,9 and Mr. Madison, who
keeps the principal store in the village near them ,
knows all her dresses, I suppose , as well as she
does. And it seemed as if I must meet every one
MAGAZINE .
I knew to-day while I was with them. Stewart's
was crowded ; Mrs. Belknap happened to be
buying silks at the same counter, and she looked
at the Fenwicks with most unequivocal disdain
and glanced at me with such surprise , as if she
thought I was in very queer company , and drew
herself so daintily away, as if she was afraid of
contracting a doubtful acquaintance by looking at
articles at the same counter ; and I don't know
that she was very far from wrong if she did ,” con
tinued Julia , laughing, “ for Mrs. Fenwick did say
to a lady who seemed to be hesitating about some
silks, • I think the one in your hand is very pretty ,
ma'am.' The woman looked up in surprise , and
I was thankful to see that if she was no one
Mrs. Fenwick knew, she was equally a stranger to
me.">
“ And what on earth did you care about Mrs.
Belknap's scornful looks ? ” said Frank. “ A
pretty little dressed -up doll, with but two ideas in
her head , dress and fashion ; what matters it what
she thinks ?”
“ That is the very point, Frank. If she had
been a woman of sense I would not have cared
about it , for then she would have known that my
having some country friends not au fait to the
fashions did not compromise my position at all ;
but Mrs. Belknap is such a fool that one rises and
sinks in her estimation just as she happens to see
you associated for the moment, and although I am
ashamed of myself for being ashamed with such
people, still it does annoy me. Well, mamma ,"
she continued , “ so we are to have them to -morrow ,
eh, and whom can we get to meet them ? ”
“Do you think it is necessary to ask any one to
meet them ? ” inquired Mrs. Rutherford, who hated
trouble. “ Let them come and pass a sociable,
quiet evening with us. They are plain, warm
hearted country people.”
“ And those are just the people,” returned her
daughter, “ who want fashionable parties in the
city. They come to town to see fine people , eat
oysters and go to the theatre, and have something
to tell when they return home. ”
Mrs. Rutherford was too well aware of the truth
of this assertion to combat it even to herself, and
she admitted it with a melancholy “ very true , but
what can we do ? A party is out of the question,
you know, not only on account of the expense ,
which is a great consideration"
“ Of course , " said Julia . “ But we can have
half a dozen people , if I only knew whom we could
get that they would care about seeing, and whom I
should not be sorry to have see them .”
“ Well , there's Mrs. Langtree, ” suggested Mrs.
Rutherford ; “ they know her, do they not ? I think
she has an aunt living in their neighborhood . "
“ To be sure ; that is a bright thought," said
Julia. “ Then to-morrow , after we invite them ,
La
36
SUMMER FROLICKING AND WINTER RECKONING .
you had better write a note to Mrs. Langtree and
ask her to meet the Fenwicks."
“ I shall ask her to meet a few friends, and take
very good care not to say a word about the Fen
wicks, or she will not come. If she sees them she
must divide the burden of civilities with us and in
vite them too , for she is as much indebted to their
hospitalities as we are , and I am sure I would have
gone twenty miles rather than have met them ."
“ Commend me to the gratitude and hospitality
of city fashionables,” cried Frank . “ You would
go twenty miles to avoid those who sent their car.
riage and horses — let me see thirty miles, was
it not ? to meet you."
" True, but see the difference, Frank . Their
hospitality put them to no expense ; and besides,
our visit was a god-send to people who see no one
beyond the small circle included in half a dozen
country neighbors, while we cannot ask them to tea
without a pyramid of ice cream at least, if not an
oyster supper, and not once only, but they will
expect it two or three times, and moreover parties
to the theatre ; and oh , heavens ! what won't they
expect ? Well , then , they must be disappointed ,
that's all , " she continued. We will ask them
to-morrow, give a stupid little party that will cost
us more than we can afford , and feel as if we have
made great exertions ; and if we stop there, they
will think us mean , cold hearted, tashionable city
people. So let them think. I can't help it. We
never shall visit them again, and they, I suppose,
will be coming to town once a year for the rest of
their lives.” And so Julia dismissed the subject
for the present.
Mrs. Rutherford and Julia had spent a fortnight
with the Fenwicks while on a visit to the West,
and had been treated with a hospitality and cor
diality that had really communicated its warmth ,
for the time, to their more frigid city temperaments.
The carriage had been sent, as Frank said , thirty
miles to meet them . Excursions were daily made
to visit different points of view in the surrounding
country , without speaking of the fruits and creams
and soft wailles and other innumerable luxuries
that were spread before them , and which they
seemed to suppose grew with the grass and trees ;
all of which they had enjoyed at the time with a
zest and animation that had borne the appearance,
even to themselves, of friendship and gratitude, and
which would still have passed for such with both
parties if they had not been brought to the severe
test of reciprocity ; a test which, as Julia said,
she would have gone twenty miles to avoid .
“ Stay with us a few weeks, my dear Mrs. Ru
therford ,” Mrs. Fenwick had said , " and we will
put some color in your daughter's pale cheeks,"
and she looked almost compassionately at Julia's
delicate face and slight figure.
“ Thank you, my dear madam ,” returned Mrs.
VOL 1.—16
181
Rutherford ; “ I wish Julia could borrow some of
your daughter's roses, but such flowers do not
bloom in a city atmosphere. We must return
however to New York this week ."
“If Miss Rutherford is a belle," said George
Milton , contemptuously, to his cousin and fiancée ,
6
Miss Fenwick , “ beauty must be scarce in the city.
A poor, pale , chalky looking thing as ever I saw.
If they call her handsome, what would they say to
you , Dolly ?" and the young lover gazed with admi
ration upon the brilliant white and red , the bright
eyes and long ringlets that rendered his mistress
the reigning belle of the country for miles around .
The invitation to tea which was to repay all
these hospitalities was given and accepted, for, as
Julia had anticipated, they were sure to be " dis
engaged."
- Remember that we expect to see you quite so
ciably -- tea by eight o'clock ," said Julia to her
friend, hoping thereby to secure a more subdued
toilet than she could dare anticipate if Dolly knew
she was to meet some half dozen of Julia's most
fashionable friends.
Her expectations were disappointed , however,
for Miss Dolly presented herself in the freshest and
brightest of cinnamon silks and loaded with trinkets
bead bracelets and hair bracelets, and rings and
pins innumerable, and her head done up in all kinds
of braids and bows and curls, for her hair was abun
dant, and the very quantity seemed only another
means through which the bad taste of its tair owner
could be displayed. Julia wore her usual simple
morning costume , a close, high , dark dress, with a
small collar, setting off the delicate white throat
and marking the contour of her falling shoulders
and slender waist, her hair plainly parted and
simply braided behind , showing the tinished pro
portions of her tinely turned head , with its delicate
little ears , her only ornament a fairy iron chain and
eye glass, all bearing as strong a contrast to the
more elaborate toilet and brilliant beauties of her
friend as well could be conceived . As she sat be
side Miss Fenwick , her graceful figure half buried
in the cushions of the sofa , her small, white hands
lying carelessly in her lap, and her little feet just
peeping from beneath her dark dress, George Mil
ton (who was one of the party) was conscious, for
the first time in his life , as he glanced at the thick
wrists and heavy feet of his mistress, that in those
respects she was not one of nature's most finished
master pieces ; and looking hurriedly at his own ,
he quickly plunged them in his pockets and only
wished he could draw his feet into his pantaloons
as easily. And although he told himself again and
again , as he looked at Julia, that she was no beauty,
he acknowledged that " she had a way with her "
which brought the blood into his face and almost
stopped his breath when she turned to speak to
him .
182 THE COLUMBIAN
“ Curse her touch -me-not, keep -your-distance
kind of air ! ” he said to himself; " and yet she
does not exactly seem proud , either, " continued
the embarrassed , awkward young man . “ Hea
vens ! how I wish the evening was over. But
Dolly does not seem to mind it.”
True enough. Dolly was perfectly at her ease,
for those who talk of the diffidence of country
girls mistake their subject. Unused to the criticism
and surveillance that exist in large societies, and
accustomed only to the freedom and cordiality
which leave them without either fear or restraint,
there is scarcely any being more self possessed in
her simplicity and ignorance than a girl who has
moved in no larger circle than that of her native
village.
Julia exerted herself to be as amiable as she was
graceful, and did her best to entertain her guests.
And eleven o'clock came at last , though not before
Mrs. Rutherford was ready to faint with the fatigue
of listerting to all Mrs. Fenwick’s prosy gossip about
matters and things of which she neither knew nor
cared. But indifference was a word Mrs. Fenwick
could not understand . She was interested in
everything and everybody ; whether she knew
them or not made very little lifference, and there
fore had no mercy upon Mrs. Rutherford in all her
details about crops, and roads, and scarlet fever,
and Miss Stubbs's wedding and Mrs. Larkin's sepa
ration .
However, eleven o'clock did come , and with it
the carriages of their guests, and Julia and her
mother congratulated themselves upon having
“ done the thing handsomely, now that it was
over.”
IN
In other days, when love was naught
Save fancy's vainest dream to me,
The shadow that my spirit sought
Was all that I have found in thee.
And thou, unknown, unseen , wert yet
The idol of my musing mood ,
When forms of unreal beauty met
The visions of my solitude.
And then I sang — “ when midnight's brow
Bends o'er the earth, I think of thee ;
The daylight has too fierce a glow
For love's all holy dreams to be ! ”
But morning now and noon and even
Hold spells that bind my soul to thine ;
And feeling owns a charmed heaven
O'er all life's common hours to shine.
MAGAZINE .
“ We have been in town three weeks , ” said
Miss Fenwick to her mother, “ and have had tea
once with the Rutherfords, and that, with a few
morning calls, is their return for all the trouble we
put ourselves to last summer for them ."
“ These fashionable, fine people think the honor
of their company quite enough for us, I believe,"
rejoined Mrs. Fenwick, angrily. “ And how I toiled
and worked to make their visit agreeable ! The
first up in the house to make a luxurious breakfast
that they used to enjoy so much — the last at night
to put away supper and make pastry for the next
day -- your father taking the horses from the
plough to send the carriage over to the next post
for them , and now — a morning call.” And Mrs.
Fenwick continued to enumerate her summer's ex
ertions, indignant that her city friends did not more
properly appreciate them , quite forgetting the pains
she had taken at the time to prevent her guests
from discovering the efforts she was obliged per
sonally to make, to supply the place ofaccomplished
servants and abundant means.
“ Thank goodness, the Fenwicks leave town to
morrow , mamma, ” said Julia Rutherford . “ They
have been upon my mind ever since they have
been in town."
“ When do they leave ? ” inquired Mrs. Ruther
ford.
“ To -morrow or the next day ; but do not be
too happy, ” she said, smiling at her mother's look
of relief, “ for they are coming back in the spring.
This summer frolicking is very pleasant ” –
“ But," interrupted Frank, “ the winter reckon
ing is not quite so agreeable. Confess it, Julia,
hospitality is not a plant of city growth ."
OTHER DAYS .
Love has its own enchantment spread
O'er days as o'er the gloom of night,
And every scene is hallowed
By love's own gifts of bloom and light.
'Tis not the sunset's blush alone
That fills the earth with magic glow,
' Tis not the veil of moonlight thrown
Upon the evening's star- crowned brow ;
All scenes are fair that speak of thee,
All hours some treasured memory keep,
Love gives more to reality
Than fancy to the dreams of sleep.
And springing and decaying flowers,
Shades that o'er nature's beauty move,
Gather from thought's mysterious powers
The glory and the light of love.
ma
1
THE OLD CLO A K.
BY MRS. D
“ Pray, Mr. Norton," exclaimed a lively lady to a
fashionably dressed, handsome young man , who was
standing beside her at an evening party, “ pray, do
you intend to remain an old bachelor all your days ?
Since your return from Europe I have been continu
ally expecting to hear of your marriage, but here
you have been , two years , and you are still , to all
appearance, in statu quo,' as the lawyers say.”
“ My dear Mrs. Hinton,” replied the young gen
tleman, with a smile, “ I will be frank and tell you
the real reason of my remaining a general admirer
of the sex, instead of confining my attentions to
any one bright, particular star,' however much I
may be dazzled by its brilliancy. I am actually
afraid to marry. "
“* Afraid !” echoed the lady, opening her dark
eyes to their widest extent with astonishment.
" Faint heart never won , you know . Are you
9
afraid to propose ? ”
“ No, madam , afraid to marry. You will laugh
at me, I dare say, when I tell you that my seat in
church has a great deal to do with my solitary state ,
which seems so much to excite your surprise.”
“ Why, yes,” replied Mrs. Hinton , “ one is al
ways surprised when a young man who — without
meaning to flatter you — is certainly a favorite in
society , (here Mr. Norton made her a polite bow,)
and who has an independent fortune, still refrains
from choosing one of the many fair damsels whom
he meets, to superintend his establishment. But
what influence your seat in church can have upon
the matter I am at a loss to imagine.”
“ You must know , then , that I sit just behind
Miss La Mode, in Dr. Righthead's church , and the
sight of her velvet cloak absolutely frightens me
from the thought of marrying a wife who may
some day say to me , “ My dear, I am dying for a
new velvet cloak ; please to give me two or three
hundred dollars, and I will go to Stewart's and
buy one.' How I should shudder to hear such a
request ? "
“ Really, Mr. Norton , this is too absurd , for
you , with your fortune, to talk in such a manner.
I shall begin to think you a miser. Your wife
might dress as extravagantly as she chose , and it
would not injure you. And surely you do not ob
ject to a lady's wearing a velvet cloak ? ”
“ I do not object to anything that is consistent ,
but I cannot help thinking splendid velvet, such as
Queen Victoria herself might be satisfied with for
a coronation robe, sadly out of place when it is
made into a cloak , to be worn on almost all occa
sions; particularly when it is well known that Miss
La Mode's father does not even pay his baker or
his butcher. If I were one of his poor creditors I
should be tempted to take the cloak from the young
lady, in the street , and sell it for what it would
bring."
Mrs. Hinton sat silent at this speech. Her con
science reproached her, for she knew that she had ,
on that day, purchased an elegant new mantle , al.
though her husband had requested her to be as eco
nomical as possible in her expenditures, as he found
it difficult, in those trying times, to meet all the
demands made upon his purse. She was a woman
however of generous feelings, as yet unhardened
by resisting good impulses, and she secretly re
solved to take back the mantle the next day and
prevail upon the shop -man to receive it , since it
was not yet paid for. All this passed through her
mind with the rapidity of lightning, and she turned
round with a smile to address Mr. Norton, when
an over-dressed young lady, who had been sitting,
an interested listener to the conversation, suddenly
interposed.
“ If Mr. Norton wants an economical wife," she
said , “ I would recommend him to offer himself
to Emily Harwood. I think she will suit him ex
actly, for she has worn an old cloak all winter, with
no alteration — one which she has had two years
at least , to my knowledge."
Mr. Norton looked at the speaker, and the una
miable expression of her countenance sunk her in
his estimation forever, although he had hitherto
regarded her as very pretty and interesting, and
had sometimes even thought it almost possible to
love Caroline Howard well enough to marry her,
if he could only hope to cure her of the passion for
dress which she displayed. But this remark sealed
her fate, as far as he was concerned , and turning
to Mrs. Hinton , he asked , “ Who is Emily Har
wood ? Are you acquainted with her ? I should
really like to be introduced to a young lady who has
moral courage enough to wear an unfashionable
garment , after having worn it already two winters;
she must possess a more than common character."
“ I will introduce you , with pleasure," said Mrs.
Hinton. " She is a sweet girl and a great favorite
183
86
184 THE COLUMBIAN
of mine. I confess I have myself been surprised at
the plainness of her dress, this winter, for her father
is considered wealthy, and she is the only one of
his daughters of an age to go into society. That is
she, in the simple white frock , and that is her mo
ther, by her side.”
Mr. Norton was charmed to perceive that it was
a young lady who, by her singularly modest and
unpretending appearance , had attracted his atten
tion in the early part of the evening. He had in
tended to inquire her name, but lost sight of her in
the crowd , and supposed that she had retired. She
received him with an easy, graceful manner, and
after a few moments passed in conversation , he
thought her positively beautiful, so intelligent was
the expression of her dark blue eyes, and so beam
ing the smile with which she listened to his lively
remarks. He was also very much pleased with
Mrs. Harwood , who did not leave to her daughter
the whole burden of conversation , as some mothers
are apt to do , contenting themselves with being
mere spectators.
When Mr. Norton laid his head upon the pillow ,
that night , it was long before he could compose his
mind to sleep, so much was he disturbed by the
vision of a pair of blue eyes which danced before.
him , not to mention dark ringlets and old cloaks,
which mingled together in strange confusion. He
began to think that he had at last found the object
he had been so long seeking, and resolving that he
would call the next day at Mr. Harwood's, at last
resigned himself to repose .
The next morning, Mrs. Hinton , in pursuance
of the wise resolution she had made, attired herself
to go out , and was waiting in the parlor for her
carriage. The beautiful mantle lay on the sofa by
her side, and she was examining it, and making up
her mind that, after all , she could do without it ,
and if she could that she ought to. At this mo
ment Caroline Howard, who was an intimate friend,
entered. “ Are you going out so early ? ” she ex
claimed , on seeing Mrs. Hinton ready dressed .
“ I came in the hope of seeing you at this hour, for
I wished to tell you that Stewart has some of the
loveliest mantles you ever saw. I was there yes
terday , and looked at them . They were just open
ed , and the clerk assured me that they were the
only ones imported, and there are but a dozen all
together. I was afraid they would all be sold , yet
I did not dare to buy one before asking my mother's
permission, for father made such a fuss last week
about my buying this splendid silk , without con
sulting him , that mother forbade my doing it again.
I have been , all the morning, teazing her to let me
have one , and have at last succeeded . So you
must positively come and choose one too. But I
declare ," she continued , " you have one already,"
as her eyes fell upon the sofa , for she had talked so
volubly that she had not even paused to look
MAGAZINE .
around her. “ But you will come with me, will
you not? ” Mrs. Hinton replied gravely , “ I am
going to Stewart's to return this mantle, and I
would advise you , my dear Caroline, if you had to
teaze your mother for leave to buy one, to deny
yourself and gratify her by informing her that you
have resolved to do without it. Fifty dollars is a
great deal to spend in such an article of dress.
My husband told me this morning that he was
afraid he should be obliged to give up his carriage
and horses, his business is so much less profitable
than formerly. Now you know it is absolutely
necessary for his health that he should ride a great
deal , and I resolved to spend as little as possible
myself, that he might be able to enjoy his carriage."
Caroline sat without speaking until Mrs. Hinton
had concluded, when she replied , pettichly, “ But
you are married , and it does not make so much
difference to you how you dress ; just see how be
coming this is ; " and she turned from the glass, at
which she had been arranging the mantle in grace
ful folds over her well shaped figure, and Mrs.
Hinton could not help acknowledging that it was
very becoming indeed . Nevertheless she still at
tempted to persuade her young friend to forego the
purchase, for she knew that Caroline's father was
very much involved in debt , and it was feared every
day that he would stop payment ; although , as it
appeared , like many other gentlemen who keep
the state of their affairs a secret from those most
interested in the truth , his wife and daughter were
utterly ignorant of the circumstance. But she
found her arguments of no effect. Indeed Caroline
endeavored to persuade Mrs. Hinton herself to re
tain the velvet that she was about to carry back .
But she had too much strength of mind to be led
away by her vanity , when she knew that her de
cision was right, although she could not repress a
womanish feeling of regret at the thought of re
signing so becoming an article of apparel. Mrs.
Hinton was so much grieved and shocked at the
selfishness of her young friend that she thought she
could never again feel toward her the same afiection
she had hitherto experienced. She made her con
fess that the fifty dollars her mother had given her ,
with which to purchase the wished for manile, was
a sum that had been appropriated to a younger
sister, that she might take lessons in drawing, an
art of which she was passionately fond, and for
which she had a decided genius. She could not
forbear hinting to Caroline that a time might come
when the talents of her sister would be put in re
quisition for more important purposes than those of
mere amusement ; but her persuasions were lost
upon the mind of the thoughtless and selfish girl,
and she saw her depart, with pain , to fulfil her
intention .
Mrs. Hinton found no difficulty in returning the
mantle, and after she had left the store she won

THE OLD CLOAK .
dered how she could have been so foolish as to
suffer a moment's uneasiness on such a trifling sub
ject. The words of Mr. Norton had made a deep
impression upon her heart and as she looked at the
multitude of poor, houseless wretches who throng
Broadway, begging for charity, she felt how sinful
it was to waste in extravagance that which would
bring comfort and happiness to so many sorrowful
hearts. When her husband returned to dinner ,
she, like a true hearted wife, made a confession to
him of her folly of the day before, her repentance,
and the purpose for which she had just visited
Stewart's. Mr. Hinton was a man of sense and
intelligence. He had often deplored his wife's
fondness for display, but she was so young when he
married her, and had been so petted from her child
hood by a fond mother, and was withal so lovely
and interesting, that he could not find it in his
heart to deny her any gratification, trusting that
as she grew older her tastes would change. He
did not know that the passion for dress is one
which increases with indulgence, like all other bad
habits, and is the hardest to overcome in the female
heart , particularly, as was the case with Mrs. Hin
ton , where there are no children to occupy the time
and attention. So delighted was he with the in
genuousness of her confession that he presented her
with a sum of money for charitable purposes, telling
her that he had that day unexpectedly recovered a
bad debt which he had long since despaired of,
and consequently no longer entertained the fears
which he had mentioned to her in the morning.
Let us return to Mr. Norton. He could not
avoid anticipating the calling hour a little, so im
patient was he to meet again the object that had so
much fascinated him the night before . As he
entered the hall he heard the sound of music , and
being shown into the drawing -room ,) found the fair
Emily evidently giving lessons on the piano to a
little sister. Although attired in a simple morning
dress, she did not appear less lovely than his
memory had pictured , and the bright blush which
his unexpected appearance called up made her not
less interesting in his eyes. She dismissed the
little girl with a message to her mother, who soon
appeared and received him kindly. As he glanced
around and observed the air of elegance, though
not of display, that pervaded the establishment, he
could not help recalling Miss Howard's words about
the old cloak , and his curiosity was excited to know
what could be her reason for wearing a garment
unfashionable enough to attract observation . After
making as long a call as he dared, upon first ac
quaintance, he took leave , not without being in
vited by Mrs. Harwood to call again ; an invitation
to which he cordially responded. Not many days
after, as Mr. Norton was walking in Broadway, he
met Miss Harwood and joined her immediately.
He had walked for some time by her side without
%.
185
at all regarding her dress, when Miss La Mode
suddenly emerged from a shop and passed on be .
fore them , arrayed in her superb velvet cloak, with
feathers, &c . in the height of fashion. The con
versation at the party instantly recurred to his
thoughts, and he glanced at the cloak of his com
panion. It was of plain, dark merino and had
evidently been much worn, though everything
about her was so scrupulously neat, and her simple
white hat so becoming to her fresh complexion ,
that she was infinitely more attractive to an intel
ligent man than the dashing Miss La Mode. To
test her feelings he remarked , carelessly, “ That is a
beautiful cloak of Miss La Mode's. " No blush ap
peared on her cheek as she quietly replied, " It is
indeed very beautiful. ” 'Mr. Norton could not help
feeling how superior was this conduct to that of
some young ladies, who betray an uneasy feeling of
consciousness when they hear praises of another's
appearance which they know to be more brilliant
than their own . He continued to visit at Mr.
Harwood's and was always kindly received ; but
he was not one to decide too hastily on a subject of
such vast importance , as he felt the character of his
companion for life to be . It chanced , at length ,
that he had a commission from an aunt in the
country, for some millinery, and although entirely
unused to make such purchases, he resorted to the
most fashionable establishment of the kind, for the
first time , to exercise his taste in that department.
The milliner took him behind a counter which
separated the two rooms, in order to show him
some very recherché articles, and requesting him to
take a seat upon a sofa, left him to search for the
important box which contained the treasures. He
was beginning to grow impatient, when a sweet,
well known voice sent a thrill through his heart.
It was Emily Harwood's voice, apparently con
versing with another young lady, so close to the
curtain that he could not avoid hearing every word.
He was about to dart forward and address them ,
when the words “ old cloak ” fell upon his ear.
66
• Now , " he thought, " perhaps I shall find the so
6
lution of the mystery.” “ No , " said Emily, “ I will
not buy such a gay hat as this . It would not suit
at all with my old cloak.” “ Do, for pity's sake,
my dear Emily, " exclaimed her companion , “ tell
me why you have worn that same cloak this win
ter. I believe it is the third winter you have had
it. We have all wondered why you did not get a
new one, and that spiteful Caroline Howard has
talked about it at every party this season."
“ I am very sorry," replied Emily, laughing,
" that Miss Howard has been at such a loss for
subjects of conversation as to find nothing more
interesting than my poor cloak. However, I will
tell you my motive for wearing it, and I am sure ,
dear Helen , that you will approve of it. But
first, promise me that you will tell no one else.
16 *
f
186 THE COLUMBIAN
mums
I should not think of explaining it to any but
you ."
Here Mr. Norton almost resolved to show him
self. He felt it a breach of honor to hear what
was evidently a secret; but his interest in the fair
Emily was so strong that he excused himself on
that plea , and remained silent.
Helen made the required promise , and Emily
proceeded -
“ You remember hearing of the death of my
uncle Murray, last summer. He had failed just
before, so that his family were left quite destitute.
Catherine, the oldest daughter, has been at Mrs.
Willard's school for the last year, and she was very
desirous of remaining another term , after which
Mrs. Willard would engage her as aa teacher. She
considers her one of her finest scholars. But it
was not possible for her mother to continue such
an expense, and my father said that he could not
offer to do it unless we would make some retrench
ments in our domestic affairs. Therefore I offered
to wear my old cloak another season , and to give
little Julia music lessons, instead of her having a
teacher. Now do you not think that a sufficient
motive ? I assure you I have felt more pleasure ,
this winter, in wearing that old cloak than I should
have done in possessing one even more splendid
than Miss La Mode's, for now my poor cousin will
be able to support herself and assist her mother in
educating her brothers and sisters."
“ That is just like yourself, Emily, ” exclaimed
her friend, enthusiastically. “ I only wish I could
tell of it. How ashamed Caroline Howard would
be of all her ill-natured speeches !"
STANZAS
BY NORNA .
So lightly met — and lightly passed,
Yet thou to life did'st seem
Like to yon golden suplight cast
Upon a passing stream ;
Linked with the forest rose of spring
And with the wild bird's lay
With the thrilling tone of each sweet thing
That passed too soon away .
The music of that faded time,
Say -- does it come to thee,
Beneath the south sun's golden clime,
Or on the swelling sea ?
And yet, I would not that thy thought
Like mine , to such should cling,
For ah - such memories are bought
Only with sorrowing.
MAGAZINE .
It is needless to say that there was another au
ditor who shared in the admiration of Helen. Mr.
Norton was so delighted with the simple recital
of Emily that he longed to clasp her to his heart
and tell her that his happiness depended on her
alone. He saw the young ladies take their de.
parture , and aa few moments after hastened away,
forgetting his aunt and all her commissions, and
leaving the milliner lost in astonishment at his
abrupt departure . He reached Mr. Harwood's
almost as soon as Emily herself, and astonished her
by a warm declaration of his feelings. She did not
bid him despair, and it was soon after announced
that Mr. Norton and Emily Harwood were en
gaged , much to the amazement of Miss La Mode
and Caroline Howard , who could not understand
why she was preferred to themselves.
Mrs. Hinton was delighted with Mr. Norton's
choice, and predicted that he would have a pattern
wife. She never forgot her good resolutions, but
her persuasions were lost upon her former friend,
Caroline , who was, however, soon forced by the
failure of her father to renounce her extravagant
habits.
We must do Mr. Norton the justice to say that
he had the candor to confess to his wife, soon after
their marriage, the means by which he obtained a
knowledge of her motives for wearing the old
cloak, which was ever after preserved as a precious
relic. I can assure my readers that she did not
blame him severely, and should this tale ever meet
their eyes, I trust that they will both pardon the
use I have made of the incidents related to me .
TO
'Tis not when bright and beautiful
Upon our pathways lie,
That love returns, his flowers to cull
From wealth of days gone by --
And I - too well my heart inums
Thine image on its shrine,
To woo its recompense, returns
With one lone hour to thine.
' Tis not beneath the glorious skies,
Italia's gorgeous dome,
That to the traveller's heart will rise
Thoughts of his far-off home;
So thou - life's path for Thee is traced
'Mid flowers and fragrancy -
MINE is the dull , Sahara waste ,
And memory turns to thee.
R
 THE COLONEL
A SKETCH FROM REAL LIFE .
BY ANNA CORA MOWATT .
A few springs ago it was impossible to display
one's gay attire in Broadway without becoming
acquainted with the person ofmy hero Augustus
Blazon, Esq. The reader (who may never have
rightly caught his name) will recognize him when
I call to mind an individual who usually dazzled
the public eye with aa bright blue or green coat ,
crimson vest, and a greater quantity of jewelry
gracing that portion of his breast, in which Momus
recommended a window, than would have shown
to advantage through one of Tenney's double sized
panes. So exceedingly slender was this gentleman
that the cane, with its monkey head, which he in
variably carried , bore no slight resemblance to him
self ; but the material , of which nature had stinted
him in breadth , she conscientiously returned in
height — he stood some six feet two in his boots .
His pliant form was surmounted by a head, which in
shape, and I might almost say in size , forcibly re
minded me of that most insipid of fruit , a shaddock .
Doubtless some malicious persons would add that
the simile might be carried out and a comparison
made between the quality of the head and the
shaddock's contents ; but far be it from me , conver
sant as I am with Mr. Blazon's own peculiar tal
ents, to be guilty of such detraction .
Augustus Blazon , when I first beheld him , was
a man seeking his proper sphere in society. This
he did not seem likely to find. His father was a
ship builder, and had left him considerable property
- sufficient, it might be supposed, to purchase the
entrée to that society in which he was calculated
to “ cut a figure .” Yet , strange to say , both he
and his wealth were then totally unappreciated .
He was a very ill treated person ; the butt of wag
gish young gentlemen , and the bore of fashionable
young ladies. It was astonishing with what lack
of discernment people of haut- ton declared that his
manners were vulgar in the extreme - that he was
uneducated a booby - a bear — and those with
out daughters even went so far as to declare that
his presence, “ in spite of his money, ” would be a
disgrace to their balls. Augustus endured the
horror incident upon this verdict but one winter
after he became of age . He then suddenly disap
peared from Broadway, and for a year I entirely
lost sight of him .
ABROAD .
The ensuing autumn , I was standing in the gal
lery of the Louvre , before one of David's most fe
licitous productions, when my attention was ar
rested by a person of aspiring stature beside me.
His face recalled some face once familiar to my
eye ; but the long curling hair, in color and shag
giness somewhat resembling a setter's, the bushy
whiskers and sandy mustache, so disguised those
diminutive features that I could not recognize to
whom they belonged .
Upon the gentleman's arm leaned a lady, whose
comfortable embonpoint recompensed the eye for
the lanky spareness of her escort. To pronounce
on a lady's beauty is a delicate point. I leave the
reader to judge of her attractions. A horseback
ride on the Champs Elysées could alone have given
her cheek that exceedingly brilliant bloom ; the
most celebrated powder in Paris certainly must
have assisted in lending those strangely regular
teeth , displayed by a perpetual smile, their dazzling
whiteness. Nature seldom before clustered such a
profusion of glossy black ringlets round a white
forehead ; or tinted brows with so jetty a hue ; or
vermillioned lips so exquisitely. In the eye alone
she had made an error — it was decidedly too
small for the loving languishingness of its expres
sion. As for the lady's age , it might have been
considered a compliment to call her actually young.
At all events she
" Was blooming still , bad made the best
of Time, and Time returned the compliment,
And treated her genteelly."
“ What a thrillingly beautiful tableau !” softly
murmured the lady, pausing before a picture which
represented a group of Cupids sportively loosening
their arrows.
“ Tolerably executed — quite passable — not at
all remarkable, however," said her critical com
panion ; "here is aа much finer:" and he pointed out
a dark painting, in which the figures were obscured
by so deep a shade , they were hardly visible.
" Ah ! Colonel , you are such a connoisseur !
It is dangerous to express an opinion before you !”
sighed the lady.
“ Well, really, I do pride myself on some taste
in these matters. When a man has travelled all
187
188 THE COLUMBIAN
over Europe it is to be expected that he should be
a judge of the fine arts . I have no doubt, after a
trip to Germany and Italy, you may be as compe
tent as myself to pronounce upon them ; bear one
thing always in mind, whenever you see a dark ,
dingy picture you may be sure it is worthy of
praise, and certainly by a master. Obscurity is
the greatest mark of beauty . But persons must
travel to discover these things."
The couple passed on , and I lost sight of them,
until we met in the halls of statuary beneath the
extensive gallery. Here I observed that the gen
tleman induced his companion to pause before eve
ry remarkably worn and discolored statue , or de
cayed relic ; pointing out to her their hidden beau
ties, but hurrying by all the most attractive works of
art that were unmarked by this defacing seal of
time.
Shortly afterward we were waiting at the en
trance of the palace for our voiture de remise,
which had driven away , when the colonel and his
blooming lady passed us on the steps. They entered
an elegant carriage , which drove up to receive
them ; but, before the door was closed , the spruce
ly liveried footman begged to make Monsieur le
Colonel acquainted with a person who had some
valuable relics , veritables curiosités, that were real
ly worth Monsieur le Colonel's examination.
“ Relics ! let me see them by all means," en
thusiastically exclaimed the colonel. “ I am mak
ing a collection to take to America . I know well
enough when they are genuine — Come here fel
low — qu'avez ques —- ce —que - avez vous ? ”
« Toutes sortes de choses, Monsieur à votre ser
vice tout ce que vous pouvez désirer,” replied
the antiquarian Frenchman, opening his large box.
“ Voyez — faites voyez — 1 —je — me — moi,"
said the colonel with the air of a man who knew
very well what he was saying, if he could only
keep from stammering.
“ Montrez à Monsieur, " interpreted the officious
footman , putting his own hand into the box ,
“ Monsieur has so much bon gout ! Here , Mon
sieur le Colonel , is a nail actually taken from the
cross it has been in the possession of somemonks
hundreds of years — of course such a relic is a lit
tle expensive ; here is one of St. Anthony's teeth ;
and here is a bottle of holy water, consecrated by
the Pope himself; and here is a vial containing
some of the Apostle Peter's tears ; and here - " I
could not catch the names of the other invaluable
contents of the box , but I observed that a number
were stowed into the carriage.
When the Frenchman was paid, the footman ,
while he closed the coach door with his right hand,
stretched out the left, significantly open , behind
him. The dealer in antiques slily laid a piece of
money within it, and the footman turning round ,
his mouth twitching with suppressed laughter,
MAGAZINE .
gave a glance at the other sufficiently expressive
and comical.
As the carriage drove off we were joined by a
countryman , who bowed to the colonel and lady as
they passed.
· My dear s -," said I with inquisitive
6
haste, “ in the name of all that is original, tell
me , who is the individual to whom you bowed ? ”
66
Why, surely you have not forgotten him , in
spite of the metamorphosis effected by the salt
Atlantic ! "
“ Indeed I have — pray who is he ? "
“ Has he lost all resemblance to Augustus Blazon
of Broadway memory ? "
“ Is it possible ! but the lady calls him colonel ? "
“ To be sure — and a colonel he is, without
doubt ; he had himself made colonel before he left
America on purpose to gain a travelling title. "
“ But the lady - who is she ? "
“ She is a ' charming widow'- Madame De
Courtenay ; an English woman, it is reported, of im
mense fortune and of high rank — niece to a lord ,
I have heard her say . She is passing the winter
in Paris ; and her business is probably to procure
an eligible life- partner. Her appartemens garnis
in the rue Rivoli are as splendid as any in Paris,
and you saw her coach just now. Nobody seems
to understand how she got into society ; but, as I
said before, the French are not scrupulous. Colo.
nel Blazon has been paying her attention some
time , and she introduces him everywhere. I hear
they are now engaged. She believes him worth
£ 10,000 a year — a colonel in the regular army ,
and his very remarkable escutcheon unblemished
and genuine. Indeed she often expresses a strong
desire to make America a permanent residence. ”
“ Are your suspicions of the colonel never avow
ed ? ”
“ Of course not communicativeness is not the
fashion here — everybody minds his own business,
you will soon learn that. It is very possible that
both Madame de Courtenay and Colonel Blazon,
when they are fairly married, may discover each
other to be somewhat different from what they
now seem to be all in due time --- but that is en
tirely their own affair.”
“ Well, no place like Paris for acquiring the real
sang froid ; I must have less curiosity before I am
possessed of it , I fear.”
Not many days after this conversation my friend
joined us one evening at Tortoni's, and over an ice
related with real enjoyment, (whether of the ice or
of his own story I do not pretend to judge ,) the con
cluding scene of the colonel's adventures in Paris.
Monsieur le Colonel was sitting in the tasteful
boudoir of Madame de Courtenay, aa few mornings
previous to the one fixed for their anticipated union .
Madame, in аa rich velvet robe, was reclining on the
graceful car-sofa , complacently surveying the luxu
 THE COLONEL
ries around her, and making a calculation of those
which were wanting, and which the colonel would
doubtless supply. The walls of the room were
hung, and the table covered , with drawings, to
which her own name was attached . A number
of musical instruments were elegantly scattered
about ; and on some one of these the colonel was
entreating her to play. But the piano, she said ,
she had relinquished for the harp, after which it
sounded harshly on her ear ; unfortunately several
strings of the harp bad been broken ever since her
acquaintance with the colonel ; she would touch
the guitar to please him , but her voice was affected
by a cold , and the instrument was nothing without
a vocal accompaniment. In short, she preferred
to hear him read one of the numerous poems, ad
dressed to herself, which she had had bound in
stamped velvet covers to grace her centre table .
The colonel was employed in giving voice to
Madame's versified praises, when a lady and gen
tleman entered , with whom Madame de Courtenay
had but recently become acquainted. They hap
pened to be Americans. The lady saluted Mad
ame, who rose from her reclining position to receive
her, looked at the colonel as though he were not
wholly unknown , and seated herself, without any
sign of recognition passing between them.
The American gentleman , however, whose man
ners and exterior were decidedly un -Parisian , im
mediately addressed Colonel Blazon with
“ How do you do , Mr. Blazon ? So you're in
Paris , are you ? I heard you'd cut New York :
stupid place , is it not ? The people are so deuced
particular ! It makes society here much preferable.
We arrived ourselves about a fortnight ago. How
are your sisters, Mr. Blazon ? "
“ Quite well I thank you , Mr. Andrews," said
the colonel, trying to seem cool, while the hue ofhis
very fingerends evinced a superabundance of caloric.
Madame appeared to be discomposed ; an omi
nous pause ensued. It was broken by the uncere .
monious Mr. Andrews.
“ Are you going to remain in Paris all winter,
Mr. Blazon ? I guess it is just the place for you
pick up acquaintances --- go about - feel more at
home than when actually at home.”
“ I shall probably that is, I may stay," said the
colonel , glancing at the alarmed countenance of
Madame. Then, suddenly gaining courage , he
began to talk with great fluency — threw open
Madame's portfolio for the inspection of the visi
tors , and effectually monopolized all conversation .
“ For Heaven's sake, Colonel,” whispered Mad
ame de Courtenay, “ why does that gentleman call
you Mr. Blazon ?
“ I'll tell you, my dear Madame, " said the colo
nel confidentially, “ it is really a misfortune – he
is the most absent man in the world never knows
what he is saying, and has the very worst memory
ABROAD . 189
- yet he cannot bear to be corrected , therefore it
is better to take no notice of him ."
“ Mr. Blazon , ” said Andrews, “ I suppose you
rind all the balls here quite as splendid as the as
semblies in New York , for which we had such dif
ficulty in getting our ten dollar tickets, don't
you ? ”
66
· Really , Mr. Andrews, you must be thinking of
some other person to what assemblies do you
allude ? Dear me !” he continued , drawing forth
his watch with an air of empressement, “ How
time flies ! I am very sorry, Madame, that I have
an engagement at this hour which calls me from
you. I will fulfil it , and with your permission, re
turn in time to accompany you to the Bois de Bou
logne - good morning. ”
After the colonel left, Madame's regret at his
absence must have affected her conversational pow
ers; for she spoke with an obvious effort. With
her visitors she was but slightly acquainted, and
felt a natural delicacy in introducing the subject
uppermost in her thoughts. At last when the lady
rose to take leave, Madame de Courtenay, fearing
that the opportunity for inquiry might not again be
offered, demanded , rather abruptly :
“ Were you acquainted with Colonel Blazon in
America ? ”
“ The gentleman who just left the apartment I
presume you mean, Madame ? No- " and there
was a slight expression of haughtiness in the lady's
tone ; “ he is not among the number of my ac
quaintances.”
“ The colonel is a friend of yours, sir ? " persist
ed Madame de Courtenay.
“ The colonel ! what colonel ? Colonel who,
ma'am ? ”
“ Colonel Blazon , who just left the room .”
“ I knew Mr. Augustus Blazon in New York ,
but I never heard of his being a colonel before .”
“ Oh ! sir but he said your memory was 80
treacherous. You, Madame , may not be acquaint
ed with him , but you have heard of him ? ”
“ I have , Madame, frequently ."
“ And he is a colonel , then ? I knew it was a
mistake.”
66
· Yes, I certainly believe him to be a colonel.
I presume you are aware of the existence of the
militia , and that in America a man from almost
any class of the community may become a militia
colonel or even a general. Mr. Blazon is a colo
nel , doubtless, but it is a militia colonel.”
“ Is it possible ! What will become of me. I
am bewildered, my dear madam - will you open
that door, sir ? Camilla ! - mysal volatile — this
room is so close - pray who is this gentleman,
then ? ”
“ A very good fellow , in his way,” replied An
drews, “ only considered rather soft for aa Yankee ;
but I guess he does well enough here. His father
a
 190 THE COLUMBIAN
has built many a good ship, and he is his son -
that's who he is. ”
" But — you will excuse me, " said Madame de
Courtenay, with the manner of a drowning person
catching at a straw --“ he is very wealthy — worth
ten thousand pounds a year, is he not ? "
“ Ten thousand pounds ? We do not calculate
by pounds in our country ," replied the lady. “ I
suppose Mr. Blazon , for he is rich " “Do not touch me, perfidious man ! Oh ! I am
“ Rich ! He is really rich, then ? " and the sal
volatile became suddenly efficacious, for the lady
obviously revived .
66
“ Yes, quite well off -- his property yields him
from two to three thousand dollars a year.”
“ Three thousand dollars ! Merciful powers !
that would not support such an establishment as
this three months ! Camilla ! excuse me — I am
ill — aa sudden pain— " and Madame de Courte
nay sank on the sofa and hid her face with her
handkerchief.
Her visitors , observing themselves decidedly de
trop, wished her speedy relief, and left her to the
consoling care of her pretty femme de chambre,
Camilla .
“ I am ruined, Camilla ! ” sobbed the afflicted
widow . “ The colonel - Colonel Blazon -- is a
militia colonel ! Tinkers and tailors can be militia
colonels ! His father's a ship builder — and the
wretch , he is only worth three thousand dollars a
year - not £ 10,000. We shall never see America
after all ! What a horrid place it must be ! Eve
rything will be discovered here -- we shall have to
leave Paris and hide ourselves again in Chelten
ham - the little all my poor husband left me is
-
just
66
· Hush , dear madam , ” said the maid ; “ here
comes the colonel.”
The colonel entered hastily. “ What ails you,
dearest lady ? ” said he, with unaffected anxiety.
“ Speak to me — look at me ;" and the gentleman
tremblingly knelt beside the sofa, on which the fair
sufferer was lying, supported by her confidential
grisette.
66
Speak to you - look at you , sir !” said the
66
lady, uncovering herdistorted countenance, “ how
have you deceived me — betrayed me !”
“ Prenez garde, Madame - do not toss your
head so ; ” prudently whispered Camilla, “ those
clasps of Pugno's are so bad they have let your hair
slip all on one side ! ”
“ I deceive you — I ? Fairest of created beings,”
said the colonel, devotedly ; “ I would rather lose
my life ! Can you believe anything that vulgar
fellow , Andrews, could say ? A plague on his ab
sent-mindedness ! I will send him a challenge
to -morrow ."
“ Will that make you a colonel, or a man of
honor either, Mr. Blazon ? Oh, I am too wretched !"
“ Madame, dear Madame, " again whispered the
tel
MAGAZINE .
maid , “ You forget yourself in this excitement -
pray do not weep, Madame ; your cheeks will be all
marked - your toilet already is frightfully abîmé."
“ Listen to me , dear madam ; I assure you
whatever that Andrews may have said was out of
spite. Should anything shake your tender confi
dence in me after the promise you have given ?
You said this little, white hand
ruined — what will become of me!” Perfectly re
gardless or unconscious of the colonel's presence,
6
the lady raved on .. “ I shall be turned out of these
elegant apartments — and my coach — my saddle
horses - my box at the opera - Camilla ? do you
suppose they put women in prison for debt in this
barbarous country ? What shall I do ! ”
The colonel sprang from his knees as though a
thunderbolt had burst near him . He looked at the
weeping fair one with unutterable horror depicted
on his countenance .
“ Quelle scène ! Madame is a little out of her
head, Monsieur le Colonel -- she does not know
what she is saying - ah ! ce diable de vermillion !
how it has got off her lips ! ”
The colonel, for a moment or two, was incapa
ble of motion. When animation was restored, he
turned round , seized his hat, caught hold of the
door - handle - clenching it as though he was afraid
of being forcibly detained — flung the door open
with an ejaculation of " What an escape !” and
vanished.
The footman, who met him racing down the
stairs, told Camilla that Monsieur le Colonel rubbed
his hands exultingly as he ran , and that he heard
him repeating to himself, " What an escape ! what
an escape ! That Andrews is the best friend I
ever had in my life ! ”
After a half year's sojourn in Paris we returned
to America . The colonel had sailed for New York
immediately after his denouement with the “ charm
ing widow , " and as I felt that interest in him which
every student of human nature takes in the fate of
a decided " character," I questioned a friend as to
his farther history.
“ Do you mean Colonel Blazon as he is now
generally called -- though he seems to have got his
title abroad - the traveller ?” was her reply. “He
is in New York , and a great personage here , I assure
you. You may see him any day in Broadway with
his elegant span of horses, driving his liveried foot
man about. He has created a great sensation since
his return – he is quite the rage — is received in the
first society , and is the avowed pet of all mammas .
His reception abroad must have been exceedingly
flattering — his adventures are in everybody's
mouth . The people are running crazy about his
paintings and statues, and relics, and curiosities. I
don't know much about it, but they say his collec
tion is invaluable.”
 THE WILLOW BY THE WELL .

POETRY BY G. P. MORRIS.MUSIC BY MISS. A. SLOMAN .

Tempo. Moderato . Con gusto .

be

b.
be

Hibbe
bb
Hva 8va 8va Sva gva 8va

Once more see thee, good old friend, Ah now thou seem'st to

Sva ..
至 fe

smile ; Near am 1 to my jour - ney's end, And here, and

9
Sva ..........
191
 **
192 THE WILLOW BY THE WELL .

bibeo be
b bi

here I'll rest a · while, And here I'll drink those waters sweet, Of

bb
bbi
計
Jobb
bb
Sva ..

which drank Is a . bel. Blest was the day that we did meet By the willow at the

Sva ..
ਰ Sva .

well, Blest was the day that we

did meet By the willow , by the willow atthe

TH
:2
8va ..

well.

5oho

3: 89
Sva ... Sva ........

2. 3.
When children , playing through the grove, But age has dimmed my once bright eye,
Kissing each dew -wet flower, Has veiled the sunny earth,
Oft did we to this Willow rove, Has heaved the breast with many a sigh,
To spend, to spend the happy hour . For thejoyous, the joyous sounds of mirth :
O for the joys so innocent, And thou , old tree, now seem'st to mourn
That called the bosom's swell, For the woes that have befel
O for the happy hours spent The traveller that sits forlorn
By the Willow at the Well. By the Willow at the Well.
the

wat the

re,

ch
mirth
 se

mm

Pati ded
by ria
A.
Deve

THE VICTOR
THE
IN
TOURNAM
. ENT
1
THE
COLUMBIAN
MAY, 1844 .
LESSING'S EMILIA
The author of this tragedy, the great Lessing, as he
is sometimes called in Germany, was born at a vil
lage in Upper Lusatia, January 22, 1729. His
father was a preacher, and the atmosphere in which
his young life was passed appears to have stimu
lated his thirst for knowledge and mental growth to
the highest activity. In illustration of this, it is
related that , when scarcely five years old , his father,
wishing to have his portrait taken, the painter pro
posed to introduce in the picture, by his side, a bird
sitting in a cage. “ No ! no !” protested the boy,
“ I will be painted with a great heap of books
around me ! ” He went through the usual course
of education, and, after a life of various experiences
and literary adventures, died suddenly, at evening,
February 15, 1781 , aged 52 years.
The chief value of Lessing's literary life lies in
the fact that he worked , with regenerating influ
ence , in the mind and heart of Germany, and began
the movement which has made the modern Ger
man literature so rich and strong. He brought the
key which unlocked the way to higher wonders and
fairer forms of truth. He wrought as a pioneer.
For literary Germany his spirit was the first gush
ing, triumphant glow of the sun's effulgence,
making beautiful the morning -red .
But his works were valuable , not merely for his
own time and place. They have a life, which the
accomplishment of their first great mission could
not exhaust ; a divine fire, which could not all be
spent in kindling and warming the sky with the
dawn and sunrise of the bright day that has followed
VOL. I.- 17.
MAGAZINE .
GALOTTI .
them. They will live as long as the art of printing.
And yet he was not a first rate genius. He was
not one of those strongest , mightiest and most di
vinely illuminated natures, whose utterance is like
oracles poured in wondrous music from the highest
heaven of poetry. His voice was not rich and
musical , like Richter's; nor could it command such
a fine modulation of deep, Orphic tones as Goethe's.
He first taught his countrymen to admire Shaks .
peare ; but he was not a Shakspeare. He had not
the sublime power of Milton , to throw open the
very gates of Paradise ; nor did he shine from such
serene , azure deeps of Heaven as Wordsworth.
But he too listened to the gods and heard divine
things. He had a great versatility of talent, was a
skilful artist in literature, and wrote with such sin
gular beauty, with such earnestness, grace and
purity, that he has been celebrated as “ the model
for German prose writers.” But he had more than
mere talent. In no small measure he was endowed
with that “ vision ” of genius to which the divine
forms of truth, beauty and goodness are unveiled ;
and he had the "faculty " to utter what he saw in
tones most musical .
The light of Lessing's spirit shone most clearly
and worked most genially on criticism and the
drama. He very early attached himself to the
stage. His principal dramas are Emilia Galotti ,
Nethan the Wise, Minna Von Barnhelms and Miss
Sarah Sampsøn. Of these , Emilia Galotti, written
in prose, is the most skilfully and carefully finished ;
although Nathan the Wise, in blank verse , is,
193

