[Illustration: handwritten inscription--your obedient servant, Maria Brooks. ]

GRAHAM'S MAGAZINE. 

VOL. XXXIII. PHILADELPHIA, AUGUST, 1848. NO. 2. 

THE LATE MARIA BROOKS. 

BY RUFUS WILMOT GRISWOLD. 

[WITH A PORTRAIT. ]

This remarkable woman was not only one of the first writers of hercountry, but she deserves to be ranked with the most celebratedpersons of her sex who have lived in any nation or age. Within thelast century woman has done more than ever before in investigation, reflection and literary art. On the continent of Europe an Agnesi, aDacier and a Chastelet have commanded respect by their learning, and aDe Stael, a Dudevant and a Bremer have been admired for their genius;in Great Britain the names of More, Burney, Barbauld, Baillie, Somerville, Farrar, Hemans, Edgeworth, Austen, Landon, Norman andBarrett, are familiar in the histories of literature and science; andin our own country we turn with pride to Sedgwick, Child, Beecher, Kirkland, Parkes Smith, Fuller, and others, who in various departmentshave written so as to deserve as well as receive the general applause;but it may be doubted whether in the long catalogue of those whoseworks demonstrate and vindicate the intellectual character andposition of the sex, there are many names that will shine with aclearer, steadier, and more enduring lustre than that of MARIA DELOCCIDENTE. 

Maria Gowen, afterward Mrs. Brooks, upon whom this title was conferredoriginally I believe by the poet Southey, was descended from a Welshfamily that settled in Charlestown, near Boston, sometime before theRevolution. A considerable portion of the liberal fortune of hergrandfather was lost by the burning of that city in 1775, and he soonafterward removed to Medford, across the Mystic river, where MariaGowen was born about the year 1795. Her father was a man of education, and among his intimate friends were several of the professors ofHarvard College, whose occasional visits varied the pleasures of arural life. From this society she derived at an early period a tastefor letters and learning. Before the completion of her ninth year shehad committed to memory many passages from the best poets; and herconversation excited special wonder by its elegance, variety andwisdom. She grew in beauty, too, as she grew in years, and when herfather died, a bankrupt, before she had attained the age of fourteen, she was betrothed to a merchant of Boston, who undertook thecompletion of her education, and as soon as she quitted the school wasmarried to her. Her early womanhood was passed in commercialaffluence; but the loss of several vessels at sea in which her husbandwas interested was followed by other losses on land, and years werespent in comparitive indigence. In that remarkable book, "Idomen, orthe Vale of Yumuri, " she says, referring to this period: "Our tablehad been hospitable, our doors open to many; but to part with ourwell-garnished dwelling had now become inevitable. We retired, withone servant, to a remote house of meaner dimensions, and were soughtno longer by those who had come in our wealth. I looked earnestlyaround me; the present was cheerless, the future dark and fearful. Myparents were dead, my few relatives in distant countries, where theythought perhaps but little of my happiness. Burleigh I had never lovedother than as a father and protector; but he had been the benefactorof my fallen family, and to him I owed comfort, education, and everyray of pleasure that had glanced before me in this world. But the sunof his energies was setting, and the faults which had balanced hisvirtues increased as his fortune declined. He might live through manyyears of misery, and to be devoted to him was my duty while a spark ofhis life endured. I strove to nerve my heart for the worst. Stillthere were moments when fortitude became faint with endurance, andvisions of happiness that might have been mine came smiling to myimagination. I wept and prayed in agony. "

In this period poetry was resorted to for amusement and consolation. At nineteen she wrote a metrical romance, in seven cantos, but it wasnever published. It was followed by many shorter lyrical pieces whichwere printed anonymously; and in 1820, after favorable judgments of ithad been expressed by some literary friends, she gave to the public asmall volume entitled "Judith, Esther, and other Poems, by a Lover ofthe Fine Arts. " It contained many fine passages, and gave promise ofthe powers of which the maturity is illustrated by "Zophiël, " verymuch in the style of which is this stanza:

 With even step, in mourning garb arrayed, Fair Judith walked, and grandeur marked her air; Though humble dust, in pious sprinklings laid. Soiled the dark tresses of her copious hair. 

And this picture of a boy:

 Softly supine his rosy limbs reposed, His locks curled high, leaving the forehead bare: And o'er his eyes the light lids gently closed, As they had feared to hide the brilliance there. 

And this description of the preparations of Esther to appear beforeAhasuerus:

 "Take ye, my maids, this mournful garb away; Bring all my glowing gems and garments fair; A nation's fate impending hangs to-day, But on my beauty and your duteous care. "

 Prompt to obey, her ivory form they lave; Some comb and braid her hair of wavy gold; Some softly wipe away the limpid wave That o'er her dimply limbs in drops of fragrance rolled. 

 Refreshed and faultless from their hands she came, Like form celestial clad in raiment bright; O'er all her garb rich India's treasures flame, In mingling beams of rainbow-colored light. 

 Graceful she entered the forbidden court, Her bosom throbbing with her purpose high; Slow were her steps, and unassured her port, While hope just trembled in her azure eye. 

 Light on the marble fell her ermine tread. And when the king, reclined in musing mood, Lifts, at the gentle sound, his stately head, Low at his feet the sweet intruder stood. 

Among the shorter poems are several that are marked by fancy andfeeling, and a graceful versification, of one of which, an elegy, these are the opening verses:

 Lone in the desert, drear and deep, Beneath the forest's whispering shade, Where brambles twine and mosses creep, The lovely Charlotte's grave is made. 

 But though no breathing marble there Shall gleam in beauty through the gloom, The turf that hides her golden hair With sweetest desert flowers shall bloom. 

 And while the moon her tender light Upon the hallowed scene shall fling, The mocking-bird shall sit all night Among the dewy leaves, and sing. 

In 1823 Mr. Brooks died, and a paternal uncle soon after invited thepoetess to the Island of Cuba, where, two years afterward, shecompleted the first canto of "Zophiël, or the Bride of Seven, " whichwas published in Boston in 1825. The second canto was finished in Cubain the opening of 1827; the third, fourth and fifth in 1828; and thesixth in the beginning of 1829. The relative of Mrs. Brooks was nowdead, and he had left to her his coffee plantation and other property, which afforded her a liberal income. She returned again to the UnitedStates, and resided more than a year in the vicinity of DartmouthCollege, where her son was pursuing his studies; and in the autumn of1830, she went to Paris, where she passed the following winter. Thecurious and learned notes to "Zophiël, " were written in variousplaces, some in Cuba, some in Hanover, some in Canada, (which shevisited during her residence at Hanover, ) some at Paris, and the restat Keswick, in England, the home of Robert Southey, where she passedthe spring of 1831. When she quitted the hospitable home of this muchhonored and much attached friend, she left with him the completedwork, which he subsequently saw through the press, correcting theproof sheets himself, previous to its appearance in London in 1833. 

The materials of this poem are universal; that is, such as may beappropriated by every polished nation. In all the most beautifuloriental systems of religion, including our own, may be found suchbeings as its characters. The early fathers of Christianity not onlybelieved in them, but wrote cumbrous folios upon their nature andattributes. It is a curious fact that they never doubted the existenceand the power of the Grecian and Roman gods, but supposed them to befallen angels, who had caused themselves to be worshiped underparticular forms, and for particular characteristics. To what anextent, and to how very late a period this belief has prevailed, maybe learned from a remarkable little work of Fontenelle, [1] in whichthat pleasing writer endeavors seriously to disprove that anypreternatural power was evinced in the responses of the ancientoracles. The Christian belief in good and evil angels is too beautifulto be laid aside. Their actual and present existence can be disprovedneither by analogy, philosophy, or theology, nor can it be questionedwithout casting a doubt also upon the whole system of our religion. This religion, by many a fanciful skeptic, has been called barren andgloomy; but setting aside all the legends of the Jews, and confiningourselves entirely to the generally received Scriptures, there will befound sufficient food for an imagination warm as that of Homer, Apelles, Phidias, or Praxiteles. It is astonishing that such richmaterials for poetry should for so many centuries have been so littleregarded, appropriated, or even perceived. 

[Footnote 1: Historie des Oracles. ]

The story of Zophiël, though accompanied by many notes, is simple andeasily followed. Reduced to prose, and a child, or a common novelreader, would peruse it with satisfaction. It is in six cantos, and issupposed to occupy the time of nine months: from the blooming of rosesat Ecbatana to the coming in of spices at Babylon. Of this time thegreater part is supposed to elapse between the second and third canto, where Zophiël thus speaks to Egla of Phraërion:

 Yet still she bloomed--uninjured, innocent-- Though now for seven sweet moons by Zophiël watched and wooed. 

The king of Medea, introduced in the second canto, is an idealpersonage; but the history of that country, near the time of thesecond captivity, is very confused, and more than one young princeresembling Sardius, might have reigned and died without a record. Somuch of the main story however as relates to human life is based uponsacred or profane history; and we have sufficient authority for thelegend of an angel's passion for one of the fair daughters of our ownworld. It was a custom in the early ages to style heroes, to raise tothe rank of demigods, men who were distinguished for great abilities, qualities or actions. Above such men the angels who are supposed tohave visited the earth were but one grade exalted, and they werecapable of participating in human pains and pleasures. Zophiël isdescribed as one of those who fell with Lucifer, not from ambition orturbulence, but from friendship and excessive admiration of the chiefdisturber of the tranquillity of heaven: as he declares, when thwartedby his betrayer, in the fourth canto:

 Though the first seraph formed, how could I tell The ways of guile? What marvels I believed When cold ambition mimicked love so well That half the sons of heaven looked on deceived!

During the whole interview in which this stanza occurs, the deceiverof men and angels exhibits his alledged power of inflicting pain. Hesays to Zophiël, after arresting his course:

 "Sublime Intelligence, Once chosen for my friend and worthy me: Not so wouldst thou have labored to be hence, Had my emprise been crowned with victory. When I was bright in heaven, thy seraph eyes Sought only mine. But he who every power Beside, while hope allured him, could despise, Changed and forsook me, in misfortune's hour. "

To which Zophiël replies:

 "Changed, and forsook thee? this from thee to me? Once noble spirit! Oh! had not too much My o'er fond heart adored thy fallacy, I had not, now, been here to bear thy keen reproach; Forsook thee in misfortune? at thy side I closer fought as peril thickened round, Watched o'er thee fallen: the light of heaven denied, But proved my love more fervent and profound. Prone as thou wert, had I been mortal-born, And owned as many lives as leaves there be, From all Hyrcania by his tempest torn I had lost, one by one, and given the last for thee. Oh! had thy plighted pact of faith been kept, Still unaccomplished were the curse of sin; 'Mid all the woes thy ruined followers wept, Had friendship lingered, hell could not have been. "

Phraërion, another fallen angel, but of a nature gentler than that ofZophiël, is thus introduced:

 Harmless Phraërion, formed to dwell on high, Retained the looks that had been his above; And his harmonious lip, and sweet, blue eye, Soothed the fallen seraph's heart, and changed his scorn to love; No soul-creative in this being born, Its restless, daring, fond aspirings hid: Within the vortex of rebellion drawn, He joined the shining ranks _as others did_. Success but little had advanced; defeat He thought so little, scarce to him were worse; And, as he held in heaven inferior seat, Less was his bliss, and lighter was his curse. He formed no plans for happiness: content To curl the tendril, fold the bud; his pain So light, he scarcely felt his banishment. Zophiël, perchance, had held him in disdain; But, formed for friendship, from his o'erfraught soul 'Twas such relief his burning thoughts to pour In other ears, that oft the strong control Of pride he felt them burst, and could restrain no more. Zophiël was soft, but yet all flame; by turns Love, grief, remorse, shame, pity, jealousy, Each boundless in his breast, impels or burns: His joy was bliss, his pain was agony. 

Such are the principal preter-human characters in the poem. Egla, theheroine, is a Hebress of perfect beauty, who lives with her parentsnot far from the city of Ecbatana, and has been saved, by stratagem, from a general massacre of captives, under a former king of Medea. Being brought before the reigning monarch to answer for the supposedmurder of Meles, she exclaims, Sad from my birth, nay, born upon that day When perished all my race, my infant ears Were opened first with groans; and the first ray I saw, came dimly through my mother's tears. 

Zophiël is described throughout the poem as burning with theadmiration of virtue, yet frequently betrayed into crime by thepursuit of pleasure. Straying accidentally to the grove of Egla, he isstruck with her beauty, and finds consolation in her presence. Heappears, however, at an unfortunate moment, for the fair Judean hasjust yielded to the entreaties of her mother and assented to proposalsoffered by Meles, a noble of the country; but Zophiël causes his rivalto expire suddenly on entering the bridal apartment, and his previouslife at Babylon, as revealed in the fifth canto, shows that he was notundeserving of his doom. Despite her extreme sensibility, Egla ishighly endowed with "conscience and caution;" and she regards theadvances of Zophiël with distrust and apprehension. Meles beingmissed, she is brought to court to answer for his murder. Her solefear is for her parents, who are the only Hebrews in the kingdom, andare suffered to live but through the clemency of Sardius, a youngprince who has lately come to the throne, and who, like many orientalmonarchs, reserves to himself the privilege of decreeing death. Theking is convinced of her innocence, and, struck with her extraordinarybeauty and character, resolves suddenly to make her his queen. We knowof nothing in its way finer than the description which follows, of herintroduction, in the simple costume of her country, to a gorgeousbanqueting hall in which he sits with his assembled chiefs:

 With unassured yet graceful step advancing, The light vermilion of her cheek more warm For doubtful modesty; while all were glancing Over the strange attire that well became such form To lend her space the admiring band gave way; The sandals on her silvery feet were blue; Of saffron tint her robe, as when young day Spreads softly o'er the heavens, and tints the trembling dew. Light was that robe as mist; and not a gem Or ornament impedes its wavy fold, Long and profuse; save that, above its hem, 'Twas broidered with pomegranate-wreath, in gold. And, by a silken cincture, broad and blue, In shapely guise about the waste confined, Blent with the curls that, of a lighter hue, Half floated, waving in their length behind; The other half, in braided tresses twined, Was decked with rose of pearls, and sapphires azure too, Arranged with curious skill to imitate The sweet acacia's blossoms; just as live And droop those tender flowers in natural state; And so the trembling gems seemed sensitive, And pendent, sometimes touch her neck; and there Seemed shrinking from its softness as alive. And round her arms, flour-white and round and fair, Slight bandelets were twined of colors five, Like little rainbows seemly on those arms; None of that court had seen the like before, Soft, fragrant, bright--so much like heaven her charms, It scarce could seem idolatry to adore. He who beheld her hand forgot her face; Yet in that face was all beside forgot; And he who, as she went, beheld her pace, And locks profuse, had said, "nay, turn thee not. "

Idaspes, the Medean vizier, or prime minister, has reflected on themaiden's story, and is alarmed for the safety of his youthfulsovereign, who consents to some delay and experiment, but will not bedissuaded from his design until five inmates of his palace have fallendead in the captive's apartment. The last of these is Altheëtor, afavorite of the king, (whose Greek name is intended to express hisqualities, ) and the circumstances of his death, and the consequentgrief of Egla and despair of Zophiël, are painted with a beauty, powerand passion scarcely surpassed. 

 Touching his golden harp to prelude sweet, Entered the youth, so pensive, pale, and fair; Advanced respectful to the virgin's feet, And, lowly bending down, made tuneful parlance there. Like perfume, soft his gentle accents rose, And sweetly thrilled the gilded roof along; His warm, devoted soul no terror knows, And truth and love lend fervor to his song. She hides her face upon her couch, that there She may not see him die. No groan--she springs Frantic between a hope-beam and despair, And twines her long hair round him as he sings. Then thus: "O! being, who unseen but near, Art hovering now, behold and pity me! For love, hope, beauty, music--all that's dear, Look, look on me, and spare my agony! Spirit! in mercy make not me the cause, The hateful cause, of this kind being's death! In pity kill me first! He lives--he draws-- Thou wilt not blast?--he draws his harmless breath!"

 Still lives Altheëtor; still unguarded strays One hand o'er his fallen lyre; but all his soul Is lost--given up. He fain would turn to gaze, But cannot turn, so twined. Now all that stole Through every vein, and thrilled each separate nerve, Himself could not have told--all wound and clasped In her white arms and hair. Ah! can they serve To save him? "What a sea of sweets!" he gasped, But 'twas delight: sound, fragrance, all were breathing. Still swelled the transport: "Let me look and thank:" He sighed (celestial smiles his lips enwreathing, ) "I die--but ask no more, " he said, and sank; Still by her arms supported--lower--lower-- As by soft sleep oppressed; so calm, so fair, He rested on the purple tapestried floor, It seemed an angel lay reposing there. 