66
194 THE COLUMBIAN
by many, and justly, perhaps, deemed the finest.
It is indeed a noble poem .
a to keep her in their power, he puts her to death.
Truly written dramas are among the highest
forms of literature . They will always be read, for
they speak to what all recognize as the experience
of humanity, in the silly slavery of its strength to
folly - in its pitiful endeavors to produce the fair
features of truth on the ugly face of falsehood, or
mournfully struggling in its encounter with destiny.
Human life is full of comedy and tragedy.
“ Die Menschheit wechselt zwischen Lust und
Weinen.” But tragedy prevails ; for life, seen truly
in all its relations, in its whole significance, is too
serious for laughter. Comedy appears only when
particular aspects of humanity are , for the time ,
held apart and considered by themselves.
To write a genuine tragedy requires " the vision
and the faculty ” of the true poet ; and herein , per-
haps, more than anywhere else, appears the unri
valled power of Shakspeare . When the world
reaches the end of time — when the destiny of man
on earth is accomplished , it will probably be seen
that to but few was it given to write such plays as
Othello, Hamlet and Macbeth, or even Schiller's
Wallenstein . But there are many others, wbich ,
if they do not speak to the soul with such fullness
of power, do nevertheless speak to soul and draw
tears in such a manner as is calculated to make us
wiser and better.
Emilia Galotti is aa beautiful drama , and it is a
truthful tragedy. Lessing appears to have had it
in hand several years. At first, he called it Vir
ginia , founding it on that occurrence in Roman
history where Virginius kills his daughter with his
own hand, to save her from the lust of Appius
Claudius, the decemvir. The tragic issue turns on
a similar occurrence, but in other respects it was
changed. A weak and licentious prince grows
weary of one mistress and conceives a base and
furious passion for the pure and beautiful Emilia
Galotti. This passion is managed by a wily, das
tardly scoundrel of a favorite, called Marinelli , who
undertakes to secure its gratification. But there
are serious difficulties in the way. Emilia , inno
cent and artless as she is beautiful, is invincible in
the purity and nobility of her soul ; her father is
like a stern , upright, high -minded old Roman , such
as we may suppose Virginius to have been ; and,
what is more , she is just on the eve of marriage
with the noble Count Appiani, to whom she is
most passionately attached A vain attempt is
made to send Appiani out of the way, and thus
delay the marriage. Then Marinelli contrives to
have the wedding party avacked , near a pleasure
castle of the prince, as if by robbers. His servants
come to the rescue. Appiani is killed the attack
ing party allow themselves be beaten off — Emilia
is drawn from the carriage and led to the castle.
Here she is in the power of the prince. Her father
m
MAGAZINE .
appears, and when he finds that they are resolved to
ch
The first scene shows us the prince, alone in his an
cabinet, carelessly examining a pile of papers. His du
eye catches a name , subscribed to one of the peti.
tions, and he suddenly exclaims : fe
“ Emilia ? An Emilia ? But an Emilia Brune th
schinot Galotti. No ! Not Emilia Galotti !
What does this Emilia Bruneschi want ? (he al
reads.) She asks much , very much ! But her
nameis Emilia ! The petition shall be granted !” it
Then he turns away from the papers, and, not 11
knowing how to employ himself, orders his car h
riage. A letter is brought him from the Countess
Orsina , the mistress of whom he has grown weary. р
With an exclamation of disgust he throws it down
unopened. Before his carriage is ready, Conti, a
painter, is announced . This pleases him , and he
gives up his intention of riding. Conti brings a
portrait of the Countess Orsina, which the prince
forgets having ordered, and also another portrait
which the prince has not ordered. The latter he
places reversed against a chair, while he exhibits
the former. But the prince has grown sick of the
Countess, and sees her picture with changed eyes.
A month earlier, he says, he might have found it
beautiful. But now he finds it altogether disagree
able. Conti , he thinks, has flattered the Countess
infinitely. Conti replies:
“ It is not flattered more than art must flatter.
Art must paint the picture as plastic nature—if
there be such a thing — designs it , without the im
perfections which unpliant and resisting materials
make unavoidable, and without the decays pro
duced by time.
But the prince refuses to be convinced, and pro
ceeds to criticise the picture and give his ideas of
beauty. He says :
“ I do not deny that aa little of the scornful ex
pression , on a beautiful mouth, may be pardoned ,
for it heightens the beauty . But mind, I say a
little. The pardon must not be extended to the
grimace of this Countess. Where a little scorn is
pardoned, there must be voluptuous eyes -- such
eyes as the Countess has not -- such eyes as do not
appear even here in her picture."
Conti. My liege , I am extremely sorry
PRINCE. Sorry for what ? All that art can do
with the Countess's great , projecting,ox - like, staring
eyes of Medusa, you have done faithfully, Conti .
Did I say faithfully ? No, they might have been
painted with greater fidelity. Say yourself, Conti ,
whether this picture shows the features of the ori
ginal with accuracy . Yet it should do so. You
have changed pride into dignity , scorn into smiles ,
and the gloomy look of brooding melancholy into
the expression of pensive gentleness.
Conti, (a little irritated .) Ah, my liege, we
painters aim to have the picture we finish appear
 LESSING'S EMILIA GALOTTI .
to the lover as warmly colored as the image he
cherishes in his heart. We paint with eyes of love,
and none but eyes of love should criticise our pro
ductions.
PRINCE. Well , Conti , why then did you not
fetch it a month sooner ? Put it away-what is
the other picture ?
Conti. ( with the other still reversed.) This
also is the portrait of a female.
PRINCE. Then I cannot spend much time with
it , and care not indeed whether I look at it at all.
It cannot compare with the ideal here, (pointing to
his forehead ,) nor with the image here , ( pointing
to his heart.) Conti , I would admire your art in
productions of another sort.
Conti. There may be art more admirable, but
certainly there cannot be an object more admirable
than this.
Prince. I'll wager, then , Conti , that it is the
artist's own mistress. ( The painter shows the
picture.) What do I see ? Your work, Conti, or
the work of my fancy ? Emilia Galotti !"
CONTI. How, my liege ? Do you know this
angel ?
Prince, (endeavoring to compose himself , but
looking still at the picture. ) I am half acquainted
with her ; sufficiently to recognize her. I first met
her with her mother, some weeks ago. Since then
I have seen her only in sacred places, where gaping
at others is improper. I know her father also. He
is not my friend. It was he who most obstinately
withstood my claims on Sabionetta. He is an old
soldier, proud and rough , but otherwise good and
noble -minded .
Conti . The father ! But here we have his
daughter
PRINCE. Good heavens ! How was she stolen
from the mirror ? (with his eyes still fized on the
portrait.) Oh , Conti ! you well know that the
highest praise we can render an artist is to be so
enchanted with his works as to forget his praise !
Conti . This picture , however, has left me quite
discontented with myself. And yet again, with
this discontent, 1I am quite satisfied. Oh ! that we
could paint directly with the eyes ! Ah ! how
much is lost on the long way from the eyes through
the arm to the pencil ! Yet , since I know what
was here lost , how it was lost , and why it must be
lost , I am as proud , aye, prouder, even , of that, than
of this, which I did not lose . For I know by that
more than by this , that I am really a great painter,
and that it is my hand only that is not so. Do
you suppose , prince , that if Raphael had unfortu
nately been born without a hand, he would there
fore have been destitute of his surpassing genius
for painting ? Do you suppose so, prince ?
PRINCE, (now first turning his eyes from the
picture . ) What did you say, Conti ? What
would you know ?
195
CONTI. Oh, nothing, nothing !-mere babbling !
Your soul, I perceive, was all in your eyes. I love
such souls and such eyes.
The prince keeps the picture, and bids Conti go
to his treasurer and receive as much as he pleases
for it . Conti leaves him , and he remains alone,
devouring the picture with his eyes and uttering
his rapture in exclamations. At length , interrupted
by the entrance of Marinelli , he turns it against
the wall. As yet , Marinelli knows nothing of his
passion for Emilia , and proceeds to speak of the
Countess Orsina, and of her fear of being supplanted
by some rival. The prince declares the change in
his feelings toward her, and then turns the conver
sation by carelessly asking, “ What is going on in
the city ? ” Marinelli replies that nothing is on
foot but the marriage of the Count Appiani. He
then goes on to relate what he calls one of the
strange tricks of love. The Count has been taken
in the toils of a maiden without property or rank,
and he is going to marry her and spend his life
with her in retirement in the vales of Piedmont.
This retirement is very wise , Marinelli thinks.
“ For what can he do betier ? His mesalliance
makes it all over with him here . All our first
houses would be shut against him ."
PRINCE. Your first houses ! in which ceremony,
constraint, ennui, and, not seldom , poverty , reign.
But tell me for whom does he make this great
sacrifice ?
MARINELLI. A certain Emilia Galotti.
PRINCE. How, Marinelli ? a certain
MARINELLI. Emilia Galotti.
PRINCE . Emilia Galotti ! Never ! Never !
Marinelli. It is positively so , my liege.
Prince. No, I say no ! it is not so ! it cannot
be ! You mistake the name. The Galotti family
is great. It cannot be a Galotti — not by any ineans
Emilia Galottino, not Emilia.
MarineLLI. Emilia -- Emilia Galotti.
PRINCE. Then there are two of the name. Be
sides, you said a certain Emilia Galotti-a certain .
a
Now none but a fool could speak thus of the first.
MARINELLI. My liege, you are beside yourself.
Do you know this Emilia ?
Prince. It is for me to ask questions, Mari
nelli, and not you. Emilia Galotti ? The daugh
ter of Major Galotti of Sabionetta ?
MARINELLI. The same .
PRINCE. Who lives with her mother here in the
city ?
MARINELLI The same.
PRINCE. Near the church of All Saints ?
MARINELLI. The same.
PRINCE. In a word- (springing for the portrait
and giving it to Marinelli) — There ! This ? this
Emilia Galotti ? Speak your cursed “ The saine,"
once more , and bury the dagger in my heart.
MARINELLI . The same.
92
 196 THE COLUMBIAN
Prince. Damnation ! This Emilia Galotti will
to-day become
MARINELLI. Countess Appiani ! ( The prince
snatches away the picture and throws it down .)
The wedding takes place quietly, at her father's
country seat in Sabionetta. The mother and
daughter, the Count , and perhaps a few friends,
will set off toward noon .
PRINCE, ( throwing himself in despair on a seat.)
Then I am lost ! Then I will not live !
The remainder of this scene lets us into the
character of Marinelli , by showing how , like a wily
serpent , he manages to preserve his ascendancy
over his weak master. The prince breaks forih
upon him in a furious storm of passion , cuises him
as a traitor, for not telling this before, then throws
himself into his arms and begs his forgiveness. A
plot is laid to put Appiani out of the way by send
ing him to Massa , on business connected with the
prince's marriage , which is about to take place.
The prince is to depart immediately for his country
house at Dosala , and Marinelli goes to secure the
execution of their plot. But when left alone , it
occurs to the prince that it is the hour when Emilia
usually attends mass ; and he resolves to delay his
departure a little , that he may , if possible , speak
with her and make one endeavor to plead his pag
sion . As he is just ready to go out , with this pur
pose , Rota, one of his counsellors, comes in , on
business. After a few words on other matters ,
Rota tells him there is a death warrant to be
signed .
PRINCE. I will sign it right gladly ! Come, be
quick.
Rota, ( startled and staring at him . ) I said
a death warrant.
PRINCE. I heard very well . Come, I could
have signed it by this time. I am in a hurry.
Rota, (exumining his papers.) Pardon me ,
prince, I have neglected to bring it. It can be
delayed till to -morrow .
PRINCE . So it can . I must go . More to
morrow .
Rota, (alone , as the prince goes out.) Right
gladly ! Sign a death warrant right gladly ! I
would not let him sign it in such a state of mind,
if it were for the murderer of my only son . Right
6
gladly ! right gladly ! That shocking “ right
gladly ” grates through my very soul !
In the second act we are taken to the house of
Galotti . Major Galotti arrives on a flying visit
from Sabionetta , and finds Emilia absent at mass .
He remains a short time , in conversation with his
wiſe, expressing how much he admires Appiani
and how much he is pleased with his purpose to
live in retirement, instead of staying to crawl, bow
and flatter at court , like the Marinellis , to gain a
furtune he does not need and win honors that could
not honor him . Claudia, his wife, appears as a
tel
MAGAZINE .
good , fond mother and wife, with some little weak
ness for life near the court.
During this conversation, Angelo, a bandit, is
secretly making suspicious inquiries of one of the
servants , in whom he finds an old acquaintance.
He gets all the particulars respecting the wedding
party, which, as subsequently appears, Marinelli
has engaged him to attack, on its way to Sabionetta .
Major Galotti departs , and soon afterward
Emilia comes wildly rushing in from church, ex
claiming
“ Oh , dear ! oh , dear ! Now I am safe ! or has
he followed me ? Has he, mother ? has he ? No,
thank heaven ! ”
Then, terrified and half distracted , she tells her
mother that the prince came to her in the church ,
and persisted in speaking to her, until she finally
ran away. When somewhat recovered , she says :
“ But the Count must know of this. I must tell
him .”
Claudia . Not for all the world ! Why should
you disquiet him with a matter which , in itself, is
nothing at all ? And even if it should not disquiet
him , know , my child , that a poison which does not
work directly is, on that account, none the less
dangerous. What makes no impression on the
lover may afterward affect the husband. The
lover may flatter, io triumph over a powerful rival .
But when he has triumphed - ah, my child, then
the lover often becomes wholly another creature:
May thy good stars save thee from such an expe
rience !
Emilia . You know , mother, how willingly I
submit to your better judgment. But suppose some
other tells the Count the prince spoke with me 10
day ? Will not my silence sooner or later increase
his disquiet ? It appears to me that I should
not withhold from him anything there is in my
heart.
CLAUDIA. Weakness ! ainorous weakness ! No ,
do not speak of it to him , on any account. Do pot
let him discover it .
Emilia . Well , mother, be it as you will. Ah ,
me ! (with a deep drawn breath .) There, I am
calm again . What a silly , timid thing I am ! am
I not, mother ? I suppose I cught to have demeaned
myself otherwise , and should ve pardoned it as
a trifle.
CLAUDIA . I would not say so until you had
heard it from your own sound understanding. I
knew it would tell you so as soon as you came to
yourself. The prince is gallant. You are but
little accustomed to the unmeaning language of
gallantry. You have taken politeness for senti
ment, flattery for a profession of love , a jest for a
wish , a wish for a purpose. This language means
nothing at all .
Emilia . Oh, mother ! then I must appear alto.
gether ridiculous ! Now indeed my good Appiani
图
LESSING'S EMILIA
shall know nothing about it . He would think me
more vain than virtuous.
There we see a weak mother, teaching a poison
ous lesson to a guileless daughter, checking one of
the best and safest impulses of a pure heart, and
laboring to have her walk in the way that must
lead to that sad experience, against which she
prays that her daughter's good stars may defend
her .But Claudia , perhaps, dreaded to have her
husband know of this occurrence . It may be ,
also, that she was too unsuspicious, for when alone
in one of the scenes, she speaks to herself in a
manner that indicates it . Her husband had heard
of the prince's first interview with Emilia with
some surprise and apprehension , and spoken of
him with indignation. When he had departed,
Claudia says to herself:
“ What a man ! What stern virtue, if indeed it
merit this name ! He regards everything as sus
picious and culpable. If men are what he supposes,
who would desire to know it ? ”
If any one is at a loss in estimating the charac
ter of the mother's counsel , in this scene, let him
consider for a moment who appears the most beau
tiful, the most fascinating, the most calculated ,
every way , to charm and sway the heart of a noble
minded man - Claudia, with her concealment and
her ridicule of “ amorous weakness," or Emilia , in
her unclouded purity and truth .
In the next scene Appiani appears. He is sad ,
as if occupied with some troublesome thought.
They at length proceed to discuss the manner in
which Emilia shall be arrayed for the bridal. Emi
lia objects to wearing some jewelry the Count had
given her, for she had dreamed three times of
wearing it, and that while she had it on, each
stone changed to a pearl. Pearls, she says, signify
tears . The Count catches this expression , and
when Emilia retires to dress, tells her mother that
for two or three days he has been haunted with a
presentiment which he cannot shake off, that some
invisible evil threatens to interrupt the bridal.
While they are speaking, Marinelli comes , com
missioned to send him to Massa . At first the
Count engages to accept the commission , but when
required to depart immediately he entirely refuses.
Marinelli proposes to obviate the difficulty by an
arrangement deeply insulting to Emilia and her
family. This the Count resents, with all the hot
blood of indignation , and an altercation ensues.
He calls Marinelli an ape.
MARINELLI. That to me, Count ?
APPIANI. Why not ?
MarineLLI. Heaven and hell ! we will speak
together.
APPIANI. Pah ! the ape is malicious,but
MARINELLI. Death and damnation ! Count , I
demand satisfaction .
APPIANI. That of course .
17 *
GALOTTI . 197
MARINELLI. And would take it instantly , if I
were not unwilling to harm the tender bridegroom
to-day.
APPIANI. Good hearted creature ! but no ! (he
seizes his hand. ) I certainly cannot allow myself
to be sent to Massa to - day, but I have time enough
for a walk with you . Come, come.
MARINELLI , ( tears himself away and goes.)
Have patience , Count; only have patience .
APPIANI, (alone.) Go, worthless scoundrel !
Ha ! this has done me good. My blood moves
again . I feel altogether better.
We are next taken to the prince's pleasure castle
at Dosala, where the play goes on to the end .
There, at first, we find Marinelli and the prince to
gether. Marinelli pretends that when Appiani
refused to go to Massa , he did his utmost to pro
voké him to a duel. He says , “ I thought thus :
either he will kill me or I him . If I kill him , the
field is wholly ours . If he kills me , then he must
flee, and the prince will at least gain time.” But
Appiani would not fight, he says, until the eighth
day after the marriage. He goes on in the wiliest
manner, exciting the prince to the utmost, and
then tells him that he has taken measures to have
the wedding party waylaid near the castle where
they are , and that it is about time to expect them.
He goes to the window, discovers Angelo approach
ing, and sees the carriage slowly returning to the
city . The prince goes out , while he remains at the
window, watching the carriage and uttering his
anxiety to be certain that the Count is dead. He
exclaims :
“ Ha ! Count, who taught you to know the apes
so well ? Most certainly they are malicious ! "
Angelo comes—the Count is dead-- the plot has
succeeded .
Emilia, wild with terror, is led to the castle , and
is not brought to composure by learning where
she is. Her mother soon appears, and aroused by
the manner in which the dying Count had uttered
the name of Marinelli , she presently understands
the whole plot . We should like to give the whole
scene where she meets Marinelli, but must pass on.
The worthless dastard had secured the death of the
Count to gratify his own malice. But the prince
had not counted on bloodshed , and Marinelli
manages to prepare him for this, before he makes
known the Count's death. While they are talk .
ing, the unexpected and very embarrassing arrival
of the Countess Orsina is announced. In her letter
that morning, which the prince had left unopened ,
she had requested him to meet her here . They
endeavor to dismiss her, but she remains, and has
a prominent part in some of the scenes that follow
She too undersianus the plot at once.
At length Emilia's father arrives, and now we
follow on , with a thrilling interest, which continues
undisturbed and deepens to the end of the play.
36
198 THE COLUMBIAN
No part of the drama is more finely executed than
those scenes in which we see him gradually wrought
almost to madness, as he learns the whole truth
and finds the impossibility of rescuing Emilia. At
first he does not understand the affair. Marinelli,
being compelled to leave him alone with the Count
ess Orsina, who will not depart, whispers in his ear
that she is insane. An admirable scene follows,
in which he discovers that she is not insane, and
listens while she reveals the whole plot against his
daughter. Ile maddens, and she gives him a dag
ger, which she had brought, not without a purpose.
His wife enters and confirms what the Countess had
said . After some consultation , he sends her, with
the Countess, to the city.
The father remains, and, after much fruitless
endeavor to recover his daughter, is told that it is
suspected that Appiani's death was the work of
some favored rival , that the affair must be investi
gated, and that father, mother and daughter must
be separated and held in custody until the truth is
known . Then he pleads to have his daughter
brought forth , that he may speak with her. This
is granted , and the play ends with the following
scenes of the fifth act :
(SCENE VII. Emilia and her father .]
Emilia. How ? you here , father ? and only you ?
My mother not here ? the Count not here ? and you
so disturbed , father ?
ODOARDO . And you so tranquil, my daughter ?
Emilia. Why not, father ? Either all is lost,
or nothing. Either I can be tranquil, or I must be .
It comes to the same thing.
ODOARDO. And how do you think it is ?
Emilia. That all is lost, and that we must be
calm .
ODOARDO. And you would be calm , because
you must be ? Who art thou ? A maiden ? my
daughter ? Must the man and the father be
ashamed before thee ? But let us hear ; what du
you mean by “ all is lost? ” That the Count is
dead ?
EMILL . And why is he dead ? Why ? Ha !
Then it is true, father ! The terrible tale which I
read in the wild , wet eyes of my mother, is true ?
Where is my mother ? Where has she gone ?
ODOARDO. She has gone before , if indeed we
follow her. :
EMILIA . "The sooner the better. For if the
Count is dead , and dead for such a reason , why do
We tarry here ? Let us flee !
* ODOARDO. Flee ! How would that serve us ?
Thou art , thou remainest in the hands of the robber.
Emilia . I remain in his hands ?
ODOARDO. And alone, without your mother
without me.
Emilia. I alone in his hands ! Never, father,
or you are not my father. I alone in his power !
Well, let it be tried , only let it be tried ! I will see
MAGAZINE .
who holds me—who compels me. I will see who
the man is that can hold another by force.
ODOARDO . My child , I think you are tranquil.
Emilia . That I am . But what do you call
being tranquil ? Is it to hold our hands in our lap
-to endure what no one should endure , and bear
what must not be borne ?
ODOARDO. Ha ! if you think so , my daughter,
let me embrace you. I have always said that Na
ture intended woman to be her master-piece. But
she erred in mixing the clay and made it too deli
cate . With this exception , everything is better in
you than in us . Ha ! if this is your tranquility,
then have I found mine again ! Let me embrace
you , my daughter. Think of it ! Under the pre
text of a judicial investigation - oh, the hellish
jugglery !-his purpose is to tear you away from
our arms and carry you to the house of Grimaldi !
Emilia . Tear me away ? carry me ? Will tear
me away ? will carry me ? Will ? IVill ? As if
we had no will in the matter, father !
ODOARDO . Such rage seized me that I felt for
this dagger, (draws it ,) in order to plunge it to the
heart of one or both of them .
Evilja . No, for Heaven's sake, father ! This
life is all the wicked have . Give the dagger to
me, father.
ODOARDO. Child, it is no hair pin.
Emilia. Then the hair pin may become a dag
ger.
ODOARDO . What ? Will it come to that ? No,
no.
Reflect ! you have but one life to lose.
Emilia . And but one purity .
ODOARDO. Which is superior to all power.
EMILIA . But not to all temptation , perhaps.
Power ! power ! Who cannot defy power ? What
is power ? it is nothing. Temptation is the true
power. I have blood as young and warm as any
other. My senses are senses . I will not answer
for myself , I am good for nothing. I know the
voluptuous house of Grimaldi. One hour spent
there , under the eye of my mother, raised a tumult
in my soul which was scarcely soothed by a week's
devotion to the strictest exercises of religion. Re
ligion ! and what religion ? To escape nothing
worse , thousands sprang into the flood, and are
saints ! Oh ! give me that dagger, father !
ODOARDO. And if you knew this dagger ?
EMILIA. And if I do not know it, an unknown
friend is nevertheless a friend . Give it to me ; I
entreat you , give it to me."
ODOARD ). Well , suppose I give it to you
there !-(gives it . )
EMILIA. And there ! ( She is proceeding to kill
herself, when her father arrests her hand and
takes away the dagger.)
ODOARDO. See , how rash ! No, that is not for
thy hand.
EMILIA. True, I should do it with a hair pin ,
ga
汽
THE LOT
(moves her hand in her hair to find one , and finds
the rose , which she placed there when dressing for
the bridal.) Thou still here ! down with thee !
Thy place is not in the hair of one — such as my
father wills that I should be .
ODOARDO. Oh , my daughter!
Emilia. Oh, father ! But no, you will not do
it. Else why delay ? (with a bitter tone, while she
plucks the rose.) Formerly there was a father,
who, to save his daughter from shame, sunk the
best steel into her heart, and thus twice gave her
life . But all such deeds belong to former times.
There are no more such fathers !
ODOARDO. Yes, my daughter, there is one such
father still ! (stabs her.) Oh, God ! what have I
done ? ( She falls, and he catches her in his arms.)
Emilia. Broken a rose before the storm de
stroyed it. Let me kiss this paternal hand.
[ Scene VIII. The Prince and Marinelli enter.]
PRINCE. What is this ? Is Emilia ill ?
Odoardo . She is well, very well.
Prince, (comes nearer.) What do I see ?
horror !
MARINELLI. Wo is me !
Prince. Inhuman father ! what have you done ?
ODOARDO. Broken a rose before the storm de
stroyed it. Is i: not so , my daughter ?
THE LOT
BY MRS. L. H. SIGOURNEY .
Therz's mourning 'mid the boughs
High in the forest fair,
The widowed linnet wails her spouse,
Caught in the fowler's snare,
While the forsaken nest
Laments with shriller woe ,
The gentle robin's brooding breast,
Pierced by the archer's bow.
There's mourning 'mid the flocks
That graze the verdant plain,
When from the yearning mother's side
The playful lamb is slain .
There's mourning in the flood,
For what the barbed hook
And the wide-spread, unpitying net
In sweeping vengeance took
And when the dire harpoon
Doth the vexed wave distain ,
And with strong agony transfix
The monarch of the main .
There's mourning in the field
The grass that fell to -day,
Reluctant, to the scythe did yield
Its fragrant life away-
tel
OF EARTH . 199
Emilia. Not you, father, I, myself - I, myself.
ODOARDO. Not you, my daughter, not you. Go
not out of the world with a falsehood. Thy father,
thy wretched father, did it.
Emilia. Ah-my father- (she dies, and he lays
her down gently.)
ODOARDO. Farewell ! Now, Prince, does she
still please you ? Does she still charm your lust,
here in this blood, which cries against you for re
venge ? (after a pause. ) You wait to see the
end . You expect, perhaps, that I shall now turn
the steel against myself and finish my work , as a
regular tragedy. But you mistake. Here ! ( throws
down the dagger by the Prince's feet.) Here lies
the bloody instrument of my crime ! I go, and
deliver myself up to prison. I go, and await you
as my judge. There - there -- will I await you ,
before the Judge of us all !
PRINCE, ( stands awhile in silence, viewing the
body with horror and despair. Then speaks to
Marinelli.) Here ! take it up—what ? You will
Oh , use it on yourself ? Wretch ! (tears the dagger
out of his hand .) No , your blood shall not be
mingled with this. Go ! bury yourself in eternal
concealment. Go, I say ! Oh , God ! oh , God !
Do not princes have misfortunes enough, in being
men ? Must their friends be masked devils ?
OF EARTH .
And the reaper in his path ,
How little doth he heed
The expiring of the mangled swathe
That at his feet doth bleed !
The maiden, as she goes
Among the flowers at morn,
Recks not the weeping of the rose
That from its buds is torn .
Though the mourning all around,
In ocean , earth , and air,
Doth tell that grief-seeds sow the ground ,
And blossom everywhere-
Yet man's aspiring race,
Who in their pilgrim - path
Must oft the mocking phantom chase,
And drink the cup of wrath,
With unrepining heart
This discipline should share,
And to the heaven -appointed dart
The breast in silence bare
Since they alone, of all
Creation's sorrowing train ,
May hope these fleeting ills shall work
Their everlasting gain.
 THE MYSTERIOUS NEIGHBOR .
BY PETER PENCIL .
So fair, and thousand times more fair
She seemed , when she presented was to sight.
Not long since , I dropped in one evening at the
house of Harry K—, in M -- street, and had the
good fortune to find him at home. He was buried
in one of the most convenient reading chairs that
the most luxurious of scholars might wish to pos
sess ; and was surrounded by books, papers , and
everything that belongs to the library of a man of
elegant literature and a bachelor.
This same Harry is a curious young man in the
matter of books. He has aa little of almost every
thing in his well filled cases , and his floor ( ſor want
of room elsewhere) contains tomes enough to form
the stock in trade of half a dozen booksellers. Books
in Latin, French , German , Italian and Spanish ,
lie cheek by jowl in the wildest confusion. Here
you will stumble over Don Quixote , and there run
against a pile of Voltaire ; in one place you must
raise your foot a yard to clear a set of an encyclo
pedia ; and in another, make a long step , lest you
should tread upon a lot of books just sent home,
which are patiently waiting their turn to be ex
amined .
If this devourer of books should marry a woman
whose organ of order is largely developed , one
glance at the interior of this apartment would
cause her to shudder. He avers , however, that he
is not a marrying man , though a great admirer of
the sex ; and it is not probable, therefore , that any
fair lady will soon be put to the trouble of reducing
this scene of literary confusion to anything like
order.
** Is it possible ? ” cried Harry, as I entered the
room .
66
To be sure it is, " I replied ; " shut up that
book , you vagabond, for I have come to spend the
evening with you ."
“ What sent you here to bother me ? Go home
again , and leave me to my German lesson.”
" Tell me that two hours hence, and I'll obey
you. For the remainder of the evening I mean
to stick to you like wax. So make yourself easy,
and hand me a segar.”
“ There is no peace for the wicked -- I see that.
Here , you patient, good -natured Benedict -- take
a segar, and under the edge of that dictionary you'll
find a light. Be careful, man - don't knock over
that inkstand .”
200
SPENCER .
“ Now , ” said Harry, after I had firmly planted
myself upon a chair, take a book and read till
I finish this short poem of Schiller's ; and then, if
you say so, I'll talk with you for a wager."
A volume of Paul de Kock lay near me, and in
a few moments I became much interested in his
pages. Meanwhile we both puffed away most in
dustriously, and in less than half an hour, the air
was so thick with tobacco smoke that one might
almost have cut it into blocks with a knife.
“ Fine ! ” at length exclaimed Harry, closing his
book with a slam .
“ Ditto ! ” responded I ; " and now to business."
" Commencez mon ami, — what's on the tapis
now ? Is it money you want, or only my patron
age ? If the latter, I promise it to you in advance.”
“ Neither one nor the other. I come to hear a
story ."
“ A what ?" demanded Harry, opening his eyes.
“ A story ," I repeated. “ Don't you remember
that, a few weeks since , you promised to tell me
a story , of which that friend of yours — what's his
name ? — Frank Neville-was the hero ? ”
“ Oh ! yes, I do remember, ” said Harry, with a
smile . “ Poor Frank ! If ever a man was in love
--- by the way, I got a letter from him a few days
since , and he tells me that his family has recently
increased to the extent of eleven pounds and three
quarters avoirdupois. Pretty well , that, isn't it ,
for a fellow who, a year since, had scarcely flesh
enough on his bones to hold them in their sockets.
I have written him back in the words of Agrippa ,
• Almost thou persuadest me to be a ' - husband.”
“ Very good ! ” said I. ** But Belier, mon ami,
you have begun at the wrong end. You ought to
have made that the catastrophe, for catastrophe he
will surely find it, unless he has a fortune to back
him . Begin at the beginning, if you please, and
fire away."
“ What, at the period of his infancy, do you
mean ? ”
“ No , no ; only at the commencement of his
loves-- if there be any love in the story . What
else is there in a man's life worth narrating or
listening to ? ”
66
• Well, ” said Harry, “ last June, a year, as I
was sitting at my chamber window , late one beau
 THE MYSTERIOUS NEIGHBOR .
tiful afternoon, amusing myself with the passing
crowd , I saw a young man walking slowly along,
and I at once recognized him as an old acquaint
ance whom I had not seen for some years. It was
Frank Neville , whose story you have desired to
hear. Our acquaintance had commenced at school,
and we were intimate friends for two or three years ,
until he removed from the city to a town some
where in the interior of the state. His father had
been a merchant of New York , and when I knew
him , he was considered a wealthy man , and moved
in the highest circles. Two or three letters passed
between Frank and me within the first six months
after he left the city ; but the correspondence was
then dropped , as if by mutual consent, and was
never resumed till after the events which I am about
to relate.
“ Strangely enough, for the first time in a long
while, I had been thinking of Frank but a few
moments previous to his heaving in sight. By the
way , I have a new theory, or science , which I
mean to bring out some of these days, to compete
for public favor and the approbation of Messrs.
Bryant and O'Sullivan , with animal magnetism
and neurology. My theory is , that there is an
invisible fluid floating around every man , which
has the effect of suggesting the thought of him to
any friend or acquaintance who comes within its
influence. Think of a marr one minute , and you
are pretty sure to meet him the next. Speak of
the devil ,' &c., says the old adage. Now all this
proves that, as coming events cast their shadows
before, so a man, by some hitherto mysterious in
fluence, affects the mind of any friend whom he
approaches, though a whole block of brick houses
intervene.
** Frank's eye caught mine, and he suddenly
stopped on the pavement, as though he were un
certain whether I was the person for whom he
took me. A nod of recognition on my part deci
ded him , and the next moment he was in my room .
He seized my hand with an eagerness that showed
the joy he felt in seeing me.
“ Without stopping to repeat our conversation,
it will be sufficient to say that Frank's father died
some months before, leaving a friend of his in this
city executor of his estate , which consisted of such
securities as were readily converted into cash.
This friend who, as it afterward appeared, had
been a land speculator on a large scale , being him
self much in want of money , took the liberty of
borrowing, as the phrase is, the whole proceeds of
this estate , and of converting it to his own use .
He had succeeded in concealing the fraud from the
family for a length of time ; but at last the suspi
cions of an old friend being aroused, an inquiry
was instituted, which disclosed the true state of
the case. The consequence was that, from a state
of afHuence, Frank and his family were plunged
201
into comparative poverty ; their sole dependence
being a small property belonging to his mother ,
barely sufficient, under the most rigid economy, to
support them decently.
“ Frank's high and manly spirit would not per
mit him to draw upon the scanty means of his
mother, and he resolved to come immediately to
this city and gain his own livelihood or perish in
the streets. He set off accordingly, and when I
first saw him he had been in town several days
his lodgings being a ' sky parlor ' in the vicinity of
one of our fashionable streets.
“ His plan was to get a living by means of his
pencil. He possessed a fine genius for painting ,
and having in his younger days taken lessons in
the art , had occasionally practised it for his own
amusement with no little success .
“ Frank had another object in coming to the
city, which was to make an effort to recover some.
thing of his patrimony. Soon after his arrival , he
called upon the executor, but obtained no satisfac
tion beyond the naked assurance of the dishonest
speculator, that he would pay as much and as soon
as possible. The affairs of this man , like those of
most men who operated ' largely in real estate ,
being in a bad condition , Frank's prospect ofrecover
ing any portion of his property was exceedingly un
promising. I recommended him to place his busi
ness in the hands of a friend of mine, who enjoyed
the reputation of being remarkably skilful in mat
ters of this kind. He followed my advice, and the
next day I introduced him to the attorney, who, we
had the satisfaction to learn , had recently been
transacting some business which had given him an
insight into the complicated affairs of the faithless
executor .
“ At my recommendation Frank hired a room
in which to practice his art. He had taken the
precaution to bring with him several specimens of
his productions, which I caused to be placed in the
shop of a fashionable bookseller, where they soon
attracted attention and procured him some com
missions. In a few days he was hard at work, and
had the pleasing prospect of being able to support
himself, at least, if not to support his family.
“ But Frank's troubles were not ended, for it
was not many days after my first interview with
him before he fell violently in love. One morning
he came to my room with a face of unusual gravity,
and I at once concluded that he had received bad
news
ws from his attorney. He assured me, however,
that such was not the case , having heard nothing
from his business for more than a fortnight; but he
hesitated when I pressed him to disclose to me the
cause of his dejection, and I then playfully charged
him with being in love. A sudden flushing of the
cheeks told me that I was not wrong.
“ Frank was silent, and seemed lost in thought.
“ « Come, out with it, man,' I said , ' give us all
202 THE COLUMBIAN
the particulars. Who is she ?—what's her name ?
and where does she sleep o' nights ? '
“ I don't know who she is,' replied my friend,
' for I never saw her till last week, and I cannot
tell you her name .'
6
“ « Then you know no more of her,' said I, than
you do of the man in the moon .'
6
“ * Very little ,' he observed , ' except that she is
divinely beautiful -- a perfect angel.'
66 • No doubt of that,' said I , all women are
angels in the eyes of their lovers. Is she tall or
short ? and has she a fine foot and ancle ? '
“ Upon my word I cannot say,' answered Frank ,
with much simplicity, ‘ never having seen below
her waist.'
“ At this, I could not help laughing outright, as
it seemed very odd that he had never seen enough
of his inamorata to be able to form an idea as to
the height of her person .
“ It may appear very strange to you,' he con
tinued , quite seriously , ' but the truth is I am only
familiar with the left side of her face , neck and
body , and the outside of one arm .'
“ This was said with so much simplicity that,
for the life of me, I could not suppress another
shout of laughter. My good natured and innocent
friend was at first not a little astonished at my ill
manners ; but in a few moments he himself was
struck with the ridiculous air which his confessed
ignorance of her personal appearance threw ove
the whole affair, and he then joined in the merri
ment and laughed till the tears ran down his
cheeks.
“ Well, but how is this ? ' I inquired , ' has she
got one side of her face bound up on account of
the toothache or mumps, and the whole of the right
side cloaked in consequence of the rheumatism ? '
66 No, no,' replied Frank, she has always kept
one side toward me.'
“ Oh !' cried I, then she goes on the principle
of putting the best foot foremost, as the saying is.
I'll wager, now, that she has but one eye , and that
the right cheek has a scarlet spot upon it, as large
as the palm of your hand .'
“ « Hear the whole story, will you ?' said he, with
some signs of vexation.
" Oh, certainly -- excuse me,' I replied. You
seemed to know but half as much of the lady as
you ought, and I concluded therefore that you had
but little more to tell. Go on , my dear sir, and
state the whole case .'
“ • Well , the facts are these. A few days ago I
66
went to my room a little earlier than usual one
afternoon , and took a seat at the window-the
weather being exceedingly warm. You will
doubtless remember that in the rear of our house
are several large three-story buildings which front
on the street behind. The yards being short, those
houses and ours are not more than fifty feet apart,
MAGAZINE .
so that I could see a person in a window of the
buildings referred to with tolerable distinctness .
Well , in one of the third -story windows of the
house directly in our rear sat the most perfectly
angelic being that ever captivated the heart of
man . To do justice to her in a description would
be beyond my powers. She is tall -- >
“ I beg pardon ,' said I ; if I understand you
rightly, you never saw below her waist . '
That's true ,' observed Frank , ' I merely infer
that she is tall from her appearance above her
waist. Her hair is like the raven down of Jark .
ness , as Milton has it ; her eyes are large and
beautiful as those of a houri.'
“ * You cannot aver that of both , surely ,' said I ,
• for the one you have not seen may be disfigured
by a cataract.
« 6 And her cheeks,' he continued, not noticing
6
my interruption , blend the lily and the rose in aa
manner which I defy nature herself to surpass.'
“ • Perhaps,' said I ; “ but this lily, and the rose
which you speak of so poetically, may be blended
in one cheek only — the other, as I before suggest
ed , being, for aught you know to the contrary , all
rose .
And even the near cheek , as a jockey would
say , may have been got up for the occasion . The
colors you admire so much may have been bought
and paid for — who knows ? '
“ A truce to your raillery ,' cried Frank, with
impatience. “ Her mouth , chin , neck , bust and
arms --
" • Supposing her to have the usual number of
arms
“ Are little short of perfection itself ; and I
thought, as I gazed upon her while she sat at the
window reading, that she was the most beautiful
creature my eyes had ever beheld . I do not think
she saw me, nor do I believe that she has noticed
me since ; but if she had happened to cast her
eyes toward my window she would have perceived
that she was the object of no little admiration
" And love. Why, man , how singularly inno
cent you are , I had almost said green. Now is it
possible you do not know that this fair creature did
not read a page of the book she held in her hand ?
and that, all the while you were gazing at her, she
was returning the gaze through the left corner of
that beautiful leſt eye ? Why, sir, I would stake
my head that by this time she knows that sober
face of yours as well as you know it yourself.'
Impossible ! ' exclaimed Frank. I assure
you , sir, that she never once looked up ; and I am
persuaded ---nay, I am sure - ihat if she had been
aware of my being so near and of my feelings to
ward her she would have withdrawn herself from
view immediately.'
« May be so ,' I remarked, incredulously. Well,
what followed , after the first sight with which you
were blessed ? '
 THE MYSTERIOUS NEIGHBOR .
" That night ,' he resumed, “ I scarcely slept a
wink . Her image was before me continually, and
I turned and tossed, and tossed and turned, till the
gray of the morning, when I fell asleep. Next day,
at the same hour, I repaired to my room and there
she was again , if possible more beautiful than
before .'
“ Still with the same side toward you ?'
G
«« « In precisely the same posture, and
" . With the blind eye turned away, of course.'
“ « Oh , Harry, give over this nonsense . Well ,
as I said , she was sitting in the same posture, with
one of her beautiful arms on the window sill and
reading most industriously. She continued there ,
and so did I , till it was dark, when I retired to the
solitude of my chamber ten times more in love with
her than ever.'
“ * And you have seen her every day since, I
suppose.
• Every day has found me at the window when
I ought to have been at work upon several pic
tures which I have promised to finish within the
next fortnight ; and every day but one I have been
blessed with the sight of that pure and most lovely
of God's creatures .'
• The day you did not see her she was probably
out shopping .'
“ Heaven knows where she was,' said Frank ,
with a sigh ; ' I only know that I was miserable
till I saw her again , fearing that she had seen me,
and taken offence at my impertinent gaze.'
“ Oh, you might have spared yourself that pain ,'
said I ; “for when you shall catch a pretty girl
taking umbrage at such an indubitable evidence of
admiration, you may come here and call me a fool.'
66 * I am glad to hear you say that,' said my love
sick friend ; ‘ for I would not offend her for the
world .'
““ * And if you had , Frank ,' I observed, 6 the dam
age might have been easily repaired. The easiest
task in the world is that of putting an offended
young lady in good humor by the person whom she
loves. Don't you know that ? Why , man , they'll
forgive anything but the sin of your smiling upon
another fair one.'
“6. You know the sex well , I see.'
“ I know womankind like a book. Well, thus
stands the case , and you have come to me , I sup
pose , for advice.'
“ No, I cannot say that,' he replied , 6" for I did
not expect to say anything to you on the subject,
not yet awhile at least. But now that the secret
has been disclosed to you , I will ask what you
think I ought to do. You know my situation ,
you know my feelings.'
“ • To be serious with you,' said I, after some
moments of reflection, I should say that, were I
circumstanced as you are, I would not marry. A ance of a lady. In this instance , after wearing out
man should never, in marrying, make his situation
203
in a pecuniary point of view worse than it was
before , unless indeed he be independently rich.
To climb a steep and rocky ascent with nothing
to aid you but your hands and feet is no easy labor,
but it is far more difficult with two or three persons
pulling at your coat tail . Now the chances are
against this lady's being worth much if any pro
perty , and as you have none it will be better for
you both that you should not marry. My advice
is not agreeable , I know, but it is honestly given .'
66
Poor Frank's brow was clouded. He had
evidently expected me to encourage him in this
business, but although I had at first taken the free
dom to banter him , I liked him too well to amuse
myself long at his expense . He expressed a strong
desire to become acquainted at least with the lady,
and requested my assistance . I recommended him
to avoid seeing her as the surest way of curing a
passion which it would be useless if not dangerous
to encourage ; but he insisted that no harm could
possibly arise from his simply knowing her, provi
ded he abandoned (as he certainly should ) the idea
of making her his wife .
6
I thought it probable that this lady might turn
out to be a very different person from what Frank
supposed herr ; and I was satisfied that if she should
fall much short of his expectations his love would
soon be transformed into disgust. As he is ex
ceedingly refined in his taste, and possesses a cul
tivated mind of no mean order, I thought it a hun
dred to one that a single interview with her would
considerably lower his ideas of her perfections.
Then , again , he had seen but one- quarter of this
extraordinary beauty-that is, one side of her up
per half ; and as even that small portion had been
viewed at a distance of fifty feet, it was by no
means improbable that a nearer view of her would
disclose defects of which he had not dreamed.
These considerations induced me to promise my
aid in bringing them together.
“ Frank left me, much pleased with the prospect
before him. On the following day, having pre
viously ascertained the number of the house in
which the young lady had been seen , I set to work
to learn her name and other important particulars.
It happened that I had two young friends residing
in that vicinity , from whom I expected to be able
to get all the necessary information and perhaps an
introduction . It turned out, however, that they
did not even know of her existence. On examin
ing the house I found that there was no name upon
the door, and the dusty and neglected appearance
of the porch and walk gave me a poor opinion of
the inmates whoever they might be.
66
Having inquired of several ofmy friends with
out success , I, for the first time in my life, found
myself baffled in my efforts to make the acquaint
a pair of boots in walking past the house and in
e
204 THE COLUMBIAN
search of those who might possibly know her, I
could not so much as learn her name. I never
was so confoundedly puzzled in the whole course
of my life . Nobody had ever seen or heard of her,
and at the end of a week I was obliged to confess
that I had made no progress whatever in the work
assigned me.
“ Meantime Frank continued to call upon me
daily and give me accounts of his post-prandial
observations. The lady was regularly at her post,
and her lover never failed to occupy his old stand
at the window . His paintings were neglected ,
and what little he did in his art gave no satisfac
tion . The image of his inamorata drove every
thing else from his mind. He even forgot to dis
robe himself one night and went to bed in his hat
and boots.
“ During the week Frank had several times met
the lady in the street, once at the theatre and twice
at a Catholic church. At the theatre she was
accompanied by a handsome foreign gentleman
with mustachios a circumstance which caused
my friend much uneasiness. He might be her
lover, and in that case Frank's chance, he thought,
was certainly a slender one ; or, what was still
worse, this gentleman might be her husband. You
will readily see how much food for bitter thoughts
this gentleman afforded the poor, self-tormenting
fellow . He assured me that he had abandoned all
idea ofmarrying;yet, lover-like, he could not endure
the thought of her being addressed by any body else .
“ Contrary to my hopes, a nearer view of this
lady had increased his admiration tenfold . He
declared that she was incomparably more beautiful
than anything wearing the human form that he
had previously seen ; and I foresaw that if her
mind was not far below the average it would be a
difficult task to effect the cure of his unfortunate
passion . I could only hope that her conversation
would seriously disappoint him , and that he would
eventually break the silken chains which the peer
less beauty had thrown around him .
“ I continued my inquiries concerning her from
day to day but without success. I could find
nobody that had ever seen her, but as yet no doubt
had crossed my mind whether the object of my
inquiries really had an existence in the flesh .
“ At last it occurred to me, as a dernier resort,
to find out who owned the house and learn from
him the name of his tenants. This plan promised
well. I repaired immediately to certain officers
of the ward with whom I was acquainted, and ob
tained the desired information . The owner , as it
happened, was a gentleman whom I knew, and I
lost no time in making him a vigit .
“ The answer to my inquiry was , that the house
was unoccupied, having been vacated three months
before by the last tenants, who preferred to pay no
rent .
8
MAGAZINE .
“ 6 But I assure you, sir,' said I, not a little sur
prised, “ that a friend of mine has seen a lady in
one of the windows every day for the last fortnight.'
“ * She must be a ghost, then ,' said the owner
of the house , laughing, ' for I locked up the house
myself, and have the key in my desk. I suspect
the only living animals in that house are a colony
of rats .'
“ Here was a difficulty, as well as a mystery,
which promised to give us no little trouble. There
could be no doubt that the house about which I
had inquired was the same as that in which my
friend saw, or supposed he saw, his charmer-our
observations having been such as to preclude the
possibility of mistake. Nor could there be any
question that the house was unoccupied, as the
external appearance , as I myself had remarked ,"
declared to every observing passenger a total want
of attention .
“ Frank, as you may well suppose , was thunder
struck at these tidings. He went home to make
his observations for the twentieth time , and to
place it beyond the possibility of doubt that he had
not mistaken the house . He counted all the build
ings in the row from the two streets that bounded
it , and having ascertained that they were seven in
number, and that the one in question was the mid
dle one , with three on each side , he went round to
the street on which they stand, and thus satisfied
himself that we had not been in error.
“ To render it certain , likewise, that the build
ing was really vacant , he framed some excuse one
evening for knocking at the door ; but all his
knocking was in vain , for nobody answered his
call . At last a neighbor popped his head out of a
window and told him that he might knock there
till doomsday, as the house contained no living
soul. Before Frank could ask him any questions,
he drew in his head and disappeared.
“ All this was strange enough, and I began to
apprehend that Frank's mind had lost its balance
in a slight degree — the consequence of his pecu
niary misfortunes ; and that the image he had so
frequently seen was not composed of flesh, blood
and bone .
“ He called upon me immediately after his fruit
less knocking, and talked the matter over with
less than his usual calmness, declaring that he had
seen the lady twenty times as plainly as he saw
me at that moment-an assertion which I could
not dispute without calling in question either his
veracity or his sanity. At his request, and to gratiſy
my own curiosity which was now much excited ,
I consented to accompany him to his room on
the following afternoon, and watch for this incom
parable but mysterious beauty. Accordingly, soon
after dinner, wei took seats where we might see
her without being seen ourselves, and waited with
much impatience for her appearance. Frank was
 THE MYSTERIOUS NEIGHBOR .
so nervous that he could scarcely speak , and kept
his eye fixed upon the attractive window . We
were disappointed --- no lady appeared that day,
and after watching the red bricks till dark, we lay
in wait no longer.
" This was the second time, according to Frank ,
that she had failed to appear, but as there was
nothing remarkable in her absence , I thought but
little of it, and agreed to come again on the follow
ing day at the same hour.
Pursuant to this arrangement I repaired to
his room, but was again disappointed. On the
third and fourth days I repeated the visit, but was
not gratified with a sight of the erratic fair one.
Frank was sorely puzzled and suggested many
causes in explanation of her absence. It was ap
parent , however, that his own explanations were
less satisfactory to himself than to me.
“ Two days subsequent to my last visit, Frank
came to me , much altered in appearance , and ob
served that , on the previous afternoon , the lady
had again been seen at the window of the empty
house . It was evident that his passion , and the
little mystery connected with the object of it , had
sorely preyed upon his spirits. He was very pale,
his countenance was haggard , and he was unusu
ally taciturn and thoughtful. The change in him
was so striking that I was not without some feel
ing of alarm on his account. I said what I thought
necessary to encourage him , and he went home
comparatively cheerful.
“ For three days I saw nothing of him , and
fearing something had happened, I called at his
lodgings and was told that he was very ill. I flew
to his room and found him delirious. The cause
of his illness I well knew, and I thought it my duty
to inform his physician , who, after hearing the
whole story, gave it as his opinion that Frank's
intellect had been slightly disordered.
“ During my frequent visits to his room I watch
ed the house that had attracted so much ofmy.
friend's attention , and the physician did the same ;
both of us being extremely desirous to determine
whether Frank's charmer was aa real being or only
an image conjured up by a diseased imagination.
Neither of us saw anything at those windows in
the shape of a woman , though we attended our
patient every day for nearly three weeks.
“ At length Frank recovered his reason , and
became convalescent; but his spirits remained so
much depressed by what had happened , that the
physician entertained serious apprehensions that
he would sink under the mental suffering which
he endured . I persuaded him to change his lodg.
ings, and he took a pleasant room in another part
of the city.
“ He had not seen the young lady since his ill
ness , and a question which he asked me one day
indicated a doubt on his part whether he had not
VOL . 1.- 18.
205
been laboring under a delusion. In order to re
move such an impression , I replied that the young
lady had undoubtedly been seen by him at various
times, and that I did not question that what seemed
to us a mystery was susceptible of a satisfactory
explanation. I rallied him upon his passion, and
cheered him with the assurance that we should
soon find out and become acquainted with its
object.
“ One day as he was sitting listlessly at his easel
with an unfinished picture before him which he
had not touched for a month, the door was opened
and a gentleman entered whom he at once recog
nised as the person he had seen with the object of
his adoration. All the bitter feelings of a rival
were suddenly aroused, and his first impulse , as he
afterward told me, was to throw a chair at the
gentleman's head . He resisted these hostile feel
ings, however, and received his unknown visitor
with his usual courtesy .
“ The object of this visit was soon explained ;
it was to engage Mr. Neville to paint the portrait
of a lady, in the style of one which I had placed
in the bookstore before alluded to. Frank's
heart leaped into his throat at this proposal,
for he concluded that the lady could be no other
than she of the vacant house. His emotions were
so violent that, for a few moments, he was unable
or dared not trust himself to reply ; but he soon
recovered his self-command, and accepted the
commission .
“ The first sitting-was to be given next morning,
and Frank spent the interval in thinking and talk
ing of little else than the expected interview . Hope
and fear, joy and pain by turns held possession of
his mind . one moment he was as gay as a
lark ; at another, depressed as though he were the
subject of some overwhelming misfortune.
“ On the following morning, agreeably to ap
pointment , the gentleman and his fair companion
made their appearance, and one glance at the latter
satisfied the love-sick artist that she was indeed
the lady of the window . I need not repeat his
description of the feelings he experienced at that
moment. If you have ever loved , you can easily
fancy what they were . Frank said that he shook
the very paint off his pallet , and felt all the timidity
of a child in the presence of a tyrannical father.
“ This paragon of beauty and grace was plainly
attired ; but her simplicity of dress, in the eye of
the painter, heightened her personal charms. The
sweetest possible smile enlivened her features when
he was introduced to her, and there was that in
describable something in her manner which fasci
nates the beholder and which is the offspring of
high association and refinement alone.
“ With all the peculiar sensations of a lover, for
the first time in the presence of his mistress, Frank
sat down to his task. His feelings, however, com
56
206 THE COLUMBIAN
pletely disqualified him for his work. The fair
sister noticed his agitation , and , in a voice that
went to his heart, expressed the hope that Mon
sieur was not ill .'
“ The first sitting terminated, and the visitors
withdrew . When they were gone Frank inspected
his work with all the calmness he could command,
but he saw little reason to be satisfied, and was on
the point of destroying it and confessing to his pat
rons his inability to do justice to the subject.
“ He did somewhat better at the second and
third sittings, but still he was dissatisfied, and not
without reason, as I myself can testify ; for a more
villainous picture was never hung up as a sign at
the door of a village inn. His sitter was polite
enough, however, to express herself delighted with
the work.
“ From a conversation which the artist held with
the lady one day , while the gentleman was absent,
he learned that they were natives of one of the
principal towns in France ; and that they had
come to America in the vain hope of being able to
save some property which they had invested in the
stocks of one or two non- paying states. During
the conversation Frank took occasion to remark
that he was no stranger to her person , having re
peatedly seen her in the back window of the house
in which she resided.
« Monsieur is mistaken ,' said the lady, ' I have
never sat in the back window, that I remember .'
“ Frank opened his eyes in astonishment, and
his countenance , unconsciously to himself, express
ed no small degree of doubt as to the truth of her
declaration. He had seen her twenty times and
more , and while she sat at the window, had gazed
with rapture for hours on her exquisite beauty ; but
now she denied having ever been where the artist
would have staked his life that he had repeatedly
seen her.
«6 • Monsieur seems surprised ,' she continued ,
with a smile, but I can assure him that our room—
that is, mine and my husband's overlooks the
street and not the yard.'
66. Your husband ! ' exclaimed Frank , involun
tarily, and dropping his pallet and brushes on the
floor, “ is that gentleman , then , your husband ? '
" " He is indeed , Monsieur,' replied Madame,
kindly ; ‘ pray, whom did you take him to be ? '
“ • I was in hopes — that is, I supposed, Madame,'
replied the poor artist , stammering, that he was
your - your - brother.'
“ After this interview Frank came to me the
very picture of despair. In a few words he laid
his troubles before me . She was a married woman
after all , and the announcement of that fact was a
death blow to all the delightful hopes in which he
had indulged. I confess that I was not very sorry
to learn that this angel was already provided with
a husband, for I thought it better for Frank that he
MAGAZINE .
should suffer a little present pain than entangle
himself in the meshes of poverty and matrimony
combined .
“ He drew from his pocket a glove which she
had accidentally dropped in his study , and pressed
it to his lips, declaring that he would wear it next
his heart forever. If I had not pitied the poor
fellow , all this would have afforded me some amuse
ment ; for I had never seen a man laboring under
so violent a paroxysm of love mingled with the pain
occasioned by the sudden extinguishment of his
fondest hopes.
“ Soon after leaving my room that day, he met
the lady in the street, and notwithstanding his
resolution to keep her glove, he could not resist
the temptation to return it and receive her thanks.
He accosted her with his best bow , and as an ex .
cuse for doing so , observed that he wished to return
the glove which she had left in his room . The lady
looked at him with surprise , and with the same
charming French accent which he so much admir
ed, observed that he must certainly have mistaken
her for some other person, as she had not lost aa
glove , neither did she remember to have seen him
before.
“ Frank was so much astonished at this unex.
pected reply that he stopped short and said not
another word ; the lady continuing her walk as
though nothing had occurred. He did not know
whether to regard this as a regular cut, or only a
mistake arising from near -sightedness or absence
of mind . That she could have failed to recognize
him , though the afternoon was pretty well advanced,
seemed almost impossible ; and yet , on the other
hand , he was unwilling to believe that a lady whose
manner toward him had always been distinguished
by the greatest kindness would thus, suddenly and
without a cause , change her deportment and refuse
to know him . He came back to me forthwith ,
.and in a towering passion. He said he believed
there was some diablerie connected with that wo
man , and he had his doubts - now that he recollected
some peculiarity in her complexion - whether she
was like other women and belonged to this mun
dane sphere.
“ I inquired , jocosely , whether he remembered
having smelt brimstone during her sittings.
66
He replied seriously that he did not , but that
there was always a strong scent about her of
patchouly.
“ • That's not peculiar to her,' said I , laughing,
• for all the witches now -a-days smell of patchouly
or orange water.'
“ Frank said he would finish the portrait in one
sitting more , and then cease to think of this unex
plainable fair one forever. I applauded his resolu
tion , but assured him that he would not keep his
word . When he saw her again he threw as much
of coldness and reserve in his manner as he possibly
 SONNET .
could. She was, as usual, all smiles, and politely
complimented him on his success in copying her
features. The slighted artist, however, was not to
be so easily appeased and brought down from the
high and dignified position he had assumed ; his
replies were so short and so coldly polite , that Ma
dame could not but notice the change in his man
ner. To her question whether he had found a
glove which she supposed that she must have drop
ped on his floor, he answered, as he drew it from
his pocket and presented it to her, that he saw no
good reason why Madame had denied the loss when
he had taken the freedom to address her in the
street on the previous afternoon.
“ Madame opened her beautiful large eyes, and
declared that she had not seen Monsieur in the
street. She was out of town all day, and appealed
to her husband to corroborate what she said . She
saw with pain that Monsieur was not himself, and
that he had evidently taken offence at something,
she could not tell what.
“ All this was said in a manner which left no
reason to question its truth . Frank examined her
features very closely, but he could discover no trace
of anything unnatural. The same exquisite beauty
which had enchanted him was there in all its bril
liancy ; but he saw nothing to confirm his suspi
cion that she belonged to some other planet or to
regions under the earth . He took a good long
sniff, but no scent of brimstone , only that of patch
ouly, saluted his olfactory nerves. He was satisfied
though much perplexed. Instead of finishing the
portrait at that sitting, he determined to require
two more at least.
“ It was about this time that the attorney called
upon me and announced a great and important
change in Frank’s pecuniary affairs. In the course
of his investigations the skilful lawyer had made
some discoveries which enabled him to work with
great effect upon the fears of the defrauding execu
tor. The consequence was, that he succeeded in
extorting good securities to the amount of two
thirds of the estate -- a sum which immediately
reinstated Frank and his family in their former
easy circumstances.
SONNET .
As fettered birds, that fain would fly
O'er verdant mount, and distant main ,
To cleave yon azure arch may try-
Yet feel the iron of their chain ,
And fold their wings and droop and die ;
So the lone heart, by sorrow bound
In vain ten thousand things of light
207
“ One day the artist, now an independent man ,
came bounding like a wild deer into my room ,
overturning everything in his way, and acting
more like a madman than one in his sober senses.
It was some time before I could learn the cause of
this sudden ebullition of joy, but at last, when he
had become comparatively quiet, he exclaimed, as
he threw his hat up to the ceiling, She is not
married after all.'
« « Who is not married ? '
“ * Why, the lady of the window - Mademoiselle
Lascelles .'
666
· Explain .'
« • There are two sisters of them , as much alike
as peas. One is married, but mine is not.'
6. Yours !-you are engaged then ? '
6
“ No, not yet ; but I mean to be in less than
a month .'
“ The fact turned out to be that these ladies are
twin sisters, and they resemble each other so closely
that, after I had been acquainted with them for
weeks, I could scarcely distinguish which from
t'other.' Frank being now independent, there was
no obstacle in the way of his matrimonial inclina
tions ; and after a courtship of six months, the
happy pair were united.
“ One thing remains to be explained, and that
is, the lady's appearance in the empty house . It
seems, from Madame's account, that the house
in which she actually resided was next door to the
vacant one ; that both had once been occupied as
a boarding house ; and that afterward the owner
had caused all the doors between the two to be
closed up, excepting that in the third story , which
was usually kept locked. Finding this door open
one day, and knowing the adjoining house to be
unoccupied, she passed into the vacant chamber
with a book , in order to avoid the noise of several
children , her fellow boarders, who annoyed her
exceedingly with their boisterous romps. Pleased
with the quiet of her new reading room , she adopted
the plan of spending a portion of her time there,
unconscious, all the while , what tremendous effects
were produced by the artillery of her charms.
There, sir, you have the whole story."
Spread their glad sorceries around ;
Nor mirth, nor song, nor revel bright,
Nor visions wild of new delight,
With promise more of bliss beguile
What though they win a passing smile ?
It feels the galling of its chain
And sinks in solitude again !
 EDWARD FORESTER ; OR , ONLY THIS ONCE .
BY H. HASTINGS WELD.
BLESSED youth ! With what longings for its happy
thoughtlessness, its cheerſul innocence , its ever
elastic hope, its confidence in the future, its forget.
fulness of the past, its enjoyment of the present,
do we look back , when we have passed from the
sunny side of the way, and begin to see our sha
dows lengthening before us ! And yet, when we
undertake to say such things as these to our young
friends, they either give us an incredulous smile,
intimating their suspicion that we speak what we
do not mean, or they put us down as already be
ginning to offer verification of the proverb , “ once
a man - twice a child . "
Curly-headed , handsome little Ned Forester
thought, like all boys, that if he was happy in his
childhood and youth , he would nerefore be all the
happier when increasing years had brought in
creasing capacity for enjoyment. As he looked
out upon the world, the points he saw in it were
all the cheerful, sunny ones. He did not consider
that there are never hills without valleys ; that the
gilded mountain tops are the colder and bleaker
because they are high ; and that the same eleva
tion that is kissed by the warm sun is cooled by
the sharp wind. He was happy , and he had a
right to be , for he had never yet put a reproach in
the power of his conscience. Innocent, unsophis
ticated, but still with clear notions of right and
wrong, he was entrusted by his widowed mother
to the temptations of the great city. She felt se
cure of his safety , as her brother was to be his
master - forgetting what a world of watching she
had found it necessary to bestow upon her boy in
the country , and at a distance from both induce
ment and opportunity to go astray .
“ Humph !” thought Mr. Milbank , as Ned took
the chair he pointed out to him , when the lad pre
sented himself at his uncle's counting room . “ My
sister might have spared her long letter of forebod
ings and her beseechments for her boy. He can
take care of himself, or I am no judge of faces.”
The uncle tested his conversational powers
enough to satisfy himself that the boy had indeed
received a mother's care--that most efficient edu
cation. He found him correct in principles and
wonderfully well versed in the theory of general
knowledge. As for practical acquaintance with
the world , he was , as we have already said , unso
phisticated — which is another word for guiltless.
208
Mr. Milbank might have taken the trouble to be
his Mentor. He did not, for, he said, “ Ned is ca
pable of finding these things out, unassisted.” It
(6
is a dangerous “ seasoning , " which most of our city
youth thus receive, and the miracle is, how so
many come out-not unscathed, for that they do
not - but with sufficient wreck of boyhood to build
manhood upon .
In a very few weeks Edward found that he was
completely his own master. At his mother's house
he had a sister and a parent , to whom he could
make frequent communications of his thoughts, and
purposes, and impulses. He tried this confidence
upon his uncle , and though respect for his sister
induced Milbank to listen with apparent kindness,
at first, and afterward with toler patience, Ned
soon saw that he would create no unpleasant dis
appointment if he forebore altogether to ask his
uncle to listen. And next, he thought he discov
ered something very like a satirical smile stealing
over the face of the man of the world, as the coun
try boy tried city manners by the standard of strict
right and wrong. And then Forester - for so the
lad , too small for Mr. , too old , in their own
opinion, for Edward, was called by his companions
-began to suspect that there is one set of rules
devised for the conduct of young men by " old wo
men " -- mothers particularly — and another by peo
ple who “ know the world . "
One fine summer evening -just after the occur
rence of something or other which had served to
set him thinking that a “ good boy " is one who
should naturally feel ashamed of himself in the
"
presence of“ knowing ones "--Forester had strolled
alone upon the Battery. He felt a half desire that
some sort of adventure might turn up, by which he
could on the morrow have something to talk about ;
which should give him a participating interest in
the morning chat of the other boys and clerks in
the office - how this one was pursued by a watch
man , and that other did not reach home till two
o'clock. He was vexed at the cold intercourse
which had hitherto subsisted between him and his
mates. He felt uncomfortable, daily, that their
days were so full of topics of conversation , while
he moved on in the same monotonous path , varied
only by the semi-monthly letter from his mother,
and his answer . He began indeed to be ashamed
of that mother. It was the fittest moment for THE
汽
EDWARD FORESTER ; OR , ONLY THIS ONCE .
TEMPTER — and he came. A week before, Edward
Forester would have feared to trust himself in the
society of one whom he knew to be a contemner of
all that he had been taught to observe and to re
spect. But now, thanks to his uncle's care , he was
just in the mood ; and he took Ralph Sumner's
arm for a walk -- not without some palpitation, for
he knew, as Ralph promised to show him the lions,
that the evening's occupation would be one of
which he should be in no haste to write home a
full and particular narrative.
Far away, in their twilight loneliness, the mother
and the sister remembered the absent one in their
orisons. The gentle wind among the leaves of the
tree under which, in childhood, he had frolicked ,
whispered “ amen !"
CHAPTER II .
A beautiful girl of sixteen was bending over a
rose bush , carefully detaching every leaf which
showed symptoms of decay, and clipping the twigs
which, with too great luxuriance, would have
marred the symmetry of the plant , or uselessly ex
hausted its strength with too redundant growth ;
and as her taper fingers gingerly plied their agree
able task amid the tender foliage, you felt that thus
should some affectionate hand guide and protect
the lovely being before you . She was Edward
Forester's sister.
A matron stood regarding her with an expres
sion of parental interest, not unmingled with anxi
ety . It was Edward's mother. Long widowhood
and patient endurance of the cold world's indiffer
ence, while she watched over her two children, had
schooled the widow's feelings into a habit of pen
sive and affectionate anxiety, which could not be
put off, even when , as at this moment, there seem
ed present no possible reason for it .
A fine dog walked into the hall , and cast a saga
€6
cious but puzzled eye upon Edward's "every day
hat,” which had begun to gather dust by its un
wonted rest upon the peg in the wall . Then Ponto
took a dissatisfied survey of other too quiescent
personal property of the absent — the fishing rod,
and bat , and stilts, in the farther corner, near the
garden door. Then standing on the threshold , he
looked a moment down the path , as if he expected
somebody would , as he had often done, pick up a
stick, and kissing it, give it a toss, to exercise
Ponto's canine propensity for gamboling in the
pursuit. But no such thing happened ; and after
poor Ponto had given the idle spade and hoe and
rake a despairing look , and cast a half reasoning,
angry glance at the gathering weeds, he turned ,
and entering the sitting room , looked with evident
dissatisfaction in every corner. Then, after resting
a moment on his haunches, as if to ponder the still
to him unexplained absence of his master, he waik
18 *
209
ed up and thrust his cold nose against Lizzy's left
hand , which hung at her side, while her right was
busy among the roses .
“ Oh ! you plague !” cried Lizzy, startled and
half frightened , “ how often shall I have to tell you
that your master is in New York and won't be
home till Christmas ? ”
“ And by that time, Lizzy," said the mother,
" he will be unable to see what care you have taken
of his rose bush."
And the mother sighed as she said this , but it
was for something more than the loss of Lizzy's
labor. She was thinking how many an hour of
anxiety a mother must endure for her child without
apparent result ; how, for his good, she suffers pri
vations such as a mother only can tolerate — such
as a mother only can invent. A father may love
as dearly in theory, and speak much of it ; a mother
talks less and acts more. A father expects grati
tude for his sentiments of affection , and denounces
that child as an ingrate who does not regard his
mere professions of affection as entitling him to all
filial love ; and all this time he will not deny him
self the gratification of one extravagance , perhaps
not of one vice or folly, to forward the good he
professes to desire in behalf of his child. Nay, he
may even be guilty of openly setting the son a bad
example , and think he has done his whole duty
when he cautions the boy against walking in his
father's steps.
But the mother, and more especially the widow ,
spends life and health for her children. For them
she not only foregoes luxuries, but defrauds herself
of necessaries. And this is not done boastingly,
but , as it were , in secret, lest the child be abridged
of enjoyment by the knowledge how dearly his
ease is purchased. Unrepiningly she persists in
this course of living martyrdom , content to look for
her reward in the distinction or advancement which
her sacrifices will buy for her children -- and she
looks, too often , in vain ! Either she is cut off
before the end for which she is striving is attained,
or she finds her ungrateful son abusing her kind
ness and despising her for her self-denial; or she
discovers that the estimate which parental par
tiality had placed upon her favorite is over large.
Hardly is the mother convinced of such a truth !
She would rather believe the world unjust than her
son incompetent.
The couple sat down to their frugal breakfast.
Lizzy had been as forgetful as poor Ponto, for she
had mechanically placed the bowl at Edward's
accustomed seat. The mother's smile was a mel.
ancholy one, as she reminded Lizzy of her inad
vertence .
“ I wish he were here to use it, mother ! ”
But Edward was just at that moment taking
“extra soda," as a penance for last night's extra
wine. The boys of our day are precocious.
210 THE COLUMBIAN MAGAZINE .
CHAPTER III .
We left Edward Forester with his friend Ralph ,
about to seek an evening's amusement together ;
Edward an anxious neophyte in the “ ways of the
world ” -as certain rattleheads are fond of denomi
nating their own follies ; as if all the world was
made of fools of their kidney - Ralph an artful
adept. The reader is not to suppose that Ralph
Sumner unveiled himself wholly in the first even
ing. Here and there a sly inuendo served his
purpose better, with now and then a patronizing
remark upon the well meant folly of the antiquated
but respectable party of mothers, fathers, masters
and such people. Nor was Edward fully betrayed
into the first decided step awry, till some evenings
had elapsed.
“ Oh, come along, Ned ! ” said Ralph , as he
detained him, not without the exercise of some
strength of arm . “ Come in , I tell you. Why,
you are as precise and as much afraid of the invisi
ble presence of your mother, and of your own
shadow , as little Tommy Too-good , in the child's
first primer ! ”
Edward wavered.
“ Only this once !”
He was persuaded , and nost stumbled as he
stepped into a saloon, the brilliant lights of which ,
reflected from the mirrored walls, dazzled his vision .
He stood in an apparent forest of columns; a laby
rinth of marble tables reached to an indefinite dis
tance all around him ; and hundreds of servants in
white aprons seemed gliding about, serving the
luxury of a mirror-multipħed host of convivants,
who lounged at the tables or leaned against the
pillars.
“ Don't gape and seem so verdant ! ” whispered
Ralph ; " the very servants will smell the grass in
your clothes ! ” And he gently forced the bewil.
dered Cymon to a seat. Edward barely rested
upon the edge. There was enchantment in the
scene - a finish of voluptuousness to win a smile
of approval from Apicius — to warm the imagina
tion and surprise conscience into inactivity. Still
there was at his heart a latent consciousness of
error which would not be set aside ; and he sat, as
we have said , as if he feared that the treacherous
couch might slide away and precipitate him into a
frightful chasm .
" Why, what's the matter, Ned ? ” asked Ralph.
“ One might fancy you had detected a poisoned
poniard under that cushion and were jealous of
pressing against its point ! ”
Edward muttered something in an attempt at
reply. He tried to laugh at his friend's sally, but
it was a sickly smile. He felt that his companion
had but too truly depicted his feelings, and that
what was spoken as a jest was indeed the truth.
He did not dare confess it-nor, reader, would you
have dared . But he determined, most resolutely,
as he thought, that “ this once” once over, he
never would risk himself again in the charmed
circle .
Ralph proposed refreshments. Edward saw that
he neither expected nor would accept a retusal to
participate. He saw also that a servant stood , un
obtrusively it is true, but still in the attitude of a
listener for "orders ;” and he knew that the gilded
palaces of vice are builded and garnished only for
those who are prepared to tax health and purse to
maintain them.
The seductive beverage quickened his pulses,
and, unaccustomed to such excitement, his temples
seemed to throb with the delirium of joy. His
senses grew more acute. His ear caught every
sound, and every echo of well bred and subdued
laughter was a new apology to his conscience .
People were enjoying themselves, certainly , he
now began to perceive, in a very rational manner.
Could there be any harm in that ?
The hum of the animated conversation of the
groups present came to his ears like the lullaby of
music, and soon drowned the monitor conscience
into slumber. Nothing that he saw or heard ap
peared to indicate or to prompt indecorum ; and
qur hero was fast losing his regret that he had
entered , when he was startled from his quiet
dreaminess by hearing pronounced, in a tone a
little stern, the name
“ Edward ! "
He looked up. His uncle appeared to be in
tently measuring with his eye the figure of Master
Ralph Sumner. Edward looked to see how his
companion endured the scrutiny, and found that
interesting young gentleman was testing the pro
blem how fast a spirit-soaked bit of lemon peel
could be made to gyrate, by the impetus of a spoon ,
within the circumference of a cut- glass tumbler.
Edward took his hat and bade his uncle a stam
mering “ good evening.” The two young men
went out with a spirit rather more humble than
that with which they entered .
Edward was disposed to silence. Ralph imme
diately recovered his assurance and said " What
could have brought Old Fusty here just then ? ”
6
“ To find me , I suppose," answered the other.
Conscious guilt is honest.
“ Fudge ! ” said Mr. Ralph Sumner. “ Look
here once ! ”
And drawing Edward back , the two boys saw ,
through the door, the body of the uncle most com
fortably extended upon the seat from which the
nephew had the moment before slunk away. A
servant had bowed over to receive his order, and
stood obsequiously waiting, with his salver hand
behind his back.
Edward looked a moment , and the boys passed
on. With what an impressive example had uncle
Milbank seconded the warning implied by the tone
 EDWARD FORESTER ; OR , ONLY THIS ONCE .
in which he said , “ Edward ! ” And Edward went
to bed, to dream of his uncle metamorphosed into
a huge glass of Roman punch.
IV .
CHAPTER
Again let us visit the quiet cot. But there seems
this day an unusual bustle. Lizzy is trying to rub
out an ink spot on her middle finger — the sure
mark of a lady's steel pen. A little trunk stands
open , as if waiting till the last moment, for what.
ever may claim a corner -- and it is a fact well
established, we believe, that by a woman's packing
a full trunk may be made, upon occasion, to double
its freight.
“ Now do get away, Ponto ! ” cried Lizzy, as
the dog persisted in putting his head among the
parcels ; " you are such a plague here that I should
be glad if I could send you too to New York, to
your master ! ”
“ Is everything packed ?" asked the mother ;
“ are you sure those linen gloves are in?-and the
books that he could not find when he left ? ” And
thus the old lady went on, particularizing every
item of the freight which an obliging neighbor had
volunteered to carry with him to the city for her
son . An affirmative having been rendered to every
question , she continued , “ Well , then , now shut the
trunk ; but don't seal the letter just yet. We may
think of something else to say to our dear Edward.
I am so glad to know that he is with a kind friend,
and that we may be sure of having good examples
before him in his uncle's house, and ” .
A letter from Ned himself! Your country post
master is no mere hard hearted official, who takes
no interest in his vocation ; but when his neighbors
are addressed, he deems it but aa friend's office to
make his eldest boy a penny post. Mrs. Forester
lost only time enough, before she broke the seal, to
say how glad she was that the letter came in sea
son to be answered by the same conveyance that
carried the parcels. It read :
“ My Dear MOTHER -- I need not tell you again ,
that I do not find this great city like our quiet
home ; and though I submit to the necessary sacri.
fice of my own comfort and do violence to my own
inclinations, in remaining here, I find means to be
content, because you wish it."
“ Poor fellow ! ” said Lizzy. The mother took
off her glasses to wipe them, and the sister antici
pated the next sentence or two, reading to herself,
till Mrs. Forester commenced again :
—“ Uncle Milbank is very kind , and allows me
every privilege, and gives me the same small salary
that all lads " -
Lads was crossed out and clerks written above it.
- That all clerks have in their first year. But
it is very small, and Ralph Sumner, a young friend
of mine , has as much more from his father as he
gets from his master.”
211
Here was another “ expungement.” Master
was crossed.
— “ Gets from his employer. If you could—but
then I ought to be sending you money and not ask
ing for it.”
The mother sighed. Lizzy looked up, as if a
sudden thought had occurred to her ; " Why, mo-
ther, it is so late now that I had quite as lief wear
my spring hat till next winter.” The mother pro
ceeded to read :
-“ It is hard , and I would not distress you for
the world , but I know that uncle wants me to ap
pear respectable, for your sake and for his, and my
»
country made clothes .”_
Lizzy looked at the fresh trunk - full which had
cost them so much labor, and a tear started to her
eye, as she guessed its probable welcome from the
country , in the great city.
_ " Really do not seem the thing among the
young men of my own position , but I know of not
half so good a family.”
A few commonplaces closed the letter ; the
burthen of it -- the motive of the writer — was an
swered in what we have read. The rest was
forced by the writer, and received by the parties
addressed with a sad feeling of disappointed affec
tion which they dared not confess to themselves.
The widow whispered, “ How like his father! "
and with moistened eyes studied the portrait of one
who had died proud and poor, and who now
seemed almost ready to speak to her from the can
vass, so like the father's conversation was the letter
of the son.
“ Away with you ! ” said Lizzy to the dog -for
an affectionate sister is not a mother, after all-
“there is nothing here for you — nothing for me
nothing for anybody but himself.”
6
“ Why, Elizabeth ! " the mother expostulated.
The daughter answered by falling upon the mo
ther's neck in a passion of tears — for a mother,
though never so ill able to bear her own , must ever
bear all the children's griefs also .
The trunk was locked with a heavy heart. The
widow's purse was swept with the most hardy
spirit of self sacrifice , and the letter, without an ad
ditional word -- for neither mother nor sister could
trust herself with a postscript ---bore away the booty
wrung by a heartless boy from a too fond parent.
CHAPTER V.
Edward Forester pushed the trunk on receipt,
unopened , under his bed , put the letter in his coat
pocket , the money in his vest, and - ordered a
fashionable suit. On the same day his sister coun-.
termanded her hat and his mother arranged a longer
credit with a friend , at a most sad sacrifice, not of
her pride alone, but of her sense of right and
gratitude.
In a very few days the country chrysalis changed
 212 THE COLUMBIAN
to a city butterfly. And now Edward was dis
posed to revisit some of the places where he felt
that, in his former guise, he must have seemed , in
Ralph's phrase, " verdant.” Again he entered the
gaudy saloon, whence his uncle's appearance had
caused him to retreat ; and having studied the very
attitude of his reputed guardian, he sank back
lazily upon his seat and tested to the full its luxuri
ous convenience. He looked about him with com
placency and resigned himself, without another
struggle against them , to the siren influences of the
place. His eye wandered over the frescoed ceiling
and rested with admiration upon the exquisite
prints and the pictures, not in the very chastest
spirit, which hung upon the walls. He listened , and
while small critics pointed out this as the copy of
such a painter, and that of another, talking of line
and stipple and mezzotint and lithotint and other
technicals, poor Edward began to blame his mother
as having sadly neglected his education. The
happy insouciance with which the frequenters could
Frank and Dick and Joe and garçon the slippered
menials, made our silly novice feel heartily ashamed
of his ignorance and deeply envious of the shining
accomplishments of those about him .
Copies of the Capitoline and the Venus de Me.
dici, and other figures without even the poor apo
logy of classic precedence , filled the niches or offi
ciated as torch bearers in that brilliant apartment.
Had a heathen devotee of the passions personified
entered, he might have poured out his libation
with a perfect home-feeling,in that voluptuous sa
loon, and resigned himself, like our hero, to perfect
abandonment to the pleasures of his palate. Every
moment our hero felt more and more persuaded
that those who had cautioned him against such
innocent enjoyment were infinitely more nice
than wise. Surely here were refinement, cheerful
ness , decorum , and as to the paintings and statues,
they were only copies of the masters, the orthodox
standards in painting and sculpture.
There seemed to Edward to be yet another and
more recherché apartment, and as the habitués
passed by him to that inner temple of pleasure ,
Edward looked with mingled awe and admiration
at the air of proprietorship and graceful impudence
with which they asserted their right of entrée.
And as he became accustomed to the hum immedi
ately around him, his ear distinguished a “ click , "
and roll , and “ chuck ! ” which almost consumed
him with curiosity. He could endure it no longer,
but making a desperate attempt to imitate the
bearing of the others, he stood, in a moment more,
in the BILLIARD Room.
Here were new marvels for him ; but before he
had time to be thoroughly surprised , he felt a pull
at his sleeve . It was Ralph Sumner.
“ Upon my word,” said that worthy, “ you have
come out quite the thing. Who suffered ? "
MAGAZINE .
" Who suffered ? ” Edward felt a twinge. He
thought of his mother.
66
· Yesmor, most unsophisticated young man , in
plain English-who made your coat ? But you
must not wait here , even to answer me. You're
spotted ”
“ Spotted ! ”
“ Yes ; the keen ones see you are green , and if
I leave you alone a second you'll be plucked .”
“ Plucked ! "
“ Indubitably, quiet simplicity.” And as Ralph
talked he drew Edward to the street. He had
reasons of his own why our hero should not be
plundered in the billiard room , as in that case the
C
disinterested Ralph would derive no share. “ Now ,
my boy, I'll show you life ! ”
As Edward turned to answer he saw that Ralph
had flitted suddenly. His uncle was at his elbow .
“ Edward, you must avoid that young man ! But
of that another time. Go directly to the house and
read this letter. "
On the morrow morning the new coat was left
in his chamber, the home wardrobe was put in
requisition, and Edward Forester was chiding the
tardiness, as he rode , of that swiftest means of con
veyance - steam .
CHAPTER VI .
The mother of Edward Forester was upon her
dying bed. How calm and still that summer after
noon ! Even the very insects hummed lazily, as if
nothing should betray enjoyment of life while a
spirit was about to pass from earth to its Maker.
Elizabeth watched intently by the bedside, expect
ing every instant to see the stoppage of her flicker
ing breath. The dying woman was calm , for she
was going to her rest in peace . Her eyes were
closed, but ever and anon she opened them upon
her daughter with an inquiring look, to which
Elizabeth replied by a gentle shake of her head.
It was a question and answer which all understood.
The dying woman --her devoted daughter - the
friends who stood sobbing at the foot of the bed
all thought of one person and waited for his arrival.
A sudden and joyful bark from Ponto at the door
broke the spell of silence just as the sun was sink
ing behind the hills. In an instant the dog was
hushed-in a moment more the brother and sister
knelt beside the bed. The mother placed a hand
on each , and smiled, and was in Paradise.
Not till the shades of evening had blended the
objects in the landscape into indistinct vagueness ,
did the orphans permit themselves to be led from
the room .
“ Pity me ! pity me , oh my God !” sobbed the
anguished son , "for my heart is crushed under
Esau's blessing ! I had no right to her dying >
smile ! I did not deserve her dying prayers !”