And Zophiël exclaims, "He died of love, or the o'er-perfect joy Of being pitied--prayed for--pressed by thee. O! for the fate of that devoted boy I'd sell my birthright to eternity. I'm not the cause of this thy last distress. Nay! look upon thy spirit ere he flies! Look on me once, and learn to hate me less!" He said; and tears fell fast from his immortal eyes. 

Beloved and admired at first, Egla becomes an object of hatred andfear; for Zophiël being invisible to others her story is discredited, and she is suspected of murdering by some baleful art all who havedied in her presence. She is, however, sent safely to her home, andlives, as usual, in retirement with her parents. The visits of Zophiëlare now unimpeded. He instructs the young Jewess in music and poetry;his admiration and affection grow with the hours; and he exerts hisimmortal energies to preserve her from the least pain or sorrow, butselfishly confines her as much as possible to solitude, and permitsfor her only such amusements as he himself can minister. Herconfidence in him increases, and in her gentle society he almostforgets his fall and banishment. 

But the difference in their natures causes him continual anxiety;knowing her mortality, he is always in fear that death or suddenblight will deprive him of her; and he consults with Phraërion on thebest means of saving her from the perils of human existence. Oneevening, Round Phraërion, nearer drawn, One beauteous arm he flung: "First to my love! We'll see her safe; then to our task till dawn. " Well pleased, Phraërion answered that embrace; All balmy he with thousand breathing sweets, From thousand dewy flowers. "But to what place, " He said, "will Zophièl go? who danger greets As if 'twere peace. The palace of the gnome, Tahathyam, for our purpose most were meet; But then, the wave, so cold and fierce, the gloom, The whirlpools, rocks, that guard that deep retreat! Yet _there_ are fountains, which no sunny ray E'er danced upon, and drops come there at last, Which, for whole ages, filtering all the way, Through all the veins of earth, in winding maze have past. These take from mortal beauty every stain, And smooth the unseemly lines of age and pain, With every wondrous efficacy rife; Nay, once a spirit whispered of a draught, Of which a drop, by any mortal quaffed, Would save, for terms of years, his feeble, flickering life. "

Tahathyam is the son of a fallen angel, and lives concealed in thebosom of the earth, guarding in his possession a vase of the elixir oflife, bequeathed to him by a father whom he is not permitted to see. The visit of Zophiël and Phraërion to this beautiful but unhappycreature will remind the reader of the splendid creations of Dante. 

 The soft flower-spirit shuddered, looked on high, And from his bolder brother would have fled; But then the anger kindling in that eye He could not bear. So to fair Egla's bed Followed and looked; then shuddering all with dread, To wondrous realms, unknown to men, he led; Continuing long in sunset course his flight, Until for flowery Sicily he bent; Then, where Italia smiled upon the night, Between their nearest shores chose midway his descent. The sea was calm, and the reflected moon Still trembled on its surface; not a breath Curled the broad mirror. Night had passed her noon; How soft the air! how cold the depths beneath! The spirits hover o'er that surface smooth, Zophiël's white arm around Phraërion's twined, In fond caresses, his tender cares to soothe, While either's nearer wing the other's crossed behind. Well pleased, Phraërion half forgot his dread, And first, with foot as white as lotus leaf, The sleepy surface of the waves essayed; But then his smile of love gave place to drops of grief. How could he for that fluid, dense and chill, Change the sweet floods of air they floated on? E'en at the touch his shrinking fibres thrill; But ardent Zophiël, panting, hurries on, And (catching his mild brother's tears, with lip That whispered courage 'twixt each glowing kiss, ) Persuades to plunge: limbs, wings, and locks they dip; Whate'er the other's pains, the lover felt but bliss. Quickly he draws Phraërion on, his toil Even lighter than he hoped: some power benign Seems to restrain the surges, while they boil 'Mid crags and caverns, as of his design Respectful. That black, bitter element, As if obedient to his wish, gave way; So, comforting Phraërion, on he went, And a high, craggy arch they reach at dawn of day, Upon the upper world; and forced them through That arch, the thick, cold floods, with such a roar, That the bold sprite receded, and would view The cave before he ventured to explore. Then, fearful lest his frighted guide might part And not be missed amid such strife and din, He strained him closer to his burning heart, And, trusting to his strength, rushed fiercely in. 

 On, on, for many a weary mile they fare; Till thinner grew the floods, long, dark and dense, From nearness to earth's core; and now, a glare Of grateful light relieved their piercing sense; As when, above, the sun his genial streams Of warmth and light darts mingling with the waves, Whole fathoms down; while, amorous of his beams, Each scaly, monstrous thing leaps from its slimy caves. And now, Phraërion, with a tender cry, Far sweeter than the land-bird's note, afar Heard through the azure arches of the sky, By the long-baffled, storm-worn mariner: "Hold, Zophiël! rest thee now--our task is done, Tahathyam's realms alone can give this light! O! though it is not the life-awakening sun, How sweet to see it break upon such fearful night!"

 Clear grew the wave, and thin; a substance white, The wide-expanding cavern floors and flanks; Could one have looked from high how fair the sight! Like these, the dolphin, on Bahaman banks, Cleaves the warm fluid, in his rainbow tints, While even his shadow on the sands below Is seen; as through the wave he glides, and glints, Where lies the polished shell, and branching corals grow. No massive gate impedes; the wave, in vain, Might strive against the air to break or fall; And, at the portal of that strange domain, A clear, bright curtain seemed, or crystal wall. The spirits pass its bounds, but would not far Tread its slant pavement, like unbidden guest; The while, on either side, a bower of spar Gave invitation for a moment's rest. And, deep in either bower, a little throne Looked so fantastic, it were hard to know If busy nature fashioned it alone, Or found some curious artist here below. 

 Soon spoke Phraërion: "Come, Tahathyam, come, Thou know'st me well! I saw thee once to love; And bring a guest to view thy sparkling dome Who comes full fraught with tidings from above. " Those gentle tones, angelically clear, Past from his lips, in mazy depths retreating, (As if that bower had been the cavern's ear, ) Full many a stadia far; and kept repeating, As through the perforated rock they pass, Echo to echo guiding them; their tone (As just from the sweet spirit's lip) at last Tahathyam heard: where, on a glittering throne he solitary sat. 

Sending through the rock an answering strain, to give the spiritswelcome, the gnome prepares to meet them at his palace-door:

 He sat upon a car, (and the large pearl, Once cradled in it, glimmered now without, ) Bound midway on two serpents' backs, that curl In silent swiftness as he glides about. A shell, 'twas first in liquid amber wet, Then ere the fragrant cement hardened round, All o'er with large and precious stones 'twas set By skillful Tsavaven, or made or found. The reins seemed pliant crystal (but their strength Had matched his earthly mother's silken band) And, flecked with rubies, flowed in ample length, Like sparkles o'er Tahathyam's beauteous hand. The reptiles, in their fearful beauty, drew, As if from love, like steeds of Araby; Like blood of lady's lip their scarlet hue; Their scales so bright and sleek, 'twas pleasure but to see, With open mouths, as proud to show the bit, They raise their heads, and arch their necks--(with eye As bright as if with meteor fire 'twere lit;) And dart their barbed tongues, 'twixt fangs of ivory. These, when the quick advancing sprites they saw Furl their swift wings, and tread with angel grace The smooth, fair pavement, checked their speed in awe, And glided far aside as if to give them space. 

The errand of the angels is made known to the sovereign of thisinterior and resplendent world, and upon conditions the preciouselixir is promised; but first Zophiël and Phraërion are usheredthrough sparry portals to a banquet. 

 High towered the palace and its massive pile, Made dubious if of nature or of art, So wild and so uncouth; yet, all the while, Shaped to strange grace in every varying part. And groves adorned it, green in hue, and bright, As icicles about a laurel-tree; And danced about their twigs a wonderous light; Whence came that light so far beneath the sea? Zophiël looked up to know, and to his view The vault scarce seemed less vast than that of day; No rocky roof was seen; a tender blue Appeared, as of the sky, and clouds about it play: And, in the midst, an orb looked as 'twere meant To shame the sun, it mimicked him so well. But ah! no quickening, grateful warmth it sent; Cold as the rock beneath, the paly radiance fell. Within, from thousand lamps the lustre strays. Reflected back from gems about the wall; And from twelve dolphin shapes a fountain plays, Just in the centre of a spacious hall; But whether in the sunbeam formed to sport, These shapes once lived in supleness and pride, And then, to decorate this wonderous court, Were stolen from the waves and petrified; Or, moulded by some imitative gnome, And scaled all o'er with gems, they were but stone, Casting their showers and rainbows 'neath the dome. To man or angel's eye might not be known. No snowy fleece in these sad realms was found, Nor silken ball by maiden loved so well; But ranged in lightest garniture around, In seemly folds, a shining tapestry fell. And fibres of asbestos, bleached in fire, And all with pearls and sparkling gems o'erflecked, Of that strange court composed the rich attire, And such the cold, fair form of sad Tahathyam decked. 

Gifted with every pleasing endowment, in possession of an elixir ofwhich a drop perpetuates life and youth, surrounded by friends of hisown choice, who are all anxious to please and amuse him, the gnomefeels himself inferior in happiness to the lowest of mortals. Hissphere is confined, his high powers useless, for he is without the"last, best gift of God to man, " and there is no object on which hecan exercise his benevolence. The feast is described with the tersebeauty which marks all the canto, and at its close--

 The banquet-cups, of many a hue and shape, Bossed o'er with gems, were beautiful to view; But, for the madness of the vaunted grape, Their only draught was a pure limpid dew, The spirits while they sat in social guise, Pledging each goblet with an answering kiss, Marked many a gnome conceal his bursting sighs; And thought death happier than a life like this. But they had music; at one ample side Of the vast arena of that sparkling hall, Fringed round with gems, that all the rest outvied. In form of canopy, was seen to fall The stony tapestry, over what, at first, An altar to some deity appeared; But it had cost full many a year to adjust The limpid crystal tubes that 'neath upreared Their different lucid lengths; and so complete Their wondrous 'rangement, that a tuneful gnome Drew from them sounds more varied, clear, and sweet, Than ever yet had rung in any earthly dome. Loud, shrilly, liquid, soft; at that quick touch Such modulation wooed his angel ears That Zophiël wondered, started from his couch And thought upon the music of the spheres. 

But Zophiël lingers with ill-dissembled impatience and Tahathyam leadsthe way to where the elixir of life is to be surrendered. 

 Soon through the rock they wind; the draught divine Was hidden by a veil the king alone might lift. Cephroniel's son, with half-averted face And faltering hand, that curtain drew, and showed, Of solid diamond formed, a lucid vase; And warm within the pure elixir glowed; Bright red, like flame and blood, (could they so meet, ) Ascending, sparkling, dancing, whirling, ever In quick perpetual movement; and of heat So high, the rock was warm beneath their feet, (Yet heat in its intenseness hurtful never, ) Even to the entrance of the long arcade Which led to that deep shrine, in the rock's breast As far as if the half-angel were afraid To know the secret he himself possessed. Tahathyam filled a slip of spar, with dread, As if stood by and frowned some power divine; Then trembling, as he turned to Zophiël, said, "But for one service shall thou call it thine: Bring me a wife; as I have named the way; (I will not risk destruction save for love!) Fair-haired and beauteous like my mother; say-- Plight me this pact; so shalt thou bear above, For thine own purpose, what has here been kept Since bloomed the second age, to angels dear. Bursting from earth's dark womb, the fierce wave swept Off every form that lived and loved, while here, Deep hidden here, I still lived on and wept. "

Great pains have evidently been taken to have every thing throughoutthe work in keeping. Most of the names have been selected for theirparticular meaning. Tahathyam and his retinue appear to have beensettled in their submarine dominion before the great deluge thatchanged the face of the earth, as is intimated in the lines lastquoted; and as the accounts of that judgment, and of the visits andcommunications of angels connected with it, are chiefly in Hebrew, they have names from that language. It would have been better perhapsnot to have called the persons of the third canto "gnomes, " as at thisword one is reminded of all the varieties of the Rosicrucian system, of which Pope has so well availed himself in the Rape of the Lock, which sprightly production has been said to be derived, thoughremotely, from Jewish legends of fallen angels. Tahathyam can becalled gnome only on account of the retreat to which his erring fatherhas consigned him. 

The spirits leave the cavern, and Zophiël exults a moment, as ifrestored to perfect happiness. But there is no way of bearing hisprize to the earth except through the most dangerous depths of thesea. 

 Zophiël, with toil severe, But bliss in view, through the thrice murky night, Sped swiftly on. A treasure now more dear He had to guard, than boldest hope had dared To breathe for years; but rougher grew the way; And soft Phraërion, shrinking back and scared At every whirling depth, wept for his flowers and day. Shivered, and pained, and shrieking, as the waves Wildly impel them 'gainst the jutting rocks; Not all the care and strength of Zophiël saves His tender guide from half the wildering shocks He bore. The calm, which favored their descent, And bade them look upon their task as o'er, Was past; and now the inmost earth seemed rent With such fierce storms as never raged before. Of a long mortal life had the whole pain Essenced in one consummate pang, been borne, Known, and survived, its still would be in vain To try to paint the pains felt by these sprites forlorn. The precious drop closed in its hollow spar, Between his lips Zophiël in triumph bore. Now, earth and sea seem shaken! Dashed afar He feels it part;--'tis dropt;--the waters roar, He sees it in a sable vortex whirling, Formed by a cavern vast, that 'neath the sea, Sucks the fierce torrent in. 

The furious storm has been raised by the power of his betrayer andpersecutor, and in gloomy desperation Zophiël rises with the frailPhraërion to the upper air:

 Black clouds, in mass deform, Were frowning; yet a moment's calm was there, As it had stopped to breathe awhile the storm. Their white feet pressed the desert sod; they shook From their bright locks the briny drops; nor stayed Zophiël on ills, present or past, to look. 

But his flight toward Medea is stayed by a renewal of the tempest--

 Loud and more loud the blast; in mingled gyre, Flew leaves and stones; and with a deafening crash Fell the uprooted trees; heaven seemed on fire-- Not, as 'tis wont, with intermitting flash, But, like an ocean all of liquid flame, The whole broad arch gave one continuous glare, While through the red light from their prowling came The frighted beasts, and ran, but could not find a lair. 

At length comes a shock, as if the earth crashed against some otherplanet, and they are thrown amazed and prostrate upon the heath. Zophiël, Too fierce for fear, uprose; yet ere for flight in a mood Served his torn wings, a form before him stood In gloomy majesty. Like starless night, A sable mantle fell in cloudy fold From its stupendous breast; and as it trod The pale and lurid light at distance rolled Before its princely feet, receding on the sod. 

The interview between the bland spirit and the prime cause of hisguilt is full of the energy of passion, and the rhetoric of theconversation has a masculine beauty of which Mrs. Brooks alone of allthe poets of her sex is capable. 

Zophiël returns to Medea and the drama draws to a close, which ispainted with consummate art. Egla wanders alone at twilight in theshadowy vistas of a grove, wondering and sighing at the continuedabsence of the enamored angel, who approaches unseen while she sings astrain that he had taught her. 

 His wings were folded o'er his eyes; severe As was the pain he'd borne from wave and wind, The dubious warning of that being drear, Who met him in the lightning, to his mind Was torture worse; a dark presentiment Came o'er his soul with paralyzing chill, As when Fate vaguely whispers her intent To poison mortal joy with sense of coming ill. He searched about the grove with all the care Of trembling jealousy, as if to trace By track or wounded flower some rival there; And scarcely dared to look upon the face Of her he loved, lest it some tale might tell To make the only hope that soothed him vain: He hears her notes in numbers die and swell, But almost fears to listen to the strain Himself had taught her, lest some hated name Had been with that dear gentle air enwreathed. While he was far; she sighed--he nearer came, Oh, transport! Zophiël was the name she breathed. 

He saw her--but

 Paused, ere he would advance, for very bliss. The joy of a whole mortal life he felt In that one moment. Now, too long unseen, He fain had shown his beauteous form, and knelt But while he still delayed, a mortal rushed between. 

This scene is in the sixth canto. In the fifth, which is occupiedalmost entirely by mortals, and bears a closer relation than theothers to the chief works in narrative and dramatic poetry, arerelated the adventures of Zameia, which, with the story of her death, following the last extract, would make a fine tragedy. Her misfortunesare simply told by an aged attendant who had fled with her in pursuitof Meles, whom she had seen and loved in Babylon. At the feast ofVenus Mylitta, Full in the midst, and taller than the rest, Zameia stood distinct, and not a sigh Disturbed the gem that sparkled on her breast; Her oval cheek was heightened to a dye That shamed the mellow vermeil of the wreath Which in her jetty locks became her well, And mingled fragrance with her sweeter breath, The while her haughty lips more beautifully swell With consciousness of every charm's excess; While with becoming scorn she turned her face From every eye that darted its caress, As if some god alone might hope for her embrace. 

Again she is discovered, sleeping, by the rocky margin of a river:

 Pallid and worn, but beautiful and young, Though marked her charms by wildest passion's trace; Her long round arms, over a fragment flung, From pillow all too rude protect a face, Whose dark and high arched brows gave to the thought To deem what radiance once they towered above; But all its proudly beauteous outline taught That anger there had shared the throne of love. 

It was Zameia that rushed between Zophiël and Egla, and that now withquivering lip, disordered hair, and eye gleaming with frenzy, seizedher arm, reproached her with the murder of Meles, and attempted tokill her. But as her dagger touches the white robe of the maiden herarm is arrested by some unseen power, and she falls dead at Egla'sfeet. Reproached by her own handmaid and by the aged attendant of theprincess, Egla feels all the horrors of despair, and, beset with evilinfluences, she seeks to end her own life, but is prevented by thetimely appearance of Raphael, in the character of a traveler's guide, leading Helon, a young man of her own nation and kindred who has beenliving unknown at Babylon, protected by the same angel, and destinedto be her husband; and to the mere idea of whose existence, impartedto her in a mysterious and vague manner by Raphael, she has remainedfaithful from her childhood. 

Zophiël, who by the power of Lucifer has been detained struggling inthe grove, is suffered once more to enter the presence of the objectof his affection. He sees her supported in the arms of Helon, whom hemakes one futile effort to destroy, and then is banished forever. Theemissaries of his immortal enemy pursue the baffled seraph to hisplace of exile, and by their derision endeavor to augment his misery, And when they fled he hid him in a cave Strewn with the bones of some sad wretch who there, Apart from men, had sought a desert grave, And yielded to the demon of despair. There beauteous Zophiël, shrinking from the day, Envying the wretch that so his life had ended, Wailed his eternity;

But, at last, is visited by Raphael, who gives him hopes ofrestoration to his original rank in heaven. 

The concluding canto is entitled "The Bridal of Helon, " and in thefollowing lines it contains much of the author's philosophy of life:

 The bard has sung, God never formed a soul Without its own peculiar mate, to meet Its wandering half, when ripe to crown the whole Bright plan of bliss, most heavenly, most complete! But thousand evil things there are that hate To look on happiness; these hurt, impede, And, leagued with time, space, circumstance, and fate, Keep kindred heart from heart, to pine and pant and bleed. And as the dove to far Palmyra flying, From where her native founts of Antioch beam, Weary, exhausted, longing, panting, sighing, Lights sadly at the desert's bitter stream; So many a soul, o'er life's drear desert faring, Love's pure, congenial spring unfound, unquaffed, Suffers, recoils, then, thirsty and despairing Of what it would, descends and sips the nearest draught. 

On consulting "Zophiël, " it will readily be seen that the passageshere extracted have not been chosen for their superior poetical merit. It has simply been attempted by quotations and a running commentary toconvey a just impression of the scope and character of the work. Thereis not perhaps in the English language a poem containing a greatervariety of thought, description and incident, and though the authordid not possess in an eminent degree the constructive faculty, thereare few narratives that are conducted with more regard to unities, orwith more simplicity and perspicuity. 

Though characterized by force and even freedom of expression, it doesnot contain an impure or irreligious sentiment. Every page is full ofpassion, but passion subdued and chastened by refinement and delicacy. Several of the characters are original and splendid creations. Zophiëlseems to us the finest fallen angel that has come from the hand of apoet. Milton's outcasts from heaven are utterly depraved and abradedof their glory; but Zophiël has traces of his original virtue andbeauty, and a lingering hope of restoration to the presence of theDivinity. Deceived by the specious fallacies of an immortal likehimself, and his superior in rank, he encounters the blackest perfidyin him for whom so much had been forfeited, and the blight of everyprospect that had lured his fancy or ambition. Egla, though one of themost important characters in the poem, is much less interesting. Sheis represented as heroically consistent, except when given over for amoment to the malice of infernal emissaries. In her immediatereception of Helon as a husband, she is constant to a long cherishedidea, and fulfills the design of her guardian spirit, or it wouldexcite some wonder that Zophiël was worsted in such competition. Itwill be perceived upon a careful examination that the work is inadmirable keeping, and that the entire conduct of its several personsbears a just relation to their characters and position. 

Mrs. Brooks returned to the United States, and her son being now astudent in the military academy, she took up her residence in thevicinity of West Point, where, with occasional intermissions in whichshe visited her plantation in Cuba or traveled in the United States, she remained until 1839. Her marked individuality, the variety, beautyand occasional splendor of her conversation, made her house a favoriteresort of the officers of the academy, and of the most accomplishedpersons who frequented that romantic neighborhood, by many of whom shewill long be remembered with mingled affection and admiration. 

In 1834 she caused to be published in Boston an edition of "Zophiël, "for the benefit of the Polish exiles who were thronging to thiscountry after their then recent struggle for freedom. There were atthat time too few readers among us of sufficiently cultivated andindependent taste to appreciate a work of art which time or accidenthad not commended to the popular applause, and "Zophiël" scarcelyanywhere excited any interest or attracted any attention. At the endof a month but about twenty copies had been sold, and, in a moment ofdisappointment, Mrs. Brooks caused the remainder of the impression tobe withdrawn from the market. The poem has therefore been little readin this country, and even the title of it would have remained unknownto the common reader of elegant literature but for occasionalallusions to it by Southey and other foreign critics. [2]

In the summer of 1843, while Mrs. Brooks was residing at FortColumbus, in the bay of New York, --a military post at which her son, Captain Horace Brooks, was stationed several years--she had printedfor private circulation the remarkable little work to which allusionhas already been made, entitled "Idomen, or the Vale of the Yumuri. "It is in the style of a romance, but contains little that isfictitious except the names of the characters. The account whichIdomen gives of her own history is literally true, except in relationto an excursion to Niagara, which occurred in a different period ofthe author's life. It is impossible to read these interesting"confessions" without feeling a profound interest in the characterwhich they illustrate; a character of singular strength, dignity anddelicacy, subjected to the severest tests, and exposed to the mostcurious and easy analysis. "To see the inmost soul of one who bore allthe impulse and torture of self-murder without perishing, is what canseldom be done: very few have memories strong enough to retain adistinct impression of past suffering, and few, though possessed ofsuch memories, have the power of so describing their sensations as tomake them apparent to another. " "Idomen" will possess an interest andvalue as a psychological study, independent of that which belongs toit as a record of the experience of so eminent a poet. 

Mrs. Brooks was anxious to have published an edition of all herwritings, including "Idomen, " before leaving New York, and sheauthorized me to offer gratuitously her copyrights to an eminentpublishing house for that purpose. In the existing condition of thecopyright laws, which should have been entitled acts for thediscouragement of a native literature, she was not surprised that theoffer was declined, though indignant that the reason assigned shouldhave been that they were "of too elevated a character to sell. "Writing to me soon afterward she observed, "I do not think any thingfrom my humble imagination can be 'too elevated, ' or elevated enough, for the public as it really is in these North American States.... Inthe words of poor Spurzheim, (uttered to me a short time before hisdeath, in Boston, ) I solace myself by saying, 'Stupidity! stupidity!the knowledge of that alone has saved me from misanthropy. '"

[Footnote 2: Maria del Occidente--otherwise, we believe, Mrs. Brooks--is styled in "The Doctor, " &c. "the most impassioned and mostimaginative of all poetesses. " And without taking into account _quædamardentiora_ scattered here and there throughout her singular poem, there is undoubtedly ground for the first clause, and, with the moreaccurate substitution of "fanciful" for "imaginative" for the whole ofthe eulogy. It is altogether an extraordinary performance. --_LondonQuarterly Review. _]

In December, 1843, Mrs. Brooks sailed the last time from her nativecountry for the Island of Cuba. There, on her coffee estate, Hermita, she renewed for a while her literary labors. The small stone building, smoothly plastered, with a flight of steps leading to its entrance, inwhich she wrote some of the cantos of "Zophiël, " is described by arecent traveler[3] as surrounded by alleys of "palms, cocoas, andoranges, interspersed with the tamarind, the pomegranate, the mangoe, and the rose-apple, with a back ground of coffee and plantainscovering every portion of the soil with their luxuriant verdure. Ihave often passed it, " he observes, "in the still night, when the moonwas shining brightly, and the leaves of the cocoa and palm threwfringe-like shadows on the walls and the floor, and the elfin lamps ofthe cocullos swept through the windows and door, casting their lurid, mysterious light on every object, while the air was laden with mingledperfume from the coffee and orange, and the tube-rose andnight-blooming ceres, and have thought that no fitter birth-placecould be found for the images she has created. "

Her habits of composition were peculiar. With an almost unconquerableaversion to the use of the pen, especially in her later years, it washer custom to finish her shorter pieces, and entire cantos of longerpoems, before committing a word of them to paper. She had longmeditated, and had partly composed, an epic under the title of"Beatriz, the Beloved of Columbus, " and when transmitting to me theMS. Of "The Departed, " in August, 1844, she remarked: "When I havewritten out my 'Vistas del Infierno' and one other short poem, I hopeto begin the penning of the epic I have so often spoken to you of; butwhen or whether it will ever be finished, Heaven alone can tell. " Ihave not learned whether this poem was written, but when I heard herrepeat passages of it, I thought it would be a nobler work than"Zophiël. "

Mrs. Brooks died at Patricio, in Cuba, near the close of December, 1844. 

I have no room for particular criticism of her minor poems. They willsoon I trust be given to the public in a suitable edition, when itwill be discovered that they are heart-voices, distinguished for thesame fearlessness of thought and expression which is illustrated bythe work which has been considered in this brief reviewal. 

The accompanying portrait is from a picture by Mr. Alexander, ofBoston, and though the engraver has very well preserved the detailsand general effect of the painting, it does little justice to the fineintellectual expression of the subject. It was a fancy of Mr. Southey's that induced her to wear in her hair the passion-flower, which that poet deemed the fittest emblem of her nature. 

[Footnote 3: The author of "Notes on Cuba. " Boston, 1844. ]

THE CRUISE OF THE RAKER. 

A TALE OF THE WAR OF 1812-15. 

BY HENRY A. CLARK. 

CHAPTER I. 

_The Departure of the Privateer. _

It was a dark and cloudy afternoon near the close of the war of1812-15. A little vessel was scudding seaward before a strongsou'wester, which lashed the bright waters of the Delaware till itsbreast seemed a mimic ocean, heaving and swelling with tiny waves. Asthe sky and sea grew darker and darker in the gathering shades oftwilight, the little bark rose upon the heavy swell of the ocean, andmeeting Cape May on its lee-beam, shot out upon the broad waste ofwaters, alone in its daring course, seeming like the fearless birdwhich spreads its long wings amid the fury of the storm and thedarkness of the cloud. 

Upon the deck, near the helm, stood the captain, whom we introduce toour readers as George Greene, captain of the American privater, Raker. He was a weather-bronzed, red-cheeked, sturdy-built personage, with adark-blue eye, the same in color as the great sea over which it wasroving with an earnest and careful glance, rather as if in search of astrange sail, than in apprehension of the approaching storm. Hiscountenance denoted firmness and resolution, which he truly possessedin an extraordinary degree, and his whole appearance was that of ahardy sailor accustomed to buffet with the storm and laugh at thefiercest wave. 

It was evident that a bad night was before them, and there were someon board the little privateer who thought they had better haveremained inside the light-house of Cape May, than ventured out uponthe sea. The heavy masses of black clouds which were piled on the edgeof the distant horizon seemed gradually gathering nearer and nearer, as if to surround and ingulf the gallant vessel, which sped onwardfearlessly and proudly, as if conscious of its power to survive thetempest, and bide the storm. 

Captain Greene's eye was at length attracted by the threatening aspectof the sky, and seizing his speaking-trumpet he gave the orders ofpreparation, which were the more promptly executed inasmuch as theyhad been anxiously awaited. 

"Lay aloft there, lads, and in with the fore to'gallant-sail androyal--down with the main gaff top-sail!--bear a hand, lads, a northeron the Banks is no plaything! Clear away both cables, and see thembent to the anchors--let's have all snug--lower the flag from thegaff-peak, and send up the storm-pennant, there--now we are ready. "

A thunder-storm at sea is perhaps the sublimest sight in nature, especially when attended with the darkness and mystery of night. Thestruggling vessel plunges onward into the deep blackness, like a blindand unbridled war-horse. All is dark--fearfully dark. Stand with me, dear reader, here in the bow of the ship! make fast to that halliard, and share with me in the glorious feelings engendered by the stormwhich is now rioting over the waters and rending the sky. We hear thefierce roar of the contending surges, yet we see them not. We hear thequivering sails and strained sheets, creaking and fluttering likeimprisoned spirits, above and around us, but all is solemnlyinvisible; now, see in the distant horizon the faint premonitory flushof light, preceding the vivid lightning flash--now, for a moment, every thing--sky--water--sheet--shroud and spar are glowing with abrilliancy that exceedeth the brightness of day--the sky is a broadcanopy of golden radiance, and the waves are crested with a red andfiery surge, that reminds you of your conception of the "lake ofburning fire and brimstone. " We feel the dread--the vast sublimity ofthe breathless moment, and while the mighty thoughts and tumultuousconceptions are striving for form and order of utterance within ourthrobbing breasts--again all is dark--sadly, solemnly dark. Is not thescene--is not the hour, truly sublime?

There was one at least on board the little Raker, who felt as weshould have felt, dear reader--a sense of exultation, mingled withawe. It is upon the ocean that man learns his own weakness, and hisown strength--he feels the light vessel trembling beneath him, as ifit feared dissolution--he hears the strained sheets moaning in almostconscious agony--he sees the great waves dashing from stem to stern inrelentless glee, and he feels that he is a sport and a plaything inthe grasp of a mightier power; he learns his own insignificance. Yetthe firm deck remains--the taut sheets and twisted halliards give notaway; and he learns a proud reliance on his own skill and might, whenhe finds that with but a narrow hold between him and death, he canoutride the storm, and o'ermaster the wave. 

Such were the thoughts which filled the mind of Henry Morris, as hestood by the side of Captain Greene on the quarter-deck of the Raker;as he stood with his left arm resting on the main-boom, and hisgracefully turned little tarpaulin thrown back from a broad, highforehead, surrounded by dark and clustering curls, and with his black, brilliant eyes lighted up with the enthusiasm of thought, he presenteda splendid specimen of an American sailor. The epaulette upon hisshoulder denoted that he was an officer; he was indeed second incommand in the privateer. He was a native of New Jersey, and hisfather had been in Revolutionary days one of the "Jarsey Blues, " asbrave and gallant men as fought in that glorious struggle. 

"Well, Harry, " said Captain Greene, "it's a dirty night, but I'll turnin a spell, and leave you in command. "

"Ay, ay, sir. "

Captain Greene threw out a huge quid of tobacco which had rested forsome time in his mouth, walked the deck a few times fore and aft, gaped as if his jaws were about to separate forever, and thendisappeared through the cabin-door. 

Henry Morris, though an universal favorite with the crew and officersunder his command, was yet a strict disciplinarian, and being left incommand of the deck at once went the rounds of the watch, to see thatall were on the look out. The night had far advanced before he saw anyremissness; at length, however, he discovered a brawny tar stowed awayin a coil of rope, snoring in melodious unison with the noise of thewind and wave; his mouth was open, developing an amazingcircumference. Morris looked at him for some time, when, with a smile, he addressed a sailor near him. 

"I say, Jack Marlinspike!"

"Ay, ay, sir. "

"Jack, get some oakum. "

Jack speedily brought a fist-full. 

"Now, Jack, some _slush_. "

Jack dipped the oakum in the slush-bucket which hung against themain-mast. 

"Now, Jack, a little tar. "

The mixture was immediately dropped into the tar-bucket. 

"Now, Jack, stow it away in Pratt's mouth--don't wake him up--'tis adelicate undertaking, but he sleeps soundly. "

"Lord! a stroke of lightning wouldn't wake him--ha! ha! ha! he'lldream he is eating his breakfast!"

With a broad grin upon his weather-beaten face, Marlinspike proceededto obey orders. He placed the execrable compound carefully in Pratt'smouth, and plugged it down, as he called it, with the end of hisjack-knife, then surveying his work with a complacent laugh, hetouched his hat, and withdrew a few paces to bide the event. 

Pratt breathed hard, but slept on, though the melody of his snoringwas sadly impaired in the clearness of its utterance. 