%
THE VICTOR IN THE
“ Not Esau's blessing, my brother ; you have not
stolen another's, but received your own. And as
she blessed us together, in departing, let us hence
forward be all to each other . If there are things
of which it is a blessed thing that she died in igno
rance , let the veil rest over them still.” And now,
for the first time since death entered the widow's
house, her orphan daughter found time for tears.
It was aa terrible and impressive lesson . Calm
reflection and the sound sense of his sister con
vinced Edward that the dreadful guilt of his mo
ther's death did not lie at his door ; but nothing
can now give him the full peace, in thinking of her
death as the death of the righteous, that he might
THE VICTOR IN THE
( See the engraving.)
Our Norman ancestors were egregious barbarians,
with their chivalry, their jousts and tournaments ,
their iron garments, their huge two-handed swords,
their maces or tomahawks and their grinded spears .
We know that not one in a hundred of them could
write , and that even reading was an accomplish-
ment almost as rare. Fancy the figure one of them
would cut in a ball-room , or at an æsthetic tea-party,
or a meeting of some scientific association. How
utterly at a loss he would be to appreciate even the
most ordinary topics of conversation ! How bewil-
dering would be his non -conceptions of a gas-light,
an Ericson propeller, a repeating -watch , a wrought-
iron cannon , a Charlotte Russe, an Italian opera
or an India -rubber overshoe ! How he would start,
amazed and terrified, at so simple a thing as the
ignition of a loco -foco match ; and cudgel his small
stock of brains to find out what was meant by beet-
root sugar ! Suppose he should be told of a man
towering up five or six thousand feet in the air, or
walking about, quite at his ease, under six fathoms
of water! Imagine him taking a shock from an
electrical machine, or sent to the moon by an ani-
mal magnetizer !
Even their tournaments, in which they so much
delighted and on which they so prided themselves,
were but savage exhibitions, appealing to and ex-
citing only the coarser elements of the intellectual
being. They were as low and brutal as the bulle
fights of Spain or the dog fights of England ; for
in them , as in these , the combatants were stimulated
by murderous propensities, and the beholders found
their enjoyment in the sight of wounds, bloodshed
and death. Yes, the tournament was an inhuman,
blood - stained scene, despite the brilliancy of its
concomitants — the sheen of armor, the “ largesse ”
cries of heralds and the presence of smiling beauty
--the shock of steeds, the waving of pennons and
the splintering of lances.
亮
TOURNAMENT . 213
have felt had not selfishness blinded his eyes to the
son's whole duty. She wore out her life for her
children , and her death fulfilled the mother's mis
sion , by arresting her son in a course which must
otherwise have proved his ruin .
Mr. Milbank was a good master for a lad not dis
posed to do ill . He put no temptations in his way
and inculcated no error, if he instilled no good.
Under such negative guardianship Edward has
grown a correct and prosperous man.
Ralph is now a marker in a billiard room , and
has already so accustomed himself to the next step
in the descending scale, that he will sink without
a struggle, till he reach the penalty of rags and
loathsomeness, if not the penitentiary.
TOURNAMENT .
It has been ingeniously suggested and plausibly
argued that national diet has much to do in the
formation of national character. There is proof of
the theory in the combativeness of our Norman an
cestors , both men and women . Their food was
mainly beef, bacon and venison — their drink heady
wine and strong ale . Of tea and coffee they were
ignorant; the flagon and black -jack were the drink
ing vessels of their breakfast -tables, and of urn , tea
pot, sugar-bowl and cups and saucers they had no
knowledge. Of course, with the juice of grape and
barley for their drink , they had strong, coarse viands
for their eating ; and we read in the old chronicles
how delicate damsels, dames of rank and even
princesses were wont to discuss yards of beef, more
or less, at their morning meal. Of the lighter and
more refined preparations of flour - muffins, waffles,
rice-cakes, BUCKWHEAT CAKES , tea-cakes , short
cakes, Johnny -cakes, wafers and the rest --of all
these they had none, at least for their breakfasts.
Eating bacon and beef and drinking ale just after
getting up, how could they be otherwise than en
joying admirers of the rough, rude, limb -breaking,
blood -shedding tournament ?
We invite the fair reader to think of these things
while looking at the picture_ " The Victor in the
Tournament.” The best foot is put forward there ;
we see only the gallant and successful champion ,
spruce as though he had just come out of a band.
box instead of a fight - a very tall lady giving him
the prize--her lovely attendants, á squire or two
and a pair of lads blurting out the champion's
praises by sound of trumpet. The dust and disor.
der of the melée , the wounded or slain competitor
and all the savage accompaniments of the scene
are judiciously kept in the background — that is,
out of sight. Nevertheless we pray that they may
not be forgotten ; or the ale , the black-jacks and
the yards of beef.
 THE INDIAN ROCK ;
OR ,
LOUIS WETZEL AND THE WILD TURKEY .
(A LEGEND OF THE OHIO .)
BY HENRY A. CLARK .
In the old days of war and blood ,
When the wild savage ruled our land,
From Alleghany's mountain wood
To Oregon's far ocean strand,
A lonely fort amid the forest rose,
Where bright Ohio to Misseppa * flows.
The circling woods stood gloomily around
The isolated dell,
And echoed often to the sound
Of the fierce Indian yell ;
And flamed within each rocky glen
The council fires of the wild forest men.
In that lone fort was gathered then
A band of hardy pioneers ;
Stern hearted, iron muscled men,
Who laughed in scorn at danger's fears,
And sent their own wild cheers and tauntings out,
In answer to the prowling red man's shout ;
And oft their rifles' deadly music rang
Among the wily foe,
Replying to the startling twang
Of the swift arrowed bow ;
And oft was mingled their red blood,
In combat, with the roamers of the wood .
Long had the artful foe essayed
To take the well defended fort ;
Many a cunning ambuscade
In the deep woods was placed, to court
The careless hunter's steps, when the wild deer
Made him forget the foe who hovered near,
And in the ardor of the hunt or chase,
Pursue the flying game,
'Till o'er the pathway of his race
The whistling arrow came,
While the wild deer unharmed Aed,
And left his bold pursuer cold and dead .
The hunters gazed into the wood,
They watched the swift deer darting by,
And cursed , in fierce and angry mood,
Life's cheerless , dull monotony ;
But long acquaintance with the Indian's art
Made " Prudence still their valor's better part ; "
Though much they longed Time's dulness to beguile,
An Indian name of the Mississippi.
214
With their old hunting sport,
Yet vainly strove the foe to wile
The soldiers from the fort ;
But Indian patience never tires
When thoughts of vengeance feed his passion's fires.
The woods for long days had been still,
Save to the song of woodland bird,
Or when wild deer upon the hill,
The forest leaves with swift foot stirred ;
No longer curled the Indian's council smoke ;
His midnight yell no longer fiercely broke ;
And soft the music of Ohio's flood
Stole through the forest flowers,
And swelled along the silent wood,
At twilight's solemn hours,
Or lulled the sentinel to rest
When midnight darkened o'er the landsca pe's breast.
But ever, morning, noon or night,
Rose from the glen a turkey's cry ,
As if to dare the prisoned white,
Who viewed the woods with anxious eye ,
To issue forth , and hunt the mocking bird ,
Whose ceaseless song and merry voice he heard ;
And nearer, nearer still the turkey came
Amid the trees beneath,
As though he sought the rifle's flame
And gave himself to death ;
And shriller grew his voice, till by
The fort itself, he raised his taunting cry .
Long time the restless hunters bore
The fierce desire they felt to roam
Amid the forest wilds once more ,
Where long had been their only bome.
At length one grasped his rifle and his knife,
And swore he'd shoot the bird or lose his life ;
He left the fort and stole along the hill,
Yet watched with careful eye
The gloomy depths of woodlands still,
Where rose the turkey's cry ;
The bird's shrill voice still lured him on ,
And far into the woods his footsteps won.
Near where “ the Indian Rock " yet stands,
Unmindful of time's wintry blast,
And from the visitor demands
A reverence for the storied past,
 THE INDIAN ROCK .
The shrill cry ceased its wild and taunting sound ;
The bunter stopped , and carefully looked round,
As doubting where the wily bird had fled,
When from the leafy wood
A whistling arrow swiftly sped
And drank his heart's red blood ;
Wild dusky forms about him rose ,
And laughed in glee to see his last death throes .
The weary hours stole slowly by,
Night slept upon the gloomy wood,
And swelled the music mournfully
Of sweet Ohio's tuneful flood ;
But yet the soldiers heard no rifle shot,
Their comrade still is out - morn brings him not
But when the sunlight gilds the eastern sky,
And earth with brightness fills,
Again the turkey's taunting cry
Rings o'er the neighb'ring hills ;
And nearer sounds his quavering call,
As if he scorned the rifle's deadly ball.
Hunters leave not their friends to die ;
Companionship in lonely hours,
When perils round their pathway lie
Thick as red leaves that autumn showers,
Endears his comrade to each rugged heart,
With a rude love whose bands but death can part.
Once more the portals ope, and three brave men,
With still and cautious gait,
Go forth into the forest glen,
To learn the hunter's fate ;
That brave and manly fear was theirs
Which led them well to watch for hidden snares .
The woods were dark and still as death,
Save to the turkey's swelling cry,
Which on the soft wind's gentle breath
Went ceaselessly and loudly by,
Retreating on the pathway of their steps
Into the forest's wild and gloomy depths ;
Deeper and deeper in the silent wood
They chase the flying sound ;
They start - their comrade in his blood
Lies on the leaf-strewn ground :
Long arrows rustle in the air
They fall and die beside their comrade there.
The prisoned soldiers oft gaze o'er
The river and the wood -clad lea .
Alas ! their comrades come no more
To join in social song and glee ;
They're sleeping in a stark and bloody grave
Beside the dark and gloomy " Indian cave."
Days pass - still long and loud the turkey's cry
Is heard upon the hill ;
Incessantly it rushes by
In cadence wild and shrill,
But lures no more upon the track
Where hunters go - but ne'er again come back.
Before the fort, one shadowy eve
When sunlight lingered in the west,
And wild wood flower and forest leave,
Like the bird's painted plumage dressed,
A solitary hunter stood and gazed
Where on Ohio's tide the red light blazed .
His sturdy frame was knit like mountain ash,
His eye was firmly bright,
And in its fierce and lightning flash
Was seen the spirit's might :
From the wild forest depths he came,
And Louis Wetzel was the hunter's name.
A name that oft has been the theme
Of border minstrels ' thrilling lay
215
Well known beside Ohio's stream ,
la daring deed and bloody fray ;
It's whisper lulled the Indian babe to rest,
And filled with fear the Indian warrior's breast.
The forest danger Wetzel joyed to court,
Alone he roamed the wood
Victor in every wild wood sport,
Invincible he stood ;
The forest's poblest, bravest child,
He ruled — the monarch of the western wild .
Glad welcome in the fort he found
All grasped his hand with joyous cheers,
And quick the hunters gathered round
The boldest of the pioneers.
They loved to hear his tales of bloody strife,
Of Indian chase and battle to the knife ;
And then they told him of the turkey's cry
That lured their comrades on,
And still arose unceasingly
With every morning's sun ,
And thrilled around in taunting sport
Beneath the harmless rifles of the fort.
“I'll kill the turkey," Wetzel cried ,
“ Or else my not unhonored name
“ Shall be no more a boast of pride
“ To swell the notes of border fame.”
He said no more but laid him down to rest,
And heaved in sleep the hunter's swarthy breast.
But ere the suplight of the morning sky
Had shone on wood and hill,
He sought the forest silently
While all around was still ;
He crossed the hill and woody lea,
And hid in the boughs of a lofty tree .
Upon the " Indian Rock ” his eye
Was fixed unwaveringly till day ;
He seemed to know instinctively
That there the noisy turkey lay.
As morn to hill and vale its radiance gave ,
There rose from the deep bosom of the cave
The turkey's mocking cry - loudly and shrill
It rang amid the trees ;
Again the leafy wood was still
Save to the whisp'ring breeze ;
And then burst out again the cry
Amid the stillness of the morning sky.
Then proudly from the gloomy cave ,
Steps forth a red man of the wood ;
Bright feathers o'er his dark brow wave ;
A moment motionless he stood,
And gazed around the dell with flashing eye ,
Then from his lips sent out the turkey's cry.
He knelt to bend his deadly bow again ,
But knelt , no more to rise
The ball of Wetzel pierced his brain
And stilled his turkey cries ;
Then sprang the bunter from the tree,
And swiftly fled - for brave men oft must flee.
Scarce half across the woody dell,
The gallant hunter's steps had passed,
Ere fiercely rang the Indian yell,
Like voice of winter's midnight blast ;
The soldiers in the fort now hear the shout
That had been still so long, and quick goes out
A well armed band to shelter Wetzel's path ;
The hunter soon they see,
While painted red men in fierce wrath,
Pursue bim o'er the lea :
Wetzel is safe - his peril o'er,
He laughs and says " The turkey'll cry no more."
 RECOLLECTIONS OF CHINA - NO . 4.
BY MRS. CAROLINE H. BUTLER .
A WALK to the barrier, or boundary wall , is a very
delightful excursion ; although it is not considered
safe for ladies to walk thither, unless accompanied
by gentlemen , as they are often liable to insults
and robbery from the Chinese inhabiting the little
village on the opposite side. Taking the precau
tion, therefore, not to go unprotected, we proceeded
thither. After passing through the campo , and
near the margin of the paddy fields, we diverged
into a narrow footpath which led through quite a
little forest of trees. Here we came suddenly upon
a few Chinese dwellings, the doors of which were
open , leaving the view of the interior entirely un
obstructed. We entered one of these huts, where
a miserable old crone was sitting over a few char
coal embers, smoking, while a young and rather
pretty female was dandling a babe in her arms.
My companion addressed a few words to the child
in the Chinese language. The mother smiled and
instantly approached us, holding out the babe for
us to admire . No other theme than the praise of
her child could have thrown so much expression
into features as unmeaning as the Chinese possess ;
but they were now lighted up with an animation
which showed that the right chord had been
touched .
Leaving the smiling mother standing at the
door of her hut, we soon emerged once more into
the open fields, and after scrambling over rocks
and stones, we found ourselves on the beach with
the ocean stretched in sublimity before us. A
little to our left was a point making into the sea
one continued mass of rocks, with a few miserable
huts scattered among them. This is called Fish
erman's Cove. The nets of the fishermen were
spread on the rocks to dry, and many of their little
boats were gliding in and out among the adjacent
islands. On the rocks near us were groups of half
naked men , women and children, gathering oysters
and muscles, which abound to profusion .
We remained for some time watching their pro
ceedings, and then pursued our walk to the barrier,
which we found truly delightful. The surf rolled
gently to our feet, every succeeding wave leaving
thousands of pretty little shells on the beach. We
were soon interrupted in our quiet stroll by a party
of ladies and gentlemen on horseback . This is
the only spot Macao offers to the equestrian , and
therefore the barrier is generally visited every
afternoon by these parties, who gallop gaily back
216
and forth along the small space allowed to the
« barbarians."
On our return , after leaving the campo, we
strolled from our path to visit a fountain amid the
hills. There are many of these fountains at Ma
cao, which supply the inhabitants with water. To
a stranger their appearance is quite picturesque.
They are generally excavated at the foot of some
high rock, under a pleasant shade, where a motley
group are constantly collected waiting their turn
to fill their pitchers and buckets. Here we have
the turbaned Lascar, the sturdy Negro, Caffres in
their loose , white jackets ; Portuguese men and
women bearing large jars ; the bare headed China
man with his buckets thrown over his shoulders
and his pipe invariably in his mouth ; the Chinese
woman , a handkerchief tied under her chin , with
a babe fastened at her back, toiling along with a
large bucket or jar in each hand , and little children ,
of not more than five or six years of age, are here
made to drag up the steep ascents, with seemingly
twice their own weight suspended from their naked
shoulders.
The long rains and typhoons to which this cli
mate is subject combine to give Macao an air of
great antiquity ; buildings in reality quite new
have , from these causes, a very time-worn aspect.
During the wet season the rain pours down in
torrents for weeks, washing away the chenam or
plastering spread over the exterior of most of the
dwellings, and at the same time rendering every
thing within doors damp and uncomfortable. Then
come the typhoons — the wind blowing tremen
dously, tearing off the tiles, sometimes unroofing
whole streets, while over those dwellings on the
Praya- Granda the sea rushes furiously, sweeping
away the verandas, and often penetrating into the
drawing rooms. To add to the terrors of the tem
pest , during most of the time the thunder rolls
awfully,2 reverberating over the hills and adjacent
islands, while the lightning is incessant and vivid.
The life of foreign ladies at Macao admits but
of little variety -- one day may serve as a very fair
specimen of all. The first sound in the morning
is the heavy dashing of the surf upon the beach ;
next come the brisk notes of a fife and beat of drum ,
and in a few moments the measured tread of the
Governor's Guards is heard beneath the window,
wending their way toward the Monté fort. The
mornings are fine ; a walk in the veranda , which
*
 RECOLLECTIONS OF CHINA - NO . IV.
is often used both for an aviary and green house, at
an early hour is delightful. After nine the sun ,
striking upon the white beach and white walls of
the buildings, added to the dazzling brilliancy of
the water, causes a very unpleasant effect upon the
eyes ; the blinds are now tightly closed - curtains
drawn, and large screens placed around , to prevent
the rays of the sun from penetrating even into the
most retired corner of the saloon. From this hour
until two, P. M., the ladies are dependant upon
their own resources for amusement, often varied ,
however, by the entrance of the compradore with
a “ chit ” (billet) or to give notice of the arrival or
departure of a Canton packet. It is amusing to
see with what zeal this chit intercourse is main
tained ; it proves the ladies as great talkers on
paper as elsewhere. No verbal messages are ever
sent, and therefore let the amount of information
to be given or received be ever so trifling, the
lady sits down to her beautiful lacquered and gold
escritoire, lights her perfumed taper, and forthwith
a chit is despatched. From two until four, P. M. ,
there is usually an interchange of ceremonious
visits between the American and English ladies.
Five o'clock is the dinner hour, when , ushered by
her compradore into the lofty salon a manger, the
lady sits down to a table loaded with the profusion
and luxuries of the East, and attended with all the
etiquette due to a princess by her suite of Chinese
servants. Dinner parties , however, often relieve
the dull tedium of this hour, the most annoying of
the four-and -twenty. It certainly is no pleasant
thing to be gazed at for preferring knives and forks
to chop-sticks, or the wing of a pheasant to a
spoonful of rice and rancid oil !
A foreign lady when she walks out finds herself
an object of great attraction and amusement. Her
style of dress is entirely different from any she sees
except the few , comparatively, of her own circle.
The Chinese look down with horror upon barbari
an feet, and with shouts of laughter upon barbarian
heads ; even the little children grimace or run
frightened away !
The Portuguese women wear no bonnets ; in
lieu, they have a large square shawl of gay colors ,
highly glazed ; one end of this is fastened on the
head, slightly projecting in front, while the rest falls
around them like a mantle. This has a rather
graceful appearance , and on the whole carries such
an idea of hidden charms, that a stranger would
expect to see the most beautiful face in the world
peeping from this close covering—but on this point
the least said the better-imagination is a most
deceitful goddess !
With the exception of the Praya - Granda , the
streets are so badly paved , so hilly and crooked ,
that the ladies find it far preferable to make use of
a sedan in their social visiting, but at the time of
my residence in Macao the ladies had been for some
VOL . I.-19
217
months deprived of this comfortable locomotive, in
consequence ofa memorial submitted to the emperor
at Pekin. In conversation with Mr. Gutzlaff, who
had seen this important document, he spoke of it
as being truly laughable. It began by stating that
the “ flowery flag devils,” (the Americans,) and
the “ red flag devils," (the English ,) at Macao,
grew daily more proud and presumptuous — more
bold and overbearing ; that such was now the
arrogance of the “ barbarian women, ” that dis
daining to walk they even made themselves to be
carried in chairs by their coolies ! This heinous
offence caused the emperor to issue an edict imme
diately, very ungallantly forbidding all Chinese from
henceforth to bear the sedans of the “r foreign
devils ; ” and so instantaneously was this mandate
put in practice, that those poor creatures who hap
pened at the time to be engaged as bearers by
foreigners, were at once seized and cruelly punished
-some tortured to death — and others even then
remained imprisoned upon the adjacent islands.
Of course this put a veto at once upon the ease
and comfort of these “ foreign (lady) devils, " al
though, after a few months, the edict was annulled.
Parties and balls are of frequent occurrence , and
serve to enliven the tediousness of a long sojourn
at Macao. Of course these assemblies are small,
yet not the less pleasant. It is sometimes however
very difficult for the ladies to gratify their taste in
dress, and as the climate soon discolors their
satins, gauzes and ribbons, they are often forced to
make quite a faded appearance. The arrival of a
ship from Europe or the United States generally
brings them a supply from their friends at home,
and for a time their wardrobe is fresh and glowing.
A stranger cannot but be struck with the re
markable similarity of the Chinese features; but
this may in a degree be owing to their style of
dress . The women of the lower classes, especially
those who live in the san-pans, dress so much like
the males that were it not for the little handker
chief thrown over the head , and tied under the
chin , it would be difficult to distinguish them.
Those of a grade or two higher arrange their long
black hair with much neatness, adorning it either
with gold or silver ornaments, or little sprigs ofwhite
flowers, and may be seen at all hours walking up
and down the Praya -Granda, with only a small
bamboo umbrella or fan to shield them from the
sun. Occasionally, also , a lady with those cele
brated small feet and embroidered slippers tottles
along ; this however is of rare occurrence, it being
only such as have been reduced from high life that
bear this badge of cruelty and proof of illustrious
descent about them. Chinese lovers compare this
unsteady gait in their mistresses to the graceful
waving of the willow. It is amusing to see a
China man, with his white small clothes, long
jacket of blue or black crape, awkward shoes,
 THE COLUMBIAN
218
shaven crown , and long braided queue , stepping
along so briskly, merely holding up a small fan,
with all the airs of a belle, to shade him from the
rays of the sun .
At evening, looking forth upon the waters of the
bay, the scene is beautiful beyond description. As
the long unbroken waves come rolling on toward
the shore , they assume the appearance of liquid
pearl, until, as they dash high on the Praya , they
break in billows of flame ; while as the oars of the
numerous little boats scattered over the bay strike
the wave , it appears as if hosts of stars were spark
ling and dancing over its surface.
APHORISMS OF CONFUCIUS .
“ Behold on yonder banks of the Ke, how luxu
riant is the green bamboo ! Thus elegantly adorned
with virtue is the superior man ! As we carve and
smooth the ivory so does he model his conduct.
“ That which you hate in superiors, do not prac
tise toward inferiors.
“ When a man lives at peace with his wife and
children , it resembles the perfect harmony of mu
sical instruments.
“He who governs by virtue, resembles the north
THE SPIRIT OF BEAUTY .
BY RICHARD GRANT WHITE .
Suu's ever with me here ;
The life of life is in her wiles,
They give me all my happiest smiles,
At times a happier tear.
I saw her when a child
In every flower I tottered by,
In every star that pierced the sky
And twilight's hour beguiled.
She to my boyish eye
Swam in the towering war ship's gloom ,
And from the soldier's nodding plume
Beckoned invitingly .
Mid the young swimmer's dread
Of the black wave that on me pressed ,
I saw her in the white foam crest
That curled above my head.
I know not when or where
She first looked out from woman's eye ,
Though then I felt, yet knew not why,
She ne'er had seemed so fair .
She dances on the shore,
She glides through the still forest shade,
And when I leave the opening glade,
She still trips on before.
MAGAZINE .
polar star which remains in its place while all the
other stars revolve around it.
“ Merely to nourish parents is considered filial
piety ; but we feed our dogs and horseshence if
we do not honor our parents, what preference do
we give them ?
“ When a man can stop a slowly soaking slander
66
and a flesh -cutting accusation, he may be called
intelligent.
“ Four horses cannot overtake the tongue.
“ The error of one moment becomes the sorrow
of a whole life .
“ A vacant mind is open to all suggestions, as
the hollow mountain returns all sound .
6. To be afraid of leaving a track , and yet walk
on snow !
“ Sweet words are poison—bitter words, physic.
“ Old age , and faded flowers, no remedies can
revive .
“ Let every man sweep away the snow before
his own door, and not trouble himself about the
frost on his neighbor's tiles.
“ To support fire , add fuel ; so cultivate the root
of happiness, and you will obtain endless felicity
and everlasting peace.”
And e'en in lowering skies ,
When dark , mid lightnings flaming by ,
The clouds like sleeping giants lie,
That gentle spirit flies.
She oft appears to me
In sunshine on a mountain's frown,
And in old Gothic piles looks down
From the quaint tracery.
She hovers round the child,
The manly brow, the hoary head;
I've seen her resting on the dead
And make e'en death look mild .
When I am far from men ,
And even nature is shut out,
She flits my pensive steps about
And smiles most sweetly tben .
And when for realms of air
I leave all else upon the earth ,
I know she is of heavenly birth
And will be with me tbere .
BROOKLYN , L. I.
 THE SOLITARY .

BY MRS . EMMA C. EMBURY .

“What is the penance of the hermit's cell,

His hair-cloth vesture, and his knotted scourge,
To that dread martyrdom , which , day by day,
Wears out the life, within a cloistered heart ? "
OLD PLAY.

What a strange thing is the yearning for human
sympathy which dwells in every heart ! Why
should one who is cut off from every solace, shut
out from daily commune with his fellow man, why
should he care whether his tale of sorrow be known
to human ear ? Yet thus it is. I am alone - the
solitary tenant of a forest hut, banished by my own
will from human intercourse - a voluntary exile
from all the sweet charities of life ; yet now, when
my brain grows feeble and my pulse beats faintly,
as if the life -blood was ebbing fast in my veins,
while death keeps ward at my threshold — now ,
when all sympathy is useless — when its voice will
never reach me I yet pine to know that one hu
man heart will thrill with pity for the self immo
lating being who has given himself to a living death
that others might taste of happiness. I cannot go
down to the grave in silence . She is gone who
would have been pained by the strange tale . I
will give utterance to my mighty wo ere I depart
for the spirit- land.
My boyhood was spent in the narrow precincts
of a dingy counting -room . I saw nothing around
me but the means of procuring wealth – I learned
nothing but the art of making money, and I be
came a mere machine , or rather a minute portion
of the great machine of trade. I was plodding,
industrious and persevering ; faithful to my duties
and satisfied with my lot, because it seemed to me
inevitable. Rarely did an impulse of higher exist
ence stir within my bosom . The sweet influences
of nature were as yet unknown to me — the power
of that inner life, which makes man but little lower
than the angels, was yet a mystery to my soul.
My vocation was to amass wealth, and when , at
twenty years of age, I was sent to Smyrna and en
trusted with commercial interests of importance , the
pride which I felt in my own capacity for managing
such a trust fully repaid me for my banishment to
a foreign land. During ten years I remained
abroad, devoting all my energies to my sordid du
ties and unconscious of any higher or better aims of
existence ; but at the end of that time I was re
called to America by the sudden death of my fa
ther. I had been brought up in the belief that my
2
own exertions could alone secure me a livelihood ,
and it was, therefore, with no small surprise that I
found, upon the investigation of my father's affairs,
a large fortune awaiting me. The first feeling was
one of pride and joy, for I could now relinquish the
cares of business, which were becoming irksome to
me ; and I resolved to enjoy to the utmost the
advantages which wealth could secure . Alas !
how many are doomed to learn, too late, that the
fruition of their hopes may be more bitter than their
disappointment!
It was not until I had surrounded myself with all
the luxuries money could command that I discov
ered my own incapacity for the full enjoyment of
wealthy leisure . I had received the education of
a mere accountant, and books were to me only the
ornaments of a fancifully furnished room which I
called my library. I had never learned either to
look into my own soul or to listen to utterance from
the souls of the wise and good. I sought society,
but its frivolity wearied, and its palpable selfishness
disgusted me. I had passed the season of life when
the “ maddening play " of youth's fiery pulses
might have led me into wild schemes of dissipa
tion. Perhaps my grave , sedate, matter-of- fact
sort of character rendered me less liable to the
temptations which usually surround the minion of
luxury. I sought all kinds of excitement, but
nothing satisfied , even for the moment of enjoy .
ment, my longing desires. There was a vague
want in my heart, which haunted me, alike in the
midst of solitude and of social pleasure, until, in a
fit of misanthropy, I shut myself in the seclusion of
my own home and determined to become a student.
For a long time I was as one stumbling on his
way amid thick darkness. The mists of ignorance
had settled heavily on my soul, and though aa faint
gleam of light occasionally broke through the
gloom , it served only to bewilder me the more .
A feeling of intense bitterness now took possession
of me . A sense of injury , a consciousness that I
had been wronged of my birthright of knowledge,
led me almost to curse the narrow policy of the
parent who had hoarded up gold for me, instead of
giving me the means of its enjoyment.
219
220 THE COLUMBIAN
The society of books, however, did not weary
me as soon as that of my gay companions had
done. I read much and pondered painfully upon
the ideas which seemed to open before me ; I had
already gained one great acquisition — I had learned
to think. But I should have been utterly disheart
ened at the vast field which still lay before me, had
it not been for my accidental meeting with one
who, during the brief period of my scholastic life ,
had been aa fellow pupil with me. We had never
been intimate in boyhood , for Warner was at the
head of the school when I entered it , and as I never
rose beyond the inferior classes, while he soon left
us to enter College, I remembered him only on
account of the ease with which he seemed to win
honors and acquire knowledge. His devotion to
learning had gone with him through life and had
met with its usual reward ; for I found him oc
cupying the humble station of schoolmaster, in a
little village , where I was passing a few weeks for
the recreation of fishing and shooting. He was
ten years my senior, and having made an early
marriage, he was now burdened with the cares of
a numerous family. I pitied the man and would
have relieved him, but he was excessively proud ,
and I honored his independence of spirit too much
to be willing to offend it. His employment ena
bled him to provide a scanty subsistence for his
children, and when I saw the quiet happiness
which seemed to reign in his domestic circle, I
began to doubt whether he was not an object de
serving of my envy rather than compassion.
To Warner I was indebted for the light which at
length dispelled the gloom that shrouded my soul.
He had read much and his studies had led him to
explore the mysteries of life. Truthful, earnest
and eloquent , he loved to dwell upon the beautiful
abstractions of philosophy, to speculate upon the
energies and capabilities of men , to anticipate,
with far -searching view, the progression of human
ity toward the infinite. At first his words were
to me but as musical sounds to an unskilled ear ;
they were beautiful, but they conveyed no definite
meaning. By degrees consciousness was awaken
ed ; I felt some faint struggles of life within my
soul - something that sought to respond to this
sweet and mystic harmony. Warner's words did
not satisfy me ; they were suggestive, and they led
me to explore for myself the labyrinths to which
they afforded a clue. I became now an enlight
ened reader, and my vague reveries assumed the
guise of linked and connected thoughts.
I have said Warner was very poor and very
proud. His wife was a gentle , placid , womanly
creature , who patiently toiled for the comfort of her
family and managed , by dint of watching and wea
riness, to make a cheerful home for those she loved
better than herself. She was pale, thin and faded,
worn with care and labor, but her children, at least
MAGAZINE .
those who were too young to look beyond mere
physical wants, were healthy, rosy , happy crea .
tures, conscious of no privations, because affection
sweetened their scanty store of comforts. Alice
Warner, the eldest of the family, was a being of
rare beauty. At seventeen she possessed that
graceful delicacy of form which only required the
touch of time to mould it into perfect symmetry .
Her complexion was of the most transparent purity ,
her features classically regular in their outline , and
yet the soft, pleading expression of her large blue
eyes and the tender sweetness of her smile , made
her loveliness even more remarkable than her
beauty. Many women are beautiful who are not
lovely, for the latter attribute requires light from
within . It is “ the mind, the music breathing from
the face," which creates the irresistible charm of
loveliness, and Alice possessed this in a wonderful
degree. She was as gentle, too, as her mother,
while she had much of the refined imagination and
clear judgment of her father. She possessed suffi
cient intellect to adorn , but not to outshine , her wo
manly qualities, and it was delightful to observe her
perfect and cheerful adaptation to the circumstances
which surrounded her. Every one loved her, for
she was one of those from whom affection seems to
emanate even as light from a star. Often , when
she sat engaged in some homely piece of needle
work , listening to her father's eloquent truths with
a countenance whose expression varied with every
changeful fancy , have I wished that she were mine
-my daughter -- the child of my affections. Well
had it been for me had I never entertained aa wilder
wish.
I lingered , through the summer and the soft,
genial autumn , in the village , but at the approach
of winter I felt it necessary to return to the city. I
had not calculated the true value of intellectual
communion , such as I had recently enjoyed , and
therefore was scarcely prepared for the blank which
I felt when I found myself once more at home.
Gay society had long since lost all its charms for
me , and now even my books could not compensate
me for the loss of Warner's society. I longed to
hear the music of his voice ; truth seemed ever
more impressive from his lips than when it appeal
ed only to my senses from the dull , cold page. I
became restless and dissatisfied , and one cold ,
bleak , December day I ordered my horses and
drove to the village where he resided. My visit
was unexpected and it enabled me to see into the
real necessities of the family . The winter pressed
heavily upon their scanty means , and yet with a
degree of pertinacity which I must still blame as an
excess of pride , Warner refused all assistance from
me , except in the form of a small loan, which I
with difficulty forced upon him. Custom had re .
conciled him to the sight of the hardships which his
family endured, but I was both shocked and pained.
Se
 THE SOLITARY .
I could not bear the pinched aspect of the shivering
children, the care - worn countenance of the gentle
mother, and, above all, the anxious and sorrowful
face of Alice. She loved me as her father's friend ,
and it was not difficult to draw from her artless
nature the true narration of their actual necessities.
She wept as she told me of her mother's failing
health and hinted her fears lest her father's over
tasked brain was enfeebled by its weary labors ;
but she uttered no selfish repinings ; she felt for
others, not for herself.
It was with a feeling of shame and self -reproach
that I entered my luxurious abode on my return .
It seemed base in me to be enjoying so many su
perfluities, while my friend was suffering from
want. I pondered upon the means of effectually
relieving his necessities without wounding his
pride ; and it was then that, for the first time, the
thought of making Alice my wife came to me, like
a temptation in the guise of a blessing. I had
never given out my affections to any living crea
ture , for my soul had been so early drugged to
slumber that it had known none of those resistless
impulses which lead one to seek for sympathy in
some responding heart. But now, when my per
ceptions had been awakened when my heart had
expanded in kindliness -- now I knew how happy
must be the lot which love had blessed. The more
I reflected upon the matter the less capable did I
become of a clear judgment. It seemed as if my
tenderness had been slowly concentrating itself
within my bosom , like a subterranean fountain ,
until it had acquired irresistible strength. I knew
not of its existence until it suddenly burst forth in
all its sparkling freshness.
But I was proud and shy. I remembered that I
possessed none of the personal graces by which
women are won. The sun of a tropical climate
had bronzed my cheek, the anxieties of business
had furrowed my brow ; my locks were already
streaked with silver, a cast of premature age had
settled upon my countenance, and though but little
more than thirty, I might easily have been mistaken
for one who had long passed middle age. I thought
of the extreme youth and beauty of her whom I
sought to wed , and I dared not trust myself in her
presence with a proposal that might to her seem so
preposterous. After a long conflict with myself I
wrote to Alice and enclosed my letter in one to
her father. I was no passionate lover, but I was
earnest, calm and sincere . I did not seek to reveal
to her the depths of my heart; indeed I had never
fathomed them, and I knew not what lay hid
within their dark abysses ; but I showed her my
nature as it really was. I offered her the quiet af.
fection of a true soul, and I prayed her to reflect
deeply ere she decided. To Warner I wrote in a
similar spirit, but in my letter to him I alluded to
pecuniary affairs and informed him that my strong
19*
221
sense of woman's rights would compel me to settle
an independent income upon my wife, and that a
landed estate worth five thousand dollars per an
num would be the least I could offer to the accept
ance of his daughter. May God forgive me for
placing such a temptation in the way of honest
poverty !
A week elapsed ere I received an answer , and
then it was Warner only who wrote . Alice was
very ill ; she had taken a slight cold and it had
been attended with fever and delirium . He thank
ed me warmly for the disinterested liberality of my
proffers, as well as for the kind regard I manifested
for his child , but she was in no state to decide upon
the matter until her recovery . Another week
passed on. I received daily tidings of her state of
health , but she was ordered to be kept perfectly quiet,
and I dared not attempt to see her. At length I
learned that she was convalescent — that she had
consented to be mine—that she would now receive
me as an affianced lover. I hastened to obey the
call and found Alice exceedingly feeble, pale and
wasted , but gentle and sweet in manner . Few
words passed between us, for she could not bear
excitement ; but they were sufficient to confirm my
hopes, and I left her, full of joyful anticipation .
The opening spring saw me the proud and happy
husband of Alice Warner. Never till then had I
imagined the capacity of the human heart for hap
piness. Alas ! why did I not learn to dread its
equal capacity for suffering ? The fortune which I
had settled exclusively upon her enabled her to
make her family perfectly comfortable, for Warner
did not refuse the ministry of his daughter's affec
tion ; and when I saw her face radiant with the
joy of having secured their happiness , I felt that
earth could afford me no greater bliss. To me
Alice was ever gentle, submissive and full of sweet
ness ; and I almost worshipped her for the purity
and delicacy of feeling which made her seem so
quiet and so cold to my unrestrained tenderness.
Her demeanor had always been mild and placid,
but there was a stillness of soul about her now
which seemed like the quiet of a deep but frozen
lake . There was a reverence in her regard for me,
an innate sense of dependence upon a stronger na
ture, a kindly wish to minister to my happiness ;
but there was no fervid earnestness of feeling, no
impulsive struggle of affection within her bosom .
She had loved me as her father's friend, and grati
tude had now strengthened, but not changed, the
nature of the bond.
Yet I might have been very happy but for one
defect in my character, which till now I knew not
I possessed. Heretofore I had been kind and con
siderate to all who were subject to my influence or
authority. Why was it that the first stirrings of an
exacting spirit were excited by my pure , deep af.
fection ? Yet it was so. I was not satisfied to be
222 THE COLUMBIAN
revered and loved by my young wife ; I wanted to
feel myself possessed of all her love , all her reve
rence. I became half jealous of even her father's
influence and grudged the affection she bestowed
upon her brothers and sisters. I could not bear to
believe that there was an inner sanctuary in her
soul where I might not enter, even though I be
lieved that none but an Omniscient eye had ever
beheld that veiled ark. I sought to make her all
mine own , and my restless " fever of vain longing "
ended in the death of every hope.
In how many ways did my exacting nature trou
ble her quiet existence ! At one time, if I saw her
grave and inclined to solitude, I would insist upon
her accompanying me to some gay scene , where
she might shine in the gems and gorgeous apparel
with which I loved to deck her surpassing beauty .
Again , if I fancied that the excitements of society
were becoming resources to her weary heart, I would
rudely withdraw her from the world , and , secluding
her from all others, would meanly seek to pry into
the recesses of her feelings. Yet, Heaven is my
witness, I suspected not that there was any secret
to be disclosed . I dreamed not of any hidden mys
tery in her pure nature ; I was actuated solely by
a jealous, absorbing desire to feel that she was all,
all mine — mine more than her own . Yet was I
ever kind in manner and most devoted in my
jealous affection. I was driven onward by the
restlessness of a spirit which thirsted for a full,
deep draught of love of aa spirit which had been
awakened too late to a sense of its yearning sympa
thies. I surrounded her with all the gauds which
please a woman's eye ; I decked her in the costliest
array that wealth could purchase. I ministered to
her beautiful tastes in every possible manner. She
thanked me warmly , she appreciated my gifts and
felt grateful to the giver ; but this was all. Alas !
I did not know that my own disquiet checked the
growth of her emotions. Had I been content to
“ bide my time,” the attachment of reciprocal kind
ness would have made an indissoluble bond of union
between us, and the sweet habitude of loving would
have been dearer than the fervor of wild passion.
Had I suffered the pliant vine to put forth its deli
cate tendrils, they might, perchance, have twined
themselves around their nearest prop ; but, in my
impatience, I sought to bend them as I would, and
they were broken within my grasp .
Ten years passed on-ten years of pining dis
content on my part, of quiet, calm duty on hers.
Never was there a creature more pure in feeling,
more unsullied in conduct. A gentle dignity
characterized her manners to the world ; a quiet
kindliness marked her demeanor toward me. Any
one might have believed that her nature was cold
and impassive ; but I kner better. Her child
our only one — had awakened in her so passionate
a tenderness, and its early death excited so wild a
MAGAZINE .
grief, that I knew the depths of her nature con
cealed strong and fierce emotions. But I could
not call them forth . Maternal tenderness had
stirred the hidden stream , but death had frozen its
pure flow , and now nothing could draw forth the
sweet waters for which I thirsted .
I have said that ten years had passed away ;
they had made me morose, exacting and unhappy,
but they had given Alice strength to suffer and be
still.” She seemed to feel that her destiny was
fixed and that she would endure patiently what she
could not remedy. But the change came when
she least anticipated it. Alice had gone to pass a
few days with her parents, who now resided , in
comparative affluence, in the village where I had
first met them ; and I , in anticipation of her ab
sence, had taken the opportunity to visit a friend
in Philadelphia , when I was suddenly summoned
home by the tidings of my wife's dangerous illness.
I lost no time in returning and found Alice safier
ing under a violent attack of fever. Her father,
who had accompanied her home, stated that she
had scarcely reached his house when she was con
scious of the approach of serious indisposition and
insisted on an immediate return to town. The
best medical advice had been summoned, but she
was in imminent danger, and it was only the pro
traction of the anticipated crisis which afforded the
slightest hope of her restoration.
That fearful illness ! She overcame it by the
strength of a youthful constitution , but it resulted
in living death to me. Let no one dare to say that
I was guilty of meanness in treasuring up the rav
ings of insanity — hat it was a base ibing to note
the incoherent words of madness. Something
more than life depended on those words. Beauti
ful and pure were the outpourings of her disturbed
spirit ; even amid the gloom of a darkened mind
no loathsome reptile crept forth from its secret den ;
all was gentle and delicate and lovely. But coni .
cealed deep, down in her very heart of hearts, was
an image and a name inscribed thereon. My wife
had loved-nay , did love another. From the
disjointed utterings of a restless and diseased brain
I learned the fatal truth . Alice lrad sacrificed her
self to the welfare of her family ; she had been a
willing martyr to her filial love ; she had crushed
the half-developed passion of her earnest nature
and had made herself the cold , calm , quiet victim ,
who had thus been doomed to “ die daily ” through
ten long years !
Good heavens, what a revelation was this !
What words can describe my anguish of soul when
this frightful truth gradually dawned upon me,
while I listened to her piteous wailings over her
blighted affections ! I learned too that she had
never suffered her eyes to rest upon the face she
loved , since our ill - omened marriage. Ay , and I
discovered that the accidental meeting with him at
 THE SOLITARY .
her father's house had reduced her to her present
fearful state. What a love must that have been
which was still so terrible in its asserted power !
Yet I bore all this with marvellous quietude. No
one dreamed of the tale which I was weaving from
these broken threads of memory. High principled,
noble and pure minded, did she reveal herself to
me in her wanderings, and gems of rare beauty
gleamed up from amid the broken waves of restless
fantasy. But to me she was lost forever ! I could
bear with a cold , but not with a divided heart.
After many days of great suffering her illness
reached its crisis and all hope of her recovery was
abandoned . Her strength was utterly gone , and
the hour came when she awoke to that clearness of
perception which so often, in such cases, is the
immediate precursor of death. Summoning me in
a ſaint voice to her bedside, and bidding me dis
miss all others from the room, she confessed the
wrong which she had done me when she plighted
her faith at the altar. Many things which seem
venial errors in the days of youth and health come
with the semblance of great sins to our dying bed.
Alice could not leave the world with the guilt of
concealment upon her conscience , and she told of
the love which had woven itself with her very being.
Frederick W- had been a pupil of Warner
and for several years had resided under his roof.
He was older than Alice , and when he had been
summoned to England by his maternal relatives
she had plighted to him her girlish faith . But
months passed on and brought no tidings of her
lover ; she felt that he had forgotten her ; her
family were starving, and I had offered a fearful
temptation. She had respected, esteemed, nay,
loved me with a sort of filial love , and she had
given herself to me with a heroic sense of self
devotion , believing that power would be granted
her to subdue her rebellious feelings. Perhaps it
might have been so, but a very few days after our
marriage a letter arrived from Frederick to Mr.
Warner, expressive of so much earnest affection
and accounting so clearly for his apparent silence ,
that Alice could not doubt his truth or her own
wretchedness. Soon after a letter came , addressed
to herself , but it still lay with the seal unbroken .
“ I dared not read it,” she said ,with a shudder ;
" you will find it in yonder cabinet ; I dared not
look upon its burning words. Only once have I
looked upon him or listened to his voice since we
parted , years ago. He had returned from England
-that I knew-but I knew no more until I unex
pectedly met him at my father's door. Years of
toil and care and disappointment had passed over
him ; and he sought the haunts of his youth in
the vain hope that he might find solace for his
weary heart. Our interview was bri but it was
more than my frail strength could bear, for then I
learned that I had broken another heart when I
223
sacrificed my own . God knows, my husband, how
I have striven with this memory of the past ; but
my prayers , my tears, have been alike vain ; the
deep and abiding love of my youth still dwells
within my soul. I have given you all wifely duty,
but more was not mine to bestow , and your life
has been embittered by my coldness. My sin was
great, for I wedded you with a lie upon my lips ;
but I was so young, and we were so very poor, and
I hoped and believed that I could make you happy."
Every word that Alice uttered is now written on
my brain in characters of fire. What more she
would have said I know not, for a faintness that
seemed like the prelude of death came over her,
and I was compelled to leave her in the hands of
her attendants.
But she did not die. Despite the prognostics of
medical skill she revived , and though a low , ner
vous fever still hung about her, which threatened .
to make her an invalid for life, she might look for
ward to many years. No word of mine ever
brought back her thoughts to the confession which
she had uttered on her bed of sickness. Yet I
could see that it was ever present with her and
that her cheek flushed and her eye quailed before
my glance . Had I heard such a tale from her lips
under other circumstances, I know not where my
blind passion would have led me. But the dark
wing of the angel of death overshadowed us, as I
listened, and a cold and shuddering sense of the
vanity of earthly hopes fell upon my heart. I for
gave her, ay, and pitied her from my very soul
pitied her far more than I did myself, for I seemed
to be standing with her on the brink of the grave.
But now, when health was coming back to her
cheek — now , to anticipate the life -long anguish
of knowing myself unloved—to feel my very exist
ence a pang , because I must be ever alone upon
earth ! It was more than I could bear.
There were some vile and base feelings, too,
came over me. A consciousness of power, a sense
of ownership, a feeling that she was mine-that
while she lived I could control her will, or at least
her actions; nay, that I could exert a species of
constraint over the very impulses of her soul; that
she was my wife --my legal subject -- bound to me
by ties which only death could sever, took posses
sion of me. A mean desire to revenge the wrong
I had sustained, by all the power which the laws
could give me, sometimes haunted me . I had
poured out so much of my soul's wealth at her
feet_I had given her so freely of my very life of
life, that I fancied only a refined revenge could
satisfy my outraged feelings, and I resolved to
make her suffer daily and hourly under the crush .
ing weight of my legal rights.
Thank God, better thoughts were awakened, or
I should have gone mad. I remembered her youth
and inexperience when she became my wife ; I re
224 THE COLUMBIAN MAGAZINE .
called the circumstances which prompted her sacri
fice to filial love ; I thought of the weary wasting
of her gentle heart , through the ten years of our
wedded life ; I reflected on the purity of her life ,
the strong principle of right which had controlled
her very thoughts in this matter, and I asked myself
by what right I dared to claim the subjection of a
free soul. I sat down alone in the midst of my
treasures of gold and silver, and I wondered at my
own presumption which had led me to traffic in a
human heart-to buy the service of an immortal
spirit. I know no: where such reflections should
have led me, but they decided my destiny. Calmly,
deliberately, but with unutterable anguish, did I
make my decision . I resolved that Alice should
be free - free in such a manner as to leave her feel.
ings unexposed , her delicacy unwounded by public
comment or idle gossip. I look back now with
wonder at my strength of will , which made me so
tranquil in outward seeming, while my heart was
torn with conflicting emotions. During that long
and dreary winter I made my preparations for quit.
ting my home forever. This was my only decided
plan ; I determined to become an exile,but beyond
that I had no fixed scheme. I meant to cast my.
seli upon the waves, to be borne afar off, and per
haps whelmed beneath them . I arranged all my
pecuniary affairs and made my will, leaving Alice
sole heiress of all my wealth. I transmitted , under
a feigned name , sums of money at various times to
different banks in distant parts of the country , so
that I might not be left without means in my solitary
wanderings ; and , at length , having completed all
my arrangements with a wonderful degree of pru
dence and foresight, I avowed my intention of visit
ing several of the southern cities, under pretext of
settling some long pending business negotiations.
I had sufficient resolution to part from Alice
kindly and calmly, as if my absence was to be but
for a day's journey. She was still confined to her
room , from the debility of her long illness, and
though she wept upon my shoulder, I knew it was
from the agitation of the enfeebled nerves rather
than from regret at my departure. I pressed her to
my bosom , imprinted one long, last kiss upon her
pale lips, and bade her, in my secret soul , an eter
nal farewell. As I passed my dressing -room the
door stood open and I entered. I looked round with
a mournful gaze 3; it was the last time my eyeswould
ever rest upon the familiar objects around me. I
opened a drawer in my cabinet ; it contained my
mother's pocket Bible , and as I lifted it a tress of soft
brown hair, which I had once begged from Alice ,
dropped from between the leaves. I replaced it, and
hiding the Bible in my breast, went on my lonely
way. It was all that I coveted of all my treasures.
Months passed away, and I found myself in New
Orleans in the.midst of the fiercest ravages of the
yellow fever. Hundreds fell around me on every
side , yet I escaped. Men full ofhopeand joy, whose
lives were endeared to them by all that affection
could bestow , died like sheep, by the wayside. I
only - I, who would willingly have lain down in
the calm slumber of the grave ; I, who would
gladly have welcomed the stroke from another
which my own hand dared not offend God by
inflicting - I alone was doomed to live on. But
when a poor and unfriended stranger — a man
too who bore the same name as myself --when
he died , howling in the wild fury of fevered
madness, in the same hotel where I was residing,
then a strange , wild thought fastened itself upon
my brain. I determined to make the dead per
sonate the living. It was a scheme of desperation,
but it succeeded. It was easy enough to deceive
the few who ventured to remain around us in the
midst of infection . The stranger was hurried to
his grave , and then a letter was forwarded to my
friends in New York, conveying information of my
death, while my watch , pencil and some papers
of no value except as identifying the deceased , were
sent as vouchers for the truth of the statement. I
took a wild and savage pleasure in feeling that I
was now as utterly dead to the world as if the
grave had closed over me ; and plunging into the
far western wilds, I led a wandering and miserable
life among the lowest of the frontier population .
At length I was seized with a yearning desire to
learn how far my schemes had succeeded. Hard .
ship and anguish of mind had changed me much ,
and I had little dread of discovery. I disguised
myself by uncouth garments, and my untrimmed
beard and matted grey locks sufficiently concealed
my face. I travelled on until I reached my native
city ; little more than a year had passed since I
left it , but there was none to recognize the child of
fortune in the squalid dress of poverty . I wrapped
myself in a beggar's cloak and slouching my hat
close over my eyes, I presented myself at my own
door and asked for alms. Alice was just entering
her carriage for a morning's drive ; she was thin
and feeble, while the weeds of widowhood which
she still wore gave a still more pallid tint to her
cheek. She looked kindly upon me , and the touch
of her slender fingers thrilled my very heart as she
placed a piece of money in my hands and bade me
come to her on the morrow for more permanent
relief. Methought I should have died at her feet.
After this I became a wanderer in many lands.
The suns of an oriental clime have scorched my
brow ; the frosts of a Russian winter have benumb
ed my weary limbs ; the sands of an African de
sert have nearly whelmed me in their shifting tide.
I wandered abroad seeking the friendless and the
miserable, relieving their necessities and soothing
their afflictions. But I could not flee from myself
- the haunting anguish of my own breast was not
to be quieted ; and, at length , worn with hardship

THE SOLITARY .
and fatigue, I returned to the country I had de
signed to leave forever.
I could not resist the impulse that led me again
to the house which was no longer my home. The
drawingroom windows were open , and a bright fire
blazed within . I stood beneath the pelting of a
fierce tempest, and gazed upon a picture of domes
tic happiness which almost crazed my brain . Upon
a couch , drawn up beside the fire, reclined a stately
and handsome man-Alice—my Alice, sat on a
cushion beside him , with her hand lovingly thread
ing his dark curls, while a rosy, sunny faced boy
sported on the rich carpet amid a multitude of
childish toys. Never had Alice seemed so beauti
ful, for happiness now lighted up her sweet face,
and health had given the roundness of perfect sym
metry to her graceful form . For a long hour
such an hour as concentrates the anguish of a life,
I stood and gazed upon this fair scene . At length
Alice had found peace : she was wedded to the
lover of her youth ; and my heart blessed her. Ay,
even then, as she bent and kissed the brow of an.
other, my heart uttered its benediction upon her.
My sacrifice had not been made in vain ; I had
given her life and happiness ; what mattered it now
if I should crawl away like a sick cur and die in
my hidden lair ?
I know not what came upon me after this last look
upon my wife's sweet face. I think my mind must
have become troubled and darkened , for I remem
ber things but vaguely until I found myself in the
neighborhood of the spot where I have now made
my resting place . With my own hands have I
built myself a shelter from the storm , and an in
stinctive sense of comfort has taught me to make
it habitable for my old age . My wants are few ,
and the poor negro who supplies me daily with the
little which human nature demands, marvels much
that I can be so easily content. He knows naught
of any evil except cold and hunger ; he cannot
comprehend the misery which may make bodily
sufferings a positive relief from mental torture. In
this lonely hut have I lived now for twelve long
years. I have refused all intercourse with my
fellow beings, and they have long ceased to perse
cute me with their attempts at kindness.
Once only was my solitude invaded. It was a
night of furious tempest, when a stranger knocked
at the door of my hovel, and demanded shelter for
one who had lost his way in the darkness. I ad
mitted him , and kindled a fire to warm his weary
limbs, while I endeavored to provide some shelter
for his jaded horse. Then I set before him food
cooked by my own hands on the glowing embers ,and
water fresh from the limpid spring. He ate and
drank, and it pleased me to watch the frank and
bonest expression of his fine face as he uttered his
hearty thanks for my kindness. I offered him my
only couch, but he refused to deprive an old man
wy
225
of his needful rest, and stretching himself before
the fire composed himself to slumber. But before
he slept he drew from his bosom a picture and
kissed it with all the fervor of devotion. I know
not what strange presentiment led me, but I felt a
yearning desire to look upon the face, which was
as a saint to the unconscious sleeper. I watched
my moment, and as he moved restlessly on his
uneasy couch , I drew the picture from the folds
of his dress. Gracious heavens ! It was Alice
my unbidden guest was the husband of my wife !
Earth holds not the mansion that could contain us
both-no lowlier roof than the over-arching vault
of heaven could shelter us both . I rushed out into
the deep woods, and while he slept calmly in the
solitary's hut, the lonely outcast knelt amid the fury
of the elements, and prayed for the peace of death .
* * *
Change has again come -- Alice is dead. A
fragment of an old newspaper , blown by the winds
into the door of my hut, revealed to me the tidings.
Alice is dead - mourned by the husband whom she
loved, and wept by her sweet children ; she has
gone down to the grave amid blessings. How
gladly would I recall her to a life she found one of
happiness ; and yet-may God forgive me-the
thought that he too ~ that hated and happy lover-
that he too is as desolate now as myself, gives me
a wild and savage joy. I shall not long cumber
the earth , and my grave will be a nameless one
but men may write upon the stone which will
cover my cold ashes one true line :
66
' Joyless he lived, yet joy to others gave."
Many years since a stranger arrived at a little
village in the interior of Pennsylvania, and after
remaining a few days, purchased a small piece of
cleared land on the borders of a neighboring forest.
With hands that seemed but little used to labor, he
constructed a hut, and took up his abode there.
He appeared so determinedly unsocial that his few
neighbors soon gave up all attempts at kindly in
tercourse with him , and he was allowed to become
literally a solitary . For about seven years he ina
habited this comfortless abode, when one cold
winter's day a traveller who had lost his way
knocked at his door to inquire the nearest route to
the village. After a few moments delay, hearing
no sound from within , the stranger lifted the latch
and entered the hovel. He beheld a melancholy
spectacle. Seated in a rude chair, with his head
fallen back and resting against the wall , was the
lonely tenant of the forest hut. He was dead and
cold ; the fire was out upon his hearth and a cup
of milk was frozen on the table before him . He
had evidently been some days dead. A box , made
of rough boards, had formed his bed , and within a
compartment of this were found a small Bible , with
a lock of hair between the leaves, and a roll of pa
per, blotted and blurred , and in many places il
legible. From these was compiled the strange
autobiography whic has been given above,
Brooklyn, L. I.
 SOMETHING ABOUT ALBUMS .
BY THE EDITOR .
TAE youths and maidens now in the first bloom of
incipient belle and beau - hood are not old enough
to remember when albums were as plentiful as
patchouli ; when a square , gilt -edged, morocco-
bound volume, with a feminine name stamped on
the outside or written on the first page, was among
the “ belongings ” of every centre table ; when
“ Let me see your album " was the first favor asked
by visiting young ladies, and “Do write in my
album ” was the word of terror to the ear of every
gentleman suspected of dallying with the muses.
These omni- gathering tomes, once to be seen every-
where, have long since been consigned to the upper
shelves of book -closets, or perchance even to less
honorable places of retirement. As yet they have
not become “ rococo " < for the meaning whereof
let the ignorant reader consult Mrs. Trollope's
“ Paris and the Parisiens, ” or the New Mirror Ex
tra advertisements of Messrs. Morris and Willis –
but their time may come, as well as that of old
china, old-fashioned chairs, antiquated brocade and
point-lace. If we can speed them on their way to
renewal of vogue, either as 66 rococo ” or " the
fashion " -help to bring out the written albums of
twenty years ago or to induce the existing genera-
tion of charmers to bring forward new ones, and
tax the poetical gallantry of the young fellows now
current in society-we will do it with pleasure.
“ Time brings about the revenges ” ofall — it will
be something for us elderly youths to know that
the successors, who have elbowed us off the stage ,
are as shrewdly put to the rack in the service of
albums as we were while they and their exacting
damsels were yet confined to the realm of the
nursery .
There has been no falling - off, probably, in the
science of flirtation, since we were of the age to
write sonnets on an eyebrow. Aids and appliances
are doubtless as much at hand and as aptly em-
ployed now, as in the second and third decades of
the passing century ; but it is questionable whether
anything more convenient has been devised than
the album. Permission to look at it was a favor
so meet for the young gentleman's gallantry to
implore -- for the young lady's coyness to withhold.
And then it was at last so prettily granted-with
such a charming affectation of very especial gra-
ciousness, for which the swain might look such
eloquent thanks into the lady's soft eyes, and flat-
ter himself with the assurance that only to him was
226
the precious volume conceded. Then he must
write in it too ; and if the gods had not made him
poetical, how he nibbled quill - tops and tore up
sheet after sheet of letter paper , in vain chase of
some other rhyme for “ charming" than “ alarm
ing," which he couldn't for the life of him weave
into the texture of a phrase complimentary.
But if he had the trick of it at his fingers' ends,
and could grind out passable metre at the shortest
notice, the album was a sort of privileged ground,
where he might be as tender and touching as he
pleased without affront to the lady's delicacy or
dignity ; and we have no doubt that the first hint
of many a declaration has been artfully thrown out
in a stanza for this cherished repository. Every
way it had its advantages. The lady could take
the hint if she liked , and sprinkle a few drops of
encouragement on her manner ; or if she chose so
to consider them , the pleading, passionate words
were mere matters of course , and her acceptance
of them in no way compromised her or gave the
writer any claim on her farther consideration. On
the other hand, the writing of them was aa help to
his shrinking timidity if he was seriously inclined
to be in love , and if he was not, lines written in
albums, however warm and explicit, afforded
brother or father no title to inquire into the nature
of “ his intentions."
But very clever men have written in albums,
while they were in the flush of their popularity ;
and we know that some of the brightest poetical
gems have first sparkled there, afterward to come
forth and delight the general eye with their
brilliancy. Many , too , have never come forth , but
still lie darkling in the book - closets already re
ferred to. Our word for it, the neglected albums
yet extant in England and America would furnish
a rich anthology. Perhaps they may, some three
or four hundred years hence. Who knows ?
If we had leisure and opportunity we should like
very well to explore the albums that might be
within reach of our own searches. As we have
not, the hint is generously made public . It hap
pens, however, that some three or four of these
once dainty volumes have come into our possession ,
containing divers contributions-by men of mark
too — which have never lived in type , and for which
we are sure the reader will thank us. Here is
one , for example, addressed to a young English
lady :
 SOMETHING ABOUT ALBUMS .
BY FITZ GREENE HALLECK .
1.
Asks she my name, with hers to rest,
Among the blessing and the blest,
In these her pages of the heart ?
There needs no second call - I come
Be this my autographic home,
My name no more, in blight or bloom ,
From hers to part .
II .
Lady of England :—for her cheek's
Bright rose her island birth -place speaks,
Her cradle clime of smiles and tears
Not in this sunset land of mine
Are poets born, like hers, divine,
Their names her pride, their graves her shrine,
A thousand years.
III .
Yet though , the song-bird of an hour,
I win not, with a poet's power,
A couch in Fame's sepulchral hall
A nation's anthem, proud and solemn,
Or breathing bust, or storied column
I've won this leaf in beauty's volume,
Well worth them all.
Observe the mingled grace and delicacy of the
two- fold compliment -- to the lady and to her na
tive land.
But here is another, in a more ambitious vein .
The writer invokes the heavenly orbs themselves
in homage of the lady whom he addresses ; and
very beautiful is the invocation.
BY TIEODORE S. FAY .
1.
Should some sweet planet, flashing high,
Leave its bright orbit in the sky,
By fancy driven,
To the dark earth its circle wheel,
That one, so poor as I might feel,
Its rays of heaven,
IMPROMPTU .
TO A LADY ON THE RECEIPT OF A FORGET-ME- NOT .
BY H. T. TUCKERMAN.
Forget thee ? Yes, when Earth forgets
Her old, diurnal round,
When stars forget to gem the sky,
And flowers to deck the ground .
My memory often fails in dates,
Is treacherous in lore,
And cannot always trace the path
My feet have trod before.
But of life's transitory things,
To one it is most true ;
227
11 .
Not wonder more, or pleasure higher,
My mind could strike, my soul inspire ,
Than rose in me,
When first this cherished volume came,
By friendship brought, in beauty's name,
Welcome from thee.
III .
Take then this brief and feeble token
of thanks I rather would have spoken,
Through after years ;
But, like the stars, thy course must be,
Far from this spot, thy friends and me,
To poets happier than we,
of other spheres.
One more we will give, and only one ; for it is
not good to be lavish of such treasures. The
writer has long since returned to his native Eng.
land, but when he left us he was rapidly winning
a distinguished reputation in the walks of litera
ture . The readers of the old Mirror will not have
forgotten him , or the many admirable papers,
teeming, some with the most genuine pathos, others
with the richest humor, which he furnished for the
pages of that excellent and most popular periodical.
BY WILLIAM COX .
My ever gentle countrywoman ! Yet
I know thee not - the worse, alas, for me !
In this rude, jangling world we ne'er have met,
But still I cluim relationship with thee
For that land's sake which neither can forget
That little isle - the jewel of the sea .
Though kind hearts greet us in the stranger's home,
Thought still will wander o'er th ’ Atlantic's fuam .
Blessings on her and thee ! And fare thee well !
An unknown pame within thy book I write,
Midst those that will not perish when the shell
That cases their bright spirits sinks in night.
In after years thy beaming eyes may dwell
On theirs, while mine will be forgotten quite ;
And thou wilt marvel whose that name may be,
So fuintly writ within thy memory.
I ne'er forget a lovely face
Of course, I cannot you .
To be remembered well and long
Is beauty's favored lot ;
'Twas but in sport you gave to me
This frail Forget -me- not.
I cannot boast one spell to break
Oblivion's stero decree ;
In kindness, then, sometimes vouchsafe
A gentle thought to me.
 THE WIDOW
“ SUPPOSE we put the claim of superiority to a test ,
mes amis,” said the Frenchman . “ We are fair
specimens of our respective nations,” he added,
glancing with a smile at his companions ; " let us
see whether English reason , Italian cunning or
French vivacity will win the day.” They were
in truth fair specimens of their nation , the indi
vidual peculiarities most strikingly and favorably
represented by the three. The Englishman, with
his fair, smooth brow, frank, fearless blue eye and
air of reserve and hauteur. The Italian's olive
skin , supple figure and dark , intellectual orbs,
sparkling with the fire of genius and revealing
the quick , passionate nature with every flash ; and
lastly, the speaker, with his lithe , elastic, graceful
frame and the air of mingled conceit and suavity
on his handsome countenance. “ Yes, " repeated
the Frenchman, " let us put it to the test and dis
pute the palm by an attack on the heart of a fair
lady. A widow, but eighteen, charming and im
mensely wealthy, who abandoned a stern , disagree
able home to marry a kind old husband , and he,
dying in a year, leſt her free, unfettered and pos
sessor of a vast estate . But alas ! whether she
suspects the mercenary motives of her adorers, or
cares not to surrender her own sweet will , she has
an invincible repugnance to the brave state of
matrimony. She has throngs of suitors, also, her
declaration that she'll smile not on son of Adam to
the contrary notwithstanding. Let us drink to
the health of the fair widow of Bruges.”
The bright wine sparkled , their glasses clashed ,
and ere the excitement had passed he added , “ and
each one of us drink to his own success in winning
her. You agree , mes amis, to the proposition ;
truly I read it in your eyes, and in three months
will we meet here again, to declare our fate and
mode of attack . If victory is not decided within
three months it never will be."
The time allotted had passed, and in the same
apartment in that pleasant old house , gathered
around that same small table , the ruby wine glit
tering again in their glasses, sat the three. It was
even at the same hour, for the sun was casting its
crimson light in the same flickering shadows
athwart the wall .
“ Well, friend, your plan, and how did you speed
in your wooing ? ” asked the Italian ; for the
Frenchman, usually so ready with his tongue , was
unwontedly silent.
' Comrades, there is no accounting for the caprice
of a woman ," was the reply. “ I found the discon
228
OF BRUGES .
solate widow, instead of another Niobe, a gay,
graceful, hazel -eyed beauty. I understand well the
sex .I chimed in with her humor. I made the
most brilliant bons mots. I uttered the wittiest
nothings; really I was astonished at my own elo
quence. Mark the effect. When I was merry she
smiled ; that was well , but when I was tender she
smiled. When I was pathetic, still the same eter.
nal smile , which, though very charming in itself,
was, as you may imagine, gentlemen, sometimes
out of place. But the most barbarous proceeding
is yet to be related. Listen , mes amis, and lend
me your horror. When I threw myself, all irre .
sistible as I imagined , at her feet, she put on that
same bewildering smile. Intoxicated with delight ,
I supposed the field won ; but was ever man so
treated before ? She ejaculated, with most mali
cious sang froid, Monsieur is aware that I never
shall marry .' Consider, gentlemen , I, whom our
most fascinating Parisiennes, who are , after all, the
only perfect specimens of the sex on earth , would
give their lives to obtain , to be treated with such
contumely ! Such is my story, and now , " he
nodded to the Englishman, “ what is yours ? But
first let me propose a toast to calm my feelings by
a thought of their perfections— My country
women . ' "
Their glasses were drained , and the party called
upon commenced . “ I have a theory, " he said, in
a quiet, grave tone , “ that much may be done by
acting upon the contrariness of human nature ;
much even with men , ten fold more with women.
Oppose them, and stiffly, staunchly obstinate do
they stand ; but agree with them , chime in with
their humor, and quickly do they change their
ground, quickly find arguments in the contrary di
rection . So on meeting the lady I told her I was
happy to find one whose sentiments were so in
unison with myown ; that for any reasonable men
or women to tie themselves down for life, to be
controlled , hampered, clogged , by the will of ano
ther, was a thought not to be endured for a moment.
That I admired the independence of mind, the
strength of will , which could resolve upon such a
course . The lure was caught as I anticipated . In
a brief space , without apparently being aware of it
herself, she was discoursing of the charms of a
kindred heart, a sympathising spirit, and lastly
women's tender, unwearied devotion. She painted
that paradise on earth, a happy home, where , lov
ing and beloved , the storms of this life would pass
and leave its dwellers unscathed. She drew all
 “ LET ME DIE WITH THE PHILISTINES. ”
this so touchingly, so eloquently, that even had I
been sincere in my opposition I could not but have
yielded. But the traitress,” he continued , in a tone
of rage, “ when, convinced that she was gained , I
entreated her to make for me such a heaven upon
earth , she replied , with the lurking fiend in her
eye , '6 Sir, I say it is well for men, but heaven de
fend women from matrimony .' And now ," he
continued, “ my toast is, ' curses on the man who
trusts his happiness to the caprice of a woman's hu
mor.' ”
His companions noted it not , but the Italian's
glass remained untouched. He presently began in
a clear , melodious, flute - like tone , his narration.
“ I have a theory too ; it is faith in the perfections
of the sex under consideration . Enlist their sym
pathies , trust in their generous, kindly natures,
throw yourself unreservedly upon them for succor,
and nine times out of ten they will fail you not . I
told the lady that I had loved fondly, devotedly , but
death had removed the loved one from me. I said
that my life was blighted , my heart withered under
my sorrow . I described the gentleness, the purity ,
the angelic nature of my buried mistress ; the en
tire control she had possessed of every thought and
“ LET ME DIE WITH THE PHILISTINES.”
BY REV . FRANCIS C. WOODWORTH .
“ And Samson took hold of the two middle pillars upon which the house stood , and on which it was borne up, of the one
with his right hand and of the other with his left. And Samson said , “ Let me die with the Philistines .' And he bowed him
self with all his might, and the house fell upon the lords and upon all the people that were therein . So the dead which he
slew at bis death were more than they which he slew in his life."-JUDGES xvi. 29, 30 .
I.
Ou , I am sad and weary here,
And life is but a burden now ;
Lord God of hosts, once more appear,
And make these massive pillars bow ,
That I beneath this pile may lie :
With the Philistines let me die.
II .
They know, they know my spirit's pain,
Philistin's Lords full well they know ;
Ah, they would rive my heart in twain
My God ! and shall they mock me so ?
Oh , deign to hear this fervent cry
With the Philistines let me die.
III.
Alas ! I am bereft of all,
All that I ever held most dear,
And like an autumn leaf I fall,
A worthless, faded thing, and sere.
Why should I lire ? Oh, God ! I sigh,
With the Philistines let me die.
IV .
Grant me but this- I ask no more
A dying triumph o'er my fues ;
Lord of all might ! my strength restore ;
Avenge my wrong, and end my woes.
Do not this sad request deny ;
With the Philistines let me die.
VOL. I. – 20 .
229
emotion ; the devotion of my very soul to her
Then again I painted my grief and agony in terms
so heartfelt that the tears started to the beautiful
eyes of my auditress, and her lip quivered in deep,
womanly sympathy. I whispered then how dear
to me was that divine pity ; that in the weary
years which had passed over me since her death ,
so soothing, so renovating an influence had not been
felt. And then , when the refreshing conviction of
having lightened the burden of sorrow to a fellow
mortal had sunk like dew into her heart, I asked
her if, after having become necessary to my existe
ence , she could rend the closing wound afresh by
banishing me from her presence. She did not re
main impervious to my appeal , my comrades ; she
is mine ."
The Englishman started from his seat as if he
had received an electric shock ; the Frenchman
seized his sword , but the Italian did not apparently
observe these marks of emotion in his companions,
for, with a gentle smile on his calm, intellectual face ,
he continued , “ And now,> my friends, my senti
ment is, ' Woman's kindly nature ; they who trust
"
therein cannot be deceived.' ” The sun glanced
in an hour after, on an empty apartment.
V.
There's nothing left me now but shame ;
Sad memory aggravates my wo ;
And can it be that e'er my name
Appalled the heart of every foe ?
Oh , that my spirit hence might dy !
With the Philistines let me die.
VI.
Shut out from heaven's own glorious light,
Shorn of the power so late possessed ,
This world is but a rayless night
A desert, cheerless and unblest,
Break , then , my God, life's feeble tie
With the Philistines let me die .
VII.
And do I urge my suit in vain ?
Will not Jehovah hear my call ?
Shall not my strength return again,
That this proud temple now may fall ?
May I not hope, O Lord, most high,
With the Philistines now to die ?
VIII .
I see ! I see ! 'tis not in vain !
The God of Israel hears my call ;
I feel my strength return again ;
The columns yield ! they bow ! they fall !
All glory to the Lord most high !
With the Philistines now I die !
South Norwalk , Conn .

DUMB KATE . - AN
BY WALTER WHITMAN.
Nor many years since—and yet long enough to
have been before the abundance of railroads, and
similar speedy modes of conveyance — the travellers
from Amboy village to the metropolis of our re
public were permitted to refresh themselves, and
the horses of the stage had a breathing spell , at a
certain old - fashioned tavern , about half way be
tween the two places. It was a quaint , comfort
able , ancient house , that tavern . Huge button
wood trees embowered it round about , and there
was a long porch in front, the trellised work
whereof, though old and mouldered, had been, and
promised still to be for years , held together by the
tangled folds of a grape vine wreathed about it
like a tremendous serpent.
How clean and fragrant everything was there !
How bright the pewter tankards wherefrom cider
or ale rolled through the lips into the parched
throat of the thirsty man ! How pleasing to look
into the expressive eyes of Kate , the landlord's
lovely daughter, who kept everything so clean and
bright !
Now the reason why Kate's eyes had become so
expressive was, that, besides their proper and
natural office, they stood to the poor girl in the
place of tongue and ears also. Kate had been
dumb from her birth .
Everybody loved the helpless creature when she
was a child. Gentle , timid and affectionate was
she, and delicately beautiful as the lilies of which
she loved to cultivate so many every summer in
her garden. Her brown hair, and the like-colored
lashes, so long and silky, that drooped over her
blue eyes of such uncommon size and softness
her rounded shape, well set off by a little modest
art of dress - her smile — the graceful ease of her
motions, always attracted the admiration of the
strangers who stopped there, and were quite a
pride to her parents and friends.
Dumb Kate had an education which rarely falls
to the lot of a country girl. She had been early
taught to read , and notwithstanding her infirmity,
had most of those accomplishments which usually
fall to the lot of the daughters of wealth and pros
perity.
How could it happen that so innocent and beau
tiful and inoffensive a being was made to taste ,
even to its dregs, the bitter cup of unhappiness ?
Oh , there must indeed be a mysterious, unfathom
able meaning in the decrees of Providence, which
230
*
EARLY DEATH .
is beyond the comprehension of man ; for no one
on earth less deserved or needed “ the uses of ad .
versity" than Dumb Kate .
Love, the mighty and lawless passion , came into
the sanctuary of the maid's pure breast , and the
dove of peace fied away forever. What heart,
what situation in life is superior to love ? Even
this young country girl, retired from the busier and
more exciting scenes of existence, was made to
know the sweet intoxication, as well as the mad .
ness , that comes with the attacks of that boy -con
queror.
One of the persons who had occasion to stop
most frequently at the tavern kept by Dumb Kate's
parents was a young man, the son of a gentleman
farmer, who owned a handsome estate in the
neighborhood. He saw Kate, and was struck with
her beauty and natural elegance. Though not of
thoroughly wicked propensities, the merit of so fine
a prize made this man determine, without intend
ing marriage, to gain her love, and if possible , to
win her to himself. At first he hardly dared , even
to his own soul, to entertain thoughts of vileness
or harm against one so confiding and childlike.
But in a short time such feelings wore away, and
he made up his mind to become the betrayer of
poor Kate .
As the girl's evil genius would have it , the youth
was handsome and of most pleasing address. He
laid his plans with the greatest art. The efforts
of wickedness triumphed. It is needless to trans
scribe the progress of this devil in angel's guise.
He had made but too sure of his victim . Kate
was lost !
Look not with a frown , rigid moralist ! Give
not words and thoughts of contempt, you whose
life has been pure because it has never been tempt
ed , or because you had the wisdom of the serpent
to resist temptation ! There is an Eye which looks
far beneath the surface of conduct, and forgives
and pities the infirmities of mortal weakness. To
that Eye, it not seldom appears that they upon
whom the world has placed its ban , are the fittest
for entering the abodes of heaven itself - while
others, to whom men look up with reverence and
admiration , might make their appropriate home
amid spirits of darkness.
The successful villain came to New York soon
after, and engaged in a respectable business
which prospered well , and which has no doubt