Morris gazed at him quietly, and then sung out, "Pratt--Pratt--what are you lying there wheezing like a porpoise for?Get up, man, your watch is not out. "

The sailor opened his eyes with a ludicrous expression of fright, ashe became immediately conscious of a peculiar feeling of difficulty inbreathing--thrusting his huge hand into his mouth, he hauled away uponits contents, and at length found room for utterance. 

"By heaven, just tell me who did that 'ar nasty trick--that's all. "

At this moment he caught sight of Marlinspike, who was looking at himwith a grin extending from ear to ear. Without further remark, Prattlet the substance which he had held in his hand fly at Marlinspike'shead; that individual, however, dodged very successfully, and itdisappeared to leeward. 

Pratt was about to follow up his first discharge with an assault froma pair of giant fists, but the voice of his commander restrained him. 

"Ah, Pratt! somebody has been fooling you--you must look out for thefuture. "

Pratt immediately knew from the peculiar tone of the voice whichaccompanied this remark who was the real author of the joke, andturned to his duty with the usual philosophy of a sailor, at the sametime filling his mouth with nearly a whole hand of tobacco, to takethe taste out, as he said. He did not soon sleep upon his watch again. 

As the reader will perceive, Lieut. Morris was decidedly fond of ajoke, as, indeed, is every sailor. 

The storm still raged onward as day broke over the waters; the littleRaker was surrounded by immense waves which heaved their foaming sprayover the vessel from stem to stern. 

Yet all on board were in good spirits; all had confidence in thewell-tried strength of their bark, and the joke and jest went round asgayly and carelessly as if the wind were only blowing a good stiffway. 

"Here, you snow-ball, " cried Jack Marlinspike, to the black cook, whohad just emptied his washings overboard, and was tumbling back to hisgalley as well as the uneasy motion of the vessel would allow; "here, snow-ball. "

"Well, massa--what want?"

"Haint we all told you that you mustn't empty nothing over to windwardbut hot water and ashes--all else must go to leeward?"

"Yes, Massa. "

"Well, recollect it now; go and empty your ash-pot, so you'll learnhow. "

"Yes, massa. "

Cuffy soon appeared with his pot, which he capsized as directed, andgot his eyes full of the dust. 

"O, Lord! O, Lord! I see um now; I guess you wont catch dis child thatway agin. "

"Well, well, Cuffy! we must all learn by experience. "

"Gorry, massa, guess I wont try de hot water!"

"Well, I wouldn't, Cuff. Now hurry up the pork--you've learntsomething this morning. "

Such was the spirit of the Raker's crew, as they once more stretchedout upon the broad ocean. It was their third privateering trip, andthey felt confident of success, as they had been unusually fortunatein their previous trips. The crew consisted of but twenty men, but allwere brave and powerful fellows, and all actuated by a true love ofcountry, as well as prompted by a desire for gain. A long thirty-twolay amidships, carefully covered with canvas, which also concealed aformidable pile of balls. Altogether, the Raker, though evidentlybuilt entirely for speed, seemed also a vessel well able to enterinto an engagement with any vessel of its size and complement. 

As the middle day approached the clouds arose and scudded away toleeward like great flocks of wild geese, and the bright sun once moreshone upon the waters, seeming to hang a string of pearls about thedark crest of each subsiding wave. All sail was set aboard the Raker, which stretched out toward mid ocean, with the stars and stripesflying at her peak, the free ocean beneath, and her band of gallanthearts upon her decks, ready for the battle or the breeze. 

CHAPTER II. 

_The Merchant Brig. _

Two weeks later than the period at which we left the Raker, a handsomemerchant vessel, with all sail set, was gliding down the Englishchannel, bound for the East Indies. The gentle breeze of a lovelyautumnal morning scarcely sufficed to fill the sails, and the vesselmade but little progress till outside the Lizard, when a freer windstruck it, and it swept oceanward with a gallant pace, dashing asidethe waters, and careering gracefully as a swan upon the wave. Itsarmament was of little weight, and it seemed evident that its voyage, as far as any design of the owners was concerned, was to be a peacefulone. England at that time had become the undisputed mistress of theocean; and even the few splendid victories obtained by the gallantlittle American navy, had failed as yet to inspire in the bosoms ofher sailors, any feeling like that of fear or of caution; and CaptainHorton, of the merchantman Betsy Allen, smoked his pipe, and drank hisglass as unconcernedly as if there were no such thing as an Americanprivateer upon the ocean. 

The passengers in the vessel, which was a small brig of not more thana hundred and forty tons, were an honest merchant of London, ThomasWilliams by name, and his daughter, a lovely girl of seventeen. Mr. Williams had failed in business, but through the influence of friendshad obtained an appointment from the East India Company, and was nowon his way to take his station. He was a blunt and somewhat unpolishedman, but kind in heart as he was frank in speech. 

Julia Williams was a fair specimen of English beauty; she was tall, yet so well developed, that she did not appear slight or angular, andwithal so gracefully rounded was every limb, that any less degree offullness would have detracted from her beauty. She was full of ardorand enterprise, not easily appalled by danger, and properly confidentin her own resources, yet there was no unfeminine expression ofboldness in her countenance, for nothing could be softer, purer, ormore delicate, than the outlines of her charming features. There weretimes when, roused by intense emotion, she seemed queen-like in herhaughty step and majestic beauty, yet in her calmer mind, her retiringand modest demeanor partook more of a womanly dependence than of theseverity of command. 

Julia was seated on the deck beside her father, in the grateful shadeof the main-mast, gazing upon the green shores which they had justpassed, now fast fading in the distance, while the chalky cliffs whichcircle the whole coast of England, began to stand out in bold reliefupon the shore. 

"Good-bye to dear England, father!" said the beautiful girl; "shall weever see it again?"

"_You_ may, dear Julia, probably _I_ never shall. "

"Well, let us hope that we may. "

"Yes, we will hope, it will be a proud day for me, if it ever come, when I go back to London and pay my creditors every cent I owe them, when no man shall have reason to curse me for the injury I have donehim, however unintentional. "

"No man will do so now, dear father, no one but knows you did all youcould to avert the calamity, and when it came, surrendered all yourproperty to meet the demands of your creditors. You did all that anhonest man should do, father; and you can have no reason to reproachyourself. "

"True, girl, true! I do not; yet I hate to think that I, whose namewas once as good as the bank, should now owe, when I cannotpay--that's all; a bad feeling, but a few years in India may make allright again. "

"O, yes! but, father, it is time for you to take your morning glass. You know you wont feel well if you forget it. "

"Never fear my forgetting that; my stomach always tell me, and I knowby that when it is 11 o'clock, A. M. , as well as by my time-piece. "

"Well, John, bring Mr. Williams his morning glass. "

Julia spoke to their servant, a worthy, clever fellow, who had longlived in their family, and would not leave it now. He had never beenupon the ocean before, and already began to be sea-sick. He howevermanaged to reach the cabin-door, and after a long time returned withthe glass, which he got to his master's hand, spilling half itscontents on the way. 

"There, master, I haint been drinking none on't, but this plaguey shipis so dommed uneasy, I can't walk steady, and I feels very sick, Idoes; I think I be's going to die. "

"You are only a little sea-sick, John. "

"Not so dommed little, either. "

"You are not yet used to your new situation, John; in a few daysyou'll be quite a sailor. "

"Will I though? Well, the way I feels now, I'd just as lief die asnot--oh!--ugh"--and John rushed to the gunwale. 

"Heave yo!" sung out a jolly tar; "pitch your cargo overboard. You'llsail better if you lighten ship. "

"Dom this ere sailing--ugh--I will die. "

Thus resolving, John laid himself down by the galley, and closed hiseyes with a heroic determination. 

Such an event, as might be expected, was a great joke to the crew--aland-lubber at sea being with sailors always a fair butt, and poorJohn's misery was aggravated by their, as it seemed to him, unfeelingremarks, yet he was so far gone that he could only faintly "dom them. "His master, who knew that he would soon be well, made no attempt torelieve him; and John was for some time unmolested in his vigorousattempt to die. 

He was aroused at length by the same tar who had first noticed hissickness, "I say, lubber, are you sick?"

"Yes, dom sick. "

"Well, I expect you've got to die, there's only one thing that'll saveyou--get up and follow me to the cock-pit. "

John attempted to rise, but now really unwell, he was not able tostir. His kind physician calling a brother tar to his aid, theyassisted John below. 

"There, now, you lubber, I'm going to cure you, if you'll only follerdirections. "

John merely grunted. 

"Here's some raw pork, and some grog, though it's a pity to waste grogon such a lubber--now, you must eat as if you'd never ate before, ifyou don't, you are a goner. "

John very faintly uttered, that he couldn't "eat a dom bit. "

"Then you'll die, and the fishes will eat YOU. "

John shuddered, "Well, I'll try. "

So saying, he downed one of the pieces of pork, which as speedily cameup again. 

"Now drink, and be quick about it, or I shall drink it for you. "

With much exertion they made John eat and drink heartily, after whichthey left him to sleep awhile. 

The following morning John appeared on deck again, exceedingly pale tobe sure, but entirely recovered from his sea-sickness, and with afeeling of fervent gratitude toward the sailor, who, as he fancied, had saved his valuable life. 

Nothing occurred to interrupt the peaceful monotony of life aboard thelittle craft for the following ten days: before a good breeze they hadmade much way in their voyage, and all on board were pleased withprosperous wind and calm sea and sky. 

On the morning of the following day, however, the cry from themast-head of "sail ho!" aroused all on board to a feeling of interest. 

"Where away?"

"Right over the lee-bow. "

"What do you make of her?"

"Square to'sails, queer rig--flag, can't see it. "

"O! captain, " said Julia, "can't you go near enough to speak it?"

"Of course I _could_, 'cause it's right on the lee, but whether I'dbetter or not is quite another thing. "

"The captain knows best, my dear, " said the merchant. 

"Certainly, but I should so like to see some other faces besides thosewhich are about us every day. "

"If you are tired already, my pretty lady, " said Captain Horton, "Iwonder what you'll be before we get to the Indies. "

"Heigh-ho, " sighed the fair lady. 

"Mast-head there, " shouted Captain Horton. 

"Ay, ay, sir. "

"What do you make of her _now_?"

"Nothing yet, sir; we are overhauling her fast though. "

In a short time the top-sails of the strange vessel became visiblefrom the deck. 

"Ah! she's hove in sight, has she?" said Captain Horton. "I'll seewhat I can make of her, " and seizing his glass he ascended thefore-ratlins, nearly to the cross-trees, and after a long and steadysurvey of the approaching vessel, in which survey he also included thewhole horizon, he descended with a thoughtful countenance, mutteringto himself, "I was a little afraid of it. "

"Well captain, " inquired Julia, "is it an English vessel?"

"May be 't is--can't tell where 't was built. "

"Can't you see the flag?"

"Can't make it out yet. "

"Captain Horton, " exclaimed the merchant, who had been watching hiscountenance from the moment he had descended the ratlins, "you _do_know something about that vessel, I am sure. "

Captain Horton interrupted him by an earnest glance toward Julia, which the fair girl herself noticed. 

"O! be not afraid to say any thing before me, captain. I am not easilyfrightened, and if you have to fight I will help you. "

The bright eyes of the girl as she spoke grew brighter, and her littlehand was clenched as if it held a sword. 

Casting a glance of admiration toward the beautiful girl, CaptainHorton leisurely filled his pipe from his waistcoat pocket, andreplied as he lit it--

"Well, I'm inclined to think it's what we call a pirate, my fairlady. "

"A pirate, " sung out John, "a pirate, boo-hoo! oh dear! we shall allbe ravaged and cooked, and eaten. O dear! why didn't I marry SusanThompson, and go to keeping an inn--boo-hoo!"

"John, " said his master, "be still, or if you must cry, go below. "

The servant made a manly effort, and managed to repress hisejaculations, but could not keep back the large tears which followedeach other down his cheeks in rapid succession. 

"Can't you run from her, captain?" asked the merchant. 

"Have you no guns aboard?" inquired Julia. 

"I see you are for fighting the rascals, Miss Julia, and I own thatwould be the pleasantest course for me; but you see, we can't do it. The company don't allow their vessels enough fire-arms to beat off abrig half their own size--there's no way but to run for it, and theserascals always have a swift craft--generally a Baltimore clipper, which is just the fastest and prettiest vessel in the world, if thosepesky Yankees do build them--but the Betsy Allen aint a slow craft, and we'll do the best we can to show 'em a clean pair of heels. "

"You are to windward of them, captain, " said Julia. 

"Yes, that's true; but these clippers sail right in the teeth of thewind; see, now, how they've neared us--ahoy!--all hands ahoy!"

"Ay, ay, sir. "

"'Bout ship, my boys--let go the jibs--lively, boys; now the forepeak-halyards. There she is--that throws the strange sail rightastern; and a stern chase is a long chase. "

Three or four hours of painful anxiety succeeded, when it becameevident even to the unpracticed eyes of Julia and her father, that thestrange vessel was slowly but surely overhauling them. Yet the bravegirl showed none of the usual weakness of her sex, and even encouragedher father, who, though himself a brave man, yet trembled as hethought of the probable fate of his daughter. As for poor John, thatunfortunate individual was so completely beside himself, that hewandered from one part of the vessel to the other, asking each sailorsuccessively what his opinion of the chances of escape might be, andwhat treatment they might expect from the pirates after they weretaken. As may be imagined, he received little consolation from thehardy tars, who, although themselves well aware of their probablefate, yet had been too long schooled in danger to show fear before theperil was immediately around them, and were each pursuing the dutiesof their several stations, very much as if only threatened with theusual dangers of the voyage. The unmanly fears of John even inducedthem to play upon his anxiety, and magnify his terror. 

"Why, John, " said his old friend, who had so scientifically cured himof his sea-sickness, and toward whom John evinced a kind of filialreverence, placing peculiar reliance upon every thing said by theworthy tar, "why, John, they will make us all walk the plank. "

"Will they--O, dear me! and what is that, does it hurt a fellow?"

"O, no! he dies easy. "

"Dies! oh, lud!"

"Why, yes! you know what walking the plank is, don't yer?"

"No I don't. O, dear!"

"Well, they run a plank over the side of the ship, and ask you verypolitely to walk out to the end of it. "

"O, lud! and don't they let a body hold on?"

"And then when you get to the end of it, why, John, it naturallyfollers that it tips up, and lets you into the sea. "

"And don't they help you out?"

"No, no, John! I aint joking now, by my honor; that's the end of aman, and that's where we shall go to if they get hold of us. "

"O, dear me! what did I come to sea for? Well, but s'posin you wont goout on the plank, wouldn't it do just to tell 'em you'd rather not, perlitely, you know--perliteness goes a great way. "

"They just blow your brains out with a pistol, that's all. "

"O, lud!"

"Yes, John, that's the way they use folks. "

"The bloody villains! and have we all got to walk the plank? Oh! dearMiss Julia, and all?"

"No, no, John, not her; poor girl, it would be better if she had"--andthe kind-hearted tar brushed away a tear with his tawny hand. 

"What! don't they kill the women, then?"

"No, no, John, they lets them live. "

A sudden light shone in the eyes of John; it was the first happyexpression that had flitted across his countenance since the strangesail had been discovered, and the fearful word, pirate, had fallenupon his ears. 

"I have it--I have it!"

"What, John?"

But John danced off, leaving the sailor to wonder at the suddenmetamorphosis in the feelings of the cockney. 

"Well, that's a queer son of a lubber; I wonder what he's after now. "

John, in the meantime, approached Julia, and in a very mysteriousmanner desired a few moments private conversation with her. 

"Why, John, what can you want?" She had been no woman, if, however, her curiosity to learn the motive of so strange a request from herservant had not induced her to listen to him. 

"Miss Julia, " commenced John, "I've discovered a way in which we canall be saved alive by these bloody pirates, after they catch us; byall, I mean you and your father, and I, and the captain, if he's amind to. "

"Well, what is it, John?"

"I'll tell you, Miss Julia. Dick Halyard says they only kill themen--they makes all them walk the plank, which is--"

"I know what it is, " said Julia, with a slight shudder. 

"Well, they saves all the women, out o' respect for the weaker sex. Now, Miss Julia. "

"Why, John!"

"But I know it's so, 'cause Dick Halyard told me all about it; now yousee if you'll only let me take one of your dresses--I wont hurt itnone; and then your father can take another, and we'll get clear ofthe bloody villains--wont it be great?"

Julia could not repress a laugh even in the midst of the melancholythoughts which involuntarily arose in her mind during the elucidationof John's plan of escape; she could not, however, explain thedifficulties in the way of its successful issue to the self-satisfiedexpounder, and finding no other more convenient way of closing theconversation, she told him he should have a woman's dress, with allthe necessary accompaniments. 