THE SNIVELLERS OF SOCIAL LIFE AND LITERATURE .
by this time made him what is called a man of
fortune.
Not long did sickness of the heart wear into the
life and happiness of Dumb Kate. One pleasant
spring day, the neighbors having been called by a
notice the previous morning, the old church - yard
was thrown open, and a coffin was borne over the
early grass that seemed so delicate with its light
green hue. There was a new -made grave, and by
its side the bier was rested — while they paused a
moment until holy words had been said . An idle
boy, called there by curiosity, saw something lying
on the fresh earth thrown out from the grave , which
attracted his attention. A little blossom , the only
one to be seen around , had grown exactly on the
spot where the sexton chose to dig poor Kate's last
resting place. It was a weak but lovely flower,
and now lay where it had been carelessly thrown
THE SNIVELLERS OF SOCIAL LIFE AND LITERATURE .
In modern society there are innumerable obstacles
in the way of obtaining or preserving a healthy con
dition of the heart and brain. The ten thousand
prejudices, resulting from peculiarities of individual
constitution , or those which are insensibly imbibed
in social life, are apt to distort the mind and vitiate
the judgment and feelings. Society is cursed with
so much deep seated mental disease and such a
number of psychological epidemics, that it has been
petulantly fleered at by some as a huge “ Hospital
of Incurables.” There is no nonsense so transpa
rent, no crotchet so ridiculous, no system so unrea
sonable , that it cannot find advocates and disciples.
The maladies of the body, produced by artificial
modes of living, react upon the mind and infect the
reason and sentiments ; and many a spurious philo
sophical system is the product, not of induction, but
dyspepsia ; and many a plan of reform , assuming
to come from the brain , has its true origin in the
bile. A sickening feebleness covers its imbecile
elegance under the name of refinement, and the
energy of disease and madness struts and fumes in
the habiliments of power. Nothing is rarer than to
see, among the vast mass of men , a healthy , strong
minded, simple man. From amiable weaknesses
down to unamiable insanities, there are unnum
bered disorders and infirmities which stunt the
free growth and development of our natures.
One of the most melancholy productions of this
condition of life is the sniveller - -aa biped that infests
all classes of society and prattles from the catechism
of despair, on all subjects of human concern. The
spring of his mind is broken. A babyish , nerveless
fear has driven the sentiment of hope from his
soul. He cringes to every phantom of apprehen
6
$
231
amid the coarse gravel. The boy twirled it a mo
ment in his fingers - the bruised fragments gave out
a momentary perfume, and then fell to the edge of
the pit, over which the child at that moment leaned
and gazed in his inquisitiveness. As they drop
ped they were wafted to the bottom of the grave.
The last look was bestowed on the dead girl's
face by those who loved her so well in life, and
then she was sotily laid away to that repose which ,
after life's fitſul fever, comes so sweetly.
Yet in the churchyard on the hill is Dumb Kate's
grave. There stands a little white stone at the
head , and the grass grows richly there ; and gos
sips, sometimes of a Sabbath afternoon , rambling
over that gathering place of the gone from earth ,
stop awhile and con over the poor girl's hapless
story.
sion, and obeys the impulses of cowardice as though
they were the laws of existence. He is the very
Jeremiah of conventionalism, and his life one long
and lazy lamentation . In connection with his
maudlin brotherhood, his humble aim in life is to
superadd the snivelization of society to its civiliza
tion. He snivels in the cradle, at the school, at the
altar, in the market,on the death-bed. His exist
ence is the embodiment of a whine. Passion in
him is merely a whimper. He clings to what is
established, as a snail to a rock. He sees nothing
in the future but evil, nothing in the past but good.
His speech is the dialect of sorrow ; he revels in the
rhetoric of lamentation. His mind , or the thing he
calls his mind , is full of forebodings, premonitions
and all the fooleries of pusillanimity. He mistakes
the tremblings of his nerves for the intuitions of his
reason . Of all bores he is the most intolerable and
merciless. He drawls misery to you through his
nose , on all occasions. He is master of all the
varieties of the art of petty tormenting. He tells
you his fears, his anxieties, his opinions of men and
things, his misfortunes and his dreams, as though
they were the most edifying and delightful of topics
for discourse. Over every hope of your own he
throws the gloom of his despondency. He is a limp
ing treatise on ennui , who invades sanctuaries to
which no mere book could possibly gain admittance.
It must be confessed that all snivellers do not
attain this height of their ideal , and that there are
many degrees of foolery among the class. It re
quires a peculiar mental and bodily constitution
and an uncommonly bad experience of life, so to
pervert the object of our being and the laws of our
nature as to produce a finished whimperer. But
232 THE COLUMBIAN
still there is no community free from a multitude of
croakers and alarmists , who display with greater or
less completeness the qualities we have pointed out,
and who affict the patience and conscience of all
good Christians within the reach of their influence.
They are of various kinds, and exercise their
misery -making propensities in manifold ways. We
find them among lawyers, physicians, politicians ,
merchants, farmers and clergymen, as well as
among poets and old women . Wherever man , sin
and the gallows are , there is the sniveller. As a
citizen and politician , he has for the last three
hundred years opposed every useful reform and
wailed over every rotten institution as it fell. He
has been and is the foe to all progress and always
cries over the memory of the “ good old days."
He is ever fearful of the present. His Slough of
Despond of to-day is his Paradise of to-morrow.
As a clergyman he has no force of reasoning or
unction , but whines dubiously about the sin of the
world and the impossibility of checking it ; he tells
his congregation that the earth is a vale of tears,
that they should do nothing but lament over their
degeneracy, and hints the probability that few of
them can be saved from the fire that is not quenched.
He makes the house of mourning more mournful,
and tolls the funeral bell of his voice , as he joins
loving hands in marriage .
But it is in literature that the sniveller is most
unendurable, for in composition he can give full
expression to much which human nature would
prevent him from displaying in conduct. Reader,
have you not seen or read many a snivelling poet ?
Those weak manikins and dapper author -lings
who mistake indigestion for inspiration ? Heaven
save
ve us all from such an infliction ! There is no
thing so bad as the slave of despondency when he
attempts to dance in the chains of rhyme. He sets
his groans and grumblings to a kind of squeaking
tune , and forces innocent types to be the pander of
his passion for melancholy. He goes about the 6
streets of the intellectual republic , wearing “ his
heart upon his sleeve," and praying all charitable
persons to drop into his hat some coppers of com
miseration and crumbs of consolation. He wishes
to make the whole world his confidant - to paste up
the placards of his misery in the public markets ,
to inform all men and women that his heart is
dust, that his hopes are blighted , and that unhappi
ness is his portion - to exhibit the most recondite
secrets of his bosom to the gaze of tattlers and
sneerers, with the expectation of sympathy ; and,
with effeminate plaints of fictitious woes, to snivel
away his life in a vain attempt to turn his metrical
drivelling into the current coin of the land . He
trusts that if hard, cold , inhuman man refuses a
hearing to his maudlin miseries, the tender heart
of angelic woman will pity and purchase his misfor
tunes. All the “ little feeblenesses ” generated in
MAGAZINE .
the atmosphere of “ conventionalism's air-tight
stove, ” which make his mind the seat of more in
firmities than the pharmacopæia dreams of, he ex
pects will find an answering response in a sex
which has always enough old women of its own.
The poets who thus snivel in rhyme generally
labor under the hallucination that their mawkish
foolery finds sympathizing hearers. Bound up and
circumscribed by their own petty world of conscious
ness, and brooding over their own little sorrows and
cares, they are incapable of giving any free and
fresh expression to natural thought and emotion.
They hug the phantom of their conceit close to
their breasts and deem it of universal interest and
love. Everything which occurs to themselves,
from a pain in the heart to a pain in the head , they
deem worthy of commemoration in metre. Their
idiosyncracies, follies, maladies, moonshine and
misery , are never satisfied until they have been
tortured into rhyme. The public take interest in
the psychological history of great poets, because
those poets have earned their title to such dis
tinction by works of great genius, in which all can
sympathize. Shakspeare's sonnets are invaluable,
because we desire to know everything which can
be learned of the author of Hamlet and Macbeth .
But the class of metrical snivellers would reverse
this and have the world's curiosity excited for the
mental diseases of complaining mediocrity. All
the “ decent drapery ” that decorum casts over
those private meditations which every healthy in
tellect dislikes to divulge , they throw off with the
utmost carelessness, and glory in an indelicate ex
posure of mind. Every little event of their mental
or bodily life they deem worthy of being celebrated
in a poem . If a thought happens accidentally to
stray into their craniums they rush instantly into
rhyme. A sonnet to them is a soothing syrup, and
lyrics flow from their lamentations. They would
turn their whine into a warble. They mistake
their idiosyncracies for general laws. They would
re-construct life after the image of their own dis
eased imaginations and make a nation of snivellers .
An inelegant imbecility, like the mingling of moon
beams with fog, drearily illumines the intense inane
of their rhetoric.
When we consider the importance of energy and
hope in the affairs of the world, and contemplate
the enfeebling if not immoral result of indulging in
a dainty and debilitating egotism , we cannot but
look upon the snivellers of social life as great evils .
Even when the habit of selfish lamentation is ac
companied by talent, it should be treated with con
tempt and scorn . There are so many inducements
in our time to pamper it that there is no danger
that the opposition will be too severe . Wherever
we go we meet with the sniveller. He stops us at
the corner of the street to entrust us with his
opinion on the probability that the last measure of
 TO
legislation will dissolve the Union. He fears also
that the morals and intelligence of the people are
destroyed by the election of some rogue to office .
He tells us, just before church , that the last sermon
of some transcendental preacher has given the death
blow to religion, and that the waves of atheism and
the clouds of pantheism are to deluge and darken
all the land. Next he informs us of the starvation
of some poor hack , engaged as assistant editor to
a country journal, and infers from it that , in the
United States, literature cannot flourish . In a
time of general health he speaks of the pestilence
that is to be. The mail cannot be an hour late but
he prattles of rail- road accidents and steamboat
disasters. He fears that his friend who was mar
ried yesterday will be a bankrupt in a year, and
whimpers over the trials which he will then endure.
He is ridden with an eternal nightmare and emits
an eternal wail.
Recklessness is a bad quality, and so is blind and
extravagant hope ; but neither is so degrading as
inglorious and inactive despair. We object to the
sniveller because he presents the anomaly of a be
ing who has the power of motion without possess
ing life. His insipid languor is worse than tumid
strength. Better that a man should rant than
whine. The person who has no bounding and
buoyant feelings in him, whose cheek never flushes
at anticipated good, whose blood never tingles and
fires at the contemplation of a noble aim , who has
no aspiration and no great object in life , is only fit
TO
BY MRS . FRANCES S. OSGOOD .
They told me beanty, o'er thy face,
Had breathed her rarest, richest spell,
And lightly twined an airy grace
In every curl that round it fell.
We met - and ' neath the veil of light
And bloom, that beauty round thee flung,
I found a charm ofholier might,
For love bad tuned thy silver tongue.
'Tis said in Erin's sunny isle,
That they who wear the shamrock leaf,
A blessing bring where'er they smile,
That lights and warms the wildest grief.
FOR
I saw the morning's golden beam
Lie bright upon a passing stream ;
I saw at even 'twas sparkling yet,
And pure as when at first they met ;
20 *
233
for the hospital or the band -box. Enterprise, con
fidence , a disposition to believe that good can be
done , an indisposition to believe that all good has
done — these constitute important elements in
the character of every man who is of use to the
world . We want no wailing and whimpering
about the absence of happiness, but a sturdy deter
mination to abate misery. The world should have
too much work on its hands to lend its ear to the
plaints of its individual members. The laborers
should have no mercy for the do -nothings. The
man of serious purpose has no time to be miserable.
Into the very blood and brain of our youth there
should be infused energy and power. The litera
ture of the country should breathe the bracing air
of a healthy inspiration , not the hot atmosphere of
a spurious spiritualism and silly sentimentality.
Instead of brooding over his own diseased con
sciousness and aggravating the malady which en
feebles his mind , the jaded blasé should cure his
unhappiness by ministering to the comfort of others.
And we would say to the poor sniveller, whether
he dawdles in a drawing-room or tottles in a
tavern , in the words of the sagacious Herr Teufels
drockh , “ Produce ! produce ! were it but the piti
fullest infinitesimal fraction of a product , produce
it in God's name ! ' Tis the utmost thou hast in
thee ; out with it , then . Up , up ! whatsoever thy
hand findeth to do , do it with thy whole might.
Work , while it is called to-day, for the night cometh
wherein no man can work ." X.
( See Portrait . )
Hast thou , within thy bosom , hid
The charmed flower from Erin's shore,
Which some fond fniry found amid
Her blooming fields, and hither bore ?
Ah, no ! within those dark blue eyes,
Those graceful words, that winning smile,
A deeply sweet enchantment lies,
Beyond the spell from Erin's isle !
Thou dost not need the charmed flower,
Thou dost not need the fairy's art ;
In feeling dwells thy magic power,
The leaf of love is in the heart !
AN ALBUM .
And thus the joys that gaily now
Give beauty to thy snowy brow,
Still may they o'er thy life- tide shine,
And gild thy spirit's last decline.
 DRINKING
BY F. E. F. , AUTHOR OF “ SUMMER FROLICKING AND WINTER RECKONING . "
“ I wish somebody would come in ;” said Susan
Willing, yawning, as she threw aside her book ;
“ it's mighty dull here."
“ Whom do you want to see , Sue ? ” inquired
her brother.
“ Oh ,no one in particular - somebody, anybody.
Come, Louisa, suppose we go in and see some of our
new neighbours. There is Mrs. Stanton , always
begging one to sociable and asking us to come in
of an evening. Let us try her - what do you say ? ”
“ Very well , if William will call for us at nine
o'clock ; " which being arranged , the young ladies
put on their bonnets, and in a few minutes were
standing upon Mrs. Stanton's steps. The servant,
who opened the door in answer to their ring,
seemed somewhat embarrassed as he said Mrs.
Stanton was at home, but notwithstanding hesita
ted a little, they thought , about admitting them .
He threw open the parlor door, however, and they
were ushered in, to the evident surprise of the lady
of the mansion , who appeared busily occupied in
cutting and arranging needle work , which, judging
from the slight glimpse Susan had of it , was neither
“ fancy” nor “ ornamental.” Mrs. Stanton , how
ever, quickly whisked her basket to one side that
no second look might penetrate the mysteries
thereof, and with no little constraint and embarrass.
ment expressed her pleasure in seeing the Misses
Willing, while her husband , who had been deeply
immersed in his evening's paper at the moment of
their entrance , laid it down, still however with
his hand upon it , as if expecting that the interrup
tion would be transient, and only waiting their
departure to resume his reading. In fact after
its first few minutes of conversation there was
evidently an air of expectation about both husband
and wife, as if waiting to hear the object of their
visit , for that they must come on business of some
kind seemed to be the feeling that succeeded the
first blush of surprise on their entrance. Both
Susan and Louisa were lively , conversable girls ,
and entered as readily upon the ordinary topics of
chit chat as could be expected under the chilling
circumstances of the case ; but spite of their efforts
the conversation languished ; Mrs. Stanton's man
ner grew more constrained and her eye wandered
in some evident mental distress, as a rattling of tea
things was heard in the adjoining pantry. This
same rattling, however, inspired Susan with some
234
TEA OUT .
hope, as she well knew that there are housekeepers
who never retain their composure so long as any
domestic evolution is under performance, and trust
ed that Mrs. Stanton would presently be relieved
by the safe arrival of the tea equipage, when
possibly she might warm into something like ease
and animation while dispensing its hospitalities.
With such encouraging ideas floating through her
mind she talked on most vigorously to Mr. Stanton ,
leaving Louisa to make the best she could of Mrs.
Stanton, when the door partially opening gave her
a glimpse of the waiter entering with the tea -tray
in his hands ; but he retreated immediately , having
received a look accompanied by a backward wave
of the head , which told the guests quite as intelli
gibly as it did the servant that tea would not be
served until after their departure. Supposing, as
ladies usually do on such occasions, that her
telegraphic signal had only been seen by the person
for whose benefit it was intended , Mrs. Stanton
seemed considerably relieved as the door closed ,
and with it all hopes of tea for the present. It
was now Louisa's and Susan's turn to feel embar.
rassed as they remembered that they had not asked
their brother to call until nine o'clock , and it was
now but little past seven. To struggle through the
next two mortal hours in such awkward and
uncomfortable attempts at conversation was not to
be thought of ; besides the unpleasantness of depri
ving poor Mr. Stanton of his tea , for which they
thought there were evident symptoms of an im
patience on his part that seemed once or twice
upon the point of breaking forth as he began a “ my
dear ” to his wife , who each time hurriedly cut it
short by addressing some inquiry to one of her
visitors . To be sure it was late for them to return
home by themselves ; they had come meaning to
stay, and Mrs. Stanton knew that they had come
with that intention , and therefore if it was awkward
to stay it was scarcely less so to go ; but Louisa
felt that she could endure it no longer, and grow
ing desperate , gave Susan a look , and rising, said ,
“ Mamma will be expecting us ; it is growing
dark ," and bade Mrs. Stanton good bye , who, both
confused and relieved, accompanied them to the
street door, and as she remarked upon its being
a fine evening said ,
“ Do come and see me soon again, ” to which
the first impulse was to answer “ catch me," polite
 DRINKING TEA OUT .
ly smothered, however, in a “ thank you , with
pleasure," as they turned to hurry down the street.
“ What brought those girls here, " inquired Mr.
Stanton, as his wife returned to the parlor.
66
They merely came to pay a sociable visit, ”
she replied. “ Foolish things, to be running about
the streets at this time of the evening," he muttered
rather crossly. “ They had better stay at home.
Come , do let us have tea, I thought they never
would go and I am in a hurry to go down to the
counting house again .”
What , back so soon ?” exclaimed William,
as his sisters entered the parlor. “ Was Mrs.
Stanton out ?”
« No."
“ I thought you meant to stay to tea. You
certainly told me to call for you at nine. What
has brought you home ?”
“ We are home, ” said Louisa, laughing, “ be
cause if we had stayed ten minutes longer I believe
Mrs. Stanton would have had a fit."
“ But surely you have not had tea ?"
“ Tea !” exclaimed Susan. “ By the way,Louisa ,
did you see the look she gave the waiter ?”
“ See it ? to be sure I did ," replied Louisa.
Did she think that stupid black man was going to
understand her expressive nods and signs and we
not ? I imagine it was rather lucky for her that
Mr. Stanton's head was turned another way, or I
believe he would have insisted on the entrance of
the tea things . The good gentleman seemed to
be somewhat impatient, and I thought once or
twice was upon the point of exploding. I wonder
why she did not ask us. She evidently felt uncom
fortable at not doing so ."
“ Oh , I suppose she had no cake, or the best
cups were not out. Some nonsense of that kind ,
you may depend,” replied her sister .
“ Commend me to the hospitality of city life ,”
exclaimed William , " which will endure any mor
tification rather than expose the smallest deficiency
in the domestic economy.”
“ Susan," said Louisa, a few days after the unfor.
tunate visit to Mrs. Stanton , “ I met Mrs. Harring
ton yesterday, and apologized for not having
returned her call , and she begged me to come of
an evening, take tea sociably , &c. Suppose we
go to -night; only if we go let us go early enough
to permit her sending for cake if she has none,
that we need not throw her into the consternation
that we did poor Mrs. Stanton the other evening."
Consequently, before dark the Misses Willing
called upon Mrs. Harrington , who received them
with cordiality, and chatted with animation , without
however asking them to take off theirhats, or throw
ing out the most distant allusion to tea. They sat
an hour very pleasantly, when the loud ringing of a
bell would have seemed to announce the hour of
tea had it not been totally unnoticed by Mrs. Har
235
rington , who continued to talk on , although her
eye wandered as Louisa thought she distinguished
the sound of little feet pattering through the entry
and descending the basement stairs, which soon
being followed by the decided tread of Mr. Harring
ton himself, she was convinced the evening meal
was taking place in that lower region to which no
visitor is permitted to penetrate , and therefore,
giving Susan a look , they rose to take their leave.
Mrs. Harrington, like Mrs. Stanton , accompanied
them to the street door, and as she stood upon the
steps , said ,
“ I am so much obliged to you for this visit.
I wish you would come in often in this sociable
way, and the next time you come , come to tea."
“ Now is not that too much ?” said Louisa , as she
re - entered the house . “ The next time you come !
What is this mystery of tea ? Do let us see if the
thing is universal. Here is Mrs. Carroll, next door
to us. Let us call there . It is still quite early . "
So they rang at Mrs. Carroll's. They were ushered
into the parlor, which they found in total darkness
but for the light from the fire, by which they could
just distinguish Mr. Carroll asleep on the sofa and
Mrs. Carroll in evident dishabille, buried in a pro
found reverie in a large arm chair. Roused from
her dreamy state by her visitors, who were obliged
to announce themselves, Mrs. Carroll's embarrass
ment was extreme, and hardly knowing whether
to receive them , ring for lights, or wake her sleep
ing husband first, she did all three in flurry and
confusion. Lights soon appearing, the lady was
restored to some degree of composure and ordered
“ tea ," whereupon the servant disappeared , only to
return , however, in a minute , and ask in a very
audible whisper for “ the keys, " which Mrs. Carroll
fumbling for in vain in her work bag, hastily apolo
gized to her guests as she left the room to search
for them . She was gone several minutes, and
presently her voice was heard in suppressed tones,
apparently giving directions to the servant before
she returned to the parlor ; and now Louisa hoped
all obstacles were surmounted, and that they might
expect a little friendly gossip in ease and cheerful
ness, undisturbed by any fears for the tea equipage.
She was wrong, however, for Mrs. Carroll was
called once or twice from the room and her coun.
tenance wore an expression of anxiety that did not
subside until the table was duly set, with a glass
dish of preserves and a shilling's worth of cake,
which scarcely seemed to justify the many whisper
ings and expressive glances exchanged between
the mistress and domestic. The effort being made
and the rite over, something like animation succeed .
ed , although Louisa and Susan could not help
feeling that they were an interruption to the usual
family habits ; that Mr. Carroll , notwithstanding
he behaved like a gentleman and tried to be
agreeable, was conscious the whole time of his
236 THE COLUMBIAN
slippers, and would gladly have been reading his
paper ; and that Mrs. Carroll did not forget for a
moment the calico dress for which she apologized
once or twice with more feeling than good taste ;
and so they were very glad, after a reasonable
time , to bid them good evening and return to the
ease and cheerfulness of their own fire side.
“ Well Sue,” said Louisa , “ I have had enough
of sociable visiting. I am not going to carry con
sternation with me any farther in the neighbor.
hood. You will not get me to go any where else
with you of an evening, for although people beg
you to come in unceremoniously, they do not want
you. It is very evident that they are not in the
habit of seeing company in this way, and if you
take them at their word you put them out terribly."
“ You are right, certainly, as far as our ex
perience has gone,” replied Susan, “ but then we
have only visited married people . When there are
young ladies in the family of course it must be
different. So I am not discouraged yet. There
are the Worths opposite. She seems a very nice
girl , and disposed to be friendly. Let us go there
this evening."
“ Well, " said Louisa , hesitatingly, “ if you will
not go until after tea , for that seems the bugbear
of all sociability, and William will call for us. " So
between eight and nine in the evening they called
at Worths.
Here all was light and cheerful ; no confusion or
embarrassment. Miss Worth was at the piano ,
with a gentleman beside her, looking over music ,
while her mother sat sewing and talking with a
younger child at the fire. They begged the young
lady not to leave the instrument, but Louisa began
soon to suspect that they had interrupted a flirtation
as well as a song, for though Miss Worth tried to
be cordial, there was an evident expression of gene
about her that made Louisa heartily wish herself at
home again. An evening visit is a serious thing,
for whether it prove agreeable or otherwise you
must “ bide your time, " and consequently our young
ladies were obliged to remain until their brother's
arrival set them once more at liberty, not however
SONNET.- TO JOHN KEATS .
BY HENRY B. HIRST .
Grown sick at heart with glumbrous sweetness, Keats ,
Like one into xicate with scents that creep
From jasmine buds , I sank in tranced sleep ;
And then , with thee, along a dell , where dates
Ruffled their feathered leaves , and all was green
With emerald grasses , took my dreaming way.
“ Here," said thy silver voice," here , where we stray,
MAGAZINE .
without repeated thanks from Mrs. and Miss Worth
for their friendly visit, and the most pressing
solicitations to repeat it soon, which met with pro
mises in the affirmative about as sincere as the
invitations given .
“ Oh !" said Louisa, as she got in the open air and
drew a long breath, “ what an evening ! I felt as
if I was in one long nightmare, and would have
screamed with pleasure if it would only have broken
the spell and made me find myself at home again .
Now positively, Susan, this is my last evening visit."
The air of vexation and reproach with which
this was spoken amused Susan as she laughingly
answered ,
“ Well, don't look such daggers at me. I am
sure I have had as unrewarding a visit as you have ;
but it seems to me impossible that in a large city
like this there is not some society on a more cordial
and intimate footing than that which we meet in
crowded ball rooms, and therefore I shall not give
it up yet ; so Imean to call at Fulton's to-morrow."
Accordingly Susan called , the next evening, on the
Misses Fulton , unaccompanied however by Louisa ,
who had been too thoroughly discomposed by her
visit to Miss Worth to make any second attempt,
and found what she had almost despaired of finding,
one family who were not taken by surprise and
thrown into confusion by the unexpected entrance
of an evening guest. Miss Fulton, the eldest,
being a very lively and intelligent girl, Susan soon
warmed into animation and ease , and finally became
so communicative that she could not resist the
temptation of relating her different experiences
among their new acquaintance, and the astonish
ment with which she found herself actually drinking
tea in the neighborhood, which she did in so fresh
and graphic a manner that Miss Fulton laughed
heartily as she said ,
“ My dear Miss Willing, when you have lived
as long in New York as I have , you will learn to
think a neighborhood where you can find one house
open of an evening, and where you can pass an
hour sociably and agreeably, a remarkably sociable
neighborhood."
Strayed Dian - here , amid this scene ;
And in these meadows , by these gleaming streams,
In ancient cycles fed the flocks of Pan ;
Here sported nymphs and there the satyr ran
Alas , alas , that these were only dreams!”
And they were dreams-dreams that later days
May stare at - never equal -- but must praise.
Philadelphia, February, 1844 .
1 ..
BOOKS OF THE Μ Ο Ν Τ Η .
NARRATIVE OF THE Tzxan SANTA FE EXPEDITION , & c .
&c. By Geo. Wilkins Kendall. New York : Harper &
Brothers.
There is something in the misfortunes of others, says
Rochefoucauld, which we find not displeasing. The maxim
writing Frenchman had in view, when he uttered this un
amiable sentiment, one of the spots thut make up the dark
side of human character ; but the reader of Mr. Kendall's
volumes can apply the remark to himself without any the
slightest impeachment of his own philanthropy. The mis
fortunes of the author have resulted in a book the perusal of
which is indeed anything but displeasing.
Happening to know Kendall personally, we have been
considerably puzzled in trying to conjecture what there is
about him to cause or account for his ill-luck in joining that
disastrous expedition . Young, handsome, generous, jovial
and good tempered - as full of fun as any man not much short
of six feet in stature can well be, and ready at any time to
take a joke or give away all the money he has about him,
George Wilkins Kendall is a universal favorite with men
( and women ) and ought to be, one would think, with Dame
Fortune ; yet few men of his years have been so buffeted as
he was in that ill-starred journey across the prairies and
through Mexico. First he broke his leg , at the outset, by a
fall ; then came fatigues, hunger, thirst, anxiety, captivity
and a train of such miseries as even captivity does not often
cause in these modern times. But there was one redeeming
ingredient in his cup of tribulation ; or rather he himself was
able to supply an ingredient which tookøfrom all the others
more than half their bitterness -- the indomitable good -humor
--the never-failing elasticity of spirit which no accumulation
of bodily or mental troubles could subdue, and which so
pervades the recital of his woes as to make even the reader's
sympathy an agreeable, almost aa mirthful feeling. In the
possession of this quality he strongly reminds one of Stephens,
and it is the exercise of this quality by both that constitutes
in a great degree the peculiar charm of their vivacious and
sparkling narratives .
The Life of BENJAMIN FRANKLIN. By Jared Sparks.
Boston : Tappan & Dennett.
How different this superb octavo of six hundred pages, with
its clear, eye-rejoicing type, white paper and ample margins,
from the dim, dingy, contemptible little tome which we re
member reading, more than a quarter of a century ago, as
we slowly walked home from school-having doubtless sur
reptitiously bestowed upon its enticing pages sundry odd min
utes and quarters in school, which should have been honestly
devoted to the “ hard ” mysteries of practice, compound di
vision and the rule of three. We remember the very air and
aspect of that miserable little “24 mo ; ” its small, almost
illegible print, the type having probably been worn out in
New York or Boston before it fell into the hands of the coun
try publisher ; its whity -brown, rough, flimsy paper ; even its
wretched sheepskin binding, mottled with meandering streaks
of black, in the old fashion of " English Readers” and
" American Preceptors."
But the " Life of Franklin ” which we devoured then with
such relish was the same autobiography that is so much more
nobly lodged in this goodly octavo ; with a difference how
ever, for the knowledge of which we are indebted to Mr.
Sparks. It seems that what we and thousands of others have
read as Franklin's account of himself was in fact a transla
tion from the French . The original autobiography was done
into that language from Franklin's original manuscript, while
he was minister at the Court of Versailles, by one of his
friends, and the translation was published soon after his
death . A re-translation was made from this, and published,
in England ; and it was from this version that the multitudi
nous American editions were mostly copied. A curious in
stance of literary transmigration .
But it is not for the restoration of the genuine autobiogra
phy alone that American literature is indebted to Mr. Sparks.
Franklin carried his memoir only to 1757 ; Mr. Sparks has
furnished a continuation, occupying about the same number
of pages as the autobiography, and including, of course, the
most important and interesting events in which Franklin bore
so large a part-the events immediately preceding and attend
ing the establishment of the colonies as independent states .
In this Mr. Sparks has made a very acceptable and valuable
addition to our national biography ; for, as everybody knows,
the agency of Franklin was scarcely less extensive or effect
ual in the deliberative and diplomatic management of the
revolution than was that of Washington in the military .
The Birns of LONG ISLAND . By J. P. Giraud , jr. New
York : Wiley & Putnam .
The study of ornithology is decidedly our passion - in
books, however, for we have neither skill nor inclination to
shoot birds , and the only dissection of them that suits our
fancy is that performed at the dinner table . But to read of
their habits and characters is an especial delight; and many
a long hour of illness have we beguiled away deliciously
over the sparkling pages of Audubon.
Mr. Giraud's aim in the preparation of this volume has
been limited . An ornithologist bimself, and , we suspect, an
eager sportsman , he has been content with the modest pur
pose of enabling his brother gunners to practice their craft
with a certain degree of science-to know, when they shoot
a bird , to what family and genus it belongs, and what is its
specific designation. His notices of the birds frequenting
Long Island are therefore brief, and his accounts of their
babits are less minute than the mere ornithological reader
could desire . They are agreeable, however, and the book
is quite an accession to the sportsman's library, especially as
its price is very moderate. The descriptions are divested of
scientific technicalities and the most unlearned “ gunner "
will find nothing to mar bis pleasure or his profit.
PARENO -MNEMOTECHNIC DICTIONARY. By Francis Fauvel
Gouraud . New York : Printed the author.
Mr. Gouraud's system of artificial memory - or to speak
more accurately, of regulating and putting to use the princi
ple of association wbich has so much to do with the faculty
of remembering-has achieved for itself a Napoleon triumph .
Eminently simple in its principles, yet profoundly philosoph
ical and susceptible of application to an unlimited extent, it
has been studied by thousands in this city, whose testimonies
of content are warm and unanimous ; and even those who
had no practical object in view, either of employing it in
their own avocations or of imparting it to others, have yet
been delighted with the ingenuity of the discovery and the
curious eflicacy of its rules.
The dictionary which Gouraud has published is of
course available only to those who understand the system .
To any other many of its pages would be worse than
237
238 THE COLUMBIAN
“ heathen Greek," and none would convey a definite idea
of aught save inexplicable confusion . But to the initiated
there is a beautiful method pervading all this apparent disor
der, and he can appreciate the industry and patience with
which the author has toiled for years in the preparation of a
volume whose object is simply to facilitate the progress of the
mnemotechnic disciple.
We are conscious that the preceding observations must
seem quite oracular, not to say unintelligible ; but Mr. Gou
raud's system is not yet made public , and until he gives per
mission, by himself proclaiming it, his pupils have no right,
as, if they are honorable men , they have no inclination, to
publish aught that may assist in divulging the secrets of the
master. He has toiled long and faithfully to perfect his dis
covery, and it is but meet that be derive from it his fair
advantages.
THE WHITE-footed Deer, AND OTHER Poems . By Wil
liam Cullen Bryant. Nero York : Press of the Home
Library.
The “ Home Library ” is a new enterprise in the field of
publication, which ought to succeed . It is designed to meet
the public predilection for cheap literature," but without
the concomitants heretofore attending the cheap issues -- slov
enly printing, small type and wretched paper as the externals,
and , for the most part, intrinsic worthlessness. The editor,
Mr. Evert A. Duyckinck , proposes to print works of real
merit - lo print them handsomely - and to sell them in num
bers - some at one and some at two shillings. Of course
there will not be in each number as great a quantity of matter
as the public have been accustomed to get for a shilling, but
the lack of quantity will be more than made up in the supe
riority of quality and manner .
The White -footed Deer is familiar to the readers of the
Columbian Magazine, having been originally published in our
January number. The other poems havo also appeared in
various periodicals, but every lover of fine poetry will be glad
to have them collected in this convenient form .
NOTICE TO CORRESPONDENTS .
The editor has kept his eyes upon hard duty, at such times as
he could spare for reading during the last two months - going
over somewhat less, perhaps, than an acre of manuscript,
most of it legibly written enough. And the result has been
quite an accession to his still accumulating store of articles
“ marked for insertion . " He ventures to promise that the
readers of this magazine will hereafter find pleasure, or profit,
or both , in the perusal of
Grandfather Bray, The Belle of the Season , The Bargain
buyer, The Fashionable Patronizer, The Man of Impulse,
Love and Sentimentalism , Idle Hours No. 2, The Jewish
Ruler, Thoughts on the Poets, A Steam Voyage to Edinburgh ,
The City of Fountains, The Palace of Shedad, My Child
hood's Home, The Two Hearts, “ Oh for a dwelling far
away, " “ Like a dear dream that lingers in the heart," Re
miniscence, Spring and Immortality, Fratello del Mio Cor,
Modesty and Success, “ Is that all ? " and Sir Peter D. Bearn ,
or the Bear’s Vengeance of Bigorre.
Received too late for notice in the present number :
Our Village , A Man built in a wall , Charles Morton , Mans
field , Aunt Betty's Advice and Childhood's Teachings.
Articles not mentioned in either of the preceding lists are
left at the office of the publisher for their respective writers.
The editor receives many letters in replying to which he is
perplexed and embarrassed by the vague indications of the
signatures--the initial letter only of baptismal name being
given. Sometimes he is left to guess whether the writer of a
letter thus signed is lady or gentleman ; and though he can
MAGAZINE .
ITALY AND THE ITALIANS . By J. T. Headley.
The Home Library is to be published in a two- fold series
one of prose, the other of poetry. The first number of the
prose series contains twenty -two letters from Italy , originally
published in the New York Tribune, where we read them
with unflagging interest. They deal rather with men and
manners than with the stereotyped subjects of Italian tour
ists -- palaces, pictures and statuary. Mr. Headley has wisely
addressed himself, in preference, to the people, to national
and individual character, and to the effect upon both of na
tional institutions ; exhibiting all these, moreover, not so much
by essay or description as by spirited narrative and anecdote .
He writes in a cheerful, pleasant temper, gives us abundance
of incident and impression , and, though going over ground
that has been beaten again and again , contrives to impart an
agreeable freshness to everything on which he touches by the
vivacity of his style and the judicious care with which he
avoids the common -places of foreign travel. He does not so
much tell us what he saw as take us with him to see it also
or as he would say, to witness it ; for Mr. Headley seems to
have a particular aversion to that little word of three letters
and a particular delight in substituting for it one of seven,
which has quite a different meaning. To witness means to
attest, or testify.
HEWET'S SHAKSPEARE.
A new and very beautiful edition of Shakspeare's plays is
among the weekly issues of the New York press. The editor,
Gulian C. Verplanck , Esq .; director of the illustrations,
Robert W. Weir ; publisher, H. W. Hewet. The illustra
tions nre engraved on wood , chiefly from the very spirited and
admirable designs of Kenny Meadows. There are to be about
fourteen hundred ofthem in all, and those in the three numbers
as yet published are quite well executed. Nothing could be
better in design than three in the third number, which contains
the fourth act and parts of the third and fifth acts of Hamlet.
These three , Yorick setting the table in a roar, Yorick bear
ing Hamlet on his back and the confabulation between the
two grave -diggers. They are perfect.
often give aa shrewd guess as to this point, from the character
of the manuscript, there is unluckily nothing in that sign to
indicate whether a lady is married or single. If correspond
ents will be kind enough to let the editor know, by the man
ner of signature or otherwise, whether, in replying to them ,
he shall put on the outside of his letters, “ Mr., " " Mrs. " or
" Miss," he will be greatly obliged to them .
[ For the private eye of M. A. E.
The editor is sorely puzzled. He would be glad to renew
that acquaintance of which he is reminded, but the fifteen
years that have ela psed have taken from his memory the cir
cumstances referred to , and the change of name completely
baffles all his efforts to recall them . He hopes that M. A. E.
will favor him with more specific indications as to the when
and where . His ignorance of M. A. E.'s address obliges him
to adopt this public means for the gratification of his excited
curiosity .)
The editor has been compelled to return a number of arti
cles, offered him since the publication of the last number, by
reason of their unmanageable length. Sull adhering to his
purpose, not to continue articles from one number to another,
he cannot make use of manuscripts occupying more than fif
teen or at the very utmost, twenty foolscap pages. Fifteen ,
of moderately compact writing, are enough for any magazine
article. For this reason he is compelled, though reluctantly ,
to decline the very clever and interesting story entitled
“ Time's doings."
 I'VE WON THEE TO LOVE ME .

POETRY BY MRS. EMMA C. EMBURY,

MUSIC BY MRS . C. L. HULL .

#
€
Allegro

Moderato .
2 :#
este 1933
.
Cres .

3 :#

Con Anima .

IB
1. I've won thee to love me, all cold as thou art, I've

ff
3 :#

won thee to love me, un tame ble heart ; For this eve - ry joy of my

其 Spiritoso.

있
240 I'VE WON THEE TO LOVE ME .

Lento .

life has been given , For this I have risk'd eve гу pro mise of Henv'n

Cres .

Every prom - ise of Heav'n ; I've won thee to love me ; hola thee in thrall,

f
5 :*

And the sight of thy bondage, re - pays me for all Re pays mo for
000

ᎯᎭ,

2.
all.
8va - I've won thee to love me, untameable heart,
I've won thee to love me, and now let us part;
Thou may’st throw off my fetters with haughty disdain,
But the scar and the aching must ever remain ;
My toils may seem frail as the wood -spider's net,
But love's spell is upon thee ; thou canst not forget.'
Ə :#
 Eng ? by H.S.Sada

CHARLOTTE AND GRACE

the Mis Jonathan Cydonj..

Daughters of Alrik
Engraved (expressly for the Columbian Magazine) from the original Picture
by H Inman Esq N A. in the possession of MS D. L. Lawrence .
 dos

en
17

ES
Painted
A.
by.
Deveria Crimber
Enged
S.by.

FOR
TEL THE
TUN
LERE.

THE
COLUMBIAN
JUNE , 1844 .
THOUGHTS ON THE POETS .
BY HENRY T. TUCKERMAN .
NO . I. - ALFIERI .
Perhaps there is no character in modern literary
history who so strikingly illustrates the power of
will as Victor Alfieri. Irresolution is one of the
most common infirmities of poetic genius. In
practical pursuits firmness of purpose is so essential
to success that the want of it very soon leads to
fatal consequences. Intellectual effort, on the con
trary, is so much more dependant for its power and
felicity upon peculiar moods of feeling and combi
nations of circumstances , that we scarcely expect
a continuous regularity in its exercise . Hence we
speak of a writer's happy moments, of being in the
vein for a particular subject, and of the ebb and
flow of that mysterious tide of inspiration which
bears into light the creations of thought. Imagi
native men are confessedly more variable, capri
cious and undeterminate than others . Their me .
moirs usually exhibit the utmost want of method
and continuity as regards the time and progress of
their labors. Individuals of strong sense and calm
temperament can discern no law governing the
mental existence of poetical beings. There is so
much that is apparently wayward and disorderly
in the application of their gifts, that ill success in
life isproverbially their lot, and common prejudice
deems all genius erratic. Probably no single fact
relative to Scott has excited greater surprise than
his habitual and regular industry. Social and
VOL . 1.-- 21
*
MAGAZINE ,.
local influences, personal circumstances, the state
of the health and even of the weather - and far
more , the mood of mind , are supposed to absolve
poets from the obligation of firmness. Victor Al
fieri demonstrated the immense efficacy of this
single quality. We are almost tempted, as we
contemplate his career, to rank powerful volition
with genius itself. For by virtue of his force of
purpose he overcame the formidable obstacles of aa
most unpropitious education, long habits of indul
gence and an undisciplined mind . Upon the most
unpromising basis he reared a splendid intellectual
fabric. Amid the most enervating influences he
displayed extraordinary strength. With scarcely
any external encouragement he wrought out in his
own nature a stupendous revolution. His example
is a most eloquent appeal in favor of human versa
tility. Disposition , habit, the want of knowledge,
he conquered by moral determination. As Napo
leon cut the Simplon through the rocks and snow
of the Alps, Alfieri shaped his lonely way to the
temple of fame over mountains of difficulty and
amid the barten wastes of ignorance. This strength
of purpose did not appear in his childhood except
in one or two instances ofjuvenile obstinacy, by no
means rare at that age. Another characteristic, per
haps inseparable from great decision, was much more
manifest. From his earliest years it is evident he
241
242 THE COLUMBIAN
felt profoundly. Mortification of any kind sank
deeply into his soul. The novices who officiated
at church won his young affections, though he only
beheld them in attendance at the altar. In that
spontaneous and almost ideal love , we recognise
the germs of the passion that in after life fired his
heart. There is a vividness in his reminiscences
of infancy which proves that his very earliest expe
rience was intense .
Alfieri complains that he was born in an amphi
bious country. And certainly there is no section
of Italy where the national characteristics are more
invaded than Piedmont. The soil is Italian , the
government Austrian, the language of society
French. Hence manners , opinions, customs and
much of the aspect of the capital present to the
stranger an incongruous mixture. The anomalous
influences of his birth-place seem to have extended
to his destiny. The picture he has left of what was
called his education, is one of the most alarming
commentaries upon a despotic government that
ever was written . Pedantry instead of truth ,
verbal memory instead of ideas, antiquated
Latin instead of his native literature , and formal
dogmas instead of interesting facts, were the
fruit of his academic course. To this evil is to
be added that of absence from all maternal or do
mestic influences at an infantile age, the tyranny
of a dissipated valet, of a powerful, stupid fellow
student and injudicious professors, ill health, unjust
restraint and ill- chosen companions . During these
perverted years, how slept that energetic mind !
Occasionally music, some verses of Metastasio or
of Ariosto read by stealth, an hour of tears with
his sister at the convent grate , a ride into the en
virons, or a holiday dinner with an uncle-breaksin
like a stray gleam of sunshine upon the wasting
and monotonous life of the neglected boy. But as
& whole, the dawn of his being, to a reflective
mind , is unexpressibly sad. Rich and nobly born,
yet confined to a useless and depressing routine,
with his wild Piedmontese blood , his thirsting heart ,
his despairing temperament - not a healthful con
viction , not a lofty hope, not an ennobling aim grew
up in the rich soil of that young soul—thus train
ing under royal authority. And yet but a short
distance without those college walls rise in free .
dom and majesty the snow - covered mountains,
upon which the rosy sunlight lingers, like the altars
of liberty warmed by the smile of heaven. If
any agency redeemed and preserved the uncon
scious youth of Alfieri, it was that of Nature ; and
we are relieved to follow him , unprepared as he
was, on the first wild journey of his youth. It is
melancholy to think of a young Italian travers
ing his country for the first time, with no sense of
its peculiar associations. Yet thus was it with Al
fieri in his early wanderings. He loved indeed
the excitement of locomotion ; but the most at
MAGAZINE .
tractive localities soon wearied him. He passed
with inattentive soul the shrine of genius. He
gazed listlessly upon the trophies of art. He sadly
confesses that he brought nothing home from his
journeyings but a fit of illness . Still the mere
variety of such a life had become necessary.
Again and again he renewed his travels until
he had seen , in a rapid and cursory manner, nearly
every country in Europe . It is interesting to ob
serve , during these years of dissipation , how, ever
and anon , his better nature became active. The
sight of the sea, a solitary ride in the environs of
Rome, some of the wonderful aspects of nature in
the North , so excited his imagination that he
would have “ wreaked upon expression ” his emo
tions but for the want of the adequate language
and skill. He wept in an ecstasy of admiration
over the pages of Plutarch , and thought beside the
tomb of Michael Angelo how grand it was to leave
an example to posterity. It is obvious, indeed,
that during a youth, seemingly wholly given to the
reckless pursuit of pleasure, Alfieri was always a
thinker. Perhaps meditative power is the crown
ing distinction of gifted minds. There is certainly
an order of men who have delighted the world with
their genius, having but little claim to the name
of students, as that term is usually employed.
Ashamed as was the young dramatist of his mea
gre attainments, the very dissatisfaction which
he vainly strove to annihilate by rapid pilgrimages
indicates a mind too self - cognizant to remain long
contented with inactivity. In reverting to this
epoch of his life, Alfieri gives us a truly painful
insight into the restlessness of a forlorn spirit.
Neither the freshness of his years, the liberty he
enjoyed to roam where he liked , nor his singular
susceptibility to many of the enjoyments of life,
could afford an antidote to this wretched state of
feeling. He subsequently learned that he could
not even enjoy peace , far less happiness, without a
noble occupation for his mind and a congenial
object for his heart. Upon the first of these salu
tary principles he soon began to act. In one of
his visits at home , sitting by the sick bed of his
mistress, in a listless moment , he seized a pen to
cover some sheets of paper by way of pastime .
Upon the walls of the adjoining apartment were
several pictures representing scenes in the history
of Antony and Cleopatra. His thoughts were
naturally drawn to this subject, and he sketched a
few dialogues illustrative of the story. Exceed
ingly defective in point of language and style , they
were not deficient in a certain spirit that suggested
a more than ordinary ability. This careless effort
was thrust under the sofa -cushion and soon forgotten .
It was, however, the first feeble presage of a better
experience. The intellect once aroused craved
labor as its appropriate sphere, and in a short time
Alfieri deliberately formed the resolutions which
 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS.
resulted in a long career of successful mental toil.
His first efforts were, of course , very desultory, and
his plans were perfected only by degrees. But
the satisfaction derived from regular employment,
the encouraging and judicious counsel of intelligent
friends, and especially the incitement of ambition ,
gradually induced him to bring into full exercise
his singular strength of will. The first step was
to break off an ignoble liaison, and conquer at
once habits of conviviality and idleness. As Prince
Henry, to the astonishment of his old friend Jack,
suddenly threw off the trammels of pleasure upon
coming to the throne , so Alfieri, when he regained
the kingdom of his mind, immediately cast aside
all dalliance with idleness and folly. Then he
commenced , like a very schoolboy, the study of
grammar, perused and reperused the Italian poets,
went to Florence that he might learn even to think
in Tuscan , and ordered himself to be tied in a chair
to avoid yielding to external attraction that might
draw him from his books, or encroach upon his
hours of study. Once commenced , the work of
self-conquest went bravely on , and thenceforth
Alfieri, with only occasional intermissions, was a
studious and devoted man . His darling object
was glory . He earnestly desired to impress his
age, or at least win the respect of posterity, to im
mortalize his sentiments and accomplish something
worthy of renown. He bent all his energies to
the task and succeeded.
Among the peculiarities of Alfieri were his in
veterate dislike of the French and his fondness for
horses. Both the prejudice and the partiality are
characteristic. The former originated in his ac
quaintance with a Parisian dancing master at the
Turin Academy. The levity of this personage,
whose art he thoroughly hated, gave him an un
prepossessing idea of the nation, which their inva
• sion of Italy was but ill -calculated to remove. Paris
was never congenial to the poet, and his residence
there at the outbreak of the revolution, the insults
he received from a mob on leaving the gate, as
well as the reserve and thoughtfulness of his nature ,
confirmed his juvenile antipathy. In many points
Alfieri's character assimilated with the English.
He became early partial to their country and gov
ernment, and ardently sympathised in their taste
for fine steeds. In truth this passion divided his
regards with love and tragedy -writing. Even in
boyhood he was chiefly extravagant in his horses.
Continually purchasing the finest specimens of this
noble animal , taking the greatest pride in display
ing their graces and exercising the most scrupulous
care of them, it was one of his chief pleasures to
ride on horseback and travel with a fine cavalcade.
At one time, with no small difficulty and at a great
risk , he transported fourteen splendid horses from
England . His account of their passage of the
Alps is given with great goùt. Visions of arching
243
necks and beautiful evolutions haunted his dreams,
and his directions for the training of his favorites,
when absent, are written with all the precision and
interest of an enthusiast.
There is a remarkable blending of energy and
weakness, stern opinion and tender feeling, ca
price and manliness, in the character of Alfieri.
He had the resolution to commence and success
fully prosecute the study of Greek , after the age of
forty ; but not self -command enough to prevent
his striking a favorite servant upon the slightest
provocation , or hurling a book that displeased him
out of the window. He was restless but firm in
his attachments, wished ever to be with the few
he loved, but in different places. He could not
enjoy a medium in anything. He declares that
his head and heart were constantly at war. Al
ternately silent and loquacious, a laborious and
abstemious student and a self-indulgent and reck
less traveller, always at extremes, but ever noble
in his aspirations, and like Brutus chiefly anxious
to respect himself. Above adulation, the earnest
advocate of literary and civil freedom , and yet
keeping aloof from society and jealous of the least
encroachment upon his personal views and pur
poses. Devoted where his heart was engaged ; a
hater of kings, but not a lover of men, among whom
he had indeed widely wandered, but with whom
he never intimately mingled. He deeply felt the
political degradation of his native land , and set a
remarkable example of personal independence amid
despotic influences. He demonstrated how free
a true man might live among slaves. He aspired
to be the poet of liberty, the prophet of a new era ,
the patriot who lived and wrote against his coun
try's oppression , when other warfare was vain.
Absolute and uncompromising hatred of tyranny
was one of the strongest feelings of his soul. In
his sonnet on his own portrait, instead of compar
ing his complexion with snow or aa lily, after the
manner of most bards, he prefers the phrase " pal
lido come un re sul trono,” pale as a king on his
throne. And yet the sentiment did not spring from
love of equality or respect for man. Alfieri was
anything but a humanitarian. Exclusive in his
attachments, full of contempt for the passive spirit
that prevailed in Italy, while he thoroughly despi
sed all the badges and support of royalty, he was
a species of intellectual aristocrat. He rejoiced
that he was born a nobleman, chiefly that he might
inveigh against rank without having his motives
impugned. He expatriated himself rather than be
subject to the little court of Turin ; and transferred
his estate to a sister that all claims upon his allegi
ance might cease . He would not be introduced
to Metastasio at Vienna, because he happened to
see him bend the knee to Maria Theresa. He
boasts that when the French occupied Florence,
he remained so perfectly secluded in a neighboring
发
党
244 THE COLUMBIAN
villa that he was not contaminated by a single
Gallic sound or sight ; and when the commanding
general sought to visit him , he proudly informed
him that Victor Alfieri was too old to make new
acquaintances. His loftiness of spirit was indom
itable. No punishment in childhood was so severe
as being taken to mass with a small net on his
head . He would not demand his books left behind
in Paris lest it should be construed into a recogni
tion of Napoleon's authority. He left many works
in manuscript, rather than submit them to the
censors before publication. He refused the aca
demic honors proffered by his native city, and tells
us of the marble calmness of visage he preserved
before others, when his heart was torn by conflict
ing passions. His stern independence was , how
ever, softened by gentler sentiments. At school,
he carefully concealed his superior dresses from the
eyes of his less fortunate companions, and his best
sympathies were excited for the King of Sardinia ,
whom he so contemned at home, when he saw
bim dethroned and in exile. He could never sell
anything. Even when forced to part with his
horses in travelling, he gave them to his banker or
some casual acquaintance. Friendship and love
were necessities of his being. Without their cheer
ing and sustaining influences, he could not apply
his mind with any success ; and when deprived for
a time of such genial companionship , his distress
was so great that he resorted at once to his old
solace — constant change of scene . In early life
his attachments were variable. He was involved
in a duel in London on account of an amour, and
was ever flying from one place to another on the
wings of passion . But as his intellectual course
became seuiled, a similar permanency seemed to
regulate his affections. The light hair and dark
eyes of the Countess of Albany and especially her
superior mind and high tone of feeling fixed the
love of Alfieri for twenty- five years, while the Gori
Gandinelli of Sienna , and the Abbe de Caluso of
Turin were his firm and congenial friends, from
whom death alone divided him .
Alfieri's tragedies strongly reflect his character.
The personages are few and generally animated
by single passions. The language is terse , direct
and emphatic , and the whole style formal and im
passioned. There is scarcely any attempt at deli.
SONNET .
BY H. T. TUCKERMAN .
All hearts are not disloyal ; let thy trust
Be deep and clear and all- confiding still,
For though Love's fruit turn on the lips to dust,
She ue'er betrays her child to lasting ill :
Throngh leagues of desert must the pilgrim go
Ere un
gaze the holy turrets rise ;
Through the long, sultry duy the stream must flow
MAGAZINE .
cate coloring. All is defined and abrupt. His
method seems to have been to dwell upon a theme
until it warmed his fancy, boldly sketch its concep
tion , and then versify and elaborate it . We find
scarcely any of that marvellous and delicate insight
into human nature, those refined shades of charac
ter, which distinguish Shakspeare. Isolated senti
ments are forcibly portrayed - certain states ofmind
powerfully delineated , but the creations are rather
in outline or relievo than naturally colored or varied
with the detail of life. Stern resolves and intense
feeling find sententious and striking expression
in the mouths of his heroes, but a certain phase
rather than the whole sphere of their natures is
presented. Impressive and elegant often to a
most attractive degree is the dialogue ; but little of
the living interest is imparted which characterises
the best English tragedies. " If," says a distin
guished critic , “ the muse of Metastasio is a love
sick nymph , the muse of Alfieri is an Amazon . He
gave her a Spartan education ; he aimed at being
the Cato of the theatre.” Much of Italian modern
poetry is so enervating in its tone as to possess no
attraction for aa Saxon mind. Alfieri introduced a
new agency in this respect. No small portion of
his tragedies is imbued with his own consciousness .
Not only do they breathe dire anathemas against
Papal usurpation and popular submission , but there
is a certain elevating energy, a strength and firm
ness of manner in the very style , that braces though
it may sometimes chill the heart. Herein has the
proud tragedian conveyed his best lesson . This
hard moulding of his conceptions echoes and
reflects the principles upon which he lived. His
life and tragedies are the scripture of the nobler
minds among the youth of Italy. From them
they fortify their souls against the enslaving ten
dencies of despotism ; and learn to aim at inde
pendence of feeling and an uncompromis ng course
of life. Such admirers of Alfieri honor him next
to Dante. They gaze with profound interest on
his portrait in the Florence gallery and the house he
so long occupied on the Lung ' Arno. They walk
reverently through the street which bears his name
in Turin , and visit his tomb in Santa Croce,
adorned by the chisel of Canova , as the shrine of
liberty as well as of genius.
Ere it can mirror twilight's purple skies.
Full back unscathed from contact with the vain ,
Keep thy robes white, thy spirit bold and free,
And calmly launch Affection's burque aguin ,
Hopeful of golden spoils reserved for thee !
Though lone the way as that already trod,
Cling to thine own integrity and God !

GRANDFATHER
BY MISS EMILY E. CHUBBUCK .
Dear lady - thou that reclinest so gracefully upon
yon sofa , I mean - lady, for aa moment close thine
eyes upon that handsome volume, though its dress
of gilded morocco was certainly donned on purpose
to be pressed by thy dainty fingers, and the printed
words may make thy heart palpitate almost as
much as did the whispered ones of the giver. Nay,
turn them not upon the brilliant chandeliers, nor
the voluminous folds of crimson that shut in the
rich, warm light, flecking the heavy drapery with
changing gold and purple ; nor let them fall upon
the soft, yielding carpet, almost yielding enough to
bury up thy tiny, slippered foot. No, no ; shut out
for a moment all these things ; I would turn thine
eyes to a homelier quarter. Dost see that comfort.
able old farm-house , lady—that with the generous
court - yard , broad kitchen garden and ample out
houses ? How trig and nice everything is about
it , although the season of verdure is quite passed !
Look at the ricks of hay , raising their conical
heads down in the meadow, and the neat stone
wall that surrounds the orchard --speak they not of
thrift ? Ay, that they do ; but they speak of aa
thing that is passed, so far as the owners of the
farm- house are concerned. Yet we will not dwell
upon that now. That lofty well -sweep, resting its
lip against the lower horn of the moon , is certainly
one of the most aspiring of its kind ; but it has la
bored faithfully in the cause of temperance for many
a long year. This is one of the finest wells in all
the country round . Would'st test it ? Close within
the curb rests the gray old bucket , and it is a right
merry feat to fill it to the brim with the clear,
sparkling fluid -- that mossy brim , that when the
October sun shone was as soft as thine own lip,
lady. It is a cold, frosty night ; so let us take a
peep within the farm - house . The stranger's foot
was ever welcomed here . The crackling wood fire
blazes brightly in the huge fire-place and sends its
cheering rays to the farthest extremity of the room ,
quite overpowering the light of the mould candle
that stands upon the oaken chest of drawers. The
cross beams overhead are set off with festoons of
dried fruit, interspersed with bunches of herbs ;
and a swing shelf, suspended by bits of leather at
tached to the ends, is loaded down with useful
books and waste newspapers. The axe has been
brought from the wood - shed , and leans against the
wall behind the door ; above this hangs a hand
saw parallel with the top of the broom handle ; and,
☆
BRAY .
higher still, an old musket with a rusty barrel and
broken lock rests in honored peace from the labors
of '76 . Articles of wearing apparel , varying from
the heavy lion-skin overcoat to the red flannel
blanket, to suit the wants of different individuals,
range along the walls, appropriating the goodly
number of nails and pegs with which every promi
nent piece of timber is garnished. Cherry tables
and wooden chairs occupy a due space. A large
house -dog, under one of the former, rests his nose
on his two fore paws, and looks about him very
knowingly, and three or four complacent cats
occupy as many of the latter as they can con
veniently appropriate. The floor is bare, but it
is scarcely less white than the carefully scoured
churn , from which a girl of sixteen is pouring the
bubbling milk , that but a few moments since min
gled with the flakes of golden -hued butter, now
transferred to the snowy bowl . That old lady in
the corner opposite, with the gray yarn knitting
and muslin cap, is granny Gray. She is a good
deal bent with age ; time has ploughed deep fur
rows in her brow and taken all the roundness from
her cheek ; but what a sweet , holy expression is
left instead ! Love speaks from the midst of
wrinkles and pateness and decay ; her energies
have gone, her vigor is wasted , but love is in her
heart — such love as angels feel. A girl of eight is
close beside her, knitting too. She has knotted up
the yarn and is “ trying a race " with granny. By
the table, a boy and girl of ten and twelve are busy
at a game of checkers ; and the father, that stouta
built , honest-faced man with the newspaper, now
and then glances from its columns to the kernels of
red and yellow corn jumping about the board. The
remainder of the group are grandfather Bray, Mrs.
Hunter, the mother of the young folks, and her
little son Neddy , grandfather's pet. Grandfather,
though the crown of his head is quite bare, and the
sides decorated with fleecy locks, is as erect as a
grenadier; and if we may judge by present appear
ances, more to be feared than any son of Mars that
ever trod the field . He is in a violent passion , a
perfect rage. Mrs. Hunter has probably asked
some great favor, and the old man is angered at
her assurance .
“ No ! no ! no ! "
" But , father"
66
Silence ! I command you, Mary Hunter !
Another word, and you are no child of mine ! I
245