John was delighted. 

"You'll tell your father, Miss Julia, wont you? O, Lud! we'll cheatthe bloody fellows yet; I'll go and curl my hair. "

Julia returned to her father's side, and silently watched the strangesail, which was evidently drawing nearer, as her dark hull had shownitself above the waters. 

"We have but one chance of escape left, " exclaimed Captain Horton; "ifwe can elude them during the night, all will be well; if to-morrow'ssun find us in sight, we shall inevitably fall into their hands. "

Night gradually settled over the deep, and when the twilight hadpassed, and all was dark, the lights of the pirate brig were some fivemiles to leeward. Her blood-red flag had been run up to the fore-peak, as if in mockery of the prey the pirates felt sure could not escapethem--and the booming noise of a heavy gun had reached the ears of thefugitives, as if to signal their predestined doom. Yet the calm, roundmoon looked down upon the gloomy waters with the same serenecountenance that had gazed into their bosom for thousands of years, and trod upward on her starry pathway with the same queenly pace; yet, perchance, in her own domains contention and strife, animosity andbloodshed were rife; perchance the sound of tumultuous war, even then, was echoing among her mountains, and staining her streams with gore. 

 [_To be continued. _

THE SOUL'S DREAM. 

BY GEORGE H. BOKER. 

 Like an army with its banners, onward marched the mighty sun, To his home in triumph hastening, when the hard-fought field was won; While the thronging clouds hung proudly o'er the victor's bright array, Gold and red and purple pennons, welcoming the host of day. 

 Gazing on the glowing pageant, slowly fading from the air, Closed my mind its heavy eyelids, nodding o'er the world of care; And the soaring thoughts came fluttering downward to their tranquil nest, Folded up their wearied pinions, sinking one by one to rest. 

 Till a deep, o'ermastering slumber seemed to wrap my very soul, And a gracious dream from Heaven, treading lightly, to me stole: Downward from its plumes ethereal, on my thirsting bosom flowed Dews which to the land of spirits all their mystic virtue owed. 

 And when touched that potent essence, Time divided as a cloud, From the Past, the Present, Future rolled aside oblivion's shroud; And Life's hills and vales far-stretching full before my vision lay, Seeming but an isle of shadow in Eternity's broad day. 

 On the Past I bent my glances, saw the gentle, guileless child Face to face with God conversing, and the awful Presence smiled-- Smiled a glory on the forehead of the simple-hearted one, And the radiance, back reflected, cast a splendor round the throne. 

 Saw the boy, by Heaven instructed through earth's mute, symbolic forms, Drinking wisdom with his senses, which the higher nature warms; Saw that purer knowledge mingled with the worldling's base alloy, And the passions' foul impression stamped upon his face of joy. 

 O, I cried to God in anguish, is this boasted wisdom vain, For which I, by night and sunshine, tax my overwearied brain; Till, alas! grown too familiar with the thoughts that knock at Heaven, I would further pierce the mystery than to mortal eye is given?

 Is the learning of our childhood, is the pure and easy lore Speaking in a heart unsullied, better than the vaunted store Heaped, like ice, to chill and harden every faculty save mind, By the hand of haughty Science, sometimes wandering, sometimes blind?

 But no answer reached my senses; for my feeble voice was lost, When the Future came in darkness, like a rushing arméd host; Shouting cries of fear and danger, shouting words of hope and cheer, Racking me with threat and promise, ever coming, never here. 

 Then my spirit stretched its vision, prying in the doubtful gloom, Half a glimpse to me was given o'er Time's boundary-stone--the tomb. With a shriek, like that which rises from a sinking, night-wrecked bark, Burst my soul the bounds of slumber, and the world and I were dark!

 While the dull and leaden Present on my palsied spirit pressed, Till the soaring thoughts rose upward, bounding from their earthly rest; Shaking down the golden dew-drops from their pinions proud and strong, And the cares of life fell from me, fading in the realm of Song. 

THE MAID OF BOGOTA. 

A TALE FROM COLOMBIAN HISTORY. 

BY W. GILMORE SIMMS. 

Whenever the several nations of the earth which have achieved theirdeliverance from misrule and tyranny shall point, as they each may, tothe fair women who have taken active part in the cause of liberty, andby their smiles and services have contributed in no measured degree tothe great objects of national defence and deliverance, it will be witha becoming and just pride only that the Colombians shall point totheir virgin martyr, commonly known among them as La Pola, the Maid ofBogota. With the history of their struggle for freedom her story willalways be intimately associated; her tragical fate, due solely to thecause of her country, being linked with all the touching interest ofthe most romantic adventure. Her spirit seemed to be woven of thefinest materials. She was gentle, exquisitively sensitive, and capableof the most true and tender attachments. Her mind was one of rarestendowments, touched to the finest issues of eloquence, and gifted withall the powers of the improvisatrice, while her courage and patriotismseem to have been cast in those heroic moulds of antiquity from whichcame the Cornelias and Deborahs of famous memory. Well had it been forher country had the glorious model which she bestowed upon her peoplebeen held in becoming homage by the race with which her destiny wascast--a race masculine only in exterior, and wanting wholly in thatnecessary strength of soul which, rising to the due appreciation ofthe blessings of national freedom, is equally prepared to make, forits attainment, every necessary sacrifice of self; and yet our heroinewas but a child in years--a lovely, tender, feeble creature, scarcelyfifteen years of age. But the soul grows rapidly to maturity in somecountries, and in the case of women, it is always great in its youth, if greatness is ever destined to be its possession. 

Doña Apolenaria Zalabariata--better known by the name of La Pola--wasa young girl, the daughter of a good family of Bogota, who wasdistinguished at an early period, as well for her great gifts ofbeauty as of intellect. She was but a child when Bolivar firstcommenced his struggles with the Spanish authorities, with theostensible object of freeing his country from their oppressivetyrannies. It is not within our province to discuss the merits of hispretensions as a deliverer, or of his courage and military skill as ahero. The judgment of the world and of time has fairly set at restthose specious and hypocritical claims, which, for a season, presumedto place him on the pedestal with our Washington. We now know that hewas not only a very selfish, but a very ordinary man--not ordinary, perhaps, in the sense of intellect, for that would be impossible inthe case of one who was so long able to maintain his eminentposition, and to succeed in his capricious progresses, in spite ofinferior means, and a singular deficiency of the heroic faculty. Buthis ambition was the vulgar ambition, and, if possible, somethingstill inferior. It contemplated his personal wants alone; it lackedall the elevation of purpose which is the great essential ofpatriotism, and was wholly wanting in that magnanimity of soul whichdelights in the sacrifice of self, whenever such sacrifice promisesthe safety of the single great purpose which it professes to desire. But we are not now to consider Bolivar, the deliverer, as one whoseplace in the pantheon has already been determined by the unerringjudgment of posterity. We are to behold him only with those eyes inwhich he was seen by the devoted followers to whom he brought, orappeared to bring, the deliverance for which they yearned. It is withthe eyes of the passionate young girl, La Pola, the beautiful andgifted child, whose dream of country perpetually craved the republicancondition of ancient Rome, in the days of its simplicity and virtue;it is with her fancy and admiration that we are to crown the _ideal_Bolivar, till we acknowledge him, as he appears to her, the Washingtonof the Colombians, eager only to emulate the patriotism, and toachieve like success with his great model of the northern confederacy. Her feelings and opinions, with regard to the Liberator, were those ofher family. Her father was a resident of Bogota, a man of largepossessions and considerable intellectual acquirements. He graduallypassed from a secret admiration of Bolivar to a warm sympathy with hisprogress, and an active support--so far as he dared, living in a cityunder immediate and despotic Spanish rule--of all his objects. Hefollowed with eager eyes the fortunes of the chief, as they fluctuatedbetween defeat and victory in other provinces, waiting anxiously themoment when the success and policy of the struggle should bringdeliverance, in turn, to the gates of Bogota. Without taking up armshimself, he contributed secretly from his own resources to supplyingthe coffers of Bolivar with treasure, even when his operations wereremote--and his daughter was the agent through whose unsuspectedministry the money was conveyed to the several emissaries who werecommissioned to receive it. The duty was equally delicate anddangerous, requiring great prudence and circumspection; and the skill, address and courage with which the child succeeded in the execution ofher trusts, would furnish a frequent lesson for older heads and thesterner and the bolder sex. 

La Pola was but fourteen years old when she obtained her first glimpseof the great man in whose cause she had already been employed, and ofwhose deeds and distinctions she had heard so much. By the languageof the Spanish tyranny, which swayed with iron authority over hernative city, she heard him denounced and execrated as a rebel andmarauder, for whom an ignominious death was already decreed by thedespotic viceroy. This language, from such lips, was of itselfcalculated to raise its object favorably in her enthusiastic sight. Bythe patriots, whom she had been accustomed to love and venerate, sheheard the same name breathed always in whispers of hope and affection, and fondly commended, with tearful blessings, to the watchful care ofHeaven. She was now to behold with her own eyes this individual thusequally distinguished by hate and homage in her hearing. Bolivarapprised his friends in Bogota that he should visit them in secret. That province, ruled with a fearfully strong hand by Zamano, theviceroy, had not yet ventured to declare itself for the republic. Itwas necessary to operate with caution; and it was no small peril whichBolivar necessarily incurred in penetrating to its capital, and layinghis snares, and fomenting insurrection beneath the very hearth-stonesof the tyrant. It was to La Pola's hands that the messenger of theLiberator confided the missives that communicated this importantintelligence to her father. She little knew the contents of the billetwhich she carried him in safety, nor did he confide them to the child. He himself did not dream the precocious extent of that enthusiasmwhich she felt almost equally in the common cause, and in the personof its great advocate and champion. Her father simply praised her careand diligence, rewarded her with his fondest caresses, and thenproceeded with all quiet despatch to make his preparations for thesecret reception of the deliverer. It was at midnight, and while athunder-storm was raging, that he entered the city, making his way, agreeably to previous arrangement, and under select guidance, into theinner apartments of the house of Zalabariata. A meeting of theconspirators--for such they were--of head men among the patriots ofBogota, had been contemplated for his reception. Several of them wereaccordingly in attendance when he came. These were persons whosesentiments were well known to be friendly to the cause of liberty, whohad suffered by the hands, or were pursued by the suspicions ofZamano, and who, it was naturally supposed, would be eagerly alive toevery opportunity of shaking off the rule of the oppressor. Butpatriotism, as a philosophic sentiment, to be indulged after a gooddinner, and discussed phlegmatically, if not classically, over sherryand cigars, is a very different sort of thing from patriotism as aprinciple of action, to be prosecuted as a duty, at every peril, instantly and always, to the death, if need be. Our patriots at Bogotawere but too frequently of the contemplative, the philosophical order. Patriotism with them was rather a subject for eloquence than use. Theycould recall those Utopian histories of Greece and Rome which furnishus with ideals rather than facts, and sigh for names like those ofCato, and Brutus, and Aristides. But more than this did not seem toenter their imaginations as at all necessary to assert the characterwhich it pleased them to profess, or maintain the reputation whichthey had prospectively acquired for the very commendable virtue whichconstituted their ordinary theme. Bolivar found them cold. Accustomedto overthrow and usurpation, they were now slow to venture propertyand life upon the predictions and promises of one who, however perfectin their estimation as a patriot, had yet suffered from mostcapricious fortunes. His past history, indeed, except for itspatriotism, offered but very doubtful guarantees in favor of theenterprise to which they were invoked. Bolivar was artful andingenious. He had considerable powers of eloquence--was specious andpersuasive; had an oily and bewitching tongue, like Balial; and if notaltogether capable of making the worse appear the better cause, couldat least so shape the aspects of evil fortune, that, to theunsuspicious nature, they would seem to be the very results aimed atby the most deliberate arrangement and resolve. But Bolivar, on thisoccasion, was something more than ingenious and persuasive, he waswarmly earnest, and passionately eloquent. In truth, he was excitedmuch beyond his wont. He was stung to indignation by a sense ofdisappointment. He had calculated largely on this meeting, and itpromised now to be a failure. He had anticipated the eager enthusiasmof a host of brave and noble spirits ready to fling out the banner offreedom to the winds, and cast the scabbard from the sword forever. Instead of this, he found but a little knot of cold, irresolute men, thinking only of the perils of life which they should incur, and theforfeiture and loss of property which might accrue from any hazardousexperiments. Bolivar spoke to them in language less artificial andmuch more impassioned than was his wont. He was a man of impulserather than of thought or principle, and, once aroused, the intensefire of a southern sun seemed to burn fiercely in all his words andactions. His speech was heard by other ears than those to which it wasaddressed. The shrewd mind of La Pola readily conjectured that themeeting at her father's house, at midnight, and under peculiarcircumstances, contemplated some extraordinary object. She was awarethat a tall, mysterious stranger had passed through the court, underthe immediate conduct of her father himself. Her instinct divined inthis stranger the person of the deliverer, and her heart would notsuffer her to lose the words, or if possible to obtain, to forego thesight of the great object of its patriotic worship. Beside, she had aright to know and to see. She was of the party, and had done themservice. She was yet to do them more. Concealed in an adjoiningapartment--a sort of oratory, connected by a gallery with the chamberin which the conspirators were assembled--she was able to hear theearnest arguments and passionate remonstrances of the Liberator. Theyconfirmed all her previous admiration of his genius and character. Shefelt with indignation the humiliating position which the men of Bogotaheld in his eyes. She heard their pleas and scruples, and listenedwith a bitter scorn to the thousand suggestions of prudence, thethousand calculations of doubt and caution with which timidity seeksto avoid precipitating a crisis. She could listen and endure nolonger. The spirit of the improvisatrice was upon her. Was it alsothat of fate and a higher Providence? She seized the guitar, of whichshe was the perfect mistress, and sung even as her soul counseled andthe exigency of the event demanded. Our translation of her lyricaloverflow is necessarily a cold and feeble one. 

 It was a dream of freedom-- A mocking dream, though bright-- That showed the men of Bogota All arming for the fight; All eager for the hour that wakes The thunders of redeeming war, And rushing forth with glittering steel, To join the bands of Bolivar. 

 My soul, I said, it cannot be That Bogota shall be denied Her Arismendi, too--her chief To pluck her honor up, and pride; The wild Llanero boasts his braves That, stung with patriot wrath and shame, Rushed redly to the realm of graves, And rose, through blood and death, to fame. 

 How glads mine ear with other sounds, Of freemen worthy these, that tell! Ribas, who felt Caraccas' wounds, And for her hope and triumph fell; And that young hero, well beloved, Giraldat, still a name for song; Piar, Marino, dying soon, But, for the future, living long. 

 Oh! could we stir with other names, The cold, deaf hearts that hear us now, How would it bring a thousand shames, In fire, to each Bogotian's brow! How clap in pride Grenada's hands; How glows Venezuela's heart; And how, through Cartagena's lands, A thousand chiefs and hero's start. 

 Paez, Sodeno, lo! they rush, Each with his wild and Cossack rout; A moment feels the fearful hush, A moment hears the fearful shout! They heed no lack of arts and arms, But all their country's perils feel, And sworn for freedom, bravely break, The glitering legions of Castile. 

 I see the gallant Roxas grasp The towering banner of her sway; And Monagas, with fearful clasp, Plucks down the chief that stops the way; The reckless Urdaneta rides, Where rives the earth the iron hail; Nor long the Spanish foeman bides, The stroke of old Zaraza's flail. 

 Oh, generous heroes! how ye rise! How glow your states with equal fires! 'Tis there Valencia's banner flies, And there Cumana's soul aspires; There, on each hand, from east to west, From Oronook to Panama, Each province bares its noble breast, Each hero--save in Bogota!

At the first sudden gush of the music from within, the father of thedamsel started to his feet, and with confusion in his countenance, wasabout to leave the apartment. But Bolivar arrested his footsteps, andin a whisper, commanded him to be silent and remain. The conspirators, startled, if not alarmed, were compelled to listen. Bolivar did sowith a pleased attention. He was passionately fond of music, and thiswas of a sort at once to appeal to his objects and his tastes. His eyekindled as the song proceeded. His heart rose with an exultingsentiment. The moment, indeed, embodied one of his greatesttriumphs--the tribute of a pure, unsophisticated soul, inspired byHeaven with the happiest and highest endowments, and by earth with thenoblest sentiments of pride and country. When the music ceased, Zalabariata was about to apologize, and to explain, but Bolivar againgently and affectionately arrested his utterance. 