246 THE COLUMBIAN
have said and will abide by it ! James Bray shall
never step over this threshold till he comes to look
upon his foolish old father's corpse ; you may let
him see that, Mary."
See ! the fine figure of the matron cowers, and
she raises her clasped hands, as if deprecating her
father's anger. Now she sinks back upon her
chair, rocks to and fro , and tries to stifle her sobs
in the folds of her neat-checked apron. Mr.
Hunter seems to have lost his interest in the news.
paper and the game too ; a cloud comes over his
bluff, good- humored face, and he springs to his feet
with an angry exclamation. He checks himself,
however, and stalks across the room in dogged si
lence . The faces of the young people grow
anxious, even to paleness, and the beautiful child
standing at his grandfather's knee retreats behind
him , looking out from the shelter of the high-backed
arm-chair, with distended eyes and parted lips.
Granny Bray alone dares to speak. With her sha
king, withered hand, she draws a pair of silver
9 “ Dutiful !”
mounted spectacles from eyes meek , soft and dove
like, though the haze of age has almost obscured
their brilliancy, and her gentle, tremulous tones
cannot fail to remind us of the “ still, small voice"
hushing the tempest.
“ Jacob, the sin of anger leads to other sins;
you are unjust to your own flesh and blood. Poor
Mary has been an obedient child to us for more
than thirty years, and it is ungrateful to treat her so."
“ Then why does she fret me ? ” And the old
man , as she speaks, flings a relenting glance upon
the matron . “ I am sure I think as much of Mary
as you do. Eh, Neddy ? " He is sorry that there
is any cause for disagreement, and that is why he
stoops to caress the little fellow , who, reassured by
the natural tone of his voice, is already tugging at
his coat-tail. “ Don't grandpapa love mother, Ned ?"
“ Yes, but you don't love uncle James, grand
papa , you know you don't ; and that is just as
wicked as ever it can be."
The old man starts as though a wasp had stang
the hand laid upon the boy's head. How his voice
is changed ! “ Go to your mother, sirrah ! ”
But the brave little fellow is not quite ready to
obey ; he hasnothad his say out. His clear, gray
eye does not blench, as it is fixed on the face of the
angry old man, and his voice rings out like a silver
bell. There is aa touch of the grandfather's own spirit.
“ Do you hate me , too, grandpapa ,because I look
like uncle James ? ”
" Neddy, Neddy ! ” exclaims the mother in con
sternation , " you are a very naughty boy, Neddy ;
come, come away to bed ! ”
The old man answers not, but his heavy tramp,
as he stalks about the room , betokens a gathering
storm . Only one can stay its fury , and that is
the faithful being, chose in rosy youth from a
bright throng ; his soother in adversity , his nurse
8
MAGAZINE .
in sickness, his counsellor in perplexities, his com
panion and never-failing friend through all the vi
cissitades of a long life. She now drops her knit
ting upon the table , quite forgetting that she is not
in the seam - needle, and hobbling forward, places
her hand upon his arm .
“ Take down your Bible, Jacob ; consult thal ;
your own heart is deceitful. "
“ They teach even their children to taunt me,
Ann , " bat the old man's manner is eomparatively
gentle.
“ No, no , Jacob ; there you are wrong again .
Children will be children, and Hunter and Mary
are not to blame if Neddy is now and then saucy to
you. You play with him so much that you ought
to expect it . "
“ I ought to expect it from the face he carries ! ”
“ Poor James was the most dutiful of sons." The
old lady sighs, as though the involuntary tribute
came from a full heart.
“ Father," says Mary, “ you have often told us
that brother James was the kindest and best child
you ever had . Don't you recollect how he nursed
you through that long fever andI ” ..
“ And how be wheedled me out of all my hard
earnings and made me a beggar in my old age,
owing the roof that shelters me to the charity of
strangers, and dependent for my bread on one who
has not a drop of my blood in his veins ! Is that
what you would say, Mary ? Thank God , I have
yet a roof above me ! He would have turned me
into the streets , but strangers -- thank God that I
have a roof! and thar, I swear by "
“ Jacob , Jacob ! ” inserposes the mild voice of
granny Bray, “ say nothing you will be sorry for ;
you are in a passion , Jacob, and no good comes of
anger.”
“ Father. ” This is the deep bass of Hunter, who
has till now remained silent. “Farber, just now
you spoke of being dependent; you know Mary
and I are glad to be with you and right proud to
make you comfortable.”
“ Dear heart ! ” What a grateful glance ac
companies the old lady's exclamation , " Jacob, we
have the best children in the world ! »
“ All but one, all but one. ” This is not all that
the old man mutters between his teeth ; but per
haps it is as well that we do not hear the rest.
“ And he is good, too. Nay, Jacob , listen ;
James is our first-born ; he was our pride in the
days of our strength , before we knew how foolish
and sinful it was to lay up our treasure upon earth.
He has taken care of us, and comforted and watched
over us ; to be sure we leaned upon a broken reed ,
but that was our own fault ; a better child never
lived . He has met with misfortunes, and you can
not forgive him for it ; how can you expect to be
forgiven ? ”
 GRANDFATHER BRAY .
“ I do forgive him ; I told minister Dean so ; but
I never will see him - never, while I have strength
to shut the door against him !”
“ It does strike me, sir, that this spirit is not
befitting a man of your years and profession , ” in
terposed the bass voice, bluntly.
“ It is not for you to call me to account, John
Hunter, unless, indeed ”
“ Do not say it ; do not say it, father ;" whis
pered Mary, crouching on the floor beside him, and
folding her arms over his knees, “ Hunter is a lion
when he is aroused, and you and he must be kind
to each other."
“ For your sake,Moll ; you are a good girl, and I
must humor you , if only because you are the baby. "
Peace seems to be restored , and we will retire,
lady , while I explain in a few words the scene.
Grandfather Bray was now verging on his eight
ieth winter, and his son James (himself a grand
father) was scarce , twenty -five years his junior.
When James first married he lived at the home
stead and cultivated the farm , and, as one after
another of the children made for themselves homes
in the neighboring towns , his situation only seemed
the more permanent. At last Mary, the youngest
child, left the paternal roof, and James and his kind
family were more necessary to the old people
than ever. The farm yielded a comfortable sup
port for all, and there was no reason why it should
not continue to do so ; but the demon of specula
tion entered the honest, sensible head of James
Bray . The title -deed of the farm had been his for
several years ; he raskly risked it and lost. Through
the generosity of creditors his father received a
life -lease of the house and garden ; but what was
this to the sturdy old farmer , who had all his life
long gloried in fertile fields and overflowing grana
ries His very mind was narrowed down - his
faculties cramped by thinking upon his diminished
fortunes, and they burst forth in anger. While the
old lady raised her eyes meekly and wondered
what her poor grandchildren would do, he only
raised his voice to animadvert on what had been
done. He declared that he was cajoled, cheated,
swindled , and he would not bear it. The more
unreasonable his anger became, the more fire it
gathered , for indignation always increases in in
verse ratio to its righteousness. It was soon found
necessary for James to seek another dwelling, and
this was a much sorer trial to poor granny Bray
than the loss of property . James had more of his
mother's spirit than his father's, and it was a sor
rowful thing for him to part in anger from his
beloved sire. When Mary Hunter took her place
by the sacred old hearth-stone, he whispered in her
ear, “ Never cease persuading till you have made
peace ; my conscience tells me that I have been
foolish and imprudent, wickedly greedy and cove
tous of this world's goods ; and my father's anger
247
will weigh heavily upon me until it is withdrawn . "
And so Mary's pleading voice was often heard , but
it only increased the old man's irritability.
This was the night before thanksgiving, and, as
usual, the children and grandchildren were to join
in the thanksgiving merry -making at the dear old
homestead. And Mary pleaded and pleaded , and
cried as though her heart would break , when she
found her pleadings in vain. Thanksgiving came
and went, but heavily passed the day at the farm
house. Granny Bray said the like had never been
known since the funeral of poor little Jemmy - the
bravest and fairest, she had ever since declared, of
all her grandchildren. The Hunters had done their
best to make the festival joyous, but no joy was
there . Even the young children missed the fa
miliar faces of their cousins, and looked thoughtful
in the midst of their amusements . The feast was
spread, and it had never been more sumptuous,
but nothing seemed as in former times ; the soul
of the feast was wanting. The love, the unity of
feeling, that had consecrated it since the now out
cast son sat on his father's knee, a baby, had been
rudely jarred, and the house of feasting was turned
to one of mourning. Weeks passed by and grand
father Bray was as positive and unyielding as ever.
It was in vain that the sweet, tremulous tones of
his wife preached the duty of forgiveness. “ I have
forgiven him , " was the uniform reply , “ but I never
will forget.” Still the old man's stubbornness
made him miserable, and granny Bray, in kindness
(whether judiciously or not is another matter)
ceased not to tell him of it every day.
As New Year's day approached a feeling ex
ceedingly uncomfortable seemed to pervade the
atmosphere of the old farm -house. It was a festi
val that had been almost as religiously observed as
thanksgiving ; and, should it now be neglected ?
Grandfather Bray wished that it might, and looked
about him for a reason , but none presented itself.
As the merry anniversary drew near, even the very
clouds and sunshine seemed to have an inkling of
the old man's state of mind and to conspire against
him . There was a heavy fall of snow on the night
of the twenty-eighth ; on the twenty -ninth the
roads were somewhat blocked up, and grandfather
was inclined to think them quite impassable ; in
deed he more than hinted that none but madmen
would venture out for at least a week to come.
On the thirtieth, however, sleighs fitted here and
there like little fairy boats on a sea of foam ; and
such a day as the thirty -first was an era in the life
of pleasure-lovers. The sleighing was a perfect
marvel. Oh, how the horses pranced ! and such a
jingling of bells ! It was enough to turn the whole
world of young folks into Robin Goodfellows and
make the most withered heart dance within the
bosom . And hearts did dance, and were mirrored
in dancing eyes, and sat upon warm , loving lips,
 248 THE COLUMBIAN
and rang out in glad young voices ; ay , winter
though it was, the earth was radiant with beauty
and the ait vocal with a music far more joyous
than the gush of melody from a summer woodland.
The last sun of the old year set in a flood of golden
light, and grandfather Bray's heart sank within
him . That bevy of try -to -be- happy faces haunted
him ; he was sure he could not endure another day
like the gloomy thanksgiving, yet not even a cold
had he been able to muster, to confine him to his
room . The old man's face grew longer as the
evening deepened ; but as no one appeared to ob
serve him he had no excuse for being surly, and
was only sad .
What a bright morning was that of the New
Year ! the air was pure and bracing, and a gay ,
dazzling sunlight played merry pranks with in
clined snow - flakes and pendant icicles, and decked
old, withered trees in a gayer garniture than that
of spring. Granny Bray, with her usual placid
smile, donned her newest muslin cap and folded
· her whitest 'kerchief across her bosom , and then
sat down to her knitting in the corner. Mr.
Hunter went about his usual morning avocations,
but with unusual alacrity ; his wife took another
look at the pies of pumpkin and mince meat, the
dough -nuts and cookies and gingerbread , and then
turned to a whole table full of featherless bipeds
waiting to be roasted ; while the children busied
themselves in making ready, in their own way , for
a whole troop of expected cousins. Grandfather
Bray stumped about the house and barn , and up
and down the nice path cut through the snow to
the road, then drew on his Sunday coat and made
a desperate attempt at cheerfulness. But all would
not do ; his heart was troubled. Just as the clock
was on the stroke of nine , a pretty pony dashed up
to the door with a light vehicle of a somewhat
unique pattern , the self-same little jumper that
grandfather had assisted the two boys of his ban.
ished son in contriving and making. The reins
were held by his own favorite grandson , and by
Charley's side, all hooded and cloaked , sat his
young sister Lucy, ready to spring from the sleigh
the moment it stopped. “ Cousin Lucy ! cousin
Lucy ! "" shouted the noisy children, and before she
reached the gate they were all around her, and
little Eddy had half precipitated her into the snow.
drift in the attempt to jump astride her neck.
“ How glad we are to see you , cousin Lucy !” and
“ Did grandfather invite you to New Year's, cozzy ?"
and “ Is uncle James coming ?” were among the
questions and exclamations poured upon the little
maiden as she proceeded to the house. Even
Charley, who kept his station in the sleigh , was
for the moment forgotten ; but it was only a mo
ment. Eddy turned back to him and with a de
lighted scream accomplished the feat he had at
tempted with Lucy, and the children , attracted by
MAGAZINE .
the noise, gathered around the funny little jumper,
leaving Lucy with her eldest cousin on the threshold .
“ Does grandfather love me yet? ” she whispered
in Julia's ear.
“ I don't know," and Julia shook her head , as
though she would have added, “ you wouldn't
think he did . ”
“ Then he never speaks of me ? " inquired the
child in a still softer tone .
“ Poor grandfather !” sighed Julia Hunter, and
“ Poor grandfather !" echoed Lucy Bray, “ poor
dear grandfather ! it must make him unhappy, not
to love everybody, he was always 80
so good .”
By this time the door turned on its hinges and
Lucy stepped into the capacious kitchen , where
you and I went, lady, the night before thanksgiving.
Grandfather was trying to busy himself over a
newspaper, but Lucy's quick eye detected the fail
ure, for it was upside down.
“ A happy New Year, grandfather !” she said
in a cheerful tone ; and the old man , though he
raised his hand and drew back his head , could not
prevent the dewy, red lips from meeting his.
“ You are cold , Lucy , " he attempted to say in an
indifferent tone , but his voice sounded husky and
unnatural, and he was ashamed to trust it. The
meeting between granny Bray and her little grand
daughter was a loving one , but the child soon
turned away from the dear old lady to one who,
notwithstanding his faults, was none the less dear.
“ I didn't come to stay , grandfather, for I know
that it would spoil your New Year's to have any.
body here that you don't love ; but I did want to
bring you some of my socks and mittens , you liked
them so much last winter. Don't you remember,
grandfather, that first pair of mittens ? how they
twisted , and the stripes went all askew ? And then
how you laughed at me and put both my hands
into one and tied them fast ? But the next pair
was done to a charm-don't you recolleet ? Now,
look here , grandfather ! ” and Lucy began to dis
play the contents of her basket. Grandfather,
however, did not look. There was a slight red
ness about his eyes and a nervous twitching at the
corners of his mouth ; but what principally pre
vented him from looking was the extreme difficulty
he had in finding his way into his pocket , though
his only object seemed to be to force an entrance ;
for when he had once accomplished the feat he
withdrew his fingers and tried again. In the
meantime Lucy had produced from her basket a
neat muslin cap, and granny Bray's snowy head
was bared to try the effect of her pretty present.
For thirty years her caps had been made by the
same hand , and she was sure that no one could
suit her but the elder Lucy.
“ Tell your mother,” said the old lady, " that it
was very kind in her to think of us, and especially
to-day , when we have done the same as to shut the
 GRANDFATHER
door upon her. Your mother is a good woman ,
Lucy, and you are a good child .”
“ Her mother's child ,” said the old man, strug
gling with a whole throatful of emotion.
Lucy turned her full eyes upon him ; then they
brimmed over, and twining her arms around the
old man's neck, she buried her face in his bosom
and sobbed, " My father's child, and yours, dear
grandfather; you cannot cast me off !”
“ The shaking arms closed about her , as if de
claring they did not wish to cast her off, and the
old man threw a troubled glance upon the floor.
It was the last place to gain firmness ; for there
stood the basket , with the hose and mittens that
nobody but Lucy and her mother could knit just
right ; and upon the top lay a pair of cloth slippers,
so comfortable that his feet felt a strong inclination
to creep into them at once. How he had wanted
just such a pair of slippers ! and how granny and
Mary, and Mary's daughter, Julia , had fretted over
them , and at last succeeded in producing a pair
that would fit the hoofed foot of - of anything that
has such feet, much better than the pedal ex
tremities of any human being. But there was one
thing about them that troubled the old gentleman
more than all the rest. The soling was the handi
work of James. There could be no mistake about
it ; James was ingenious and economical , and he
had always done such things. Grandfather Bray
drew the back of his horny hand two or three times
across his eyes, and his aged partner knitted away
very earnestly, having—not the tact ; oh , no, the
old lady was far from being celebrated for skill in
that line — but the genuine kindness of heart, to
forbear speaking. Prying eyes overthrow a vast
amount of good in this world . Honest hearts don't
like to be looked into, and spied out, and com
mented upon, much better than dishonest ones.
Emotion of all kinds is a sacred thing, and the man
who loves to display it has only the counterfeit.
Grandfather Bray never counterfeited ; it was un
necessary, for he was in possession of the true coin.
All he did was done bluntly and honestly. For a
moment he held in his breath and winked back the
moisture from his eyes ; but the mute evidences of
love and carefulness looked up pleadingly from the
child's little basket,and told of by -gone days ; and
the precious burden within his arms, quivering all
over with emotion , was too close to his heart not
to exert a sofiening influence upon it.
“ God bless you , Lucy ! ” at last the old man
broke forth. “ Hush your sobbing, child ; hush !
There, there , my little puss, be quiet now, and you
shall have everything your own way. Children
are 80 wilful now-a-days ! Do you hear, pussy ?
every thing your own way. "
“ Grandfather ! my - do you mean
“ Mean ! to be sure I do ; mean a great many
things! Hop down from my knee . Crying chil.
BRAY . 249
dren should never kiss ; you've sprinkled my face
all over with your tears ; ” and grandfather, think
ing he had by this last remark proved the impossi
bility of any of the tears belonging exclusively to
himself, rolled the bewildered child from his arm
and hurried to the door.
“ Hunter ! John Hunter ! How d'ye do, Charley ?
come here , my boy ! we are to have grand times
to-day, and you and I must do the little odd jobs,
you know. Hunter, harness the horses to the big
sleigh and-hem !-go over to the corners and
bring - ahem !-bring James Bray, and all the
family - all of them, remember, Hunter ; down to
the cat , if Billy has a notion."
Off started the overjoyed son - in-law with a skip
hop -and -jump step, that made the children send up
a merry peal of laughter exactly suited to the gai
ety of the morning ; and grandfather Bray joined
in the merriment, though very far from certain that
it was not at his expense . Lucy had heard the
command , and she now had both hands clasped
about grandfather's arm , with her sweet, sunny
face upturned and looking into his, while Charley
expressed his joy by leaping over the fence and
back again three times successively.
Lady, if you could have looked in at grandfather
Bray's that day ! if you could have heard the stale
joke applauded , as though that moment coined !
and seen the mirthful faces (to say nothing of the
steaming meats and smoking gravies) and heard
the long, loud peal that shook the rafters, mingling
with the silvery tones of childhood ! If you could
have seen and heard all this , I do not say you
would have envied that joyous party , but you would
have wondered that all the rest of the world did not
envy them . And Lucy clapped her small, dimpled
hands and skipped and frisked about like a little
kitten ; and Neddy declared that grandfather only
hugged him the closer when they all said he looked
like uncle James. Not a word was said of forgive
ness, on either side , for when the heart has done its
work words are weak things ; but nevertheless
words did pass ; words of care and consideration,
and they were appreciated.
You will wonder, lady, that I have taken you to
such a common place and told you such a very
common story , and I can scarcely answer why. It
must be that you have kept all home feelings pure
and sacred ; the chain of love that passes around
your hearth-stone can never have been tarnished by
the breath of an unjust or unforgiving spirit. Lady,
pardon me ; my story was intended for unreasona
ble old men like grandfather Bray, and resentful
people unlike his son James, and I am sorry to have
detained you so long. Of course the fire on your
domestic altar never burns dim, and you are too
gentle and loving to stand up in unbending cold
ness , because you happen to be in the right.
Would that all were like you, lady !
 SIR PETER DE BÉARN ;
OR ,
THE BEAR'S VENGEANCE
BY H. W. HERBERT , AUTHOR OF 66 MARMADUKE WYVIL ;, "
The autumnal woods were brown, and golden and
rich purple on the mountain sides ; the vineyards
in the vales were filled with merry throngs of vint
agers, culling the ruby clusters and revelling amid
their light and jolly labors ; hut on the tops of the
distant hills shone the perpetual crown of snow,
which , though so evanescent and unstable, clings
9 of priesthood.
eternally to the bald temples of the mighty Pyre
nees, defying wind or earthquake to rob them of
their sovereign emblem . For it was in fair France,
in the province which at that time was called Bi.
gorre , now the department of the High Pyrenees,
and in the early part of the delightful month of
September, that two travellers were journeying
leisurely along the road toward the city of Tarbes.
Two travellers, I say , for although the party con
sisted of nearly a dozen men, with two or three
sumpter mules and led horses, there were but two
who seemed to be of any rank or consequence .
The principal of these , so far as appearance indi
cated superiority , was a tall , handsome, powerfully
made man, of perhaps fifty years, mounted upon
a vigorous and active horse of great bone and
strength , which had apparently seen harder service
than that of the road or the hunting field ; for in
his quarter there was a large scar, left evidently by
a severe wound, since the flesh all around it was
seamed and corrugated, and the hair about the
edges of the bare spot was as white as snow. Yet
the action of the noble animal was in no wise im
paired by the injury , nor was his courage in the
least affected , if one might judge from the challenge
of his clear, tremulous neighing, from his bright ,
fearless eye and the high-spirited demeanor with
which he chafed against the bit .
The rider, although past the middle age, was
erect, and sat firmly and gracefully in his saddle
with a decided military air that harmonized well
with his dress and aspect, which , both of them ,
were those of a gentleman and soldier ; and in
those days the words were synonymous . He did
not , it is true, wear any armor, nor indeed any
weapons, except a long, straight, cross-handed
sword , the insignia , as it might be termed , of his
class . But the black velvet cap of maintenance
bordered with costly fur, the pourpoint of fine
250
OF BIGORRE .
9
“ CROMWELL, " " THE BROTHERS," ETC.
Spanish cloth , the tight fitting hose and long pointed
shoes, and above all , the gilded spurs which he
wore , indicated his knighthood as distinctly as did
the tonsured crown and loose robe of his companion
proclaim him a churchman , though he seemed not
to be a monk of any one of the four regular orders
This was an active, pleasant-looking person ,
well made and by no means deficient in muscular
strength , though he was somewhat under the mid
dle height and a little inclined to corpulence. The
ring of hair encircling his tonsured crown , which
was as smooth and white as Parian marble , was
very soft and handsome, of a dark auburn brown,
and was arranged with much care in a series of
close crispy curls , as was the beautiful and glossy
beard which fell down in silky tresses, like a wo
man's ringlets, below his collar bone. His fore
head was very fine, broad and expansive, though
not particularly high, and much developed at those
points where phrenologists have placed the organs
of imagination. His dark eyes were, if possible,
yet finer and more expressive ; full of quick life and
fire ; at times , when their possessor was absorbed
in thought, wearing that deep and searching cha
racter which gives the idea of looking forward into
the endless future for something more permanent
and real than may be found on earth ; at times,
when any legend of high deeds or martial daring
was recited , flashing with all the soul-fraught fire
of chivalry , and again melting into the sweetest
and most sentimental tenderness, at any narrative
of that true love the course of which , in tale or
history - ay, and in human life's cold , hard reality !
-did never yet run smooth .
His nose was small and neatly chiseled , and al.
though along his full lips, and in the florid coloring
of his cheeks, there might be some indication of
sensual appetites, and sensual propensities some
what too much indulged, yet was the whole aspect
of the face unusually comely, pleasant and prepos
sessing
Any one at all skilled in physiognomy would
have pronounced him at once a shrewd, quick
witted man, with an abundant share of that most
uncommon quality of mind which, I suppose on the
 SIR PETER
lucus a non lucendo principle , is styled common
sense >, combined with a brilliant fancy, a romantic
and poetical temperament, a great love for adven
ture , a thoroughly good and amiable disposition, a
temper rather choleric and hasty, and a very rea
sonable appreciation of the good things of this life,
though tempered and subdued by sincere and prac
tical piety.
And he would have pronounced him truly enough
--for inasmuch as we can judge from his quaint
and at times highly eloquent compositions, such
would appear to have been the character of the
renowned Jehan Froissart.
The worthy churchman was mounted , not as
was usual with his order, on a dull mule or plod
ding ass, but on a stout , active, round -barreled,
short-legged hackney, with a high, rainbow crest,
a small head, well set on, and a gay, mettlesome
carriage, which bore good testimony both to its
generous breeding and carefully preserved con
dition.
The monk's seat on this unclerical and gallant
palfrey was, like the animal itself, far more adapted
to the tilt-yard or the hunting field than to the
cloister, being if anything easier and more grace
ful than that of the cavalier who rode beside him ,
while his hand, pliant and light , yielding to every
motion, yet controlling every effort, showed him
to be a perfect and accomplished horseman .
For the last mile or two of their road the com
panions had ridden along in silence , for the heat of
the day was sultry and oppressive ; and , having
stopped for a few moments, half an hour or so be
fore , at a little wayside hostelry, half the distance
between the river Lisse and the village of Terra
Cimitat, they had found the cold larded capon
which was served to them for luncheon so appe
tizing , and the flagons of Bordeaux wine which
were produced to moisten it so racy , that after re
mounting their horses they both felt more disposed
to somnolent and silent rumination than to the lays
or legends by which the earlier part of their ride
had been enlivened.
It was now nearly noon , and the road which
they had been following hitherto, at no point very
broad or easy, skirted on the one side by a thick
forest, the property of the Lords De Barbaran , and
on the other by a strong, rapid stream , was be
coming at every step wilder, more intricate, and
indeed almost perilous.
The forest, which had hitherto been confined to
the left hand of the road only , lying in scattered
masses over the rugged slopes which formed the
lower steps of the great Pyrenees, extended now in
one vast, continuous range , farther than the eye
could reach on the opposite side likewise, beyond
the river, which at this spot had become a wild
and furious torrent , roaring and foaming along,
fifty feet at least below the horse -track , among huge
DE BEARN . 251
blocks of granite and vast boulders . The hills into
which the path had for the last hour or two' been
- gradually advancing now thrust their bare, craggy
foreheads and dark, leafy shoulders forward in many
a sudden angle , as if they would have blocked up
altogether the narrow glen through which the
chafing waters found their way seaward from their
ice-cold and mountain springs.
The nature of the forest, too , changed constantly ;
and now, instead of the deciduous trees, some
wearing still their lightsome garb of summer
greenery, some clad in every shade, from dark
dun and russet to bright orange and chrome yel
low, the flanks of the gorge were overhung with
gigantic pines and cedars, casting a brown and
gloomy shadow, the veritable umbrarum horrorem
of the classic poet, from their vault- like boughs
over the road, which even at noon- day was steeped
in glimmering and misty twilight.
They had just entered this dim pass, when the
knight touched his horse sharply with the spur
and checked it with the heavy curb, as it made a
blunder and was near coming down on the broken
road .
“By my faith ! ” said the knight , with a smile,
as he recovered the animal skilfully , " I believe , Sir
John , that we two, and my good horse here, have
all been well nigh asleep these two hours. Now
look about you ; what think you of this country ?
This is the pass of Larre, of which I dare say you
have heard tell. "
" It is, indeed," replied the churchman , 66 a wild
and romantic pass as I have seen in all my voya
gings. Now right glad am I that in this strange
and perilous country I have the escort of so famous
and so brave a knight . Otherwise truly should I
have thought myself in some great danger. ”
“ I know not about that," returned the other.
“ The Count of Foix lies with so strong a force of
lances at Orthes, and is so prompt and active in
punishing marauders and avenging the least evil
done to his vassals, whether in Béarn, Bigorre or
Armagnac, that there is of a truth less peril here in
this wild country than in the Beauovisis or the Islo
of France , from the free companies. But if the
people speak truly hereabout, these woods be fre
quented by beings more dangerous to men than
any mortal enemy."
“ How so, Sir Espaign du Lyon ? ” exclaimed
the monk , pricking up his ears delightedly at this
hint of a legend which he , perchance, might em
body in his history. " Tell me, I pray you, of your
courtesy , what do they say here of the gloomy
woodlands. They are, I trow, dark and remote
and wild enough for any dreadful and superbuman
things to befall in them. Tell me, I do beseech
you, have they tales of the wood - gods here, the
Fauns and Sylvans, and the great god Pan , and
perchance the wild goddess Diana, with all her
252 THE COLUMBIAN
nymphs and demoiselles ? Or be they darker tales,
such as the gloomy Germans hold in the great
forests far beyond the Rhine, of forest - fiends, and
water-elves , and gnomes, and all things malignant
and appalling ? I pray you tell me, fair sir ; no
thing beguiles a long and lonely ride like some gay
or wondrous legend.”
“ Nay ! good Sir John ," replied the knight,
laughing, “ you are too hard for me, who am but
a plain and somewhat unlettered soldier, with all
your clerkly lore ; for in truth I never heard either
of this god Pan , or of the beautiful goddess Diana
and her demoiselles. Who were they I beseech
you ? "”)
“ Oh ! tale for tale, Sir knight !” replied the
monk , bursting into a loud and merry laugh , which
wakened up all the woodland echoes with its clear,
ringing mirth . “ Tell me the legends of these
woods, and what has befallen here of marvellous
or terrible , and I will in my turn , to requite you ,
inform you of those gods and goddesses of whom
you would know someihing , though it is true some
say that they have now forsaken the earth alto
gether, though others hold that since the advent of
our most blessed Lord and Saviour these deities
of the old Pagan temples may have degenerated ,
if they were not such before, into mere fiends and
demons."
%
“ I will be blythe to hear tell of them , ” answered
Sir Espaign , “ but in the meantime , for I would do
you pleasure insomuch as I am able , seeing that
every one is bound to do so much as in him lies for
you , who have done so much for chivalry and
knighthood , by your immortal histories ; in the
meantime I will recite to you what fell out here to
Sir Peter de Béarn , the brother of our good Count
de Foix , whom you are voyaging even now to
visit-- a very gallant knight and one of whom I
doubt not that you have heard many honorable
deeds."
“ I shall be much beholden to your valor, " said
the churchman , “ and I will pray you to begin
straightway , seeing that I am not a little impa
tient in my desire to learn what manner of things
these may be . ”
“ Nay, nay ; " said the knight, “ I will pray you
to moderate your impatience somewhat , for there
be places in which it is not good to converse of
such things, seeing it is said that the speaking of
these beings, whatsoever they may be, gives them
some power upon us to torment, or at the least to
mock and mislead believers."
“ I cannot believe that, Sir Espaign, ” answered
Froissart, “ nor will I ever think willingly that the
innocent and right of heart are abandoned over by
our good God and the blessed Virgin to such delu
sions as you dread . It is but the bloody minded,
the unchaste , the evil in ambition, or the weak and
wavering in faith , over whom the powers of dark
MAGAZINE .
ness have dominion. But if not now, when will
you tell me ? ”
“ About two miles hence," answered the knight,
“ there is a little glade in the woodland , with a
small chapel consecrated to our dear lady of Mont
gaillard , and a well of most holy water ; thither,
if it please you , we will ride onward , quickening
our pace a litile , and when there we will lie by for
a while during the heat and sultriness of the noon
day ; for though the sunbeams cannotpierce through
the evergreen branches overhead , there is not a
breath of air stirring in these green caverns , and
the atmosphere is as close and stifling as if it came
out of the mouth of an oven. Our horses, as you
see , are all in a lather of white foam , for all so
slowly as we have ridden since we came into these
wild hills ; and the flies, too , are goading them
almost to madness. There by the well it will be a
little cooler, if I mistake not , for there is a sort of
glade or wind - row at right angles to this road,
running directly up to the great gray rock on the
bill's brow, which you were looking at awhile
since , and if there be a breath of wind stirring any
where it is sure to be up there in the crags, and it
generally draws down, as if through a funnel, into
this valley. There , if it seem good to you , we will
halt for a little space and rest our horses, and as
the water of the holy well is singularly pure and
cold , we can refresh ourselves at the same time
and taste à cup of that excellent old wine which I
made my esquire put in his wallet at Panniers."
By my faith ! it is excellentlywell thought of,"
said the monk , laughingly. “ You are as good a
caterer, Sir Espaign , as though you had been bred
the sompnour of a Cistercian convent. I like your
plan very much , for we have not very far to go, I
fancy, to Tarbes ; and it will be far pleasanter to
ride in the sweet moonlight than in this sultry
>
heat."
" I' faith will it ; and if it be a thought late or
so when we arrive at Tarbes, there is aa capital
hotel at the Star, where we can be received well at
any hour. Come, let us ride on , and when we
are sitting in the shade by the chapel I will tell you
all about Sir Peter de Béarn and the bear of Bi.
gorre.”
And with the words the comrades clapped spurs
to their horses and cantered for a little better than
a mile of distance through the dark woods, till , as
a
they turned the angle made by a sudden winding
of the road , a broad gleam of sunshine fell through
a transverse opening in the tree tops and lay bright
and cheerful on the green turf which laughed like
an emerald in the rays, a dew-drop yet unexhaled
glittering upon every leaflet ; so late had the sha
dows slept on that sequestered lawn.
“ Here we are - here we are , at last," exclaimed
Sir Espaign du Lyon ; “ alight from your hackney,
Sir John, and Damien or Raoul will lead him
 SIR PETER
down into yon quiet reach of the river and let him
cool his feet in the pure water. Now is not this a
fair and tranquil spot, in the midst of these dark ,
grim pine woods ? ”
“ Indeed it is , " said Froissart, gazing with a se
rene and well pleased eye over the little glade of
soft and mossy turf, surrounded with a belt of
shrubbery and thicket, among which glanced the
dark leaves of the polished holly, the white stems
of the silvery birch , mingled with waving tufis of
the tasseled fern , and many a perfumed herb, and
many a flaunting wild flower. At the extreme
end of this sheltered nook , leaning, as it were,
against a gray, mossy crag , which formed the back
ground of the picture , crowned with the purple
spike of the mountain heather and the abundant
bloom of the gum cistus, stood the small chapel
of our Lady of Montgaillard , a mere open shrine,
with a back and two side walls connecting three
squat, heavy pillars, whence sprung the intersect
ing arches which composed the roof of the little
building. In it , however, was an altar with cru
cifix, and candlestick , and fount of holy water, and
a well executed picture of the Madonna, executed
apparently by some Spanish artist ; and beside it,
partially covered by a low, Gothic canopy, wrought
in gray sandstone , was the cold , limpid well , which
probably had induced the selection of the spot for
its sacred purpose. “ Indeed it is a very sweet
spot, and nestling here , as it does, so pure and
calm and holy , so full of present quietude , so rich
in promised scores of future blessedness , in the
midst of the hard and stubborn rocks, under the
shadow of the black and death- like evergreens, and
hard by yon roaring and tumultuous river, it re
minds me , Sir Espaign du Lyon - I say it reminds
me very much of the one soli and tenuer spot, re
deeming half his olences here below and nourish
ing one spark , at least , of heavenly hope for the
future, that may be found in the heart of the most
worldly minded and hard hearted worshipper of
the earth and its idols ! Let us go in and pray for
grace , that our souls may be moved within us and
made soft unto salvation . "
The knight made no reply, but giving the rein
of his war -horse into the hand of his esquire - for he
had dismounted already and was standing in a
posture of quiet attention , listening to the eloquent
thoughts of the churchman --followed him into the
little shrine, and kneeling one at each side of the
altar, they put up their prayers unto Hin whose
promise has declared that when iwo or three are
gathered together in His name, he will grant their
requests.
What was the purport of their prayers is known
to them alone , and to Him who knoweth all things.
It may be-it is like enough -- that they were fan
tastical and strange ; for men in those days of al
most primitive simplicity were wont to do wild
DE BEARN . 253
deeds and utter uncouth prayers for things which,
had they gained them , would doubtless have been
counted loss to them , not profil ; but at least they
were fervent, and sincere , and humble - more So , I
fear, than many which are offered now in the full
congregations of our churches boasting a purer dis
pensation - offered by gorgeously appareled vota .
ries, who sometimes, it may well be dreaded , bow
down the knee , not of the heart , but of the body ;
and that too, it may be , to win the world's admi
ration , rather than His compassion, unto whom all
hearts are open and all desires known.
After a little while, at all events , they arose
from their knees and came out upon the green be
fore the arched doorway, with faces cheerfully com
posed , but neither grin with pharisaical austerity,
nor sleek with puritanical hypocrisy ; and filled, as
it were , with a quiet inward mirth, laid themselves
down upon the greensward near the holy well and
aduressed themselves to the good things on which
they had invoked a blessing. After the monk had
swallowed a long, cool draught of the Bordeaux
wine, moderately tempered with the pure element,
he heaved a long sigh , indicative of she satis:action
which his parched throat had derived from the
beverage, and then , not unmindful of what had
passed before, asked his friend for the story he had
promised him , and he, nothing loth , set down the
wine cup which he too had just drained and spoke
as follows :
Sir Espaign du Lyon's Tale.
“ You must know ," he began , “ that Sir Peter
de Béarn, the bastard brother of our good Count
de Foix , is as magnificent a knight, and as gallant,
and as courteous, and withal as renowned a man
at-arms, as stout, and adventurous and hardy, and
as ready to emperil life and limb in every honor
able deed of daring, as any other knight in Christ
endon . He was beloved too by the Count, his
brother, beyond measure, and exalted by him to
the highest place in his court, and he found favor,
in a word , with all men .
“ Moreover, he was pre- eminently blessed with
one of the fairest and most virtuous wives in all
France, gentle and lowly minded , holy, and pure ,
and loving him exceedingly, yea ! with the whole
of her heart.
“ This lady was the Countess Florence de Bis
caye, daughter of the late Count, who was cousin
to King Don Pedro of Castile , surnamed the cruel,
whom Henry of Trastamara slew - and his soul
may God assoilzie, for though he was a fierce and
cruel tyrant, he was as brave a knight as ever
spurred a destrier to battle ; and had not Bertrand
du Guesclin - shame to his knighthood and his
name therefor ! turned him upon his back in the
death struggle , that journey would have ended
otherwise ; for his knee was upon King Henry's
254 THE COLUMBIAN MAGAZINE .
chest , and his dagger at his throat, when the
French constable set on him , for all that he had
promised him fair play !
“ But to return ; Don Pedro caused them to
strike off the head of this old Count de Biscaye,
and , as they say, for no good cause at all ; and if
he could have laid his hands upon the lady, her
had he locked up in a dungeon while she lived , or
perchance slain her likewise . But, as it was, she
escaped hitherward across the mountains, that he
could only seize her lands, and hold all their reve
nues in such sort that she had none of them , while
he was alive to retain them .
" And for this cause she fled hither into Béarn ,
as I have told you, as any one naturally desires to
fly from death , for it was told to her, when , by the
death of her father, she became Countess of Biscaye
- Save yourself, lady, for if Don Pedro lay hands
on you , he will put you to death, since surely he is
much enraged against you, that you should say he
strangled his queen in her bed , the sister of the
duke of Bourbon and the King of France ; and the
more so , because your evidence is more readily
believed than that of any other, for you were of
her bedchamber.'
“ Then fled the fair Florence hither into Béam,
and Came to Orthes, the court of the great Count,
and it chanced when she arrived that he was with
out the gates of the town in a green meadow which
is called the prè aux chevaliers, looking on as his
knights and esquires were managing their horses,
and running at the ring, and some of them jousting
one with the other with blunt lances and hurling
javelins in the Moresco fashion. And when she
saw the Count, who was standing by himself with
a merlin on his fist, and a fine Spanish greyhound
at his heel , she alighted down from her palfrey, and
threw herself at his feet, and would have clasped
him by the knees and kissed the hem of his pour
point , but that he would not suffer her, and said :
« « In God's name , and for your knighthood's
sake, most mighty and gentle sir, grant me your
favor and protection , seeing that I am a most for
lor and hapless damsel, the daughter of the good
Count of Biscaye,whom that discourteous gentleman
and felon knight, Don Pedro of Castile, has done
to death most ſoully and despitefully, and now
would slay me too if he could lay his hands upon
me ; and hath seized all my lands and lordships
even now, that I have nothing wherewithal to live.
Wherefore ,most noble Count of Foix , to thee have
I betaken me in this my tribulation, since all men
say that thou art affectionate and kind to distressed
damsels ;-and now, I pray thee , have compassion
on me, and suffer me to tarry at thy court, and
place me with some noble lady that my respect may
continue good , and as beseems a highborn lady, who
is kinswoman to great princes, and for no fault of her
own , disherited of lands and home and country ?
“ Then the Count , who had heard attentively all
that she said unto him , raised up the Lady Florence,
and kissed her on the brow, and upon either cheek ,
and said to her
“ Gentle and peerless damsel, I pray you have
no fear, but trust it to my honor to provide all
things for you suitably to your rank , and to the
grievous sorrows which have so undeservedly be
Sallen you. For surely no true knight or courteous
gentleman could see so beautiful and virtuous a
maiden , in grief and distress so poignant, and not
do all that in him lay to assuage her sufferings,
and console her. And I swear to you , by my
sword , and the unblemished bearings of my house ,
that in all things you shall be unto me as a dear
and honored sister . '
“ And he detained her at his court, and placed her
with the Baroness de la Karasse , one of the great.
est ladies in the country, and as he promised pro
vided her with all things suited to her rank , and
caused her to be styled and honored by all his cour
tiers as the Countess of Biscaye , for he cared noth
ing, like a generous, munificent and valorous prince
as indeed he is, for all the threatenings and fury
of Don Pedro of Castile .
“ Now at this time, Sir Peter de Béarn was a
young knight, exceeding courtly and well favored,
and if he lacked the imposing presence , and grand
majestic bearing of his brother - for he was slender
rather than stout , and very graceful in his form and
manners, and fair in face and fresh colored , with
long-curled amber hair, and large amorous grey
eyes —he was perhaps even more beautiful to look
upon , and more acceptable to youthful demoiselles
and ladies, who are wont ever to be taken with
handsome forms and pleasant features, especially
when they are joined to high and noble spirits and
great renown in arms and skill in manly exercises.
“ And in all these things, though he was not
above the middle height, and slender and small
boned, Sir Peter de Béarn was excellently skilled and
famous. In the tilt - yard he had not an equal , for
in the management of the lance and horse , wherein
skill neutralizes strength , he was so singularly
happy that the stoutest and most ponderous cham
pions could rarely keep their saddle when opposed
to his prowess ; and with the battle-axe and double
handed sword he would deal blows that no one
could imagine to be given by a frame so delicate
and spare . In the chase , too, and the mystery of
rivers, and those gentle arts in which all real cava
liers are proud to excel-no one excelled Sir Peter,
nor yet in carousing at the board , or treading the
gay measures in the ball, or singing with his rich,
manly voice to lute or gittern .
“ And so it fell out , before long, that the sweet
Countess Florence, and the fair knight of Bearn
were en amours together, but in all purity and
honor and the proud faith of high and holy love.
 SIR PETER DE BEARN .
" And when the Count of Foix heard of it, he
called Peter to him and said to him
** How is this , Peter of Béarn ? and wherefore
have you kept it back from me that you are en
amours with this bright Lady Florence of Biscaye,
and that she looks smilingly upon your suit ?
Peter, this was not well ; for I have ever dealt
with you as a right loyal and a gentle brother, and
have not, that I know, at any time refused you
anything that I had to give , when you asked me .
Wherefore, then, have you now put no trust in
me , and doubted that I would gladly bring about
this marriage for you , and it may be recover her
lands for you likewise from the King Don Pedro ?
Speak now, I pray you , and let me know your
mind , that there may be no more mistakes between
us.'
“ Gentle sir ,' replied Sir Peter, ' and very noble
brother, it was not, on my faith ! from any doubt
of your kind aid or distrust in your favor, still less
from any fear of your opposition , that I cared not
to speak with you before, but that I knew not alto
gether whether the Lady Florence favored me, and
wishing to be loved by her that should be my wife,
not for my brother's glory but for myself alone, I
judged it best to abide until I should be satisfied,
and then to submit myself to your decision. Had
you not spoken to me this day, then before night
had I addressed you in the same matter .'
«« « You wish then to have her for your wife,
Peter,' said the Count , and you believe that she
has kindly looked on you already .'
*** I do wish that , gentle brother, more than I
wish for life, or anything save honor,' answered
6
the knight , and I do believe what you say to be
quite true.
Then set your heart at rest , Peter,' said the
Count, for I will speak with her to -day ,and surely
I believe that I can win her for you . And as for
those broad lands of hers in Biscaye, we will see
if Pedro will not yield them with good grace , and
if he will not, then must we buckle on our harness,
and give our steeds a breathing in his own realm
of Spain. Nay ! no thanks, brother, none ; seeing
it is not lightly for mine own advantage that all
my house should be increased in wealth, and re
nown and power.'
So generous a prince was Gaston, our good
Lord of Foix, and so attentive a protector ever to
all brave men in his following, whether his kins
men, or the knights and barons of his train . And
you may well believe, Sir John , that when the
Count took up the wooing his brother's suit would
prosper, seeing that this alone was wanting ; for
the young lady had regarded the good knight with
favor, and seen too how devotedly he bore himself
toward her, and what a paragon of grace and
beauty he esteemed her ; and when the Count
asked her fair hand for Peter de Béarn , she was
255
right glad, though she concealed her gladness with
all maiden modesty , and refused not, nor gave a
half- consent, but referred herself at once to the
Count's good pleasure. And much pleased was
he that she did so , and laid his hand straightway
on the cross of his sword , and lifted up his eyes to
heaven , and sware a mighty oath before our blessed
lady and his patron saint, that she should never rue
the day, for he would win her back her lands from
Don Pedro , if not by favor, then by force, knight
like and under shield .
“ And it was never heard of him , that he brake
such an oath as that , nor did he in this instance ;
for in a little space he so dealt with Don Pedro,
that he gave up the lady's land , and she was wed.
ded to Sir Peter de Béarn , and bore him two fair
and goodly children , a son and a daughter ; and a
more beautiful or graceful couple were never seen
on earth, than Sir Peter and his sweet Spanish
bride ; nor was there ever a more happy wedding,
for she adorned her beauty but for him , and pointed
all her gentle wit only to give him pleasure ; and
he, who had before been very gay and debonair
among the ladies, and given , as men said, to loving
par amours, regarded only her, whether of dames
or damsels, and loved her the more fervently, it
seemed , as he loved her the longer. Alas ! it
was a pity that such true love should be so
ended !
“ For it fell out upon a time , whether by the ill
will and artifice of the foul fiend himself, or how
else I know not , that there was seen often in the
woods of Béarn and Bigorre , and sometimes be
yond the mountains in the cork forests of Biscaye,
where at that season Sir Peter dwelt in his cas
tle of Languedudon, which he held in behalf of
his fair wife the Countess Florence, a bear ofmighty.
bulk and fierceness.
“ This bear had been hunted many times, but
no man ever yet had skill or strength to wound it,
but on the contrary not a few hunters, with their
hounds, had fallen a prey to its indomitable strength
and fury.
“ And it destroyed the poor men's flocks and
cattle , so that they no more dared to pasture them
abroad , for no force of men or dogs availed any
thing to deter him , nor when they kindled fires
beside their watch , did these scare him off, as is
the case in general with creatures of his kind , but
he would stalk into their encampment and carry
off now a fat wether, and now a yearling heifer,
and now and then a shepherd or herdsman , even
as he would , and go off to his fastnesses, and none
might hinder or oppose him .
“ And all the country round was filled with a
great terror, so that the people said, 6' Of a surety
this is no common bear, but it must needs be some
fiend or devil that has put on this shape to afflict
us, and it may be to punish our transgressions.
256 THE COLUMBIAN MAGAZINE .
For clearly it is nothing mortal since neither arms
nor valor may avail anything against it.'
“ Now at this time , it happened ihat Sir Peter
de Béarn was hunting in the woods beyond the
mountains, when he fell in with this wondrous
bear ; but whether he had especially gone forth to
rid the country of this plague, or whether he fell in
with it by chance, I know not - for some tell the
story one way, some the other-but I would wil .
lingly say nothing but that which is true altogether.
Three days, it is said , he hunted him , and still his
dogs came up many times and assaulted the wild
beast , and still were beaten off, and many of them
slain or wounded, so that albeit they were of the
best breed in the world , both Spanish greyhounds
and choice English mastiffs from beyond the sea,
they might not face him any more . But for all
this , neither the knight himself nor any of his
merry men might come up with him , either to
shoot with the crossbow or to push at him with
boar-spear, until the morning of the third day. For
so keen was Sir Peter de Béarn in pursuit, that he
would not return home at all , but called off his
dogs when the night fell, and still encamped with
his foresters and hunters in the woods wherever
darkness found them .
“ But it was noticed that the bear no more came
to their fires at night, nor attacked them ; and
therefore men argued that the beast , or the fiend
rather which informed him , knew that his time
was come , and that this gallant knight was fated
to be his slayer.
“ How this was, I know not ; but if it were so,
it was a very grievous and sad fate for him , as you
shall know hereafter.
“ On the third morning the knight arose with
the dawn, and laid on his hounds upon the track
where he had called them off last night, and that
was in these woods above us on the hill , beyond
that gray craggy peak , for he had run all the way
hither from near Arraiz in Biscaye. But on this
morning he did not hunt him far before he turned
to bay , and guided by the fell hubbub , and the wild
howlings of the terrified and tortured dogs , and
the infernal roarings of the monster, Sir Peter
came up with him and found him in a dense thicket
where it would have been difficult to move , but
that the conflict of the savage beast had crushed
down the underwood, and shattered the gnarled
branches, and even uprooted many of the lesser
trees.
“ The bear, as I have heard tell by those who
eaw it , stood up erect upon his haunches, with the
hounds baying round him at a distance - fur none
dared to come near him any more - and four of the
best and bravest , that might almost have matched
a lion, lay dead and foully mangled under his gory
claws.
“ But when the knight saw this he was very
wroth , and alighted from his horse and said , “ Ha !
ha ! have I found thee at last ? Now, by our Lady
of Bigorre ! I swear that one of us two shall rue
this day forever !'
«
· Methinks it was a pity that he swore that oath,
but you shall judge when I have told you more.
There he alighted , as I said , and for all that his
men , some of whom were old hunters, very sage
and crafty, advised him to let it be, the brute , for
surely they never had beheld his like before, he
made at him with a stout hunting spear of three
cubits length , with a broad steel head of two
spans, and the bear never stirred, either to fly or
to attack him , until he thrust the head into its
breast , striving to reach the heart ; but in a mo
ment, as the bear felt the steel piercing his shaggy
coat and cutting into the flesh , he seized the shaft
with his paws and broke it off right easily , though
it was all of tough ash wood , banded and linked
with iron. Then uttering a fearful roar he seized
the knight in his arms and hugged him , and they
fell down together upon the dead leaves of the last
winter all slippery wih gore and foam , and oh !
but it was a fell and learful struggle . Then might
you have beheld the foam , churned from the fushes
of the brute , fly up into the air white as snow, and
the red blood gush out in fountains, for the good
knight had got out his dagger, and stabbed ever
at the beast's throat and paws, and mangled him
80 sorely that at the last he let go his hold, and the
knight got clear of him and regained his feet ,
which else he never would have done, for his men
were so terrified that they stood mute and as if
thunderstricken round about, and dared not even
offer to assist him .
“ But when they saw him , that he was afoot
once again , they returned thanks to God for his
safety, and besought him that he would now desist,
for he had done enough for one day ; but then Sir
Peter drew his sword of the best Bordeaux steel ,
and nothing heeding their advice, advanced on the
bear a second time with great rage, on account of
the loss of his dogs, and because the first time he
had foiled him . He combatied himn a long time
with much bodily peril, and with great difficulty
he at length slew hin ; and when he returned
home, which he did , straightway , to his own castle
of Languedudon in Biscaye, he had the bear carried
with hun , and everybody was astonished at the
enormous size of the beast , and the great valor of
the knight who had slain it.
" And when the Lady Florence heard the bugles
and saw the spears of his train , and the dust of their
horses' feet from the turrets, she ran down into
the court to meet him , for she was very glad that
he had returned to her, for she was fond of him ,
and constant in her love , and ever grieved when
they parted.
“ Then, when he saw her, he sprang down from
 THE
his horse , and she clapped her hands and threw her
arms about his neck and kissed him , for, as I tell
you, she was very glad. But in a moment, when she
saw the carcass of the bear, she let go her hold of
her husband's neck and turned very pale and faint
ed , and was carried to her chamber. And this was
the cause of her fainting — that she remembered,
when she saw the bear, that once her father hunted
this same bear, and during the chase a voice cried
6
out to him , though he saw no one, * Thou huntest
me , yet I wish thee no ill ; yet shalt thou die a
miserable death .'
“ This is what the lady remembered, when she
saw the bear, and moreover that Don Pedro, within
a month or so, beheaded her father without any
cause , and she was sure that something would be .
fall her husband more fearful yet and strange, for
that he had not hunted only , but slain this en
chanted monster. And for three days she continued
very ill at ease, but she would tell no one what ailed
her, but on the third day she said to her husband ,
666
" My dear lord and well beloved husband, I
never shall be well again any more till I have made
a pilgrimage to the shrine of St. James of Com
postella. Give me leave, therefore, to go thither,
and to carry my son Peter and my daughter
Adrienne with me, I beseech you.'
“ And Sir Peter complied, for he loved her ten
derly and sought in all things to gratify her. But
she packed up, unobserved by any one , all her
gems and her plate and set out on her pilgrimage,
and that done , she went to visit her cousins, King
Henry and his Queen , of Castile , who reigns now
in Don Pedro's stead ; and there she still abides,
and neither will return herself nor send the children ,
dreading some terrible calamity, which she main
tains must still befall Sir Peter.
“ And yet much evil has befallen him already,
for beside that he has lost his lovely wife and
goodly children and all her revenues, except the
fourth part only , which she pays him still , the
same night that he slew the bear he was seized
with a frightful malady or madness, which leads
men to believe it was, in very truth , a thing pos
sessed of a devil which he slew. For every night,
now, as soon as he is asleep, he rises up and does
on his arms, and draws his sword and begins to
skirmish through the house , as though he were in
THE
BY WILLIAM OLAND BOURNE.
A Million tongues are thine, and they are beard
Speaking of hope to nations, in the prime
Of freedom's day, to hasten on the time
When the wide world of spirit shall be stirred
With higher aims than now - when man shall call
Each man his brother- each sball tell to each
His tale of love, and pure and holy speech
V. 1-92
PRESS . 257
actual combat and would slay any one whom he
should encounter ; but when he wakes he knows
naught of it and tells any one who mentions it to
him that he lies ! Sometimes, indeed , they leave
neither sword nor arms in his chamber, when he
makes such a noise and clatter, as if all the devils
in hell were there , that they judge it best to leave
the arms there and avoid him till the fit passes over.
“ This ill already has befallen him , and thus
hath he lost all that he holds dearest in the world ;
but all this is as nothing to that which shall befall
him yet , from the bear's vengeance , if his lady
thinks aright; and it would seem , by what has
passed even now , that she had some more know
ledge than she dared avow. It is a pity of Sir Pe.
ter, for he is a good knight and gallant, if there
was ever one in all the world justly renowned and
famous. And now , Sir John, I have told you the
story of Sir Peter de Bearn ; it is a well known
fact — what think you of it ? "
The monk mused long before he made any an
swer, and when he did reply it was pensively and
almost sadly . “ I do believe,” he said , “ every
thing you have told me. We find, in ancient au
thors, how gods and goddesses formerly changed
men into beasts, according to their pleasure , and
women into birds. This bear , therefore, might
have been a knight hunting in the forest of Biscaye,
when he, perchance, angered some god or goddess,
who changed him into a bear, to do penance , as Sir
Acteon of Thessaly was transformed also into a
stag !”
“ Sir Acteon of Thessaly !” replied Sir Espaign
du Lyon. “ My good sir, do relate it ; I shall be
very glad to listen to you . "
“ It is too long to tell you now," said Froissart,
<<
for it is growing very late , and the sun will soon
set. We will , therefore, if you please , get to our
saddles now, and when we reach the Star inn at
Tarbes, I will recount the tale over a flask of wine,
which I trust may be as good as this which I have
now finished .”
“ I think you are quite right, " returned Sir Es
paign. “ I did not take note how the time flew ;
but you must not forget to tell it me at Tarbes.”
“ Surely Iwill not," answered Froissart ,“ for you
have pleased me very much by your recital, and I
owe it to you to give you , if I may, like pleasure .”
PRESS .
Be music for the soul's high festival;
Thy gentle notes are heard, like choral waves,
Reaching the mountain, hill, and quiet vale
Thy thunder-tones are like the sweeping gale,
Bidding the tribes of men no more be slaves ;
And earth's remotest island hears the sound
That floats on ether wings the earth around!