"Fear nothing, " said he. "Indeed, why should you fear? I am in thegreater danger here, if there be danger for any; and I would as soonplace my life in the keeping of that noble damsel, as in the arms ofmy mother. Let her remain, my friend; let her hear and see all; andabove all, do not attempt to apologize for her. She is my ally. Wouldthat she could make these _men_ of Bogota feel with herself--feel asshe makes even me to feel. "

The eloquence of the Liberator received a new impulse from that of theimprovisatrice. He renewed his arguments and entreaties in a differentspirit. He denounced, in yet bolder language than before, thatwretched pusillanimity which quite as much, he asserted, as thetyranny of the Spaniard, was the cause under which the liberties ofthe country groaned and suffered. 

"And now, I ask, " he continued, passionately, "men of Bogota, if yereally purpose to deny yourselves all share in the glory and peril ofthe effort which is for your own emancipation? Are your brethren ofthe other provinces to maintain the conflict in your behalf, while, with folded hands, you submit, doing nothing for yourselves? Will younot lift the banner also? Will you not draw sword in your own honor, and the defence of your fire-sides and families. Talk not to me ofsecret contributions. It is your manhood, not your money, that isneedful for success. And can you withhold yourselves while you professto hunger after that liberty for which other men are free to perilall--manhood, money, life, hope, every thing but honor and the senseof freedom. But why speak of peril in this. Peril is every where. Itis the inevitable child of life, natural to all conditions--to reposeas well as action, to the obscurity which never goes abroad, as wellas to that adventure which forever seeks the field. You incur no moreperil in openly braving your tyrant, all together as one man, than youdo thus tamely sitting beneath his footstool, and trembling foreverlest his capricious will may slay as it enslaves. Be you but true toyourselves--openly true--and the danger disappears as the night-miststhat speed from before the rising sun. There is little that deservesthe name of peril in the issue which lies before us. We are more thana match, united, and filled with the proper spirit, for all the forcesthat Spain can send against us. It is in our coldness that shewarms--in our want of unity that she finds strength. But even were wenot superior to her in numbers--even were the chances all wholly anddecidedly against us--I still cannot see how it is that you hesitateto draw the sword in so sacred a strife--a strife which consecratesthe effort, and claims Heaven's sanction for success. Are your soulsso subdued by servitude; are you so accustomed to bonds and tortures, that these no longer irk and vex your daily consciousness? Are you sowedded to inaction that you cease to feel? Is it the frequency of thepunishment that has made you callous to the ignominy and the pain?Certainly your viceroy gives you frequent occasion to grow reconciledto any degree of hurt and degradation. Daily you behold, and I hear, of the exactions of this tyrant--of the cruelties and the murders towhich he accustoms you in Bogota. Hundreds of your friends andkinsmen, even now, lie rotting in the common prisons, denied equallyyour sympathies and every show of justice, perishing, daily, under themost cruel privations. Hundreds have perished by this and other modesof torture, and the gallows and garote seem never to be unoccupied. Was it not the bleaching skeleton of the venerable Hermano, whom Iwell knew for his wisdom and patriotism, which I beheld, even as Ientered, hanging in chains over the gateway of your city? Was he notthe victim of his wealth and love of country? Who among you is secure?He dared but to deliver himself as a man, and as he was suffered tostand alone, he was destroyed. Had you, when he spoke, but preparedyourselves to act, flung out the banner of resistance to the winds, and bared the sword for the last noble struggle, Hermano had notperished, nor were the glorious work only now to be begun. But whichof you, involved in the same peril with Hermano, will find the friend, in the moment of his need, to take the first step for his rescue? Eachof you, in turn, having wealth to tempt the spoiler, will be sure toneed such friendship. It seems you do not look for it among oneanother--where, then, do you propose to find it? Will you seek for itamong the Cartagenians--among the other provinces--to Bolivar_without_? Vain expectation, if you are unwilling to peril any thingfor yourselves _within_! In a tyranny so suspicious and so reckless asis yours, you must momentarily tremble lest ye suffer at the hands ofyour despot. True manhood rather prefers any peril which puts an endto this state of anxiety and fear. Thus to tremble with apprehensionever, is ever to be dying. It is a life of death only which yelive--and any death or peril that comes quickly at the summons, is tobe preferred before it. If, then, ye have hearts to feel, or hopes towarm ye--a pride to suffer consciousness of shame, or an ambition thatlongs for better things--affections for which to covet life, or thecourage with which to assert and to defend your affections, ye cannot, ye will not hesitate to determine, with souls of freemen, upon what isneedful to be done. Ye have but one choice as men; and the questionwhich is left for ye to resolve, is that which determines, not yourpossessions, not even your lives, but simply your rank and stature inthe world of humanity and man. "

The Liberator paused, not so much through his own or the exhaustion ofthe subject, as that his hearers should in turn be heard. But withthis latter object his forbearance was profitless. There were thoseamong them, indeed, who had their answers to his exhortations, butthese were not of a character to promise boldly for their patriotismor courage. Their professions, indeed, were ample, but were confinedto unmeaning generalities. "Now is the time, now!" was the response ofBolivar to all that was said. But they faltered and hung back at everyutterance of his spasmodically uttered "now! now!" He scanned theirfaces eagerly, with a hope that gradually yielded to despondency. Their features were blank and inexpressive, as their answers had beenmeaningless or evasive. Several of them were of that class of quietcitizens, unaccustomed to any enterprises but those of trade, who arealways slow to peril wealth by a direct issue with their despotism. They felt the truth of Bolivar's assertions. They knew that theirtreasures were only so many baits and lures to the cupidity andexactions of the royal emissaries, but they still relied on theirhabitual caution and docility to keep terms with the tyranny at whichthey yet trembled. When, in the warmth of his enthusiasm, Bolivardepicted the bloody struggles which must precede their deliverance, they began indeed to wonder among themselves how they ever came tofall into that mischievous philosophy of patriotism which had involvedthem with such a restless rebel as Bolivar! Others of the company wereancient hidalgos, who had been men of spirit in their day, but who hadsurvived the season of enterprise, which is that period only when theheart swells and overflows with full tides of warm and impetuousblood. 

"Your error, " said he, in a whisper to Señor Don Joachim deZalabariata, "was in not bringing young men into your counsels. "

"We shall have them hereafter, " was the reply, also in a whisper. 

"We shall see, " muttered the Liberator, who continued, though insilence, to scan the assembly with inquisitive eyes, and an excitementof soul, which increased duly with his efforts to subdue it. He hadfound some allies in the circle. Some few generous spirits, who, responding to his desires, were anxious to be up and doing. But it wasonly too apparent that the main body of the company had been ratherdisquieted than warmed. In this condition of hopeless and speechlessindecision, the emotions of the Liberator became scarcelycontrollable. His whole frame trembled with the anxiety andindignation of his spirit. He paced the room hurriedly, passing fromgroup to group, appealing to individuals now, where hitherto he hadspoken collectively, and suggesting detailed arguments in behalf ofhopes and objects, which it does not need that we should incorporatewith our narrative. But when he found how feeble was the influencewhich he exercised, and how cold was the echo to his appeal, he becameimpatient, and no longer strove to modify the expression of that scornand indignation which he had for some time felt. The explosionfollowed in no measured language. 

"Men of Bogota, you are not worthy to be free. Your chains aremerited. You deserve your insecurities, and may embrace, even as yeplease, the fates which lie before you. Acquiesce in the tyranny whichoffends no longer, but be sure that acquiescence never yet hasdisarmed the despot when his rapacity needs a victim. Your lives andpossessions--which ye dare not peril in the cause of freedom--lieequally at his mercy. He will not pause, as you do, to use them at hispleasure. To save them from him there was but one way--to employ themagainst him. There is no security against power but in power; and tocheck the insolence of foreign strength you must oppose to it yourown. This ye have not soul to do, and I leave you to the destiny youhave chosen. This day, this night, it was yours to resolve. I haveperiled all to move you to the proper resolution. You have denied me, and I leave you. To-morrow--unless indeed I am betrayedto-night"--looking with a sarcastic smile around him as he spoke--"Ishall unfurl the banner of the republic even within your own province, in behalf of Bogota, and seek, even against your own desires, tobestow upon you those blessings of liberty which ye have not the soulto conquer for yourselves. "

Hardly had these words been spoken, when the guitar again sounded fromwithin. Every ear was instantly hushed as the strain ascended--astrain, more ambitious than the preceding, of melancholy and indignantapostrophe. The improvisatrice was no longer able to control thepassionate inspiration which took its tone from the stern eloquence ofthe Liberator. She caught from him the burning sentiment of scornwhich it was no longer his policy to repress, and gave it additionaleffect in the polished sarcasm of her song. Our translation willpoorly suffice to convey a proper notion of the strain. 

 Then be it so, if serviles ye will be, When manhood's soul had broken every chain, 'T were scarce a blessing now to make ye free, For such condition tutored long in vain, Yet may we weep the fortunes of our land, Though woman's tears were never known to take One link away from that oppressive band, Ye have not soul, not soul enough to break!

 Oh! there were hearts of might in other days, Brave chiefs, whose memory still is dear to fame; Alas for ours!--the gallant deeds we praise But show more deeply red our cheeks of shame: As from the midnight gloom the weary eye, With sense that cannot the bright dawn forget, Looks sadly hopeless, from the vacant sky, To that where late the glorious day-star set!

 Yet all's not midnight dark, if in your land There be some gallant hearts to brave the strife; One single generous blow from Freedom's hand May speak again our sunniest hopes to life; If but one blessed drop in living veins Be worthy those who teach us from the dead, Vengeance and weapons both are in your chains, Hurled fearlessly upon your despot's head!

 Yet, if no memory of the living past Can wake ye now to brave the indignant strife, 'T were nothing wise, at least, that we should last When death itself might wear a look of life! Ay, when the oppressive arm is lifted high, And scourge and torture still conduct to graves, To strike, though hopeless still--to strike and die! They live not, worthy freedom, who are slaves!

As the song proceeded, Bolivar stood forward as one wrapt in ecstasy. The exultation brightened in his eye, and his manner was that of asoul in the realization of its highest triumph. Not so the Bogotans bywhom he was surrounded. They felt the terrible sarcasm which thedamsel's song conveyed--a sarcasm immortalized to all the future, inthe undying depths of a song to be remembered. They felt thehumiliation of such a record, and hung their heads in shame. At theclose of the ballad, Bolivar exclaimed to Joachim de Zalabariata, thefather:

"Bring the child before us. She is worthy to be a prime minister. Aprime minister? No! the hero of the forlorn hope! a spirit to raise afallen standard from the dust, and to tear down and trample that ofthe enemy. Bring her forth, Joachim. Had you _men_ of Bogota but atithe of a heart so precious! Nay, could her heart be divided amongstthem--it might serve a thousand--there were no viceroy of Spain withinyour city now!"

And when the father brought her forth from the little cabinet, thatgirl, flashing with inspiration--pale and red by turns--slightly made, but graceful--very lovely to look upon--wrapt in loose white garments, with her long hair, dark and flowing, unconfined, and so long that itwas easy for her to walk upon it[4]--the admiration of the Liberatorwas insuppressible. 

"Bless you forever, " he cried, "my fair Priestess of Freedom! You, atleast, have a free soul, and one that is certainly inspired by thegreat divinity of earth. You shall be mine ally, though I find noneother in all Bogota sufficiently courageous. In you, my child, in youand yours, there is still a redeeming spirit which shall save yourcity utterly from shame!"

[Footnote 4: A frequent case among the maids of South America. ]

While he spoke, the emotions of the maiden were of a sort readily toshow how easily she should be quickened with the inspiration of lyricsong. The color came and went upon her soft white cheeks. The tearsrose, big and bright, upon her eyelashes--heavy drops, incapable ofsuppression, that swelled one after the other, trembled and fell, while the light blazed, even more brightly from the shower, in thedark and dilating orbs which harbored such capacious fountains. Shehad no words at first, but, trembling like a leaf, sunk upon a cushionat the feet of her father, as Bolivar, with a kiss upon her forehead, released her from his clasp. Her courage came back to her a momentafter. She was a thing of impulse, whose movements were as prompt andunexpected as the inspiration by which she sung. Bolivar had scarcelyturned from her, as if to relieve her tremor, when she recovered allher strength and courage. Suddenly rising from the cushion, she seizedthe hand of her father, and with an action equally passionate anddignified, she led him to the Liberator, to whom, speaking for thefirst time in that presence, she thus addressed herself:

"_He_ is yours--he has always been ready with his life and money. Believe me, for I know it. Nay, more! doubt not that there arehundreds in Bogota--though they be not here--who, like him, will beready whenever they hear the summons of your trumpet. Nor will thewomen of Bogota be wanting. There will be many of them who will takethe weapons of those who use them not, and do as brave deeds for theircountry as did the dames of Magdalena when they slew four hundredSpaniards". [5]

"Ah! I remember! A most glorious achievement, and worthy to be writ incharacters of gold. It was at Mompox where they rose upon the garrisonof Morillo. Girl, you are worthy to have been the chief of those womenof Magdalena. You will be chief yet of the women of Bogota. I takeyour assurance with regard to them; but for the men, it were betterthat thou peril nothing even in thy speech. "

The last sarcasm of the Liberator might have been spared. That whichhis eloquence had failed to effect was suddenly accomplished by thischild of beauty. Her inspiration and presence were electrical. The oldforgot their caution and their years. The young, who needed but aleader, had suddenly found a genius. There was now no lack of thenecessary enthusiasm. There were no more scruples. Hesitation yieldedto resolve. The required pledges were given--given more abundantlythan required; and raising the slight form of the damsel to his ownheight, Bolivar again pressed his lips upon her forehead, gazing ather with a respectful delight, while he bestowed upon her the name ofthe Guardian Angel of Bogota. With a heart bounding and beating withthe most enthusiastic emotions--too full for further utterance, LaPola disappeared from that imposing presence, which her coming hadfilled with a new life and impulse. 

[Footnote 5: This terrible slaughter took place on the night of the16th June, 1816, under the advice, and with the participation of thewomen of Mompox, a beautiful city on an island in the River Magdalena. The event has enlisted the muse of many a native patriot and poet, whogrew wild when they recalled the courage of

 "Those dames of Magdalena, Who, in one fearful night, Slew full four hundred tyrants, Nor shrunk from blood in fright. "

Such women deserve the apostrophe of Macbeth to his wife:

 "Bring forth men children only. "]

It was nearly dawn when the Liberator left the city. That night thebleaching skeleton of the venerable patriot Hermano was taken downfrom the gibbet where it had hung so long, by hands that left therevolutionary banner waving proudly in its place. This was an event tostartle the viceroy. It was followed by other events. In a few daysmore and the sounds of insurrection were heard throughout theprovince--the city still moving secretly--sending forth supplies andintelligence by stealth, but unable to raise the standard ofrebellion, while Zamano, the viceroy, doubtful of its loyalty, remained in possession of its strong places with an overawing force. Bolivar himself, under these circumstances, was unwilling that thepatriots should throw aside the mask. Throughout the province, however, the rising was general. They responded eagerly to the call ofthe Liberator, and it was easy to foresee that their cause mustultimately prevail. The people in conflict proved themselves equal totheir rulers. The Spaniards had been neither moderate when strong, norwere they prudent now when the conflict found them weak. Still, thesuccesses were various. The Spaniards had a foothold from which it wasnot easy to expel them, and were in possession of resources, in armsand material, derived from the mother country, with which therepublicans found it no easy matter to contend. But they did contend, and this, with the right upon their side, was the great guaranty forsuccess. What the Colombians wanted in the materials of warfare, wasmore than supplied by their energy and patriotism; and however slow inattaining their desired object, it was yet evident to all, excepttheir enemies, that the issue was certainly in their own hands. 

For two years that the war had been carried on, the casual observercould, perhaps, see but little change in the respective relations ofthe combatants. The Spaniards still continued to maintain theirfoothold wherever the risings of the patriots had been premature orpartial. But the resources of the former were hourly undergoingdiminution, and the great lessening of the productions of the country, incident to its insurrectionary condition, had subtracted largely fromthe temptations to the further prosecution of the war. The hopes ofthe patriots naturally rose with the depression of their enemies, andtheir increasing numbers and improving skill in the use of theirweapons, not a little contributed to their endurance and activity. Butfor this history we must look to other volumes. The question for us isconfined to an individual. How, in all this time, had La Pola redeemedher pledge to the Liberator--how had she whom he had described as the"guardian genius of Bogota, " adhered to the enthusiastic faith whichshe had voluntarily pledged to him in behalf of herself and people?