SKETCH OF THE GREAT WESTERN LAKES .
BY J. K. PAULDING.
To those who have been in the habit of contem
plating the ocean , Lake Michigan presente nothing
new to the eye ; yet it excites new feelings and
awakens new impressions in the mind. It is in
deed only a sea of fresh water ; the color, the
waves and all the phenomena, except the sparkling
of the waves at night, are the same. Yet the great
chain , of which Michigan is one of the links, will
ever be considered as among the most remarkable
productions of nature. These lakes constitute by
far the greatest body of fresh water in the known
world ; a portion of which is, I think , derived from
the earth they cover, since it seems evident that the
supply from the rivers and the clouds is insuffi
cient to keep these vast reservoirs forever replen
ished , although the waters here collected are drawn
from a region computed at half a million of square
miles. Their surface is several hundred feet above
that of the ocean , their bottoms, in some places, it
is believed , somewhat below ; and they are com
puted to contain at least one half the fresh water
on the face of the globe. These sublime charac
teristics, when all at once realized by the evidence
of the senses, render a first view of Lake Michigan
extremely impressing.
The color of the water is, I think , not quite so
deep in tint as that of the ocean , and the sands of
the shores are not so brilliantly white , though
equally free from dirt, and there are very few shells
mixed with them. The pebbles, though worn
smooth , are not generally round, like those on the
sea shore , and the descent from the foot of the
bank on which Chicago stands, whose elevation is
not, I should judge, more than ten or twelve feet
above the surface of the lake, is very gradual.
When the winds are high the waves are twin bro
thers to those of the Atlantic, and as you look out
on the wide expanse you see nothing beyond but
the sky. The shores are generally low and level ;
very few landmarks can be distinguished at a dis.
tance , and no mountains appear in perspective,
The surface of Lake Michigan is much higher than
the Mississippi, and there is nothing but a vast
inclined plane between them . An overflow of the
lake in that direction would deluge all the country
to the shores of the ocean . In approaching Chi
cago, between that place and Juliet, there are
some curious indications of having once been
an outlet from the southern extremity of the lake .
The channel of a river, perhaps a quarter of a mile
258
巧.
wide, with what are called the first and second
banks, is clearly defined ; and though the grass
and flowers grow there now, it is difficult to resist
the impression that “once upon a time, " as the
story books say, a broad, deep river here coursed
its way from Lake Michigan toward father Mis
sissippi.
There is, and always has been , an impression
among those long residing on the lakes, that they
are influenced by regular tides, the effects of which
become apparent every seven , eight or nine years .
That they are sometimes higher than at others I
believe is certain ; but whether these vicissitudes
are periodical, and consequently produced by in
fluences always in operation, or whether merely
accidental, is yet to be decided. The theory of
tides is a mystery, and but for the moon , which
is a universal panacea for the broken shins of phi
losophy , it would be as inscrutable as future time,
“ There are more things in heaven and earth than
are found in your philosophy,” ye learned Thebans,
and nothing can be more presumptuous than to
withhold our belief in the evidence of the senses ,
merely because the narrow, circumscribed intellect
of man is insufficient for its comprehension. He
who can compass the being, the attributes and the
providence of the Creator of all things, and he
alone , is authorized to reject the evidences of his
senses, because he cannot comprehend the causes
which produced the phenomenon .
Whether or not, however, the tide regularly
rises and falls in the lakes, once in seven or any
fixed number of years, it is to be hoped it will al .
ways stop short in time, since a rise of some twelve
or fourteen feet above its present level would pre
cipitate Lake Michigan , not only on the good town
of Chicago, but the entire country for hundreds
of miles. There are distinct and undeniable evi
dences of its having been once under water, and
what has happened may occur again. But I don't
wish to frighten my fellow citizens, more especially
just now, when they have so many alarms on their
hands. What with the tariff, annexation , repudi
ation and prophet Miller's prediction, people not
of iron nerves can hardly sleep quietly in their beds
at night . But it is an ill wind that blows nobody
good ; and those who apprehend the overflowing
of the lakes will receive great consolation from a
belief in the prophecy.
After luxuriating in the fine summer weather,
3
 SKETCH OF THE GREAT WESTERN LAKES .
from the beginning of March , in the South, I en
countered autumn in July at Chicago. Luckily,
however, while there, I received my cloak, which
had been left behind at St. Louis, whence it had
traveled by itself a distance of ne five or six
hundred miles. Who shall say we are not an
honest people, notwithstanding bankrupt laws, stop
laws and repudiation ? I embarked in the Great
Western of the lakes, one of the most splendid
steam vessels I have ever seen , commanded by
Captain Walker, whom , in acknowledgment of his
kind attentions, I recommend to all voyagers on
the great lakes. It was evening when we got under
way, and night coming on almost immediately, I
saw no more until next morning, when we came to
at Milwaukie, a very pleasantly situated and thri.
ving town , which only wants a good harbor to be
come a place of considerable note, in time. But in
this country nobody waits for time ; the old gentle
man is too short-winded to keep pace with the
“ Go aheads," who mount fortune's wheel and set
it whizzing round at such a prodigious rate that
they grow dizzy, tumble off and are swallowed up
in the mill race .
Leaving Milwaukie, which, like Corporal Trim's
unfortunate King of Bohemia , only wants a har
bor, we again launched forth on the broad, transpa .
rent bosom of the lake, and about mid -day were out
of sight of land. Thus we continued till the
evening came on , and early next morning entered
the strait of Michilimackinac, whose formidable
name has been most judiciously softened into
Mackina. This place is not only celebrated for
its natural beauties, which are certainly very great ,
but is interesting for its historical associations. It
was the central point of the French trade with the
Indians till M. La Motte Cadillac, by his personal
influence with the savages , drew a great portion of
it to Detroit. But it has never risen to be more than
an inconsiderable village, and seems not to have
been much operated upon by that magic influence
observed almost everywhere else in places trans
ferred from other powers to the United States.
One hundred and twenty-two years ago , when
visited by Father Charlevoix, it was still a great
mart for peltry, although as early as that period it
had begun rapidly to decline. In 1770, having
been several years before surrendered to the crown
of England with the rest of the French possessions
in North America , it was still a rendezvous for
Indian traders and had a fort and garrison for its
defence . It was surprised and taken by one of the
best planned and conducted stratagems to be found
in the records or traditions of Indian warfare, and
the garrison massacred . The account of this feat
given by Mr. Alexander Henry, of Montreal, and
most especially his own personal escape on that
occasion , are so singularly interesting, that though
not fond of transcribing long articles, I am tempted
259
to give it here at length. I was acquainted with
Mr. Henry ; his veracity I believe was never queg.
tioned , and the account of his travels and ad
ventures, which was published at New York in
1809 and is very interesting, is now seldom to be
met with .
“!The morning,” says Mr. Henry , " was sultry.
A Chippeway came to tell me that his nation was
going to play at Bag'gattiway * with the Sacs or
Saakies, another Indian nation, for a high wager.
He invited me to witness the sport, adding that the
commandant was to be there and would bet on the
side of the Chippeways. In consequence of this
information I went to the commandant and expos
tulated with him aa little, representing that the In
dians might possibly have some sinister end in
view ; but he only smiled at my suspicions.
“ I did not go myself to see the match, which
was now playing without the fort, because, there
being a canoe prepared to depart for Montreal, I
employed myself in writing letters to my friends ;
and even when a fellow traveler, Mr. Tracy, hap
pened to call upon me, saying that another canoe
had just arrived from Detroit, proposing that I
should go with him to the beach to inquire the
news, it so happened that I still remained to finish
my letters, promising to follow Mr. Tracy in a few
minutes. He had not gone more than twenty
paces from my door, when I heard the Indian war
cry and a noise of general confusion. Going in
stantly to my window I saw a crowd of Indians
within the fort,t furiously cutting down and scalp
ing every Englishman they found. In particular I
witnessed the fate of Lieutenant Jemette. I had in
the room in which I was a fowling piece, loaded
with small shot. This I immediately seized , and
held it for a few minutes, waiting to hear the drum
beat to arms. In this dreadful interval I saw seve
ral of my countrymen fall, and more than one
struggling between the knees of an Indian, who,
holding him in this manner, scalped him while yet
living.
“ At length, disappointed in the hope of seeing
resistance made to the enemy, and sensible, of
course , that no effort of my own unassisted arm
could avail against four hundred Indians, I thought
only ofseeking shelter. Amid the slaughter which
was raging I observed many of the Canadian in
habitants of the fort calmly looking on, neither
opposing the Indians nor suffering injury ; and
from this circumstance I conceived a hope of find
ing security in their houses.
“ Between the yard door of my own house and
that of M. Anglade, my next neighbor, there was
only a low fence over which I easily climbed. On
my entrance I found the whole family at the win
dow, gazing at the scene of blood before them . I
* Indian gawe offoot ball.
t. They had designedly knocked the bal the fort, and
rushed in under pretence of following.
260 THE COLUMBIAN
addressed myself immediately to M. Anglade , beg
ging that he would put me in some place of safety
until the heat of the affair should be over, as an act
of charity by which he might perhaps preserve me
from the general massacre ; but while I uttered my
petition M. Anglade, who had looked for a mo
ment at me, turned again to the window , shrugging
his shoulders and intimating that he would do no
<
thing for me. “ Que voudriez vous que j'en ferais ? '
“ This was a moment of despair ; but the next
a Pani woman , a slave of M. Anglade , beckoned
me to follow her. She brought me to a door,
which she opened , desiring me to enter and telling
me it led to the garret , where I must go and con
ceal myself. I joyfully obeyed her directions, and
she, having followed me up to the garret door,
locked it after me and with great presence of mind
took away the key. This shelter obtained , if shel
ter I could hope to find it, I was naturally anxious
to know what was passing without. Through an
aperture which afforded me a view of the area of
the fort I beheld , in shapes the foulest and most
terrible, the ferocious triumphs of the barbarian
conquerors. The dead were scalped andmangled ;
the dying were writhing and shrieking under the
unsatiated knife and tomahawk and the bodies of
some ripped open ; their butchers were drinking
the blood, scooped up in the hollow of their joined
hands and quaffed amid shouts of rage and victory.
I was shaken not only with horror, but with fear.
The sufferings which I witnessed I seemed on the
point of experiencing. No long time elapsed be
fore, every one being destroyed who could be found ,
there was a general cry of 6· All is finished.' At
the same instant I heard some of the Indians enter
the house in which I was.
“ The garret was separated from the room below
only by a layer of single boards, at once the floor.
ing of the one and the ceiling of the other. I could
therefore hear everything that passed ; and the In
dians no sooner came in than they inquired whether
or not any Englishmen were in the house. M.
Anglade replied that “ He could not say — he did
not know of any , " answers in which he did not
violate the truth ; for the Pani woman had not
only hidden me by stealth, but kept my secret and
her own. M. Anglade was therefore, II presume,
as far from a wish of destroying as he was careless
about serving me, when he added , “ That they
might examine for themselves and would soon be
satisfied Saying this, he brought them to the
garret door. The state of my mind may be ima
gined. Arrived at the door, some delay was
occasioned by the absence of the key, and a few
moments were thus allowed me to look round for a
hiding place. In one corner was a heap of those
vessels used in making maple sugar, such as I have
heretofore described. The door was unlocked and
the Indians ascending the stairs before I had com
MAGAZINE .
pletely crept into a small opening which presented
itself at one end of the heap. An instant after, four
Indians entered the room , all armed with toma
hawks and all besmeared with blood, in every part
of their bodies.
“ The die appeared to be cast. I could scarcely
breathe , but I thought the throbbing of my heart
was loud enough to betray me. The Indians
walked in every direction about the garret, and one
of them approached me so closely that, at a par
ticular moment, had he put forth his hand he must
have touched me. Still I remained undiscovered ;
a circumstance to which the dark color of my
clothes and the want of light in a room that had no
window must have greatly contributed . In a
word , after taking several turns in the room , during
which they told M. Anglade how many they had
killed and how many scalps they had taken , they
returned down stairs, and I, with sensations not to
be expressed, heard the door, which was the barrier
between me and my fate , locked a second time.
“ There was aa feather bed on the floor, and on this,
exhausted as I was by the agitation of my mind , I
threw myself down and fell asleep. In this state I
remained till the dusk of the evening, when I was
awakened by a second opening of the door. The
person that now entered was Madame Anglade,
who was much surprised at finding me , but advised
me not to be uneasy, observing that the Indians
had killed most of the English , but that she hoped
I might myself escape. A shower of rain having
begun to fall, she had come to stop a hole in the
roof. On going away I begged her to send me a
little water, which she did. As night was now
advancing I continued to lie on my bed, ruminating
on my condition, but unable to devise any plan by
which I might hope to escape with life. A flight
to Detroit had no probable chance of success. The
distance from Michilimackinac was four hundred
miles ; I was without provisions, and the whole
length of the road lay through Indian countries of
enemies in arms, where the first savage I met
would certainly kill me . To stay where I was
threatened nearly the same issue. As before, fa
tigue of mind , and not tranquility, suspended my
anxieties and procured me another sleep.
“ The respite which sleep afforded me during
the night was put an end to by the return of morn
ing. I was again on the rack of apprehension.
At sunrise I heard the family stirring, and presently
after, Indian voices, informing M. Anglade that
they had not found my hapless self among the
dead, and that I must be concealed somewhere.
M. Anglade appeared, by what followed, to be by
this time acquainted with my retreat , of which no
doubt he had been informed by his wife. The poor
woman , as soon as the Indians mentioned me , de
clared to her husband , in the French tongue, that
he should no longer keep me in his house , but de
 SKETCH OF THE GREAT WESTERN LAKES .
liver me up to my pursuers ; giving as a reason ,
that should the Indians discover his instrumentality
in my concealment they would revenge it on her
children , and it was better that I should die than
they. M. Anglade resisted at first, but soon suf
fered her to prevail, informing the Indians that he
had been told I was in the house ; that I had come
there without his knowledge, and that he would
put me into their hands. This was no sooner said
than he began to ascend the stairs, the Indians fol
lowing at his heels.
“ I now resigned myself to the fate with which I
was menaced, and regarding every attempt at con
cealment as vain , I arose from the bed and pre
sented myself in full view to the Indians, as they
entered the room. They were all in a state of in.
toxication and entirely naked , except about the
middle. One of them, named Weriniway, whom I
had previously known and who was upward of six
feet high, had his entire face and body covered
with charcoal and grease , only that a white spot of
about two inches in diameter encircled either eye.
This man, walking up to me, seized me with one
hand by the collar of my coat, while in the other
he held a large carving knife, as if to plunge it in
my breast, his eye , meanwhile, fixed sternly and
steadfastly on mine. At length, after some mo
ments of most anxious suspense , he dropped his
arm , saying, ' I won't kill you. To this he added
that he had frequently been engaged in wars against
the English and had brought away many scalps
that on a certain occasion he had lost a brother,
whose name was Musinigon, and that I should be
called after him ." Aſter a variety of subsequent
adventures and hair -breadth escapes Mr. Henry
finally returned in safety to Montreal, where he
lived to be an old man .
The island of Mackina is an important military
and commercial position , but does not seem to par
take of that growing quality for which our young
towns are for the most part so remarkable. There
are few houses which appear to have been recently
built , and fewer still building. Some of the old
French habitations still remain, throwing an air of
antiquity over the place ; and a number of Indian
huts were scattered on the beach , among which
were seen a few straggling Indians, men , women
and pappooses. There was one ship and some
fifteen or twenty vessels of different kinds, princi.
pally lake schooners, at anchor in the strait, giving
the scene an air of commerce ; but it is now a mere
stopping place, and I believe it has not yet entered
into the head of any sanguine pupil of anticipation
to speculate in city lots at Mackina. Yet it is a
spot of most especial beauty, rising from the bosom
of the most transparent water in the world to a
height which overlooks all the land and the lakes,
to the utmost xtent of the reach of the eye ;
clothed with fresh, green grass , crowned with
261
stately trees and exhibiting in its aspect and out
line as much of grace and beauty as I have any
where seen comprised in a single view. There is
here a fort of considerable pretensions, but it is
commanded by a hill within cannon shot in the
rear, which is not fortified .
It would be mere repetition to tell you of the
fine fishing at Mackina, and more especially at
the Sault St. Marie, above. These fisheries, par
ticularly the latter, are becoming of consequence,
and before many years will be still more important,
unless the white fish are frightened away by dig.
ging a canal, or making a dam, or some other
astonishing improvement that, according to custom,
may cost more than it will come to. There is
no portion of animated nature more timid , suspi
cious, and often apparently capricious, than a fish.
He is attracted or repulsed by slight and almost
imperceptible causes, operating at vast distances
and changing the course of his emigrations from
one quarter of the world to another. His haunts
should never be tampered with, unless the object
to be attained is of great and paramount import
ance . As much, and frequently more , is lost than
gained by damming up the course of riveis ; and
very often the erection of a mill is the forerunner
of the loss of a fishery of a thousand times more
value to an extensive region of surrounding country.
I question whether the advantages of all the locks
and dams on the Connecticut river repay the peo
ple of Connecticut, Massachusetts, New Hampshire
and Vermont for the loss of the salmon and shad
which formerly frequented that river in such quan
tities. There is a mighty and tempting water
power at Sault St. Marie, but fortunately they
can't dam up the strait of Mackina or make mill
ponds of the lakes.
The quaint Baron La Hontan , who visited this
place in 1687, thus speaks of the famous white fish
and other particulars : “ This sort of fish is, in my
opinion, the only one in all the lakes that can be
called good ; and indeed it goes beyond all other
sorts of river fish . Above all, it has one singular
property , namely, that all sorts of sauces spoil it , so
that 'tis always eat either boiled or broiled , without
any manner of seasoning. In the channel I now
speak of, the currents are so strong that they som
times suck in the nets, though they are two or three
leagues off. In some seasons it so falls out that
the currents run three days eastward, two days to
the west, one to the south and four northward ;
sometimes more, sometimes less. The cause of
these currents could never be fathomed, for in a
calm they'll run in the space of one day to all
points of the compass, i. e ., sometimes one way,
sometimes another, without any limit of time ; so
that the decision of the matter must be left to the
dis of Copernicus.
“ In this place the Jesuits have a little house or
262 THE COLUMBIAN
college adjoining to a sort of a church and enclosed
with pales, which separate it from the villaga of
the Hurons. These good fathers lavish away all
their divinity and patience to no purpose in con
verting such ignorant infidels ; for all the length
they can bring them to is, that sometimes they'll
desire baptism for their dying children , and some
superannuated persons consent to receive the sacra
ment of baptism when they find themselves at the
point of death . The Coureurs de Bois have a
very small settlement here,” &c. &c.*
In passing from this place to the entrance of the
River St. Clair, through Lake Huron , in a steam
boat, and indeed in navigating all the lakes, we
see little of the country and almost as little on the
water, to attract attention. The boat keeps a
wide berth , as the sailors say ; the shores are either
out of sight or present only a low, level line ,
scarcely distinguished by any perceptible elevation.
I saw very few vessels on these inland seas , except
in Lake Ontario ; and upon the whole, there is all,
and more than all, the monotony of the ocean in a
voyage on the lakes, with the single exception that
landings are rather more frequent. When it is
calm , or in a light breeze, the sailing is very plea
sant ; but with a fresh wind the swell becomes
mighty troublesome, and in a gale the navigation
is not only extremely disa greeable, but dangerous,
there being very few harbors in which to seek
shelter. This is more especially the case on Lake
Erie, which, being somewhat more shallow than
the others, throws up a testy , peevish wave , differ
ent from the swelling, rolling mountains of the
fathomless ocean .
At the River St. Clair the possessions of the
United States and Great Britain shake hands with
each other, that is to say , they approach so near
that forts are erected on either hand , to signalize
their good neighborhood and exchange civilities
when occasion requires. There are small towns,
houses and plantations, along this charming little
river, and a great city in perspective, just at its
mouth , the name of which I have forgotten. As
the strait expands into Lake St. Clair it becomes
so shallow that our vessel turned up the sand in
great quantities for a distance of some miles. Im
mense meadows are seen skirting it on either side ,
and the entire combination presents as soft and
gentle a scene as ever was exhibited in fairy land .
The lake , as usual , afforded little variety of pros
pect until we approached Detroit, where commences
another succession of very beautiful scenery . Here,
as at Mackina, we again come among the anti
quities of this new world and detect many of the
features of an old - settled country . Here, too, those
excellent and agreeable cousins, John Bull and
Brother Jonathan , live so near that they can see
into other's eyes and cuss matters at the
* New Voyages to North America, vol. I , p. 88 .
MAGAZINE .
mouth of the cannon , after trying what can be
done by talking of “ a common origin , ” “ identity
9
of language, ” “ kindred habits and manners,"
“ mother and daughter ” and “ all that sort of
thing."
Heretofore, whenever the American and British
possessions came in juxtaposition , I had always
found a decided superiority in the former, in all the
indications of increasing growth and prosperity:
At Detroit this is not the case however. With the
exception of the city, which has completely dis
tanced the little town on the opposite shore , the
British side appeared to be more populous and
better cultivated, along the whole strait, from the
city down to Lake Erie. Much of the American
side, below Detroit, is low, apparently swampy,
and in a state of nature ; while the other has all
the aspect of long cultivation. The bank, with
occasional exceptions, is higher and skirted with a
number of respectable, old fashioned houses, that
strongly contrast with the gay and sometimes
rather fantastic cottages on the opposite shore , in
the vicinity of the city, which is finely situated , ex
hibits striking indications of active business, and , to
use a favorite phrase of our sanguine speculators,
“ must be a great emporium in time.” Here are
some vestiges of the ancient French occupation ;
but, with the exception of the Catholic churches,
nothing old can long withstand the desperate hos
tility of our people to greybeard antiquity. They
tolerate nothing old , but wine and tobacco, and
are exactly the antipodes to the famous antiquary
who disinherited a profligate son for promising to
“ turn over a new leaf,” and despised America be
cause it was called the new world . At New Or
leans I recollect once noticing a tall , thin , bilious
looking person , with a face shriveled apparently
by insatiable money -making cares, who was eyeing
the venerable old cathedral with a peculiar expres
sion of hostility, and , as I had little doubt, calcu
lating the number of lots which might be carved
out of the church yard, in the way of a glorious
speculation .
Near the mouth of the strait , as you enter Lake
Erie , is the little town and fortress of Malden , fa
mous, or rather infamous, in the annals of the late
war. It is situated along an extensive level bank ,
elevated some thirty or forty feet above the water ;
and the place is not otherwise strong, except from
the weakness of an assailing enemy. There is a
little island opposite, which figures in the late treaty
with Great Britain , and which , in conjunction with
the fort on the main land , completely commands
the narrow channel on the British side. There is,
as I learned from Captain Walker, another channel
on the American side , affording sufficient water
for vessels drawing upward of twenty feet. It is
far more intricate than the other, and I neglected
to inquire whether it brought vessels within immi
 SKETCH OF THE GREAT WESTERN LAKES .
nent distance of the guns of the island , on which,
however, I discovered no fortifications in passing.
Throughout the whole extent of these great
lakes there are , I think, but four or five points of
immediate proximity between the possessions of the
United States and Great Britain , to wit, the Sault
St. Marie, Detroit, the River St. Clair and the
Niagara frontier. The third and the last have
already been illustrated by the effusion of blood ;
and it is there that , in all human probability, future
times may exhibit many a bitter struggle , many
displays of lofty heroism and many a spectacle over
which humanity weeps, while patriotism triumphs.
Our voyage on Lake Erie was cold, wintry and
cheerless ; the ladies and the land lubbers all got
sick , of that intolerable disease which excites no
sympathy and admits of only one cure, namely, a
contact with mother earth . We halted about
an hour at Cleveland , in Ohio, which is a very
pretty, very busy and apparently a very flourishing
town, with a number of very 6“suspicious" looking
mansions on the superb terrace which rises from
the lake beach. I say suspicious, for during the
whole course of a long journey of seven thousand
miles I seldom noticed a house especially distin
guished for its portico and lofty pillars , its tower, its
costly and inappropriate embellishments , without
finding, on inquiry, that the original builder had
gone the way of all flesh , or, at all events, was a
tenant at mercy to some bank, or, according to phi
lanthropic phrase, “ in the iron grasp of an unfeel
ing, inexorable Shylock creditor " -in other words,
some honest man who was rather impatient at
seeing his debtor living in a palace, and spending
the thousands belonging to other people. It were,
I think, much to be wished that some one would
take up the cudgel in behalf of unfortunate credi
tors, who generally press for their dues because
they cannot pay their debts without them , and who
now - a - days not only lose their money, but their
reputation into the bargain .
At Cleveland is the entrance or outlet to the
great canal connecting the lakes with the Ohio
river ; and here I saw hundreds of emigrants, prin
cipally German , on their way to the interior of the
young giant State. Here was one complete com
munity, comprising all the necessary trades, handi
crafts and professions - a parson and a doctor. I
could not learn whether they had brought a law
yer with them , but at all events, they will find
plenty where they are going. They occupied two
or three boats, the windows of which were blithe
with merry faces glowing with health and happy
anticipations ; which I hoped and trusted, and in
deed was convinced , would be realized , for they
were sober, moral , industrious, prudent folks ; and
in what part of our country cannot such people re
alize comfort and independence ? There is a mole
at Cleveland, forming the harbor, with a light
263
house on the outward end. The great defect in
the navigation of the lakes is the want of havens,
either for commerce or security. The bays are for
the most part open and exposed, and often shallow
withal. The rivers have always a bar, where their
currents meet the pressure of the lakes ; there are
few if any islands, under which vessels can take
shelter, and hence the tempests are sometimes very
destructive. Yet notwithstanding all this, these
mighty fresh water oceans will , within a century ,
if God prospers the republic, be ploughed by almost
as many keels as the Euxine or Mediterranean.
Cleveland ," must " then be a considerable city,
and there is no use in contesting the matter.
We did not stop at Erie, or if so , it was in the
middle of the night, and I missed seeing the scene
of the exploit of the gallant young Perry . The
name however recalled to my mind the smiling
face and mild , yet spirited blue eye of that brave,
estimable youth ; and the time is coming, if it has
not already come, when no citizen of the United
States, unless he has the head of a cabbage and a
heart of sponge, will ever pass by Put-in -Bay with
out casting a thought on the achievement there,
as well as him who accomplished it, even as the
Indian casts a stone on the mound which marks
the grave of some distinguished chief.
The noble steamship , the Great Western of the
lakes, arrived at Buffalo the sixth day after leav
ing Chicago, at the dawn of the morning. The
approach to this city is very fine , and the views
from it , along the lake , and down Niagara river,
are full of all sorts of beauty. The growth of Buf
falo is somewhat of a phenomenon , even in this
country. But the same shocks which affrighted
the land from its centre to its extremities have
been felt in their utmost severity here . They have
not however produced death -- only a temporary
suspension of vitality. The country will spring up
as suddenly as she fell, if the doctors don't take ad
vantage of her being down , and physic her to death.
There are doubtless many towns and cities that
effervesced from the fermentation of the times, of
which the previous existence will ere long be ex
tremely questionable. But Buffalo is not one of these .
Its position insures its future prosperity, if the wor
thy and hospitable inhabitants will only condescend
to become wise by experience , and wait till the
child can walk before they dress him in breeches.
Though no doctor, I will offer them a prescription,
which I pledge my word will not fail to set every
man on his legs again , provided he does not do
like beggars on horseback , to wit, ride to a place,
which, not being found on any of the maps, is, in
the estimation of certain great philosophers, of
questionable existence. But to my prescription.
Take five drachms of patience ; six of prudence ;
ten of economy, and twenty - four of genuine per
severing industry ; mix these with an indefinite
264 THE COLUMBIAN
number of scruples of conscience against running
in debt as fast as the rapids of Niagara ; put all
these ingredients in a vessel either of gold or sil
ver - none else will domand simmer them over a
slow fire made of broken bank notes , until the in
gredients become thoroughly amalgamated, and
the notes are all consumed to ashes. This recipe
has never failed ; and if necessary thousands of
certificates could be obtained from persons who
have been radically cured by using it the proper
time . It operates slowly , but the effect is always
sure. Mem .-- The more you take, the better.
The ride from Buffalo to the Falls is extremely
agreeable , being frequently in sight of Niagara
river, which at the outlet of Lake Erie runs with a
strong current, but afterward subsides into a gen
tle stream , sometimes expanding into a lake , at
others contracting into a narrow compass , with
occasionally an island anchored on its bosom .
There is nothing to indicate the approach to that
famous cataract , justly denominated one of the
wonders of the world. The road is perfectly level .
All is soft, gentle , serene and quiet ; for the roar
of its tremendous plunge , which it is said may
sometimes be heard at a distance of twenty miles,
can hardly , in general, be distinguished at the Ea.
gle tavern , where I stayed, even in the silence of
night.
Niagara has so often been celebrated, both in
poetry and in prose, that I shall not attempt what
is unattainable by language, by painting, or by all
the combined efforts of art. There is no standard
in nature with which to compare it ; and all the
superlatives of language communicate nothing to
the mind but shadows without substance, dimen
sions or outline. Yet the first and most general
impression is that of disappointment; and those
who go away, as a large portion of the visitors do,
after only a single superficial view, would , if they
dared , blaspheme this great work of the Creator.
Like everything consummate in nature or in art,
it must be contemplated , studied , in order to de
velop its perfections. The eye must become more
familiar with its individual features and their combi
nations ; the mind accustomed to compass the sub
lime array of vast and magnificent materials spread
out before it ; and the nerves disciplined, to stand
on the verge of precipice overlooking the whirl of
the impetuous torrent , before we can properly en
joy this unparalleled scene .
I remained here nearly a week , during which I
every day visited some new points of view, and
detected new combinations of infinite variety.
There is no sameness here, for every step either
opens or shuts out some prominent object. This
familiar and daily intercourse , far from verifying
the old proverb, instead of breeding contempt or
indifference, enabled me the better to realize that
singular combination of sublimity and beauty by
MAGAZINE .
which Niagara is distinguished beyond any other
scene I have ever beheld or imagined. After a
few visits, the irritation of the nerves subsides into
an intense yet pleasing excitement ; terror gives
place to admiration ; we approach the verge of the
precipice without apprehension , and begin to love
what before we feared. I am somewhat too far
advanced in the journey of life to be guided by the
finger- post of hope, but can still enjoy the pleasures
of memory , and the recollection of Niagara will
constitute one of the jewels of the casket. Might
I advise , I would recommend all visitors who are
blessed with a wholesome relish for the stupendous
works of nature, to remain here some days, and
every morning and evening take a walk round
what in other times was called Goat, but is now
more descriptively and poetically christened Iris
Island, for it is often decorated with rainbows. It
is the most magnificent promenade in the world ,
and affords the greatest variety. On two of its
sides it is fretted and scoured by those tremendous
rapids which rival the cataract itself in grandeur
and sublimity ; at the upper end, all is calm re
pose ; the waters sleep against the green sward by
which they are bounded ; just at the centre there is
no perceptible current whatever ; and all above is
as smooth as a lake embosomed among mountains.
But a few steps either way brings you within full
view of the rapids, plunging over ledges of rocks,
throwing up jets of snow -white foam , and dashing
on with a mad impetuosity , an indescribable vehe
mence and desperation , toward the last great
plunge into the bottomless abyss below . These
hurry you along, until all at once you come to the
consummation of sublimity in aa full view of the
Horse Shoe fall. The lower part of the island is
I believe alone frequented, for in all my walks I
recollect to have met no one , but a most respecta
ble and somewhat ancient Quaker and his wife,
who once or twice a day made this sublime and
beautiful tour ; although there were hundreds of
sentimental fashionables at the hotel . When they
had finished , the good dame would seat herself in
the ruinous shed, which commands a fine view of
the fall, take out her knitting, and remain for hours
with her eyes fixed on the scenery , and her hands
employed in the mysteries of the craft. Mean
while, the good man—for goodness was stamped
in his face-would stroll about in the vicinity, and
if he caught any new object or point of view , come
for his mate , and invite her to share the banquet.
It was pleasant to see them , for although past the
age of romance, it was evident they still retained
a gentle relish for the charms of nature, and that
one of them at least had learned the art of associa
ting useful employment with agreeable recreation ;
an art than which none is more conducive to hu
man happiness. I parted from Niagara with re
gret, for it improved every day on farther acquaint
 SKETCH OF THE
ance . Independently of the attractions of the
falls, it is a pleasant village ; the site dry and
healthy ; the air temperate and pure ; and every
thing acceptable , except the ever to be abhorred
limestone water, the tormentor of stomachs and
inveterate foe of tetotalism .
It is not known who was the first white man
that saw these falls. The French who first pene
trated this region were more accustomed to wield the
sword than the pen , and thought more of beavers
than books. The Chevalier Tonti notices them
incidentally, and estimates their height at six hun
dred feet. La Hontan , who visited them in 1687,
despatches the subject in few words : “ As for the
water fall of Niagara , it is seven or eight hundred
feet high, and half a league broad. Toward the
middle of it we descry an island that leans to
ward the precipice as if it was ready to fall. All
the boats that cross the water within half a quarter
of a league above are sucked in by the force of the
stream ; and the beasts and fish that are thus kill
ed by the prodigious fall, serve for food to fifty
Iroquese, who are settled about two leagues off,
and take them out of the water in their canoes.
Between the surface of the water, that shelves off
prodigiously, and the foot of the precipice, three
men may cross in abreast without any other damage
than a sprinkling of some few drops of water." *
A much more particular and accurate description
is given by Father Hennepin , from which it is evi
dent that time has produced little alteration within
the last century and a half ; although it is the ge
neral , and I think well founded opinion, that the
cataract was originally at Lewiston, where there
is an abrupt descent into the basin of Lake Onta
rio. If this impression be correct , the change could
not , I imagine, have been produced by the mere
action of the waters on the surface of the rocks,
since they soon become covered with a slimy sub
stance , over which the swift current glides without
any friction whatever. The process must have been
that of undermining, and thus causing the superin
cumbent rocks to fall, for want of due support be .
low. This is exemplified by the fall on the Ameri
can side , whose apparent height is greatly dimin
ished by masses of rock which have tumbled from
above , and are piled up beneath.
Niagara and its neighborhood have other points
of interest besides the noble scenery . At Lundy's
Lane , at Chippeway and at Fort Erie , were fought
battles as bravely contested as any of modern times.
It was there that our countrymen wiped away the
disgrace of Malden ; that self- taught generals re
trieved what had been lost by superannuated vete
rans ; and that ourcountrymen proved themselves
worthy descendants of their revolutionary fathers.
Yet while contemplating these scenes with honest
pride , I could not keep asking myself the end of
* New Voyages to North America, vol. I. p. 83 .
GREAT WESTERN LAKES . 265
all this bloodshed . There seemed nothing here
worth fighting for, except the Horse Shoe fall,
which is incomparably the finest of the group, and
which I cannot help wishing completely within
the limits of the United States, in order that we
might boast of the sole possession of one of the
wonders of the world . Then , when the Italian
spouted of his St. Peters, “ his Raphaels, Corregios
and stuff ; " the Turk his Stamboul ; and the
Englishman of his tunnel, we might silence all
their prating by challenging them to produce such
a chef d'aurre as the Horse Shoe fall.
The ride to Lewiston is full of sublimity and
beauty. It affords frequent peeps into the chasm
through which the fretted waters rush away, to
find peace and repose in the quiet bosom of Onta
rio ; as well as occasional views of the distant ca.
taract , one of which I thought the finest of all , and
which I visited more than once . It is a few miles
on the road to Lewiston , and may be known by аa
spring of mineral water, covered with a neat little
building.
There is also the great whirlpool, a worthy as
sociate of the falls and rapids above ; and “ The
Devil's Hole," a place which makes one shudder to
look down upon , and whose natural horrors are
heightened by a tradition of Indian massacre. To
sum up all , on one hand is a rich , quiet scene of
cultivated fields interspersed with woods and green
meadows, with cattle grazing and farmers plough
ing in peace ; on the other, the foaming river,
rushing along in boiling eddies and whirlpools,
through the gloomy abyss worn in the rock by its
eternal fretting, until suddenly emerging from its
imprisonment, it enters the vale of Lewiston , where
it rests from its labors, and like a wearied travel.
er, lazily seeks its home in the bosom of Ontario.
The view which all at once spreads out before you ,
as you suddenly reach the abrupt descent into the
vale of Lewiston , after a long ride over a level
country , is one of the loveliest in all the land. The
only object that mars the beauty of the scenery and
detracts from the feeling it inspires, is the shatter
ed ruin of the fine column erected to the memory
of General Brock, who fell in the battle of Queens.
town , and the indignation naturally excited in eve
ry breast at this brutal outrage on the memory of' a
brave and generous soldier. It was a tribute of
respect well deserved and well bestowed, and no
man of proper feelings, be he friend or foe, can re .
frain from execrating the midnight incendiary who
perpetrated this outrage . Thank heaven , he was
not a chicken of our raising.
At Lewiston I embarked on the calm , quiet
river, which thence to its confluence with Lake
Ontario presents a striking contrast to the whirl
ing torrent above , in the steamer Lady of the Lake,
the neatest and prettiest of all its kind. Our voy
age to Oswego was made principally by night, and
266 THE COLUMBIAN
I saw little worthy of remark , except the sun set
ting in the lake , and a greater number of vessels
than on the upper lakes. Oswego is a fine town,
but like many others I have seen , has suffered
much from the fever of anticipation , the prevailing
epidemic of the times. Its natural advantages,
aided by artificial improvements now in operation ,
will, however, I have no doubt, in a few years,
enable it to recover its strength and vigor, and be
come , in good time, the queen city of Lake Ontario.
Here I left the great chain of inland seas, with
impressions of their grandeur and sublimity which
will not soon be effaced. There is that within and
THE FORTUNE TELLER .
( See the engraving .)
How universal is, and in all ages and countries
has been , the desire to liſt at least a corner of the
veil that hides the future from us, and anticipate
the hour when what shall be must become what is.
The chosen people of God—the race of whom we
have the only primeval record_had their prophets
and diviners, true and false ; the former speaking as
utterance was given to them from on high , not at
the request of those whose fates were implicated in
the revelation, but under the influence of a power
which themselves could not resist, and almost al-
ways vaticinating in such wise that the subjects
and hearers of the prophecy would have been glad
to silence them if they could ; the latter giving out
their pretended foreknowledge at command, doubt-
less for the sake of reward , and therefore , we may
suppose , like false prophets everywhere, regulating,
so far as conjecture aided them , their disclosures
according to the tastes or wishes of their dupes :
always inspiring hopes, but brightening the pros-
pect according to the presumed ability or willing-
ness of the applicants to pay for the revelation .
Upon how wide a circle has the mantle of these
false prophets fallen ! The Gitanos, warm and
sunny as their native clime , wandering wild and
free amid the fastnesses of Spain ; the Greegrees
of Africa with their horrid ceremonies and merci.
less rites ; the more amusing , because more ludi.
crous, yet not less cruel “ medicine man ” of our
own Indians, fitting around the all but lifeless
body of the untutored savage, scaring back, with
his noisy and mystic symbols, the poor fluttering
MAGAZINE .
about them which awakens the mind to new per
ceptions of the omnipotence of the great architect
of the universe, new ideas of the vastness of crea
ted things ; and those who prefer the contempla
tion of nature in her gigantic stature and simple
attire of grace and beauty as exhibited in our new
world, to that of the moss -grown , decayed works
of man in the old , which are rather exemplifica
tions of his weakness than his power, cannot en
joy a greater luxury than that of circumnavigating
the great northern lakes, which, with Niagara
Falls, have nothing to compare with them on the
face of the earth .
soul into its half deserted tenement ; the hideous
idols of the South Sea islands, enployed by a cun
ning though heathen priesthood for the same pur
poses of thraldom and dominion ; and the legiti
mate fortune teller of Great Britain , prowling
among the farms in the Western counties, de
ceiving with her signs and tokens the village
maiden and the rustic belle ; ay, and entering , al
though it be by stealth and alone, yet not unwel
come , the palace of the monarch or the mansion
of the noble ; all are branches of one family, lov
ing the dark and marvellous not less for its profit
than its mystery .
But how live they ? Gaze upon that picture
and thou knowest ! Youth smiles on age , wealth
stoops to poverty, beauty embraces deformity and
intelligence asks of ignorance ; and why ? Mark
that pale cheek , that flashing eye , that compressed
lip and that slight yet perceptible trembling of the
hands as she runs her finger o'er its lines ! O the
thrill of that magic touch ! ' Tis thought to be the
lifting of the veil !
And she ! think you that 'tis benevolence
brought her to that stately hall ? No. See in
that clasped hand and those attenuated fingers ,
GOLD is clutched ! How eagerly she grasps it ! How
tenacious of its possession ! Scarcely will she
have crossed the threshold of that door, before she
will gaze upon it and hold it with a firmer gripe !
'Tis thus they live-telling fortunes to others
making fortunes for themselves.
 THE BARGAIN.BU YER .
BY T. S. ARTUUR.
MRś. Hardcastle was a very honest, conscien
tious woman-in her own estimation . She would
not wrong another for her right hand - ifshe knew
it. And yet , as she was an inveterate bargain
buyer, scarcely a week passed that she did not do
wrong to some one , as all bargain - buyers invaria
bly do. A moral dissection of one of this class
of persons would present a very interesting case
for examination ; but if we were to make such a
dissection here, we might be thought too hard upon
the unintentional injurers, and thus fail in produ
cing the good effect we desire. We will not lin
ger, therefore, to do a work of questionable utility.
Mrs. Hardcastle, as we have intimated , was a
bargain -buyer. Not, however, of that class who
buy a thing merely because it is cheap, whether it
be needed or not. No ; to get things at a mini
mum price was not so much with her a passion as
a principle. It was not because an article was
cheap that she wanted it, but it was because she
had use for a thing that she wanted it cheap. If
a storekeeper stated very frankly that he only
made half a cent profit on a yard of goods, that
was no inducement for her to buy , even if she con
sidered the article very cheap. “ We put it to you
at cost, madam , ” had little more effect. But , “ It
really cost us more money, madam, than we ask
you for it ,” were strongly influencing words. If,
after that , one or two cents a yard less would be
taken , she was sure to buy.
One pleasant , sunshiny morning, Mrs. Hardcas
tle started out to buy a number of articles for spring
wear . She first entered a store where bonnets
were sold. She wanted one for herself, and one
for her eldest daughter Margaret, a girl of fourteen ,
who accompanied her. A beautiful Florence braid
touched her heart at first sight.
“ What is the price ? ” she asked.
“ Six dollars, ma'am."
“ Six dollars ! " in a tone of surprise , “ Oh , no,
I can't give any such price."
“ We have a very fair article much lower, ma
dam ," returned the smiling shopkeeper, handing
down other bonnets . Mrs. Hardcastle glanced at
these , and then tossed them with a slight air of
contempt aside, half muttering as she did so ,
“ Too common ."
" You will find this a very cheap bonnet,” re
sumed the shopkeeper, taking up the one his cus
tomer had first selected.
“ Six dollars, did you say ? ”
« Yes six is the price."
“Dear enough , in all conscience."
The shopkeeper was anxious to sell.
" Perhaps I can make the price to suit you,"
he said .
“ I don't know , " replied Mrs. Hardcastle, whose
fancy was captivated by the bonnet, and who, in
fact, thought the price quite moderate— “ I wouldn't
give anything like what you ask .”
“ What would you give ? "
“ Not over four dollars."
The bonnet fell from the hands of the shopkeeper
as suddenly as the smile fell from his face.
“ Four dollars ! ” he ejaculated in surprise.
“ Bless me ! I'll buy as many bonnets like that
for five as you can bring me.”
“ Just as you like," said Mrs. Hardcastle, with
dignity, turning away from the counter, and leav
ing the store .
" No doubt that woman thinks herselfvery hon
est, ” muttered the disappointed shopman, as he
restored the bonnets to their places on the shelves.
“ But I don't see much honesty in seeking to rob
a dealer of his profits. Profits ! Precious little
profit would she leave me , or even costs — I re
member her of old. Last year I sold her a bonnet
for four dollars that cost me four and a half, and
was richly worth five dollars of any body's money.
I showed her the invoice by which I had purchased,
to satisfy her that the price I had set upon the
bonnet, four dollars and three quarters, was only
twenty - five cents more than the bonnet actually
cost me . And yet four dollars was all she would
give me. I looked at her on the next Sunday in
church, piously bending over her prayer book, and
wondered if her conscience was not burdened with
the seventy - five cents out of which she had cheated
me . I had heavy payments to make in a few days,
and sacrificed my goods rather than not sell at all."
But we will leave the disappointed shopkeeper
and follow Mrs. Hardcastle . After visiting nearly
all the retail bonnet stores, she was satisfied that ,
even at the price asked for the one that had at first
pleased her, it was the best and cheapest she could
get. She consequently returned to the store where
she had seen it, after having bought various arti
cles that were needed in her family ; but none of
these were taken until it had been declared that
each was parted with at or below cost .
“Let me see that bonnet again," she said , as
she came up to the counter.
267
268 THE COLUMBIAN
“ Yes, ma'am ; ” and the shopkeeper bowed and
smiled with his very best grace. The bonnet was
again laid before the customer.
“ I don't think this is as fine as the one offered
us at Mason's for four and a half,” Mrs. Hardcastle
said to her daughter, in an under tone , yet loud
enough for the quick ear of the shopman , for which
it was really intended.
The more innocent girl made no reply. She
remembered that her mother had said of the bonnet
at Mason's that it did not compare with this.
“ I like this bonnet very well, ” Mrs. Hardcastle
said , now addressing the shopkeeper, “ but the
price you ask for it is out of the question. I have
seen a great many bonnets this morning, and much
cheaper ones than this, but I thought I would just
glance at it again before buying. I can't say that
it looks as fine as I thought it did when I first ex
amined it. Five dollars I believe you asked for it. "
“ No, ma'am , six ."
“ Six ! Oh, dear !” pushing the bonnet away as
she spoke.
“ Yes, ma'am . It cost me five and a half.
And I cannot make up my rent at a less profit than
fifty cents on such an article ."
6
“ Well , I will make my offer for it, and then
you can do as you please .”
“Let me hear your offer."
“ Five is the utmost cent I will give."
“ Five dollars ! But didn't I just say that the
bonnet cost me five and a half ? ”
“ You can do as you like,” coldly returned the
customer. “ I can suit myself very well at that
price. Indeed, there is a bonnet at Mason's for
four and a half that I don't know but I would
choose in preference to this, at the same price.
Come , Margaret," turning to her daughter, “ let
us go round to Mason's—the one there will suit
me very well. "
The mother and daughter made a movement to
go. This was the moment of trial . The store
keeper had stated truly the cost of his article . But
he hated to let a customer with money depart, es
pecially as he was rather hard pushed , a condition
in which he too often found himself placed.
“ If I say five and a half, exactly the price I paid
for the bonnet, you will not of course hesitate.
never like to let a customer go without being ac
commodated, ” he said .
“ No ;” was the firm reply. “ If you choose to
say five, well and good ; if not, I will take the one
at Mason's ; and then I am not sure but that I shall
make the best bargain .”
- You will have to take it , I suppose,” was re
plied to this, in a half reluctant voice.
“ The cheapest bonnet I ever bought," Mrs.
Hardcastle said , gaily, to her daughter as they left
the store. “ I had no idea that he would take five,
for it is worth every cent of six dollars. You see
MAGAZINE .
now how much may be gained by knowing what
you are about. He would have taken six dollars
without a conscientious scruple, if I had been dunce
enough to pay it . But I understand these men
too well. "
“ But the bonnet cost him five dollars and a
half . How could he afford to sell it for five dol.
lars ? ” asked the simple -minded daughter.
- That's clear enough — he is hard pushed for
money ; you can easily see when that's the case
after you have shopped a year or two. Whenever
you hit upon one of these men who happen to have
a heavy payment for the next day , you can get
things at your own prices. They must turn their
goods into money somehow, and therefore make
it a point never to let a customer go."
While Mrs. Hardcastle was running about from
store to store, endeavoring to get necessary arti
cles at prices below their actual cost, a scene was
passing in a humble apartment in a house situated
in a retired part of the city, the introduction of
which will give force to the moral which it is our
aim to inculcate. In this apartment was but a
little furniture — though all was neat and in perfect
order. It contained a bed , upon which a woman
past the prime of life lay, propped up with a pil
low, engaged in knitting. A young girl , not over
fifteen , sat near a window , working a fine cape , in
imitation of French needle work . They were mother
and daughter. Both worked steadily, but in si
lence. While thus occupied , there was a hard ,
quick rap at the door. The inmates started in .
voluntarily at the sound . In answer to a timidly
uttered Come in ,” the door was swung open and
66
a stout lad , with a bold - faced appearance , entered .
* Mr. Green , ” he said , in a quick , somewhat
insolent voice, after stepping into the room a few
paces, “ told me to tell you that you must pay the
last month's rent to-morrow , or else move out. He
doesn't want to give you any trouble, but he can't
afford to let his houses for nothing.”
“ Tell Mr. Green that we will try and pay him
to-morrow , " the mother said, in a feeble, trembling
voice.
The lad hesitated a moment , and then went
out, shutting the door hard as he did so . As soon
I as he had left the room , the daughter laid her work
down , and went and stood by the bed upon which
her invalid mother lay , looking the while anxiously
in her face , that was very pale and much sunken.
“ Mother,” she at length said , “ what can we
do ? Mr. Green is getting more and more urgent
about his month's rent, although it has only been
due for three days. It is five dollars, and we have
only two."
“ I wish , now I come to think of it,that we had
sent him that. But it is too late now. By to.
morrow we must try to have the whole amount,
How soon will you get that cape done ? I have
 THE BARGAIN - BUYER .
only a few stitches to set. A half hour's work
will finish it."
“ That ought to bring five dollars."
“ Yes ; I have seen many , no better, sell for ten
dollars."
“ But that was French work . "
“ I know ; still it was no finer.”
As the daughter said this, she turned away from
the bedside , and resumed her work with renewed
diligence. In about half an hour the cape was
finished.
66
Now, mother, ” she said , “where had I better
go to sell it ? ”
To this question no reply was made for some
moments .
“ Ellen Jones sold the last one for you ,” the
mother at length said, speaking in a thoughtful,
but undecided voice.
“ Yes, and sold it very well. You remember
it brought six dollars in the course of a few hours
after I left it in her neat little store. "
“ Perhaps it would be better for you to put this
one there also . And , likewise , four pairs of child
ren's stockings I have just finished—they may all
sell by to -morrow .”
“ Hadn't I better tell Ellen to let them all go at
any price that is offered for them ? We must have
money to pay Mr. Green to-morrow ; and , besides,
we are out of nearly everything. We have but
two drawings of tea left, and a few spoonfulls of
sugar. The butter is all gone , and the flour too."
· Yes, child, I think it would be as well to tell
Ellen to get anything she can for them . Before
our next month's rent is due, you can easily make
another cape , and I can knit several pairs of stock
ings , enough to buy all the little we eat."
With this understanding, Eunice, that was the
daughter's name , put on her things and went with
the cape and four pairs of stockings to the neat
little trimmings store of Ellen Jones.
“ I have a few things here , Ellen , ” Eunice said ,
laying down the little package she held in her
hand , as she entered the store , " that I want you
to dispose of for me. Our rent is due, and Mr.
Green is troubling us about it , so you must sell to
the first customer, at the best price that can be
obtained . "
As she said this, she unrolled the beautifully
wrought cape , and showed it to Ellen .
“ The handsomest one yet," the latter said, with
a smile of great pleasure. “ You improve very
much , Eunice. This cape is richly worth nine or
ten dollars."
“ But will not bring it, of course.”
“ No, I suppose not-it is not French . But it
will bring five or six dollars easily."
“ You think so ? ”
" O , yes."
“ But not so soon as by to -morrow morning ?"
269
“ I'm afraid not, Eunice. But I will put it into
the window . We must hope for the best."
“ Sell it to the first one who will buy, at any
price. Mother promised to try and let Mr. Green
have his money to -morrow morning. And he will
be sure to send ."
“ Very well , Eunice ; but I shall be sorry to let
it go at anything less than five dollars."
“ It will bring that, at least, I hope."
“ So do I.”
Eunice then left the store. Ellen, as soon as
she had gone out , took a neat box, and after lay
ing a sheet of rose - colored tissue paper upon the
bottom of it, spread out upon this the exquisitely
wrought cape , so as to show the needle work to the
very best advantage. Then she placed it in the
window in the most conspicuous position .
Ten minutes afterward, Mrs. Hardcastle came
along with her daughter, her mind in quite a self
satisfied mood at the result of her shopping expe
dition. The cape in Ellen's window caught Mar
garet's eye.
“ There, mother , ” she said , " is the very thing I
want."
Both mother and daughter stopped to examine
the article to which the latter had alluded .
“ Isn't it a most beautiful pattern ? " Margaret
added , after both had looked at it for some mo
ments .
“ Yes, it is ; and cheap, no doubt. You can
often get great bargains in these little stores.
People who have once been in good circumstances,
and are now compelled to do something, often get
up most perfect specimens of needle work which
are sold at half price , because they are of acknow
ledged domestic production. This is one of them
no doubt. Let us go in and price it . "
“Let me look at that cape in the window , ” Mrs.
Hardcastle said, entering, with her daughter, Ellen
Jones's little store.
The cape was placed before her, and examined
minutely.
“ Tolerably well done, but very inferior to French
lace work ; " she remarked, carelessly, looking up
as if she thought but little of the cape.
“ You certainly cannot have looked at it very
closely ,” Ellen said ; " I think it equal to any
French work I ever saw .”
“ O yes I have. Put a French cape along side
of it and you will soon see the difference.”
Before making this remark Mrs. Hardcastle had
pretty well satisfied herself that no article by which
the comparison could be made was in the shop.
Ellen said no more , for she did not suppose it
would do any good , as it was apparent the lady
had no inclination to buy.
“ What do you ask for it ? ” Mrs. Hardcastle
said , carelessly , returning to the cape after she had
looked at several other articles.
270 THE COLUMBIAN
“ I sold one , not so handsomely done as this, but
by the same hand , for six dollars only a few weeks
ago . This ought to bring more than that ; but as
the person who worked it is in very destitute cir.
cumstances, and wants money by to -morrow morn
ing to pay a bill that she is troubled for, I will let
it go for five dollars."
“ Five dollars ! You certainly don't expect to
get five dollars for this ? ”
“ I certainly do, ma'am . And whoever buys it
at that price will obtain one of the best bargains
she ever had .”
“Nonsense ! It isn't worth over half that mo
ney ; ” and Mrs. Hardcastle made a movement
toward the door.
Ellen began to feel anxious. " What will you
give for it ? ” she asked, displaying too much
eagerness.
“ Well, I don't know that I care much about
buying it. I merely asked the price ; but if you
choose to sell it for three dollars, I might be in
duced to take it.”
“ Three dollars ! ” ejaculated Ellen , shrinking
back from the counter. “ Certainly you wouldn't
offer three dollars for a cape so richly worked as
" 66
that !”
“ I don't care , Miss, particularly about it," was
the reply, made in a slightly offended tone. This,
however, was assumed .
“ Three dollars ! ” mused Ellen, half inclined to
take even that poor offer, lest there should not
occur another chance to sell the cape. “ For fear
another opportunity to dispose of it before to-mor
row morning may not occur, ” she at length said ,
reluctantly, “ when the poor girlmusthave money ,
I will let this one go for three dollars. But indeed ,
madam, it is not half its real value. ”
“ I don't care if I take it for that price ; but I
wouldn't pay a cent more for it."
The cape was carefully wrapped up for Mrs.
Hardcastle, who paid the price agreed upon.
" What do you ask for these ?” she inquired,
lifting, as she spoke, the children's stockings which
Eunice had left upon the counter.
“ They are worth a quarter of a dollar a pair,
at the lowest. They are hand-knit, and you can
see very finely done-worth as much again as
stockings that are woven .”
“ Too much," replied the lady, indifferently
tossing them aside.
“ They belong to the same individual who
worked the cape. As she is in great want of
money, and anxious to have these articles sold , I
will let them go at twenty cents a pair iſ that will
be any inducement."
Mrs. Hardcastle shook her head. “ I wouldn't
mind giving you fifteen cents a pair — though I
don't care a great deal about them.”
This offer made the heart of Ellen Jones beat
MAGAZINE .
with a quick, indignant pulsation. But she kept
down her feelings as she quietly wrapped up the
stockings and handed them over to the customer.
“ There, Margaret, that was a bargain worth
making ,” the latter said , as she regained the street
with her daughter. “ That cape is richly worth
all that was asked for it. But, you see, by perse
verance and tact, I got it for only three dollars."
Margaret, to her credit, be it said, felt badly.
While her mother had been selfishly intent upon
getting the cape for half its real worth, she had
been thinking of the one who had wrought it, and
whose extreme want had made it necessary that
the beautiful piece of work should be sacrificed.
She did not reply to what her mother said , but
walked homeward by her side in silence .
As they passed aa China store , a richly cut glass 1
dish in the window attracted the eye of Mrs. Hard
castle. She went in and asked the price-it was
seven dollars.
“ Wouldn't six dollars do for it ?”
60
· No, madam, nor six dollars and ninety -nine
cents.” The man was in eamest, and Mrs. Hard
castle felt it ; still the ruling passion was strong
and she said
• I'll give you six and a half.”
“ Not a cent less than seven , ma'am .”
“ Seven dollars --let me see ! There is three
dollars and sixty cents, and forty - that makes four
dollars ; a dollar and a half and seventy cents ,
with thirty and forty — in all just seven dollars that
I have made this morning by close bargaining ; I
can afford to get this dish .” This was not spoken
aloud but only thought.
“ I'll take it, then , at seven,” Mrs. Hardcastle
said ; and paid over the money. Rarely before
had she returned home from a shopping excursion
so well satisfied with herself.
On the next morning Eunice went early to the
little store of Ellen Jones and received the amount
for which the articles had sold . Ellen would take
no commission on the sales. Eunice was disap
pointed - sadly disappointed, but made no remark
on the smallness of the sum.
“ This is all , dear mother ! ” she said, with a
trembling voice, and dim eyes, as she laid the
small sum she had received in her hand. “ Only
three dollars and sixty cents for all ! But right
thankful was I for even this. We can now pay
Mr. Green and have sixty cents left. On that we
can get along for several days, and something will
come in then as it always does. Our Father in
heaven - our only friend - He will not forsake us."
66
No, my dear child — He that tempers the wind
to the shorn lamb will see that the blast is not too
strong for us,” the mother replied in a quivering
voice , as Eunice leaned her head upon her bosom
and wept.
Just then there came a rap at the door. It was
 A FRAGMENT .
the boy from Mr. Green . The money was ready
for him . He took it and went away. And here
we must leave them. The reader needs no com
ments in order to make him conscious of the evils
resulting from bargain -making, at least in this
particular instance. He that tempers the wind to
the shorn lamb will, as the mother touchingly said ,
see that the blast is not too strong for them.
But we will return for a moment or two to Mrs.
Hardcastle. There were discrepancies in her cha
racter that it may be well to present. She was,
with all this selfishness flowing out in bargain
making, exceedingly pious ; that is, pious as such
persons always are — irrationally so . While eare
less about the principles from which she acted , she
was rigid in her obedience to external things ; that
is, while she indulged selfishness to the extent of
deliberately wronging others , as has been seen ,
thus neglecting the weightier matters of the law,
she gave tithes ofmint and cummin — was punc
tilious in regard to certain externals of piety, such
as a solemn , staid demeanor in public worship, with
many other things of which no reader need be re
minded . But one of her extremes we cannot
omit to mention — a little dialogue will present it
most forcibly . A friend called to invite her to a
party , at which there was to be dancing
she had considered it a sin to be seen present
where there was dancing , but her minister having
expressed it as his opinion that the children of pro
fessors might dance , but not professors themselves,
she could venture to go to a party where the young
folks danced . But even in this there was one re
striction , as will be seen .
“ There is to be dancing ? ” she said to the lady
who invited her.
“ Yes-- we shall have a few cotillions. "
“ And music ? ”
“ Of course . "
A FRAGMENT .
BY MRS . H. LIGHTHIPE .
There is a loneliness the sad heart loves,
Where discord's breath may never dare intrude,
Unbroken by the echo of their strife,
Who hush their voice and call it solitude.
Oh ! did they know the peace that round it clings
The music of the earth that lulls to rest
The balm that cometh with the quiet thought
Would they not deem the stricken heart was blest ?
Oh ! there are dreams that glad the poet's soul,
More wild and wayward than the eagle's flying;
Like sweets that float upon the air at eve,
We know not whence, or where the breath is sighing ;
They keep his spirit 'mid the cark ofearth,
All fresh and green as when his childhood faded .
Still doth he love the beautiful and true,
When most we deem his stricken heart is shaded.
271
“ Violin music ? ”
“ Yes we have engaged that kind of music .”
" I am sorry for it, for I cannot come.
Why ? ”
“ I never go where there is violin music.”
“ Mrs. Hardcastle ! "
“ It is true, " was the sole reply ; " I think it
wicked . ”
“ Wicked to listen to the violin ? "
“ Certainly. It is profane — the devil's music .”
The lady looked at Mrs. Hardcastle for a mo
ment in profound astonishment. Then she weakly
consented to have the violin music suspended out
of respect to her feelings, and the cotillions played
on the piano !
“ Did you ever hear of such an absurdity ? " this
lady afterward remarked to a friend.
Yes ," was the reply— “ a still greater one
and in the person of this very Mrs. Hardcastle.”
“ Name it.”
“ She has two pianos for her daughter - one in
each parlor."
“ Yes I have noticed that. "
“ Do you know why she has two ? "
« No."
&
“ I can tell you — one is for sacred music and
Once the other for profane ! ”
“ Impossible ! ”
“ It is true ; I had it from her own lips. If any
one were to play a song tune upon the instrument
consecrated to sacred music , it would give her
pious feelings a terrible shock - she would almost
be tempted to send the instrument back to the
maker !”
Alas ! there are too many in the world like Mrs.
Hardcastle. Too many, who, like the Pharisees
of eighteen hundred years ago , strain at a gnat
and swallow a camel.
And thus the poet learns to dwell alone,
Not far from haunts of men forest glade
Not where the echoes of the mountain cliff,
To human voice have never answer made ;
But in a world he maketh all his own,
Peopled with beings such as fancy telleth,
And brightened with a blush of rosy light,
E'en thus, within the stricken heart it dwelleth .
And there, the breathing tone of song he hears
A music to his spirit ear doth come,
Like voices that are born in other spheres,
Calling the lost ones to their happy home.
And this, the note that still his lute prolongs,
Waking the chord within his bosom dwelling,
And pouring all too sadly on the air
The grief that in his stricken heart is swelling.
Orange, N. J.
 IDLE
BY MRS. JAMES G. BROOKS .
-" The bounteous providence of Heaven
In every breast implanted this desire
of objects new and strange."
There is a book not often found now-a-days in
the boudoir of beauty--the Pleasures of Imagina
tion ; and there is a class of enjoyments lightly
dwelt on by the casuist, even those pleasures
whose source is the imagination ; things to exist
ence like sunlight to a landscape , making even
the harrowed field and the rugged rock beautiful,
and giving to stream and flower more peerless
loveliness.
A good conscience, correct judgment, cool rea.
soning powers, all these are the substantials of in
tellect , the roast beef and plum pudding of the
mental banquet ; but cast over it that fairy tissue
of fancy, imagination, call it what name you will
that quick perception of the great and beautiful,
that web woven by the Creator himself, which
makes up all the poetry of existence , if you would
have the feast complete .
What, prithee , is a child to thee, reader ? Is it
a little troublesome appendage, to be kept out of
sight - hurried to the nursery - consigned most
speedily to the maid ; its petty tales of its little
grievances and pleasures, aye to be met with a
“ hash !” and “ begone ? " fitting comrade art
thou then for him
" That hath not music in his soul."
But if with the eye of philosophy as well as poetry
thou lovest to mark the unfoldings of that human
bud , destined to bloom in worlds we only dream
of, that bud in which lie powers whose maturity
may rival or outshine all that have preceded it
and if thou hast bestowed on such study even
small attention , one thing must have been obvious,
namely, the exceeding predominance of imagina
tion over every other faculty. And though in after
years there come to some day dreams, and
thoughts in the night watches, very like the rain
bow hues which first tinged existence, childhood
is more especially the poetical period of life . Then
imagination is brightest, and very bright it is ;
and if it be true that the age of poetry has passed,
it is not because human beings are sent into the
world with endowments different from those of
former ages, or because external knowledge has
paralyzed the powers on which it depends or
because fact has robbed fancy of one field of delight
272
&
HOURS .
ARENSIDE's Pleas. OF IMAGINATION.
without offering a hundred equivalents ; far from
it. Such a creed confounds the wild phantasma of
ignorance , whose vagaries filled the Valhalla of
Odin and the Pantheon of Rome with the lofty
creations and aspirations of that glorious faculty ,
which , bestowed by the Deity, finds in truth its
most congenial atmosphere.
If some sources of enthusiasm have, as the world
has grown wiser, passed away, a thousand others
have opened. If we no longer look on the rain
bow as the bridge of the gods, or believe the stars
stepping stones by which men will mount to
heaven , * science has shown us, among
“Planets, suns and adamantine spheres
Wheeling unshaken through the void immense , "
fields of wonder and delight, where thought pauses
astounded and overwhelmed ; and where imagina
tion , in her boldest flight , droops her wing and
tires, long ere she reaches a limit.
Man then is born imaginative, enthusiastic as
ever, and objects lie around all beautiful and sub
lime , and vast and surprising in a degree never so
great as now , and if this is not the age of poetry
it must be that ultra pains have been taken to
crush it in its bud ; and this doth childhood confess
—and the little lisping tongue that asks for aa fairy
tale , or the little bright eye that brightens more
at the wild bewitching story, which half terrifies
while it charms, is but wooing aliment for one of
its most noble mental possessions ; it is the first
futter of that, which , strengthened and regulated ,
will one day cull treasures from the farthermnost
ends of creation.
Canst thou not recall, reader, stories of the won
derful and impossible , which fell on thy heart so
delightfully from some grey haired narrator — some
one in corpus et anima like the tomb of the prophet,
worn and dark without but warm and glowing
* “ The gods made a bridge between heaven and earth,
this was the rainbow . Heimdal was their porter, who
watched at one end to prevent the giants climbing up . He
had an ear so fine thnt he could hear the grass grow in the
meadow and the wool on sheep ," &c.- Mallet's Northern
Antiq . vol . i .
“ Men who should be enabled by the wings of the spirit,
received in baptism , to mount to heaven by the northern
signs of the galaxy, which the pbilosopbers of those times
made the ria regia of souls for mounting to their celestial
habitations. " - Walter Moyle.
 IDLE
within ? Those fields of the marvellous and mys
terious-how charming each wild path ! how dear
to listen again and again to the same old story ,
and laugh and look sad and wonder for the fortieth
time at precisely the same point ; joined to the
endeavor to picture in thought forms and habita
tions more perfect and more gorgeous than ever
could exist, and to comprehend impossibilities
which never could have happened. Perhaps it
was the tale of the little white maiden , who was
so pure that no companion on earth was found fit
ting for her ; where she trod sprang sweet flowers,
and when she sang the birds paused to listen ; but
withal the little maiden was lonely, till one day a
white cloud closed round her and bore her to
fairy land ! There was a story also of two Norse
princes, Aro and Asmund, who fought many bat
tles, side by side , and in pure love made a compact
that when either died the other should be buried
with him . Aro was slain and Asmund was en
tombed with him alive. Full one century after, a
reckless Swedish rover, in defiance of gods and
men , opened the sepulchre, when , with cries and
clashing of swords and clanging of steel , Asmund,
full armed, rushed on him . His tale was short
he had been one hundred years combatting the
goale in the body of his brother ; and the finale
was perfectly satisfactory -- they were both honor
ably and peacefully buried . Then Katy Ross and
her nameless vase and its nameless contents -- what
a mysterious and unfortunate beverage ! most cer
tainly the experiments of Winkler and Muscen
broeck with the Leyden jar will never furnish any
thing half so satisfactory !
But where are those aged chroniclers ? All passed
or passing away. Dear old ladies, willing to tell
long pretty stories to little children, are a race
nearly extinct. The present generation will make
wiser old women , doubtless — more philosophical ,
more scientific — but that delightful experience in
supernatural affairs, the boast of their progenitors,
will be a sealed book to them . They will edify
the little ones that (some time hence) may gather
around at twilight to listen to grandmamma, with
the variations of electric currents, instead of the
gambols of Robin Goodfellow — with voyages to
the north pole, instead of memoirs of fairy land
and with the discoveries of Hansteen and Halley
in place of the less erudite investigations of Moll
o the marsh , who traveled nine miles to a witeh
cave , with a plaster on each eye, and a plug in each
ear, to guard against the fascinations of the unearth
lies who strove to intercept her. A rare spirit was
that Moll o the marsh, and her zeal for knowledge
rivaled Otto Guericke's !
But little children must be wise now, and learn
all about oxygen and hydrogen, and leave alone
such nonsense - nonsense so congenial to the first
bright gush of fancy and feeling. In the mania for
VOL . 1. - 23
HOURS . 273
storing the memory, and prematurely ripening the
judgment, it seems forgotten that there are any other
faculties. They have enough matter of fact books,
of people just like themselves, only worse sometimes
than they can well conceive - there are contrivances
for teaching them mathematics and philosophy,
and all the technicalities of all the ologies -- in short,
for manufacturing them into little men and women ;
but the poetry of that poetical period fares like
flowers trampled down by the foot of the husband
man who goes forth to plant something more pro
fitable, it is true, yet after all , these flowers make a
garden of life. Feelings and affections, not judg
ment and reasoning, are the peculiarly beautiful
traits of childhood ; and one burst of enthusiasm
at the unwavering justice meted out in a fairy tale
is worth , even in a moral point of view, a chrono.
logical recital of all the crimes of all the Roman
emperors.
The pleasures of imagination ! a gifted poet has
made them the theme of his strain , and shall the less
gifted count them as nothing ? and to provide for
their abundance, shall not materials be early gath
ered from that inexhaustible source , the great
store -house of nature ? The great attention which
has been awakened within a few years past to the
natural sciences, if its influence can be made to
extend to the tyro in learning, will operate on these
pleasures . There is that in nature to which a
responsive string in the heart of man echoes back
its sweetest music, but for this it is necessary that
they be early tuned in unison ; that the ear be
tutored to catch the glad strains of the singing
bird , the murmur of the waterfall or the deepened
roar of old ocean ; that the eye be guided to the
golden glories of day and the shining host of mid
night ; to the quiet landscape, the rude rock and
the lofty] mountain — and that thought learn to
“ live and move and have its being ” in the deep
stillness of the leafy forest, in the holy hush of the
dim twilight time, and not less in the ice - gemmed
trees and snowy robes of winter.
It is sad to think that there are thousands, whose
feet have yet scarcely pressed the threshold of ex
istence, to whom all this is forever nothing, or worse
than nothing. To whom , from youth to age , the
glance of the first day -beam is but the unwelcomed
harbinger of renewed toil and wretchedness, and
whose weary bosoms ask of the most glorious sun
set only repose and forgetfulness — who find no
perfume in the flower, and no blithe note in the
sky-lark , simply because they lack the capabilities
of such impressions ; and it is difficult to conceive
them beings of the same race with, and surrounded
by the same world , which has aroused in the poet
the most sublime conceptions and the most thrilling
images, and imprinted on his heart, to be trans
ferred to his pages, pictures of glory andbeauty and
grandeur almost superhuman.
274
THE COLUMBIAN
In the early pursuits of those whose brilliant
creative powers in their maturity towered pre
eminent over their fellow men, we find them not
conning book lore of antecedent and consequent,
beyond their comprehension , nor (according to
late book -making) accumulating isolated facts, till
the mind more resembles some rubbish -crammed
garret than a store -house judiciously filled for
future use ; but they knelt to nature, in the breeze
of morning by the rippling of a stream , or the
budding of a plant ; or roved with elf and fairy
through those regions of the wild and wonderful,
whence thought drew strength for her after -flights.
Is there not pleasure, reader, from first to last, in
imagination ? Who prates of its pains, and the
sufferings of genius, and sensibility, and nerves ?
It hath an antidote for suffering, and it can be
taught the art of distilling honey, not poison , from
the smallest object.
Imagination too hath a fearful power - unlike
memory and judgment, it asks no long, patient
process to give it strength for an emergency ; but
oft -times, even as torrents of water have gushed
from the bosom the earth , so hath it burst forth ,
when least expected, spreading desolation and dis
may. For in what have those fearful revolutions
of kingdoms and states, which history recounts ,
most frequently had their origin , but in the excited
imaginations of the multitude ? Some few daring
leaders, in order to compass a purpose , address
themselves not to the sense , or conscience, or judg
ment, or even love of the populace ; but by a few
bold strokes they rouse their imaginations to
exaggerate endured evils or anticipated benefits,
until reason is cast from her throne, and they who
raised the storm tremble and are aghast at its
violence. And it is confirmation of this, that the
nation of Europe to which universal suffrage has
assigned the most ideal temperament, has had its
annals most often stained by these misguided out
bursts.
As with nations, so with individuals. There
are dark regions in which imagination, escaping
from the guidance of will, may rove, and gather
to the soul blighted flowers and discordant sounds,
and bitterness for all the pleasant ways of life.
FRATELLO
BY MISS COLMAN .
When the stars are shining brightly,
Like the angels' eyes from heaven,
And the trees are waving lightly
In the gentle breeze of even,
Fratello del mio cor
When the wavy stream is flashing
In the silver moonlight's beaming,
An thy pulse art hushing
In a tender memory's dreaming,
Fratello del mio cor
MAGAZINE .
And there are times in the lives of all when, com
passed by real evils, we would fain for a brief
space at least fly from their saddening influence,
and when , unless this faculty has been long trained ,
we call on it in vain to aid the attempt ; while on
the other hand, though seldom moving before, it is
oft times ready on such occasions to rise like a
demon in the darkness and steal away the last ray
of light.
Imagination ! it is a gift of the Creator, like
other five talents, to be rendered ten ; and its plea
sures, reader, are neither few nor small, much less
to be counted lightly in the estimate of human
happiness. In childhood , in manhood , in old age
in solitude and in society , it casts over all a halo
or a gloom , more or less intense as it has been
cherished and guided , or left to inaction and decay.
The eloquence of the orator and the charm of the
poet are but the perfectedness of that faculty whose
first stirrings are that love of the marvellous and
delight in the invisible world which, in youth,
“ Come o'er us like a summer dream , "
and which may be nearly eradicated or more deeply
rooted by education and circumstances. It is an
impulse of one and the same spirit which chains
us in infancy to the wonders of Aladdin's lamp,
and influenced by which Goethe gravely relates to
us a vision which disclosed to him , in a remote
glen near Drusenheim , events that were eight
years afterward realized. If all these yearnings
after the strange and unknown are to be accounted
only as mementos of human folly, how much do
they subtract from the sum ofhuman wisdom ! But
they have another view — their source is that thirst
for something beyond mere corporeal existence,
which ever points the little turbid stream of life
toward that vast ocean into which it must one
day fall. In vain does the gloomy ascetic paint
imagination only as a demon to be crushed , and
the pleasures of imagination but as will -o '-wisp
lights which lure on to betray ; and vainly does
the utilitarian join , and call on reason to drive these
phantom loves from the brain — they have a well
spring deep beyond the reach of reason — a strong
attraction toward that unseen sphere whence the
spirit came and to which it will return .
DEL MIO COR .
Then know thy soul, that near it
My own is softly stealing,
To mingle with thy spirit
Its own enkindled feeling,
Fratello del mio cor,
And when the breeze, at vesper,
Upon thy cheek is playing,
" Tis my breath , that comes to whisper
Kind thoughts I would be saying,
Fratello del mio cor .
1
 THE JEWISH
BY MISS C. LOUISE M. BRAWNER.
There was a man o the Pharisees, named Nicodemus, a ruler of the Jews--the same came to Jesus by night. - St. John, c. iii.
DARKNESS encircled the land called Holy -- night,
with her train of shadows, mantled mountain and
hill and valley, and deep sea and placid lake and
gurgling rivulet. There were no stars visible ;
the sweet sparkling things were hidden behind
dense clouds that had been clustering in the heav-
ens since the decline of day , and the fair, pale
moon ventured not to glance from beneath her
vapory mantle, lest she should behold some devas.
tation on earth , for a rude and terrible storm was
portending. All nature appeared conscious of the
approaching battle of the elements and hushed their
murmurings. Men, women and children , birds,
beasts and insects remained quiet and expectant.
Soon the artillery of heaven disturbed the calm ,
and flash after flash of Jurid flame illumined the
vast concave and revealed the sea beneath the
cities, towns and villages, the hill sides and plea-
sant vales of blessed Palestine. Proudest among
its proud places stood Jerusalem ;7 her costly palaces,
her stately towers, her splendid domes and spires
and temples brightening under each successive
gleam shot from the electric heavens. The rever-
berating thunder and the long streams of brilliant
lightning were accompanied by thick and fast fall-
ing rain -drops, as though an ocean above gave
vent to its superfluous waves.
In an apartment of a rich and sumptuous dwell-
ing of that eastern clime sat one of its loveliest
daughters, now ministering tenderly to a tall and
stately man who tossed on a couch in all the rest-
lessness of a troubled spirit , and anon gazing upon
the conflict without. The chamber was supplied
with every luxury, and lighted by lamps emitting
a sweet and pleasant odor, while upon the forms
of its occupants shone jewels of rare beauty and
value , and robings from the most famed looms of
the age.
The storm continued an hour, and then the dark
drapery fell from the blue vault and the beautiful
stars were disclosed to view one by one, like glit-
tering gems, and the moon , gentle and smiling,
scattered her rays until the expansive sky was
flooded with mellow light, softening and beautify-
ing every object. The breath of countless flowers
-euch flowers as bloom but in eastern lands-
floated up and filled the atmosphere with delicious
fragrance, while everything seemed to whisper-
RULER .
There's light to follow darkness e'er
There's joy for those who doubt and fear
There's calm when threat'ning storms are done
There's peace for all beneath the sun,
" Look up, my lord, the elements have stayed
their contention-look up , I pray, and gladden the
heart of thy handmaiden , ” murmured the lute - like
tones of Serah the wife of Nicodemus. “ The
gloomy clouds obscure the celestial orbs no longer
-all is brightness.”
The ruler pressed his hand upon the heart that
throbbed wildly beneath his costly robe of purple
and fine linen, and, sighing, replied , “ There is no
brightness in my soul, Serah ; there is naught but
darkness and gloom alway. In halls of state, in
synagogue or temple, at home by thy side, my
adored , or abroad , tranquility eludes me, and doubts
of a future kingdom , thoughts of another life dis
turb my bosom ."
“ Hast thou heard the Nazarene ? " questioned his
beautiful listener, while to her fair face there sprang
an expression of awe and reverence . “ Hast thou
hearkened to the great teacher whose fame has
extended all over our lovely land , the ambassador
of God whose voice has been heard on Olivet's
mount , in the garden, by the stream so dear to my
heart , and elsewhere ? ” And there was that in the
light of the speaker's beaming countenance that
told a Christian woman's undying faith in Him
who had gathered around him so many of her fair
sisters.
“ He is an imposter, Serah ; he has deceived
thee and others - our Messiah is yet to come,”
spoke the ruler.
“ Dost forget the miracles he has performed ?
There was no deception in the awakening of the
noble brother of the fair sisters of Bethany from
the slumbers of the grave - in the resuscitation of
the only son of the widow of Nain , and the sweet,
childish daughter of Jairus, nor in the healing of
poor, wasted frames."
“ Ah ! Serah , can he heal the mind ? Can this
boasted one dispel the doubts and fears that have
gathered in sad confusion about my aching bosom ?"
and the ruler hid his noble countenance amid the
rich cushions of the sumptuous couch on which he
had been seeking repose in vain .
His companion placed her soft hand on his head
275
276 THE COLUMBIAN MAGAZINE .
and bending down whispered in his ear. He rose
from his pillow and flung his arm round her fair
person , drew her to his side and said , “ Weary of
thy presence , my loved one ? Weary of aughtso
good and true ? Sooner the golden sun forget his
risings and declinings, the moon to gladden the
earth with her smile, the stars to sparkle on heav
en's robe, the blossoms we love to fling their
fragrance on the breeze ; sooner all things forget
their appointed destinies, than I remember not thy
affection, thy truth , thy gentle devotion."
The Jewish wife bent modesily beneath the
glance of her lord, cherished next to her God, and
murmured, " Thanks, thanks — and now, hearken
to thy servant. Whose power bade the clouds dis
perse and unmantled the glory of the night- gems,
stayed the rain and the swift -footed lightning, kept
us here unscathed by the fiercely contending ele
ments , reaches my heart and thine. Go to the Beth
lemite and learn what thou wouldst ofa future state .”
There had long been a shadow on the brow of
Nicodemus, a grief in his bosom unrevealed, and
this shadow had deepened , this grief grown heavier
and darker until his noble form bent under its in
fluence. Amid the halls of state he remained
gloomy and abstracted ; and when he sought his
rich and gorgeous dwelling and encountered the
soft caresses of his dark -eyed Serah , his troublous
dreams increased, his mental inquietude became
insupportable , and he longed in the bitterness of
his spirit to die. Now he trembled beneath the
music -words that greeted his ear, but he replied
“ Men will scoff at me, Serah -- my people will
denounce the traitor to the religion of his fathers,”
and he rose to his feet and paced the apartment
impatiently , while his companion poured forth the
language of condolence, though her full heart was
overflowing with sadness for his anguish . Oh !
woman - woman ! what is notthine to do and suffer ?
TO CHARLOTTE AND GRACE ,
BY ELIZABETH OAKES SMITII, AUTHOR OF “ SINLESS CHILD,” ETC.
( See the engraving .)
Ye come across our path, bright ones,
So shadowless and gay ,
Like sweet surprise of April suns,
Or music gone astray.
Arrested , half in doubt we turn ,
And then our hearts grow light,
And we once more the lesson learn
That earth is wondrous bright.
There are, who from their cradle bear
The impress of a grief --
Deep mystic eyes, and forehead fair,
And looks that ask relief ;
“ Seek the one I have named , my lord ; seek
him to night,” she pleaded. "6 His voice steals on
the heart like the melodies of our minstrels, and
.each tone will bring thee peace. ”
“ Not to -night - oh ! not to-night can I seek
peace," exclaimed the ruler. “ The season of
darkness is not a time to unveil the soul.”
“ There is a flower, my master," meekly an
swered the Jewess, “ that unfolds its petals when
all eyes are shrouded save His to whom its fra
grance floats up. It pours its incense out in dark
ness and secrecy. Be like that plant, and bare thy
breast to the gaze of heaven .”
What cannot the persuasions of the gentle and
pure effect ?
Nicodemus sought the abode of the Nazarene ,
66
and uttering his simple Rabbi, Rabbi,” was
admitted to his presence . Fair as a woman's were
the broad brow, the delicate cheek and full orbs
of that lowly one, while the long floating curls of
radiant hair lent a wondrous beauty to the meek
countenance . He spoke and the ruler hearkened
as to a strain of celestial minstrelsy - fear fled
awuy, doubts vanished , and to his heart there stole
a thrilling sensation of perfect happiness. He knelt
and worshiped in sincerity, and when the first
faint streak of the early dawn became visible he
left the side of his angelic instructor and sought
his proud home, thenceforth to live for that eternal
and fadeless clime allotted to those who are “ born
again . "
Jerusalem's pride has been humbled in the dust
-centuries have sunk to their graves - nations have
risen and fallen , but the power of the teacher still
remains; it is glorious, illimitable .
He beholds us, he loves us, he hears us alway ;
In the darkness of midnight, the brightness of day ;
Though his reign on the rude earth forever is past
From yon hea ven arched o'er us his blessings are cast .
Baltimore, Md . Marck, 1844 .
The shadows of a coming doom
Of sorrow and of strife ,
When Fates, conflicting round the loor,
Wove the sad web of life ;
But ye, like babes of " olden time, ”
When fairy gifts were riſe,
May challenge good from every clime,
To fill your sum of life.
Ye have the seal ofevery fay
Upon your cup of bliss ;
For e'en Titania's self might stay
On dawning like to this.
.

RECOLLECTIONS OF CHINA . - NO .
BY MRS , CAROLINE H. BUTLER.
The Chinese pay great deference to a particular
god , whom they denominate You - leau , the “ Old
Man of the Moon.” He is supposed to have under
his peculiar supervision the marriageable destiny
of all young persons, and those therefore whom he
predestinates he unites by a silken cord ; no event
can then by any possibility prevent their ultimate
earthly union . It would seem therefore that in
China matches are made not in heaven, but in the
moon ! Although not so fortunate as to see one
of their marriage ceremonies, from Mr. W
an American missionary , I obtained a few inter
esting particulars. The month of February is con
sidered the most fortunate for entering into the
marriage state . It is then the beautiful double
flowering peach is in full perfection . This lovely
blossom is considered the appropriate bridal flower,
as we esteem the orange flower. Many presents
are previously interchanged between the parties and
their relatives, among which live geese, as emblems
of connubial concord and harmony, are deemed the
most felicitous offerings. At early evening, or at
the first appearance of the stars, the bridegroom, in
a gaily ornamented palankeen, with brilliant lan
terns of various hues and form , and music,
which of course the gong is sonorous above all
other instruments, is borne to the dwelling of his
intended father- in -law , to escort home the bride
elect. Upon reaching the house of the bridegroom ,
she is lifted over a pan of charcoal at the door, in
tending to signify the commencement of her do.
mestic duties -- perhaps of domestic broils. After
entering the cup of alliance is drunk . Upon the
third day the bride is permitted to visit her parents,
by whom a ſeast is provided , the richest their
means will allow, and this concludes the ceremony.
The silken cord of the “ Old Man of the Moon ”
is now fast, who probably looks down with much
complacency upon the results of his predestination .
Marriage with persons of the same surname, or
of any affinity, is prohibited ; and with an actress
not only considered void , but is punishable with
stripes !
Although the Chinese have the character of be
ing very fond of their children , this fondness is very
unequally distributed , their love for the sons being
immeasurably greater than for the daughters. The
latter are not only most generally held in great
contempt, but are often deserted by their most un
natural parents - exposed in the street, or with
35
V.
gourds fastened around their little necks, left float.
ing in the stream ; where if some kind hand res
cues them it is well , if not , it is probably consider
ed a matter of no importance ; while in contrast,
the sons are cherished , and every indulgence lav
ished upon them. The birth of a son is therefore
a matter of great rejoicing. Of the large popula .
tion living in boats, it is surprising that so many
little beings are preserved through the perils of
childhood. In those small san -pans at Macao fre
quently these little half -naked creatures could be
seen springing fearlessly from one boat to another,
through perhaps a hundred ; while the mistresses
of this floating village appear as much disposed to
gad as if on shore. After the heat of the day had
subsided, they might be seen skipping lightly over
the intervening boats to visit a neighbor in
some twentieth san -pan ; the handkerchief usually
worn tied under the chin is now thrown aside, and
the hair adorned with sprigs of the jasmine, or some
gilt ornament, and with their fan or small bamboo
umbrella in their hands, away they trip until they
reach their destined visiting place, where doubtless
a fragrant cup of tea awaits them.
Beauty with the Chinese may indeed be termed
a fading flower. Although their features are des
titute of much expression or animation , they can
not be considered ill looking until the age of twen
ty years. They then grow extremely ugly, and
those old men who go around the streets at Macao,
selling oranges and ground -nuts, bear a very near re
semblance to the venerable monkeys of a menagerie.
Their hands and feet are remarkably small, and
that they deem it essential to beauty to compress
a foot whose lightness and delicacy many of our
belles would envy , is indeed an absurdity. The
Tartars have never adopted this barbarous prac
tice. The Tartar women wear thick white soled
shoes, of the same description as the men's. The
latter are a fine race . Strolling one afternoon in
the direction of Casilha Bay, we found ourselves in
a most romantic little glen, with the music of the
ocean charming our ears as its waves beat high
against the rocks on our left : on our right was a
little grove of palms and firs, while in front arose
a steep acclivity, dotted occasionally with the In
dia fig tree , standing out in full relief against the
clear blue sky , its bright green foliage contrasted
finely with the dull gray rocks in which it seemed
apparently embedded. The sound of “ human
277

ya
278 THE COLUMBIAN MAGAZINE .
voice divine " appeared strange in that little soli
tude ; nevertheless we were soon made aware that
we were in the proximity of some party. Although
we were accompanied by our compradore we with
drew a little timidly upon one side ; at length a party
offine, handsome men ( Tartars) appeared , descend
ing the rocky path . They were evidently of the
higher class. Their dress, although resembling the
Chinese , was handsomer and much more pictur
esque. They passed near us, scarcely glancing at
us , and without any of the coarse ribaldry with
which the Chinese are in the habit of greeting
" barbarians.”
The metallic mirrors of the Chinese are very
beautiful. The surface is as highly polished and
as clear as that of our most finished mirrors ; the
backs are commonly ornamented with a variety of
curious devices etched thereon, and what is very
singular, by holding the polished surface so that
the rays of the sun may be reflected , all those fig.
ures designed upon the back are plainly delineated
upon the wall, or a sheet of white paper. These
mirrors are now not much in use -- but those they
substitute of glass are far inferior to ours . Every
one is familiar with their exquisite skill in the
carving of ivory , pearl and shell, in which they are
certainly not excelled if equalled by any other na
tion . Their large ivory balls, so delicately and
tastefully wrought , composed of six or seven , one
within another, all carved from one solid piece of
ivory, are really ingenious specimens of their art.
They have been accused of deception in this arti
cle, but no doubt unjustly. Their little smelling
bottles of agate and rock -crystal, with the most
minute figures drawn on the inside, are also very
beautiful.
With the fruits and flowers of the Celestial Em
pire all foreigners will probably confess themselves
disappointed ; that is, if they have formed their ex
pectations from the glowing descriptions usually
given of this Eastern world . Their apples and
pears, although of the most tempting and delicious
appearance, are void of all flavor. The lichie and
loquat plums are fairly tempting to the palate , and
the latter is a beautiful fruit-pear-shaped , but
small, ofbright yellow with a delicate tinge ofred on
one side . The fruit they denominate gooseberries
grows on large trees ; it is of singular form--with
a greenish yellow skin , and of very acid , pungent
taste. Many of these were growing in the Caza
garden at Macao. They also have a peculiar cit.
ron or lemon , which by some artificial process is
ON AN INFANT .
SLEEP - where the breezes sigh
Above thy faded bloom
Too soon thy laughing eye
Was shrouded in the tomb ;
Oh loved and cherished here,
X
made to resemble the fingers of a hand, and is
therefore termed the “ Hand of Fo, " or the “ Bud.
ha's Fingers ; " it is highly aromatic. Many for
eigners have been induced to purchase the plant
for this singularity, but find themselves hoaxed ;
for the fruit, without the secret means used by the
Chinese, never appears a second time.
Their magnolias, japonicas and roses are superb,
and many of their smaller shrubs exhale the most
delicious odor. Often at night- fall , while wander
ing beneath the walls which enclose the garden of
the convent Santa Clara , have my senses been
charmed with the delightful perfume of the Olea
fragrans. This shrub is sometimes used for scent .
ing tea ; and its fragrance is not unlike that of our
mignonette , although much more powerful. Ma
rigolds, nasturtions, (which last are a peculiar fa
vorite ,) carnations, China- asters, and many other
flowers familiar in our gardens, also flourish here,
but not in greater beauty or perfection .
Their candles they make from the seed of a tree
-the Croton - sebiferum . They are soft and burn
well , but with much smoke. The oil procured
from the same seed they use for cookery. In pre
serving they make great use of a species of sea .
weed , found in the neighborhood of Macao, which
after due preparation much resembles jellied fruit.
I have before mentioned the great reverence
paid by the Chinese to the dead — which I saw one
day exhibited in a very affecting manner. Re
turning from a walk to the barrier accompanied
by my friend and Mr. W— -, our attention was
suddenly arrested by cries and lamentations of
some one in apparent distress, concealed amid
some low under -brush , in the vicinity of a few
huts. It proved to be a young lad , seemingly about
thirteen years of age. Upon being interrogated by
Mr. W > it appeared that his aged father
had died two or three days previous, leaving this
poor boy without a relative in the world ; but
what rendered his grief the more poignant was, that
he had no means to procure either a coffin , rice or
tapers for the service of the dead. The rice was
to place on the breast of the deceased —the tapers
to burn at the head and feet. The child had beg
ged a morsel of rice , but although food had not en
tered his lips for two days, he piously reserved
these few grains for the use of his old dead parent !
Mr. W took measures immediately for
the burial of the body with all the accustomed
rites, and the orphan lad was placed under the care
and instruction of Mr. Gutzlaff.
Above thine earthly bier
There breathes a deathless spell,
While faith in robes of light
Enthrones thee pure and bright
Child of my soul - farewell !
sa
 SOUTH PEAK
BY CHARLES LANMAN .
You know the Catskills,lad ,for you must have seen them on your left, as you followed the river up from York , looking as
blue as a piece of clear sky and holding the clouds on their tops, as the smoke curls over the head of an Indian chief at a
council fire. - Cooper's PIONEERS .
Yes, everybody is acquainted with the name of
these mountains, but few with their peculiarities of
scenery . They are situated about eight miles from
the Hudson , rise to an average elevation of thirty-
eight hundred feet, and running in a straight line
from north to south, cover a space of some twenty-
five miles. The fertile valley on the east is as
beautiful as heart could desire , watered by the
Catskill, Plauterkill and Esopus Creeks, inhabited
by a sturdy Dutch yeomanry , and is the mother of
those three most flourishing towns, Catskill , Sau-
gerties and Kingston. The upland on the west ,
for some thirty miles, is rugged , dreary and thinly
settled , but the winding valley of Schoharie, be-
yond , is possessed of a thousand charms peculiarly
American. The mountains themselves are covered
with dense forests, abounding in cliffs and water-
falls, and for the most part untrodden by the foot-
steps of man. Looking at them from the Hudson ,
the eye is attracted by two deep hollows, which
are called “ cloves.” That one nearest to the
Mountain House , Catskill Clove , is distinguished
for a remarkable fall, which is familiar to the
world through the pen of Bryant and the pencil of
Cole ; but it is fast filling up with habitations of
improvement, while the other, Plauterkill Clove,
though yet possessing much of its original glory, is
certain of the same destiny. The clove whence
issues the Esopus is among the Shandaken moun-
tains and is not visible from the Hudson.
My nominal residence during the last summer
has been at the mouth of the Plauterkill Clove. I
came into the country to study-to forget the busy
world and give myself up entirely to the hallowing
influences of nature, and oh , how many “ myste-
ries sublime ” has she revealed to me in my jour-
neyings among the dear, dear Catskills !
To the west , and only half a mile from my
abode , are the beautiful mountains , whose graceful
outlines fade away to the north like the waves of
the sea when covered with a visible atmosphere.
The nearest , and to me the most beloved of these ,
is called South Peak. It is nearly four thousand
feet in height and covered from base to summit by
one vast forest of trees, varying from eighty to a
hundred feet. Like most of its brethren, it is a
perfectly wild and uncultivated wilderness, richly
MOUNTAIN .
abounding in all the interesting features of moun
tain scenery . Like a corner stone , it stands at the
junction of the northern and western ranges of the
Catskills, and as its huge form looms up against the
evening sky, it inspires one with awe, as if it were
the ruler of the world ; and yet I have learned to
love it as a friend. Its name , its image, and every
tree , and shrub, and vine which spring from its
rocky bosom can never be forgotten. I have re
flected upon it when reposing in the noontide sun
shine or enveloped in clouds, when holding com
munion with the most holy night, when trembling
under the influence of a thunder storm or encircled
by a rainbow . It has filled my soul with images
of beauty and sublimity and made me feel the
omnipotence of God.
A day and night has it just been my privilege to
spend upon this mountain, accompanied by a
friend . We started at an early hour yesterday
morning, equipped in our brown fustians and laden
with well filled knapsacks, one of us with a hatchet
in his belt and the other with a brace of pistols.
We were bound to the extreme summit of the
peak , where we intended to spend the night, see
the rising of the sun and return at our leisure on
the following day. But when I tell you, reader,
that our course lay right up the almost perpen
dicular side of the mountain , where was no path
save that formed by a torrent or a bear, you will
readily believe it was somewhat rare and wild .
But this was what we delighted in, so we shouted
“ Excelsior " and commenced the ascent. The air
was excessively sultry, and the very first effort we
made caused the perspiration to start most pro
fusely ; upward , upward was our course - now
climbing through a tangled thicket, or under the
spray of a cascade, and then again supporting our
selves by the roots of saplings or scrambling under
a fallen tree-now, like the samphire gatherer,
scaling a precipice, and then again clambering over
a rock or “ shinning ” up a hemlock tree, to reach
a desired point. Our first halt was made at a sin
gular spot called “ Hunter's Hole , ” which is a spa
cious cavern or pit, forty feet deep and twenty
wide , and approached only by a crack in the moun
tain sufficiently large to admit a man . There is a
story connected with it worth recording. Many
279
 280 THE COLUMBIAN
years ago a farmer residing at the foot of the moun.
tain , having missed a favorite dog and being
anxious for his safety , called together his neighbors
and offered a reward for the safe return of his
canine friend. Always ready to do a kind deed ,
a number of his neighbors immediately started
in different directions for the hunt. A barking
sound having issued from this cavern , it was dis
covered, and at the bottom of it the lost dog,
which had probably fallen in while chasing a fox.
« But how is he to be extricated from this hole ? ”
was the general inquiry of the assembled hunters .
Not one of all the group would venture to descend,
under any circumstances ; so the poor animal re
mained a prisoner for another night. But the next
morning he was released, and by none other than
a brave boy, the son of the farmer and playmate of
the dog. A larger number of men were present on
the occasion . A strong rope was tied around the
body of the boy and he was gently lowered down.
Having reached the bottom , and by the aid of his
lamp discovered that he was in a " real nice place,"
the little rogue thought he would have some sport ;
so he continued to pull down more rope , until he
had made a coil of two hundred feet, which was
bewildering enough to the crowd above ; but no
thing happened to him and the dog was raised .
The young hero having played his trick so well ,
it was generally supposed for a long time after that
this cavern was two hundred feet in depth, and
none were found sufficiently bold to venture in .
The bravery of the boy , however, was eventually
the cause of his death , for he was cut down by a
cannon ball in the war of 1812. The next remarka
ble place that we attained in our ascent was the
Bear Bank , where, in the winter, may ever be
found an abundance of those charming creatures.
It is said that they have often , on a clear day, been
seen sunning themselves, even from as far as the
Hudson. We were now on a beetling precipice
three hundred feet high, where, under the shadow
of a huge pine, we enjoyed a slice of bread and
pork , without the “ fixens to match.” Instead of a
dessert of strawberries and ice-cream we were fur
nished by venerable dame nature with a thunder
storm . It was one that we had noticed making a
great commotion in the valley below, and which ,
having discovered two bipeds going toward its
home , the sky , seemed to have come up there to
frighten us back again. But, “ knowing that na
ture never did betray the heart that loved her , " we
awaited the thunder storm's reply to our obstinate
refusal to descend. The cloud was yet below us,
but its unseen herald , a strong east wind , told us
that the conflict had commenced . Presently a peal
of thunder resounded through the vast profound ,
which caused the mountain to tremble to its deep
foundation . . And then followed another and ano
ther, as the storm increased, and the rain and hail
MAGAZINE .
poured down in floods. Thinking it safer to ex
pose ourselves to the storm than remain under the
pine, we retreated without delay, when we were
suddenly enveloped in the heart of the cloud , only a
few rods distant ; a stroke of vivid lightning blinded
us, and the towering forest monarch, even upon his
proud throne, was smitten to the earth . We were
in the midst of an unwritten epic poem about that
time , but we could not then appreciate its beauties,
for another peal of thunder and another stroke of
lightning attracted our whole attention . Soon as
these had passed a terrible gale followed in their
wake , tumbling down piles of loose rocks and
bending to the dust, as if in passion , the resisting
forms of an army of trees , and a glorious rainbow
spanned the mountain like that distinguishing circle
around the temples of the mighty and holy, as por
trayed by the painters of old. The commotion
lasted for an hour, when the region of the Bear
Bank became as serene as the slumber of a babe .
A spirit of silent and holy prayer seemed to be
brooding over that scene of marvellous loveliness ,
and with a shadow of thoughtfulness at our hearts
we resumed our upward march.
The next place where we halted to get breath
was upon a sort of peninsula , called the Eagle's
Nest , where it is said an Indian child was carried
by one of those birds and cruelly destroyed , and
whence the frantic mother, with the mangled body
of her babe , leaped into the terrible abyss below .
From this point we discovered a host of clouds as
sembled in council above High Peak , as if discuss
ing the parched condition of the earth and the
speediest mode of affording relief to a still greater
extent than they had done ; and far away to the
west was another assembly of clouds, vieing, like
sporting children , to outrun and overleap each
other in their aerial amphitheatre.
· After this we surmounted another lofty cliff,
celebrated for rattlesnakes. Here the rocks were
literally covered with the white bones of these
reptiles, slaughtered by the hunter in by- gone years ,
and we saw a couple that were alive. One was
about four feet long, and the other half this size ,
which seemed to be the offspring of the old one ,
for when discovered they were playing together.
Soon as we appeared the sport ceased, and the
venomous creatures, in the twinkling of an eye,
coiled themselves up in the attitude of battle . But
the conflict was of short duration , and to know the
result you need only look into my cabinet of curi
osities.
Higher up yet was it our lot to climb. We
went a little out of our course to obtain a bird's-eye
view of Shew's Lake. In its tranquil bosom the
glowing evening sky was perfectly reflected , and
the silence surrounding it so profound that we could
almost hear the ripples made by a solitary wild
duck , as it swam from one shore to the other in its
 SOUTH PEAK
utter loneliness. And the thought entered my
mind that, as the infant of Bethlehem was tenderly
protected by the parents who watched over its
slumbers, so was this exquisite lake cradled and
protected by the lap of the mountains.
One sight more did we behold before reaching
the summit. It was the sunset hour, and on a
jutting cliff, which commanded an immense view,
our eyes were delighted by a solitary deer, stand
ing still and looking down upon the silent void be .
low, which was then covered with a deep purple
atmosphere, causing the prospect to resemble the
boundless ocean. It was the last of its race, we
could not but fancy, bidding the human world
good night , previous to seeking its heathery couch
in a nameless ravine .
Such are some of the scenes we enjoyed in our
ascent. One effort more and the long desired
eminence was attained , which was a little nearer
the evening star than we had ever been before. It
was now the shadowy hour of twilight, and as we
were about done over with fatigue, it was not long
before we had pitched our leafy tent, eaten some
supper, offered up a prayer and yielded ourselves
to the embrace of sleep, “ dear mother of fresh
thoughts and joyous health ."
At midnight, a cooling breath of air having
passed across my face, I was awakened from a
fearful dream , which left me in a nervous and
excited state of mind . A strange and solemn
gloom had taken possession of my spirit, which was
enhanced by the melancholy song of a neighboring
hemlock grove . Our encampment having been
made a little below the summit of the peak , and
feeling anxious to behold the prospect at that hour
from that point , I arose , without awaking my com
panion , and seated myself on the topmost rock ,
which was bare of trees and shrubs and covered by
a rich moss , softer and more beautiful than a Turkey
carpet. But oh, how can I describe the scene that
burst upon my enraptured vision ? It was unlike
anything I had ever seen before, creating a “ lone,
lost feeling," which I supposed could only be real
ized by a wanderer in the heart of an uninhabited
wilderness, or on the ocean a thousand leagues
from land . Above, around and beneath me, ay,
far beneath me, were the cold , bright stars, and to
the east the “ old moon with the young moon in
her arms. ” In the west were floating a little band
of pearly clouds, which I fancied to be winged
chariots from the city of the living God , and that
they were crowded with children , the absent and
loved of other years, who, in a frolic of blissful joy,
were out upon the fields of heaven. On my left
reposed the long, broad valley of the Hudson, with
its cities, towns, villages, woods, hills and plains,
whose crowded highway was diminished to a nar
row girdle of deep blue. To the south , hill beyond
hill, field beyond field, receded to the sky, occa
MOUNTAIN . 281
sionally enlivened by a peaceful lake. On my
right a multitudinous array of rugged mountains
lay piled up, apparently as impassable as the bot.
tomless pit. To the north the king of the Catskills
bared his bosom to the moonlight, as if demanding
and expecting the homage of the world. Such was
the scene that surrounded me at that witching
hour of the night , and think you, reader, that it did
not animate my spirit with new life and expand
my love for the invisible Creator of all ? Oh, yes,
and I longed for the timbrel of Miriam or the harp
of David , that I might sing aloud this song of
praise— “ Praise the Lord , O my soul, and all that
is within me , bless his holy name. Praise him , o
earth , for he hath crowned thee with blessings num
berless as the sands of ocean. Praise him, ye child
ren of men , for he healeth the broken in heart
and bindeth up their wounds. Praise him , all ye
starry hosts of heaven , for he telleth your numbers
and calleth your names . Praise him , ye heaven of
heavens, for he commanded and ye were created.
Praise ye him , all ye his angels, for he hath crowned
you with immortality. Let everything that hath
breath sing praises unto the Lord forever, for his
manifold and infinite attributes.” The song ended,
the weight upon my spirit was departed and I
sought my couch once more and slumbered until
the dawn.
We saw the sun rise, as a matter of course ,
which event is described in the following brief
rhapsody: it will be more distinctly understood
by those who are familiar with the mountain.
“ He comes ! he comes ! the King of the bright
day ! ' The crimson and golden clouds are part
ing, and he bursts on the bewildered night ! One
moment more, and the whole earth rejoices in his
beams ; and these are not more welcome to the
prince than the peasant, to the philosopher than the
idiot. All, alike , are made happy by the blessed
sunshine. But look ! on either side and beneath
the sun , what an array of new -born clouds are
gathering !-like a band of cavaliers, preparing to
accompany their leader on a journey. Out of the
Atlantic have they just risen ; at noon they will
have pitched their tents on the cerulean plains of
heaven ; and when the hours of day are numbered
the far- off waters of the Pacific will again receive
them in its cool embrace. Hark ! was not that
the roar of waves ? No ; naught but the report of
thunder in the valley below. Can it be ? can it be ?
are the two oceans coming together ? God have
mercy upon us ! we are on a rock in the midst of
an illimitable sea, and the tide is rising - rapidly.
Strange! it is still as death, and yet the oceans are
covered with billows. Lo ! the naked masts of a
ship on fire ! Now she is gone, and from her
grave ascends the emblem of her fate . Yonder,
as if a reef were hidden there to impede their
course, the waves are struggling in despair - now
282 THE COLUMBIAN MAGAZINE .
leaping to the very sky, and now plunging into a
deep abyss. And when they have passed the un
seen enemy how beautiful are their various evolu
tions, as they hasten to the distant shore ! Ano
ther look, and what a change ! The mists of
morning are being exhaled by the sun , already the
world of waters is dispersed, and in the broad val
ley of the Hudson, far, far beneath me , are repo
sing all the enchanting features of the green earth.
We descended the mountain by a circuitous
route, that we might enjoy the luxury of passing
through the Plauterkill Clove. The same spring
that gives rise to Schoharie creek , which is the
fountain head of the Mohawk, also gives rise to this
wild mountain stream . In its very infancy it be
gins to leap and laugh with the gladness of a boy.
From its source to my dwelling place the distance
is only two miles, and yet it has a fall of twenty
five hundred feet ; but the remainder of its course ,
until it reaches the Esopus creek , is calm and
peaceful, and on every side and at every turn is
protected by the farm houses of a sturdy yeomanry .
The wild gorge or dell through which it passes
abounds in waterfalls of surpassing beauty, varying
from ten to a hundred and fifty feet in height,
whose rocks are green with the moss of centuries
and whose brows are ever wreathed with the most
exquisite of vines and flowers. There's the Double
Leap , with its almost fathomless pool, containing
a hermit trout that has laughed at the angler's skill
for a score of years —— the mountain spirit, haunted
by the disembodied spirit of an Indian girl , who
lost her life there while pursuing a phantom of the
brain, and the Blue Bell fall, which is forever
guarded by a multitudinous array of those charm
MUTIUS
BY HENRY B. HIRST .
Two thousand cycles gone ! and yet
A halo circles him , whose name
Rang through the storied streets of Rome
The loudest on the lip of fame !
And yet his memory stirs the soul
As proudly on, o'er history's page,
Gathering fresh glory as it goes,
His spirit stalks through every age.
And dreamers o'er old tablets rise,
With heaving hearts and eyebrows bent,
When reading of the Roman youth
Who sought the Etrurian tyrant's tent.
They see him lift the gleaming blade
And strike the seeming monarch down
Then turn to meet his certain fate ,
With all a Roman freeman's frown .
Then , standing at the altar's side,
Thrusting the hand which failed the aim
That freedom taught his Roman soul,
Unquivering, in the scorching flame.
And when that hand is all consumed ,
Dashing the shriveled limb away,
ing flowers. Caverns, too , and chasms are there,
dark, deep, chilly and damp, where the toad , the
lizard and snake, and strange families of insects,
are perpetually multiplying and actually seeming
to enjoy their loathsome lives — the Black Chasm ,
the Gray Chasm and the Devil's Chamber, with
perpendicular walls of twice the height of a tall
mast, and with a wainscoting of pines and hem
locks that have “braved a thousand years the batile
and the breeze." It is an eddy of the great and
tumultuous world , and in itself a world of unwritten
poetry, whose primitive loveliness has not yet been
disfigured by the influences of mammon, and God
grant that it may continue so forever. It is en
deared to my heart for being a favorite haunt of
solitude, and for having been consecrated by a
brotherhood of friends to the pure religion of na
ture ; and they always enter there as into a holy
sanctuary. You may imagine , then, dear reader,
what was our mode of descending through the dell ,
and as to our feelings as we emerged under the
open sky, they were allied to those of aa pilgrim in
a strange land, passing through the dim twilight of
a dream - like cathedral. And now we stood upon
a ledge whence could be obtained a view of the
dear old mountain we were leaving behind , and as
we contemptated its graceful lines and delicate hues
of blueish green , we could not but admire, in the
abstract, the sublimity and solemnity of its admo
nitions as a preacher, its faithfulness as a friend
and the grandeur of its conceptions as a poet. We
reached home about noon , thankful to God for the
love of nature which he has so deeply implanted in
our hearts, and, as we hope, happier and better
men.
SCEVOLA .
Smiling with lip and eye of scorn
Upon the tyrant king's dismay.
And bear him , still defying, tell
Porsenna , trembling on his throne,
That Rome had yet three hundred sons
Sworn to the deed he should have done
To do ; but not to fail like him,
For which , his only crime , sought
Forgiveness of the gods, but not
To flee the death his deed bad bought.
They see Porsenda clasp the maimed
But god-like Roman to his heart,
Bidding the SINGLE -HANDED take
His country's safety and depart.
And joy, with swelling souls, to find
That there were those in Pagan days
To do the deeds that Christian men ,
Porsenna -like, can proudly praise.
And, feeling this, will pray, that when
Their country needs she may command
As bold, as brave a Roman beart
As Mutius of the single hand.

BOOKS OF THE MONTH .
A NEW SPIRIT OF THX Age. Edited by R. H. Horne. New
York : J. C. Riker.
The title and plan of this book are borrowed from Hazlitt,
who wrote one of the same character — a series of sketchy,
gossiping, critical observations on sundry literary eminences
of his day, whose claims and characteristics he passed in re
view with his wonted freedom of decision, frequent aptitude
of judgment and almost invariable felicity of expression.
Doubt of his own fitness to decide was not one of Hazlitt's
failings ; and in this respect he seems to have found meet
successors in Mr. Horne and the other authors of the book
before us .Most of the existing styles or classes of present
English literature are noticed, sufficiently at length to
express a matured and comprehensive judgment, in the
persons of their acknowledged principal men and women,
such as Dickens, Landor, James, Sydney Smith , Macauley,
Hood , Mrs. Norton, Bulwer and Carlyle ; for each of these
may fairly enough be considered at the head, if not of a
school at least of a band or number , who imitate him or her
more or less successfully ; and in fact the writers of the book
have acted upon this principle, placing together in one article
such as are obviously walkers in the same path of literature,
as for instance Sidney Smith, Fonblanque and Douglas Jer
rold, Miss Barrett and Mrs. Norton, Hood and Theodore Hook .
The critical remarks are for the most part shrewd and just
enough , and in many instances castigation ofno triding severity
is applied with admirable vigor and directness. Mrs. Trollope,
for example, is disposed of in a single page of stinging
truth that almost satisfies even the contempt, the more than
dislike, the all but loathing with which we look upon that
most disagreeable of writers, living or dead . The critic
truly says that she “ cannot go out of herself ; she serves up
everything with the same sauce ; she takes a strange delight
in the hideous and revolting, and dwells with gusto upon
the sins of vulgarity." To which he might have added
that she has never described vulgarity half so offensive as
the coarseness and vulgarity of her own descriptions. The
woman is, we have been told , a cleanly, well-dressing
woman enough ; but we have never been able to call her
before the mind's eye in any other guise than that of a red
faced, stumpy -fingered, slatternly faggot, such as may be
seen occasionally hovering about the worst class of sailor's
boarding houses.
But the most interesting feature of the book, to the general
reader, is the biographic information scattered among the
criticisms ; of almost every writer who passes under review
something is told which it is pleasant to know ; and the facts
or incidents mentioned are both judiciously selected and trip
pingly told. For instance, it is asserted as a fact well known
in the literary circles of London that Mrs. Gore is the author
of that most impudent novel, Cecil, and that Mr. Beckford ,
Caliph Vathek Beckford, helped her to the learning sprinkled
among its pages ; a very entertaining sketch is given of the
Howitt family through four or five generations; and among
many other things which everybody would like to read, the
article on Mr. Pusey embodies a short but sufficiently com
plete account of the rise, progress and distinguishing features
of Tractarianism .
But we cannot afford more space to the New Spirit of the
Age; nor is there need, for besides the handsome edition is
sued by Mr. Riker there is another from the Harper press,
well printed and reasonably legible, which is sold at a quarter
of a dollar.
wome
CLATER AND YouAtT'S CATTLE DOCTOR.- Revised and
enlarged by J. 8. Skinner. Philadelphia : Lea & Blanchard .
One who has lived in the brick Babeldom of a great city for
the last two -thirds of his life, and been engaged all the time
in city employments, has no call to know anything about cat
tle , sheep and swine, except of the first two as victims for the
table, and of the last as most offensive and disgraceful nui
sances living and the purveyors of very savory hams, chines,
spareribs and sausages deud . Therefore we may be held
blameless, perhaps, for having dipped into the pages ofMessrs .
Clater and Youatt with but scanty attention, and also for
being somewhat surprised by the discoveries made in the
process. We confess that we had supposed humanity less
on a par with the lower orders of creation in one thing at least
--the number and variety of ills which flesh is heir to ; we
had no conception that horned cattle were troubled with bile,
fevers, inflammations of the brain , catarrh, indigestions, in
fluenzas, diseased livers, quinsies and consumption, but sup
posed that their ailments were all peculiar to themselves and
designated by such odd names as trembles, staggers, hoove,
hawkes, grub, gozzles, crackling and the like. But it seems
that the medical nomenclature and the materia medica of
“ humans " are applicable, in a considerable degree, to the
domestic quadrupeds also ; and that the farrier has as much
occasion to prescribe opium , belladonna, tartarized antimony,
squills, salts, digitalis, &c. as the prescriber for man's ail
ments and infirmities .
Touching the merits ofthe book we can say nothing more
than that the edition now published is from the ninth Eng .
Jish , and that the editorial sanetion of Mr. Skinner is a high
testimonial in its favor. He has long been tip -top authority
in this country on all subjects connected with horses and
cattle . His additions to the original text, by the way, fill
more than a hundred pages.
POEMS BY FRANCES ANNE BUTLER. Philadelphia : John
Penington.
Fanny Kemble that was ; a lady of whom painful rumors
are in circulation , to the effect that the brilliancy of her pro
fessional career has not been exchanged for that domestic
felicity which she was supposed to enjoy, and which would
be more than ample compensation for the highest meed of
theatrical success and fame. The poems are all occasional,
and short, a large proportion of them being sonnets . We
find in them evidence of strong, deep feeling, but we cannot
say that they exhibit the true soul of poesy . They disclose
rather moods of the mind than the irrepressible waking of
poetic thought and feeling — the expression of a troubled or
excited spirit rather than of genius. We imagine, as we
road , that Mrs. Butler has strong and active sensibilities,
which she has not accustomed herself to repress or regulate
by calm and serious thought; and these sensibilities, when
painfully awakened , find relief in the process of composition .
This we judge to be her inspiration ; and it is not genuine.
It does not produce lines or stanzas that go thrilling to the
heart of the reader, striking a chord in every bosom and
calling up the same emotions that were in the bosom of the
writer. We have read every poom in this very pretty volume
of hers ; in every one we find thought , clothed in apt and ex
pressive language - the evidences, in short, of cultivated
talent - but nothing which any person with coltivated talent
might not write . The foelings exhibited do not kindle a
flame of sympathy ; the thoughts do not stir up the intellect;
there is nothing in the expression to stamp itself upon the
284 THE COLUMBIAN MAGAZINE .
memory . They are fine compositions, but we cannot say
that to us they are fine poems.
THE BLIND GIRL AND OTHER POEMs . By Frances Jane
Crosby . New York : Wiley & Putnam .
“ The Blind Girl," which gives title to this , volume, was
originally published in a preceding number of our magazine,
with a brief recital of the circumstances which gave it a
peculiar interest. The author is a pupil in the New York
Institution for the Blind, having lost her sight in infancy.
She has remarkable facility in versification , and her pieces
exhibit a range of thought, a perception of things and rela
tions and a general cultivation both of mind and heart, not
a little extraordinary in one from whom so important an inlet
of knowledge has been taken away. The volume is publish
ed for her benefit, and commends itself warmly to all who
can feel an interest in observing the successful struggles of
intellect to overcome one of the gravest obstacles to its pro
gress .
THE PILGRIN'S DREAM , AND OTHER POEMs . By Alfred
Wheeler. New York : Saxton & Miles.
We have but little affection or respect for what are called
“ occasional poems " when collected and published . Taken
away from the “ occasion " that suggested them they always
giveone the idea of incompleteness, like a picture without a
frame or a book without a cover. For their favorable ap
preciation is requisite not only a knowledge of the circum
stances under which they were written-with of course the
attendant thoughts and feelings — but a sympathy with these
on the part of the reader ; and that sympathy cannot always
be called up at will. Sometimes, for instance, a volume of
these poems is taken up in a truculent fit of criticism ; how
is this to be supplanted in a moment by the feeling of mild
and not unpleasant melancholy proper for the enjoyment of
half a dozen stanzas suggested by revisiting the home of
childhood ? Or the humor of the moment may be that deli
cious languor which is so often felt after a superb dinner ;
what hope is there of stirring up the mind, when in such a
frame,to the fitting reception ofa rousing sonnet on patriotism ?
Occasional poems are proper things enough to write, for
exercise of the faculty at least, if for no other purpose ; but
there is more to admire in the bolduess than the discretion of
the man who publishes. We have felt this in running through
Mr. Wheeler's luxurious pages of open type and broad mar
ging. His pieces exhibit cleverness and a laudable portion
of true poetie feeling ; but we cannot say that we have en
joyed them or read them with much iaterest. The rapid
succession of varying emotions and impulses which they ex
hibit was in itself sufficient to make enjoyment impossible.
We could not lend our feelings, like the wires of a piano, to
be played upon in a dozen different keys within the compass
of an hour. Yet we have found enough in them to induce
the belief that Mr. Wheeler might, if he would, produce a
real poem ; one embodying a sufficient range of thought and
all desirable completeness.
He must be on his guard , however, against his facility of
versification . Where this exists it is generally accompanied
by impatience of correction and polish, and by indifference
to blemishes which are none the more tolerable to the reader
because they might be obviated by more deliberate composition
and by subsequent careful revision. For example, in one
poem of five stanzas, fan her, many, manner, canna, and
cannie are pressed into service as rhymes for Anna !
NOTICE TO CORRESPONDENTS .
Tre editor regrets to say that his usual monthly notice is
this time rather a record of things not done than a disposi-
tion of things required to be done. Having been afflicted,
first with illness in his family, then with the epidemic that
assails all New Yorkers during the three or four weeks prior
and subsequent to the first of May, then with illness in his
own person , he contemplates with dismay the bundles of
manuscripts and letters which have accumulated upon his
table , and of which he has been able to read but a portion ;
and can only promise an assiduous endeavor to give them
POEMS, BY CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH. Philadelphia :
Carrey & Hart.
These are " occasional" poems also, though their tone and
spirit are more uniform , and they might, apparently , without
much trouble, be woven into a whole not wanting in form
and completeness. The author is deeply imbued with the
essence of what is called transcendentalism- as indeed is
apparent from his dedication to Ralph Waldo Emerson. But
we must do him the justice to say that the deep waters into
which he plunges in his exploration of “ the inward " are far
less muddy than those of some other writers belonging to the
transcendental school ; and we judge that he will yet come
up a successful diver, bringing pearls and jewels of no mean
brilliancy. We profess to be, so far as we have any claim
to be called a thinker, of the practical school ; striving most
of all for clearness and precision ; and we cannot deny that
much ofwhat is written by the Alcotts and others of the Dial
family, not excepting Mr. Emerson himself, rather vexes and
baffles us by its obscurity than instructs by its truth or pleases
by its originality. Mr. Cranch seems to be as deeply impress
ed as any of them with a belief that there is something, some
where, far exceeding in beauty, brightness and sublimity all
that man has won, or accomplished, or conceived ; and that
the mission of the thinker is to find it out. Now we have an
idea not altogether dissimilar; but there is this difference
between himn and us ; he appears to imagine that this indefi
nite something is in man himself, as an individual; we, that
it must be looked for in the race of man , as connected with
the theatre of his duties and labors and with the Almighty
power on whom he is dependent. Thus, Mr. Cranch ad
dresses “ The Inworld " as follows :
Nothing is, if thou art not.
From thee as from a root
The blossoming stars upshoot,
The flower-cups drink the rain ;
Joy and grief and weary pain
Spring aloft from thee,
And lose their branches free ;
Thou art under, over all
Thou dost hold and cover all.
Thou art Atlas, thou art Juve.
The mightiest truth,
Hath all its youth
From thy enveloping thought
Thy thought itself lay in thy earliest love.
Now we are not sure that we understand this ; but if wedo,
it means that all existence, all action , all duty , all enjoyment
are in the mind ; that every intellectual being is not only a
microcosm but a microcosm only, having no relation with
other beings ; and that the perfection of human reason is ab
straction within itself - independence of all other microcosms,
great or small . In short, it is the creed of the Buddhists .
Now we believe, on the contrary , that man is but a very
small portion of one great microcosm, which embraces all
existence, superior and inferior ; and that he is linked by an
infinite series of rights, duties, responsibilities, pains and plea
sures , not only to his fellow - man but to the whole of creation
and the creating power itself ; and therefore, ( to make an
end ) that the “ inworld ," as the transcendentalists call it, is
the least important object of his obligations or bis care. In
stead of concentrating himself upon himself, we hold that he
should seek to expand himself, and fill the largest space of
action, knowledge, beneficence and utility that is within the
reach of his faculties and opportunities.
all due attention between this 10th of May and the issue of
the July number, which will be early in June .
From those of his correspondents who have a rightto ex
pect private answers he especially begs indulgence ; if they
could but know what a weight of hindrances has rested upon
him for the last two months - among which were four suc
cessive cases of scarlet fever, that fellest dread of parents
they would think more of what he has effected than of what
he has left undone.
 THE BRAID OF SUNNY HAIR .

POETRY BY C. DONALD MACLEOD .

MUSIC BY MISS ANNE BLOMAN .

Molto Legato .

1. We're

TEMPO
P
Pir Ores,
||
ANDANTE.
Ə
Diba A

sev - erd, Lai-da, on this earth , May be for-e'er part ; But still my mem'ry

be be

Ꮎ b
b.

bo

holds thy worth ; Thine im - age my heart : And

fills

ib

Legato e Piano.

ə :

!
 THE BRAID OF SUNNY HAIR .

bo
+
3

dreams of hap - pier hours are won, When life and hope were fair ; When

b.

oro Un poco Ritard

Ə.be
b.
th
b
17)

e'er I turn to look up on That braid of sun

ny

ba
A tempo . Con Espressione.
P

5 :
b.

bo
b

hair.
E

bi
Din .
Cres . f
음
Ꭿ : b
b

2.

I hold the band, whose fellowship

I thought was mine awhile ;
I watch it, wreathing o'er this iip,
That pleasant olden smile.
I zue, I vow, but pledge and love,
Fade into silent air ;
And I – I kneel, and weep above
That braid of sunny hair.
%

CONTENTS .
VOL. I.
1

1
FROM JANUARY TO JUNE , 1844 , INCLUSIVE .

Page Page
Artist's Lesson , the, by Mrs. E. F. ELLET, 155 Fragment, a , by Mrs. H. LIGHTWIPE, . 271
Authors and Critics, by ABEL SMITH, JR., . 17
George Washington Wilkins, the Man who
Bargain -Buyer, the , by T. S. ARTHUR , 267 lived for his Country , by H. H. WELD, . .
· 111
Belles of Etherington , the, by the author of Genius and its Rewards, by Mrs. Emma C.
“ A New Home, " etc. . 125 EMBURY, 149
Biographers, a Few Hints to, by E. S. GOULD , 37 Grandfather Bray, by Miss E. E. CHUBBUCK, . 245
Books of the Month , by the Editor ,
92, 141 , 237, 283 Honor O'Neil ; or, The Days of the Armada,
by H. W. HERBERT, 97
Bride's Trials , a, by the author of“ A New
Home," etc. , 22
Idle Hours, by MRS. JAMES G. Brooks, 145, 272
Brother's Temptation , the, by T.S. ARTHUR, 115 Indian Maiden, the , (see engraving,) by THE
EDITOR , 83
Caught Napping, (see engraving,) by THE
EDITOR, 124
161
Jewish Ruler, the, by Miss C. Louise M.
Chapter on Woman , a, by STELLA, BRAWNER, . . 275
China, Recollections of, by Mrs. CAROLINE
H. BUTLER, 86, 131 , 152, 216, 277
.
Lady's Shadow , the, by Mrs. F. S. Osgood, . 32
Clevenger, by H. T. TUCKERMAN, 10 .

Lead us not into Temptation ! by John NEAL, 49

Clouds, to the , -- A Dreamer's Fantasy,
-
154 .
Lessing's Emilia Galotti, . 193
Colonel Abroad, the , by Anna Cora Mowatt, 187 Life -Preserving Coffin , the, by SEBA Smith,. 36
Columbus and the Egg, (see engraving ,) by Light and Darkness, by C. DONALD MACLEOD, 72
THE Editor , 119 Lilly Larnard , by CHARLES LANMAN, 13
Correspondents, notice to, by the Editor , Lost and Won ; or, The Game of Chess, by
93, 142, 238, 284 Miss Emily E. CHUBBUCK , . 164

De Béranger, some things of, by Park Ben Love Quarrel, (see plate,) by ELIZABETH
OAKES SMITH , . 6
JAMIN, . 134
Diary of a Poor Man , Extracts from the, by Lucy Maynard , by Miss Martha RUSSELL, .
170

A STARVING PHILOSOPHER , . . 67
Magazine Literature , by THE EDITOR , 1
Drinking Tea Out, by F. E. F. , author of Moods of the Mind , by Mrs. Emma C. EMBURY, 62
“ Summer Frolicking and Winter Reck Moowis ; or, The Indian Coquette, by HENRY
oning," 234 R. SCHOOLCRAFT , .
90
Dumb Kate ; an Early Death , by WALTER My Double ; or, The Man who is not Col.
WHITMAN , . . 230 59
Blank , by C. F. HOFFMAN ,
Mysterious Neighbor, the, by WM. H. WILLIS, 200
Edward Forester ; or, Only this Once, by H.
HASTINGS WILD, .. 208 Old Cloak, the, by Mrs. D . 183
Emperor and the King, (see engraving ) by
ISABEL JOCELYN , . 169 Paul Pringle's Proposal, by H. H. WELD, . 39
Eris ; A Spirit Record, by W. WHITMAN , . 138
Recollections of the Western Wilds, by G.
False Ethics of the Law, by THE EDITOR, · 120 W. KENDALL, 26
Fortune Teller, (see engraving ,) by THE ED
ITOR , . . 266 Sir Peter de Béarn ; or, The Bear's Vengeance
Fountain of Youth, the, by J. K. PAULDING , 78 of Bigorre, by H. W. HERBERT, 250
287
56
288 THE COLUMBIAN MAGAZINE .

Page Page
Sisters, the, (see engraving ,) by THE EDITOR , 61 Night, by Mrs. M. St. Leon Lord, 140
Sketch of the Great Western Lakes, by J. On an Infant, 278
K. PAULDING , 258 .

Snivelers of Social Life and Literature , the, • 231 Poet's Heart, the .. 137
Solitary, the, by Mrs. Emma C. EMBURY, . 219 Press, the , by WILLIAM OLAND BOURNE, . 257
Something about Albums, by The Editor, · 226
Rest in the Grave, by Mrs. M. St. Leon LOUD, 133
South Peak Mountains, by CHARLES LANMAN ,. 279
Summer Frolicking and Winter Reckoning, Song , 11
by F. E. F., author of “ Marrying for Mo Songs of Night, the, by Isaac F. SHEPARD, 89
, " « Honor and Merit," etc.
ney ;" 179 Song— “ Twine not around the aching head , "
Sunny Philosophy, by THE EDITOR, 84 .
by Matilda P. Hunt, 114
Thoughts for Amplification, by THE EDITOR, . 91 Sonnet, . 207 .

Thoughts on the Poets, by H. T. TUCKERMAN, 241 Sonnet , by HENRY T. TUCKERMAN , : 244

Transplanted Flower, the ; or, The Floren Sonnet , to John Keats, by Henry B. HIRST, 236
tine Bride, by MRs. Emma C. EMBURY, 41 . Spirit of Beauty, the, by RICHARD G. WHITE, 218
Stanzas, by Mrs. James Hall, . • 163
Victor in the Tournament, the, (see engra Stanzas, to * * * , by Norna, . 186
ving,) by THE EDITOR, . 213
Strife, 139
Widow of Bruges, the, 228
To -; (see portrait,) by Mrs.
FRANCES S. OSGOOD , 233
POETRY . To my Sister on her Bridal, by ANNA CORA
Mowatt, 86
Anacreontic, 38
“ Bois Ton Sang Beaumanoir !! "" by Mrs. F. Voice of the New Year, the , •
140
S. OSGOOD, . 58
Boyhood's Home, by E. PARMLY, . 9 Washington-A Sonnet,by R. G. White ,. . 133
We shall meet again , by S. D. PATTERSON , . 71
Charlotte and Grace, to, (see engraving ,) by White - footed Deer, the, by W.C. BRYANT, . 16
ELIZABETH OAKES SMITH , 276
Clouds, to the ,–A Dreamer's Fantasy, . 154 STEEL ENGRAVINGS .
Contrast, the, by Matilda P. HUNT, 89 LINE AND MEZZOTINT.

Death in Life , 40 Meabell

Isabella Graham ,
Duel, the Hour before the, (see engraving) Falls of the Indian Brook , (opposite West Point,)
by Mrs. FRANCES S. OsgooD, . 160 The Triumph of Christianity,
Fashions - colored - five figures.
Eyes to the Blind - The Blind Girl, by Miss The Sisters ,
FRANCES JANE CROSBY, . 109 The Indian Maiden ,
Fashions - colored - four figures.
Female Iceberg, the,-A Frosty Lyric, 62 Caught Napping,
Fratello Del Mio Cor, by Miss COLMAN, . . 274 Columbus and the Egg,
Hush ! Hush ! I hear a voice, Fashions -- colored - five figures.
. 130
The Emperor and the King,
Impromptu , by H. T. TUCKERMAN , 227 The Hour before the Duel,
Indian Maiden, the, by FAYETTE ROBINSON, . 5 Fashions — colored - four figures.
Indian Rock ; or, Louis Wetzel and the Wild The Victor in the Tournament,
Turkey, by HENRY A. CLARK, .
214 . A Portrait of Mrs. Otis,
In other Days , 182 Fashions -- colored - four figures.
Intercession of the Indians for the Charter Charlotte and Grace,
Oak of Connecticut, by Mrs. L. H. Si The Fortune Teller,
GOURNEY , 108 Fashions -- colored - three figures ; and a new
pattern for a lounge.
Last Glass, the , by ISABEL JOCELYN, 77
“ Let me die with the Philistines,” by Rev. MUSIC .
FRANCIS C. WOODWORTH, 229 “Let me perish in the early Spring ," . 47
Liberty, by T. B. Read , 12 “ The chain that links my heart to thine,"' .
. 94
Lines for Music , 12, 178 “ New England Churches," 143
Lot of Earth , the, by Mrs. L. H. SIGOURNEY, 199 « The Willow by the Well,” . 191
66
• I've won thee to love me, " 239
Mutius Scævola , by HENRY B. HIRST, . . 282 The Braid of Sunny Hair, . 285
3 2000 000 492 944