Now, it may be supposed that a woman's promise, to participate in thebusiness of an insurrection, is not a thing upon which much stress isto be laid. We are apt to assume for the sex a too humble capacity forhigh performances, and a too small sympathy with the interests andaffairs of public life. In both respects we are mistaken. A propereducation for the sex would result in showing their ability to sharewith man in all his toils, and to sympathize with him in all thelegitimate concerns of manhood. But what, demands the caviler, can beexpected of a child of fifteen; and should her promises be heldagainst her for rigid fulfillment and performance? It might be enoughto answer that we are writing a sober history. There is the record. The fact is as we give it. But a girl of fifteen, in the warmlatitudes of South America, is quite as mature as the northern maidenof twenty-five; with an ardor in her nature that seems to wing theoperations of the mind, making that intuitive with her, which, in theperson of a colder climate is the result only of long calculation anddeliberate thought. She is sometimes a mother at twelve, and, as inthe case of La Pola, a heroine at fifteen. We freely admit thatBolivar, though greatly interested in the improvisatrice, was chieflygrateful to her for the timely rebuke which she administered, throughher peculiar faculty of lyric song, to the unpatriotic inactivity ofher countrymen. As a matter of course, he might still expect that thesame muse would take fire under similar provocation hereafter. But hecertainly never calculated on other and more decided services at herhands. He misunderstood the being whom he had somewhat contributed toinspire. He did not appreciate her ambition, or comprehend herresources. From the moment of his meeting with her she became a woman. She was already a politician as she was a poet. Intrigue is natural tothe genius of the sex, and the faculty is enlivened by the possessionof a warm imagination. La Pola put all her faculties in requisition. Her soul was now addressed to the achievement of some plan ofco-operation with the republican chief, and she succeeded where wiserpersons must have failed in compassing the desirable facilities. Living in Bogota--the stronghold of the enemy--she exercised a policyand address which disarmed suspicion. Her father and his family wereto be saved and shielded, while they remained under the power of theviceroy, Zamano, a military despot who had already acquired areputation for cruelty scarcely inferior to that of the worst of theRoman emperors in the latter days of the empire. The wealth of herfather, partly known, made him a desirable victim. Her beauty, herspirit, the charm of her song and conversation, were exercised, aswell to secure favor for him, as to procure the needed intelligenceand assistance for the Liberator. She managed the twofold object withadmirable success--disarming suspicion, and under cover of theconfidence which she inspired, succeeding in effecting constantcommunication with the patriots, by which she put into theirpossession all the plans of the Spaniards. Her rare talents and beautywere the chief sources of her success. She subdued her passionate andintense nature--her wild impulse and eager heart--employing them onlyto impart to her fancy a more impressive and spiritual existence. Sheclothed her genius in the brightest and gayest colors, sporting abovethe precipice of feeling, and making of it a background and a reliefto heighten the charm of her seemingly willful fancy. Song came at hersummons, and disarmed the serious questioner. In the eyes of hercountry's enemies she was only the improvisatrice--a rarely giftedcreature, living in the clouds, and totally regardless of the thingsof earth. She could thus beguile from the young officers of theSpanish army, without provoking the slightest apprehension of anysinister object, the secret plan and purpose--the new supply--thecontemplated enterprise--in short, a thousand things which, as aninspired idiot, might be yielded to her with indifference, which, inthe case of one solicitous to know, would be guarded with the mostjealous vigilance. She was the princess of the tertulia--that mode ofevening entertainment so common, yet so precious, among the Spaniards. At these parties she ministered with a grace and influence which madethe house of her father a place of general resort. The Spanishgallants thronged about her person, watchful of her every motion, andyielding always to the exquisite compass, and delightful spiritualityof her song. At worst, they suspected her of no greater offence thanof being totally heartless with all her charms, and of aiming at notreachery more dangerous than that of making conquests, only to deridethem. It was the popular qualification of all her beauties andaccomplishments that she was a coquette, at once so cold, and soinsatiate. Perhaps, the woman politician never so thoroughly concealsher game as when she masks it with the art which men are most apt todescribe as the prevailing passion of her sex. 

By these arts, La Pola fulfilled most amply her pledges to theLiberator. She was, indeed, his most admirable ally in Bogota. Shesoon became thoroughly conversant with all the facts in the conditionof the Spanish army--the strength of the several armaments, theirdisposition and destination--the operations in prospect, and theopinions and merits of the officers--all of whom she knew, and fromwhom she obtained no small knowledge of the worth and value of theirabsent comrades. These particulars, all regularly transmitted toBolivar, were quite as much the secret of his success, as his owngenius and the valor of his troops. The constant disappointment anddefeat of the royalist arms, in the operations which were conducted inthe Province of Bogota, attested the closeness and correctness of herknowledge, and its vast importance to the cause of the patriots. 

Unfortunately, however, one of her communications was intercepted, andthe cowardly bearer, intimidated by the terrors of impending death, was persuaded to betray his employer. He revealed all that he knew ofher practices, and one of his statements, namely, that she usuallydrew from her shoe the paper which she gave him, served to fixconclusively upon her the proofs of her offence. She was arrested inthe midst of an admiring throng, presiding with her usual grace at thetertulia, to which her wit and music furnished the eminentattractions. Forced to submit, her shoes were taken from her feet inthe presence of the crowd, and in one of them, between the sole andthe lining, was a memorandum designed for Bolivar, containing thedetails, in anticipation, of one of the intended movements of theviceroy. She was not confounded, nor did she sink beneath thisdiscovery. Her soul seemed to rise rather into an unusual degree ofserenity and strength. She encouraged her friends with smiles and thesweetest seeming indifference, though she well knew that her doom wascertainly at hand. She had her consolations even under thisconviction. Her father was in safety in the camp of Bolivar. With hercounsel and assistance he would save much of his property from thewreck of confiscation. The plot had ripened in her hands almost tomaturity, and before very long Bogota itself would speak for libertyin a formidable _pronunciamento_. And this was mostly her work! Whatmore was done, by her agency and influence, may be readily conjecturedfrom what has been already written. Enough, that she herself felt thatin leaving life she left it when there was little more left for her todo. 

La Pola was hurried from the tertulia before a military court--martiallaw then prevailing in the capital--with a rapidity corresponding withthe supposed enormity of her offences. It was her chief pang that shewas not hurried there alone. We have not hitherto mentioned that shehad a lover, one Juan de Sylva Gomero, to whom she was affianced--aworthy and noble youth, who entertained for her the most passionateattachment. It is a somewhat curious fact, that she kept him whollyfrom any knowledge of her political alliances; and never was man moreindignant than he when she was arrested, or more confounded when theproofs of her guilt were drawn from her person. His offence consistedin his resistance to the authorities who seized her. There was not theslightest reason to suppose that he knew or participated at all in herintimacy with the patriots and Bolivar. He was tried along with her, and both condemned--for at this time condemnation and trial were wordsof synonimous import--to be shot. A respite of twelve hours fromexecution was granted them for the purposes of confession. Zamano, theviceroy, anxious for other victims, spared no means to procure a fullrevelation of all the secrets of our heroine. The priest who waitedupon her was the one who attended on the viceroy himself. He held outlures of pardon in both lives, here and hereafter, upon the onecondition only of a full declaration of her secrets and accomplices. Well might the leading people of Bogota tremble all the while. But shewas firm in her refusal. Neither promises of present mercy, northreats of the future, could extort from her a single fact in relationto her proceedings. Her lover, naturally desirous of life, particularly in the possession of so much to make it precious, joinedin the entreaties of the priest; but she answered him with a mournfulseverity that smote him like a sharp weapon, "Gomero! did I love you for this? Beware, lest I hate you ere I die!Is life so dear to you that you would dishonor both of us to live? Isthere no consolation in the thought that we shall die together?"

"But we shall be spared--we shall be saved, " was the reply of thelover. 

"Believe it not--it is false! Zamano spares none. Our lives areforfeit, and all that we could say would be unavailing to avert yourfate or mine. Let us not lesson the value of this sacrifice on thealtars of our country, by any unworthy fears. If you have ever lovedme, be firm. I am a woman, but I am strong. Be not less ready for thedeath-shot than is she whom you have chosen for your wife. "

Other arts were employed by the despot for the attainment of hisdesires. Some of the native citizens of Bogota, who had been contentto become the creatures of the viceroy, were employed to work upon herfears and affections, by alarming her with regard to persons of thecity whom she greatly esteemed and valued, and whom Zamano suspected. But their endeavors were met wholly with scorn. When they entreatedher, among other things, "to give peace to our country, " the phraseseemed to awaken all her indignation. 

"Peace! peace to our country!" she exclaimed. "What peace! the peaceof death, and shame, and the grave, forever!" And her soul again foundrelief only in its wild lyrical overflows. 

 What, peace for our country! when ye've made her a grave, A den for the tyrant, a cell for the slave; A pestilent plague-spot, accursing and curst, As vile as the vilest, and worse than the worst. 

 The chain may be broken, the tyranny o'er, But the sweet charms that blessed her ye may not restore; Not your blood, though poured forth from life's ruddiest vein, Shall free her from sorrows, or cleanse her from stain!

 'Tis the grief that ye may not remove the disgrace, That brands with the blackness of hell all your race; 'Tis the sorrow that nothing may cleanse ye of shame, That has wrought us to madness, and filled us with flame. 

 Years may pass, but the memory deep in our souls, Shall make the tale darker as Time onward rolls; And the future that grows from our ruin shall know Its own, and its country's and liberty's foe. 

 And still in the prayer at its altars shall rise, Appeal for the vengeance of earth and of skies; Men shall pray that the curse of all time may pursue, And plead for the curse of eternity too!

 Nor wantonly vengeful in spirit their prayer, Since the weal of the whole world forbids them to spare; What hope would there be for mankind if our race, Through the rule of the brutal, is robbed by the base?

 What hope for the future--what hope for the free? And where would the promise of liberty be, If Time had no terror, no doom for the slave, Who would stab his own mother, and shout o'er her grave!

Such a response as this effectually silenced all those cunning agentsof the viceroy who urged their arguments in behalf of their country. Nothing, it was seen, could be done with a spirit so inflexible; andin his fury Zamano ordered the couple forth to instant execution. Bogota was in mourning. Its people covered their heads, a few onlyexcepted, and refused to be seen or comforted. The priests whoattended the victims received no satisfaction as concerned the secretsof the patriots; and they retired in chagrin, and without grantingabsolution to either victim. The firing party made ready. Then itwas, for the first time, that the spirit of this noble maiden seemedto shrink from the approach of death. 

"Butcher!" she exclaimed, to the viceroy, who stood in his balcony, overlooking the scene of execution. "Butcher! you have then the heartto kill a woman!"

These were the only words of weakness. She recovered herselfinstantly, and, preparing for her fate, without looking for any effectfrom her words, she proceeded to cover her face with the _saya_, orveil, which she wore. Drawing it aside for the purpose, the words"_Vive la Patria!_" embroidered in letters of gold, were discovered onthe _basquina_. As the signal for execution was given, a distant hum, as of the clamors of an approaching army, was heard fitfully to riseupon the air. 

"It is he! He comes! It is Bolivar! It is the Liberator!" was her cry, in a tone of hope and triumph, which found its echo in the bosom ofhundreds who dared not give their hearts a voice. It was, indeed, theLiberator. Bolivar was at hand, pressing onward with all speed to thework of deliverance; but he came too late for the rescue of thebeautiful and gifted damsel to whom he owed so much. The fatal bulletsof the executioners penetrated her heart ere the cry of her exultationhad subsided from the ear. Thus perished a woman worthy to beremembered with the purest and proudest who have done honor to natureand the sex; one who, with all the feelings and sensibilities of thewoman, possessed all the pride and patriotism, the courage, thesagacity and the daring of the man. 

TO THE EAGLE. 

BY MRS. E. C. KINNEY. 

 Imperial bird! that soarest to the sky-- Cleaving through clouds and storms thine upward way-- Or, fixing steadfastly that dauntless eye, Dost face the great, effulgent god of day! Proud monarch of the feathery tribes of air! My soul exulting marks thy bold career, Up, through the azure fields, to regions fair, Where, bathed in light, thy pinions disappear. 

 Thou, with the gods, upon Olympus dwelt, The emblem, and the favorite bird of Jove-- And godlike power in thy broad wings hast felt Since first they spread o'er land and sea to rove: From Ida's top the Thunderer's piercing sight Flashed on the hosts which Ilium did defy; So from thy eyrie on the beetling height Shoot down the lightning-glances of thine eye!

 From his Olympian throne Jove stooped to earth For ends inglorious in the god of gods! Leaving the beauty of celestial birth, To rob Humanity's less fair abodes: Oh, passion more rapacious than divine, That stole the peace of innocence away! So, when descend those tireless wings of thine, They stoop to make defenselessness their prey. 

 Lo! where thou comest from the realms afar! Thy strong wings whir like some huge bellows' breath-- Swift falls thy fiery eyeball, like a star, And dark thy shadow as the pall of death! But thou hast marked a tall and reverend tree, And now thy talons clinch yon leafless limb; Before thee stretch the sandy shore and sea, And sails, like ghosts, move in the distance dim. 

 Fair is the scene! Yet thy voracious eye Drinks not its beauty; but with bloody glare Watches the wild-fowl idly floating by, Or snow-white sea-gull winnowing the air: Oh, pitiless is thine unerring beak! Quick, as the wings of thought, thy pinions fall-- Then bear their victim to the mountain-peak Where clamorous eaglets flutter at thy call. 

 Seaward again thou turn'st to chase the storm, Where winds and waters furiously roar! Above the doomed ship thy boding form Is coming Fate's dark shadow cast before! The billows that engulf man's sturdy frame As sport to thy careering pinions seem; And though to silence sinks the sailor's name, His end is told in thy relentless scream!

 Where the great cataract sends up to heaven Its sprayey incense in perpetual cloud, Thy wings in twain the sacred bow have riven, And onward sailed irreverently proud! Unflinching bird! No frigid clime congeals The fervid blood that riots in thy veins; No torrid sun thine upborne nature feels-- The North, the South, alike are thy domains. 

 Emblem of all that can endure, or dare, Art thou, bold eagle, in thy hardihood! Emblem of Freedom, when thou cleav'st the air-- Emblem of Tyranny, when bathed in blood! Thou wert the genius of Rome's sanguine wars-- Heroes have fought and freely bled for thee; And here, above our glorious "stripes and stars, " We hail thy signal wings of LIBERTY!

 The poet sees in thee a type sublime Of his far-reaching, high-aspiring Art! His fancy seeks with thee each starry clime, And thou art on the signet of his heart. Be _still_ the symbol of a spirit free, Imperial bird! to unborn ages given-- And to my soul, that it may soar like thee, Steadfastly looking in the eye of HEAVEN. 

_FIEL A LA MUERTE, OR TRUE LOVE'S DEVOTION. 

A TALE OF THE TIMES OF LOUIS QUINZE. 

BY HENRY WILLIAM HERBERT, AUTHOR OF "THE ROMAN TRAITOR, " "MARMADUKEWYVIL, " "CROMWELL, " ETC. _

(_Continued from page 12. _)

PART II. 

The castle of St. Renan, like the dwellings of many of the nobles ofBretagne and Gascony, was a superb old pile of solid masonry toweringabove the huge cliffs which guard the whole of that iron coast withits gigantic masses of rude masonry. So close did it stand to theverge of these precipitous crags on its seaward face, that wheneverthe wind from the westward blew angrily and in earnest, the spray ofthe tremendous billows which rolled in from the wide Atlantic, andburst in thunder at the foot of those stern ramparts, was dashed sohigh by the collision that it would often fall in salt, bitter rain, upon the esplanade above, and dim the diamond-paned casements with itscold mists. 

For leagues on either side, as the spectator stood upon the terraceabove and gazed out on the expanse of the everlasting ocean, nothingwas to be seen but the saliant angles or deep recesses formed by thedark, gray cliffs, unrelieved by any spot of verdure, or even by thatline of silver sand at their base, which often intervenes between therocks of an iron coast and the sea. Here, however, there was no suchintermediate step visible; the black face of the rocks sunk sheer andabrupt into the water, which, by its dark green hue indicated to thepracticed eye, that it was deep and scarcely fathomable to the veryshore. 

In places, indeed, where huge caverns opening in front to the vastocean, which had probably hollowed them out of the earth-fast rock inthe course of succeeding ages, yawned in the mimicry of Gothic arches, the entering tide would rush, as it were, into the bowels of the land, roaring and groaning in those strange subterranean dungeons like somestrong prisoner, Typhon, Enceladus, or Ephialtes, in his immortalagony. One of these singular vaults opened right in the base of therock on the summit of which stood the castle of St. Renan, and intothis the billows rushed with rapidity so tumultuous and terrible thatthe fishers of that stormy coast avowed that a vortex was created inthe bay by their influx or return seaward, which could be perceivedsensibly at a league's distance; and that to be caught in it, unlessthe wind blew strong and steadily off land, was sure destruction. However that might be, it is certain that this great subterraneantunnel extended far beneath the rocks into the interior of the land, for at the distance of nearly two miles from the castle, directlyeastward, in the bottom of a dark, wooded glen, which runs for manymiles nearly parallel to the coast, there is a deep, rocky well, ornatural cavity, of a form nearly circular, which, when the tide is up, is filled to over-flowing with bitter sea-water, on which the bubblesand foam-flakes show the obstacles against which it must have strivenin its landward journey. At low water, on the contrary, "the Devil'sDrinking Cup, " for so it is named by the superstitious peasantry ofthe neighborhood, presents nothing to the eye but a deep, black abyss, which the country folks, of course, assert to be bottomless. But, intruth, its depth is immense, as can easily be perceived, if you cast astone into it, by the length of time during which it may be heardthundering from side to side, until the reverberated roar of itsdescent appears to die away, not because it has ceased, but becausethe sound is too distant to be conveyed to human ears. 

On this side of the castle every thing differs as much as it ispossible to conceive from the view to the seaward, which is grim anddesolate as any ocean scenery the world over. Few sails are ever seenon those dangerous coasts; all vessels bound to the mouth of theGaronne, or southward to the shores of Spain, giving as wide a berthas possible to its frightful reefs and inaccessible crags, which toall their other terrors add that, from the extraordinary prevalence ofthe west wind on that part of the ocean, of being, during at leastthree parts of the year, a _lee_ shore. 

Inland, however, instead of the bleak and barren surface of the everstormy sea, indented into long rolling ridges and dark tempestuoushollows, all was varied and smiling, and gratifying to every sensegiven by nature for his good to man. Immediately from the brink of thecliffs the land sloped downward southwardly and to the eastward, sothat it was bathed during all the day, except a few late eveninghours, in the fullest radiance of the sunbeams. Over this immensesloping descent the eye could range from the castle battlements, formiles and miles, until the rich green champaign was lost in the bluehaze of distance. And it was green and gay over the whole of that vastexpanse, here with the dense and unpruned foliage of immemorialforests, well stocked with every species of game, from the gaunt wolfand the tusky boar, to the fleet roebuck and the timid hare; here withthe trim and smiling verdure of rich orchards, in which nestled aroundtheir old, gray shrines the humble hamlets of the happy peasantry; andevery where with the long intersecting curves, and sinuous irregularlines of the old hawthorn hedges, thick set with pollard trees andhedgerow timber, which make the whole country, when viewed from aheight, resemble a continuous tract of intermingled glades andcopices, and which have procured for an adjoining district, the wellknown, and in after days, far celebrated name of the Bocage. 

Immediately around the castle, on the edge as it were of thisbeautiful and almost boundless slope, there lay a large and well-keptgarden in the old French style, laid out in a succession of terraces, bordered by balustrades of marble, adorned at frequent intervals byurns and statues, and rendered accessible each from the next below byflights of ornamented steps of regular and easy elevation; pleachedbowery walks, and high clipped hedges of holly, yew and hornbeam, werethe usual decorations of such a garden, and here they abounded to anextent that would have gladdened the heart of an admirer of the tastesand habits of the olden time. In addition to these, however, therewere a profusion of flowers of the choicest kinds known or cultivatedin those days--roses and lilies without number, and honeysuckles andthe sweet-scented clematis, climbing in bountiful luxuriance over thenumberless seats and bowers which every where tempted to repose. 

Below this beautiful garden a wide expanse of smooth, green turf, dotted here and there with majestic trees, and at rarer intervalsdiversified with tall groves and verdant coppices, covered the wholedescent of the first hill to the dim wooded dell which has beenmentioned as containing the singular cavity known throughout thecountry as the "Devil's Drinking Cup. " This dell, which was the limitof Count de St. Renan's demesnes in that direction, was divided fromthe park by a ragged paling many feet in height, and of considerablestrength, framed of rough timber from the woods, the space withinbeing appropriated to a singular and choice breed of deer, importedfrom the East by one of the former counts, who, being of anadventurous and roving disposition, had sojourned for some time in theFrench settlements of Hindostan. Beyond this dell again, which wasdefended on the outer side by a strong and lofty wall of brick, allover-run with luxuriant ivy, the ground rose in a small rounded knoll, or hillock of small extent, richly wooded, and crowned by the grayturrets and steep flagged roofs of the old château d'Argenson. 

This building, however, was as much inferior in size and statelinessto the grand feudal fortalice of St. Renan, as the little round-toppedhill on which it stood, so slightly elevated above the face of thesurrounding country as to detract nothing, at least in appearance, from its general slope to the south-eastward, was lower than the greatrock-bound ridge from which it overlooked the territories, all ofwhich had in distant times obeyed the rule of its almost princelydwellers. 

The sun of a lovely evening in the latter part of July had alreadysunk so far down in the west that only half of its great golden discwas visible above the well-defined, dark outline of the seaward crags, which relieved by the glowing radiance of the whole western sky, stood out massive and solid like a huge purple wall, and seemed soclose at hand that the spectator could almost persuade himself that hehad but to stretch out his arm, in order to touch the great barrier, which was in truth several miles distant. 

Over the crest, and through the gaps of this continuous line ofhighland, the long level rays streamed down in the slope in one vastflood of golden glory, which was checkered only by the interminablelength of shadows which were projected from every single tree, orscattered clump, from every petty elevation of the soil, down the softglimmering declivity. 

Three years had elapsed since the frightful fate of the unhappy Lordof Kerguelen, and the various incidents, which in some sort took theirorigin from the nature of his crime and its consequence, affecting inthe highest degree the happiness of the families of St. Renan andD'Argenson. 

Three years had elapsed--three years! That is a little space in theannals of the world, in the life of nations, nay, in the narrowrecords of humanity. Three years of careless happiness, three years ofindolent and tranquil ease, unmarked by any great event, pass over ourheads unnoted, and, save in the gray hairs which they scatter, leaveno memorial of their transit, more than the sunshine of a happy summerday. They are, they are gone, they are forgotten. 

Even three years of gloom and sorrow, of that deep anguish which atthe time the sufferer believes to be indelible and everlasting, lag ontheir weary, desolate course, and when they too are over-passed, andhe looks back upon their transit, which seemed so painfullyprotracted, and, lo! all is changed, and _their_ flight also is nowbut as an ended minute. 

And yet what strange and sudden changes altering the affairs of men, changing the hearts of mortals, yea, revolutionizing their wholeintellects, and over-turning their very natures--more than thedevastating earthquake or the destroying lava transforms the face ofthe everlasting earth--have not been wrought, and again well nighforgotten within that little period. 

Three years had passed, I say, over the head of Raoul de Douarnez--thethree most marked and memorable years in the life of every youngman--and from the ingenuous and promising stripling, he had now becomein all respects a man, and a bold and enterprising man, moreover, whohad seen much and struggled much, and suffered somewhat--without whichthere is no gain of his wisdom here below--in his transit, even thusfar, over the billows and among the reefs and quicksands of the world. 

His father had kept his promise to that loved son in all things, norhad the Sieur d'Argenson failed of his plighted faith. The autumn ofthat year, the spring of which saw Kerguelen die in unutterable agony, saw Raoul de Douarnez the contracted and affianced husband of thelovely and beloved Melanie. 

All that was wanted now to render them actually man and wife, tocreate between them that bond which, alone of mortal ties, man cannotsunder, was the ministration of the church's holiest rite, and that, in wise consideration of their tender years, was postponed until thetermination of the third summer. 

During the interval it was decided that Raoul, as was the custom ofthe world in those days, especially among the nobility, and mostespecially among the nobility of France, should bear arms in activeservice, and see something of the world abroad, before settling downinto the easier duties of domestic life. The family of St. Renan, since the days of that ancestor who has been already mentioned ashaving sojourned in Pondicherry, had never ceased to maintain somerelations with the East Indian possessions of France, and a relationof the house in no very remote degree was at this time militarygovernor of the French East Indias, which were then, previous to theunexampled growth of the British empire in the East, important, flourishing, and full of future promise. 

Thither, then, it was determined that Raoul should go in search ofadventures, if not of fortune, in the spring following the signatureof his marriage contract with the young demoiselle d'Argenson. And, consequently, after a winter passed in quiet domestic happiness on thenoble estates, whereon the gentry of Britanny were wont to reside inalmost patriarchal state--a winter, every day of which the younglovers spent in company, and at every eve of which they separated morein love than they were at meeting in the morning--Raoul set sail in afine frigate, carrying several companies of the line, invested withthe rank of ensign, and proud to bear the colors of his king, for theshores of the still half fabulous oriental world. 

Three years had passed, and the boy had returned a man, the ensign hadreturned a colonel, so rapid was the promotion of the nobility of thesword in the French army, under the ancient regime; and--greatestchange of all, ay, and saddest--the Viscount of Douarnez had returnedCount de St. Renan. An infectious fever, ere he had been one yearabsent from the land of his birth, had cut off his noble father in thevery pride and maturity of his intellectual manhood; nor had hismother lingered long behind him whom she had ever loved so fondly. Alow, slow fever, caught from that beloved patient whom she had soaffectionately nurtured, was as fatal to her, though not so suddenly, as it had proved to her good lord; and when their son returned toFrance full of honors achieved, and gay anticipations for the future, he found himself an orphan, the lord in lonely and unwilling state ofthe superb demesnes which had so long called his family their owners. 

There never in the world was a kinder heart than that which beat inthe breast of the young soldier, and never was a family more strictlybound together by all the kindly influences which breed love andconfidence, and domestic happiness among all the members of it, thanthat of St. Renan. There had been nothing austere or rigid in thebringing up of the gallant boy; the father who had at one hour beenthe tutor and the monitor, was at the next the comrade and theplaymate, and at all times the true and trusted friend, while themother had been ever the idolized and adored protectress, and theconfidante of all the innocent schemes and artless joys of boyhood. 

Bitter, then, was the blow stricken to the very heart of the youngsoldier, when the first tidings which he received, on landing in hisloved France, was the intelligence that those--all those, with but oneexception--whom he most tenderly and truly loved, all those to whom helooked up with affectionate trust for advice and guidance, all thoseon whom he relied for support in his first trials of young manhood, were cold and silent in the all absorbing tomb. 

To him there was no hot, feverish ambition prompting him to graspjoyously the absolute command of his great heritage. In his heartthere was none of that fierce yet sordid avarice which findscompensation for the loss of the scarce-lamented dead in the severanceof the dearest natural bonds, in the possession of wealth, or thepromise of power. Nor was this all, for, in truth, so well had Raoulde Douarnez been brought up, and so completely had wisdom grown upwith his growth, that when, at the age of nineteen years, he foundhimself endowed with the rank and revenues of one of the highest andwealthiest peers of France, and in all but mere name his ownmaster--for the Abbé de Chastellar, his mother's brother, who had beenappointed his guardian by his father's will, scarcely attempted toexercise even a nominal jurisdiction over him--he felt himself morethan ever at a loss, deprived as he was, when he most needed it, ofhis best natural counsellor; and instead of rejoicing, was more thanhalf inclined to lament over the almost absolute self-control withwhich he found himself invested. 

Young hearts are naturally true themselves, and prone to put trust inothers; and it is rarely, except in a few dark and morose and gloomynatures, which are exceptions to the rule and standard of humannature, that man learns to be distrustful and suspicious of his kind, even after experience of fickleness and falsehood may have in somesort justified suspicions, until his head has grown gray. 

And this in an eminent degree was the case with Raoul de St. Renan, for henceforth he must be called by the title which his altered statehad conferred upon him. 

His natural disposition was as trustful and unsuspicious as it wasartless and ingenuous; and from his early youth all the lessons whichhad been taught him by his parents tended to preserve in himunblemished and unbroken that bright gem, which once shattered nevercan be restored, confidence in the truth, the probity, the goodness ofmankind. 

Some ruder schooling he had met in the course of his service in theeastern world--he had already learned that men, and--harder knowledgeyet to gain--women also, can feign friendship, ay, and love, whereneither have the least root in the heart, for purposes the vilest, ends the most sordid. He had learned that bosom friends can be secretfoes; that false loves can betray; and yet he was not disenchantedwith humanity, he had not even dreamed of doubting, because he hadfallen among worldly-minded flatterers and fickle-hearted coquettes, that absolute friendship and unchangeable love may exist, even inthis evil world, stainless and incorruptible among all the changes andchances of this mortal life. 

If he had been deceived, he had attributed the failure of his hopeshitherto to the right cause--the fallacy of his own judgment, and theerror of his own choice; and the more he had been disappointed, themore firmly had he relied on what he felt certain could not change, the affection of his parents, the love of his betrothed bride. 

On the very instant of his landing he found himself shipwrecked in hisfirst hope; and on his earliest interview with his uncle, in Paris, hehad the agony--the utter and appalling agony to undergo--of hearingthat in the only promise which he had flattered himself was yet leftto him, he was destined in all probability to undergo a deeper, deadlier disappointment. 

If Melanie d'Argenson had been a lovely girl, the good abbé said, whenshe was budding out of childhood into youth, so utterly had sheoutstripped all the promise of her girlhood, that no words coulddescribe, no imagination suggest to itself the charms of the matureyet youthful woman. There was no other beauty named, when lovelinesswas the theme, throughout all France, than that of the young betrothedof Raoul de Douarnez. And that which was so loudly and so widelybruited abroad, could not fail to reach the ever open, ever greedyears of the vile and sensual tyrant who sat on the throne of France atthat time, heaping upon his people that load of suffering and anguishwhich was in after times to be avenged so bitterly and bloodily uponthe innocent heads of his unhappy descendants. 

Louis had, moreover, heard years before, nay, looked upon the nascentloveliness of Melanie d'Argenson, and, with that cold-bloodedvoluptuary, to look on beauty was to lust after it, to lust after itwas to devote all the powers his despotism could command to win it. 

Hence, as the Abbé de Chastellar soon made his unfortunate nephew andpupil comprehend, a settled determination had arisen on the part ofthe odious despot to break off the marriage of the lovely girl withthe young soldier whom it was well known that she fondly loved, and tohave her the wife of one who would be less tender of his honor, andless reluctant to surrender, or less difficult to be deprived of abride, too transcendently beautiful to bless the arms of a subject, even if he were the noblest of the noble. 

All this was easily arranged, the base father of Melanie was willingenough to sell his exquisite and virtuous child to the splendid infamyof becoming a king's paramour, and the yet baser Chevalier de laRochederrien was eager to make the shameful negotiation easy, and tosanction it to the eyes of the willingly hoodwinked world, by givinghis name and rank to a woman, who was to be his wife but in name, andwhose charms and virtue he had precontracted to make over to another. 

The infamous contract had been agreed upon by the principal actors;nay, the wages of the iniquity had been paid in advance. The Sieurd'Argenson had grown into the comte of the same, with thegovernorship of the town of Morlaix added, by the revenues of which tosupport his new dignities; while the Chevalier de la Rochederrien hadbecome no less a personage than the Marquis de Ploermel, with acaptaincy of the mousquetaires, and heaven knows what beside ofhonorary title and highly gilded sinecure, whereby to reconcile him tosuch depth of sordid infamy as the meanest galley-slave could havescarce undertaken as the price of exchange between his fetters and hisoar, and the great noble's splendor. 

Such were the tidings which greeted Raoul on his return from honorableservice to his king--service for which he was thus repaid; and, beforehe had even time to reflect on the consequences, or to comprehend theanguish thus entailed upon him, his eyes were opened instantly tocomprehension of two or three occurrences which previously he had beenunable to explain to himself, or even to guess at their meaning by anyexercise of ingenuity. The first of these was the singular ignorancein which he had been kept of the death of his parents by thegovernment officials in the East, and the very evident suppression ofthe letters which, as his uncle informed him, had been dispatched tosummon him with all speed homeward. 

The second was the pertinacity with which he had been thrust forward, time after time, on the most desperate and deadly duty--a pertinacityso striking, that, eager as the young soldier was, and greedy of anychance of winning honor, it had not failed to strike him that _he_ wasfrequently _ordered_ on duty of a nature which, under ordinarycircumstances, is performed by volunteers. 

Occurrences of this kind are soon remarked in armies, and it had earlybecome a current remark in the camp that to serve in Raoul's companywas a sure passport either to promotion or to the other world. But tosuch an extent was this carried, that when time after time thatcompany had been decimated, even the bravest of the brave experiencedan involuntary sinking of the heart when informed that they weretransferred or even promoted into those fatal ranks. 

Nor was this all, for twice it had occurred, once when he was acaptain in command of a company, and again when he had a wholeregiment under his orders as its colonel, that his superiors, afterdetaching him on duty so desperate that it might almost be regarded asa forlorn hope, had entirely neglected either to support or recallhim, but had left him exposed to almost inevitable destruction. 

In the first instance, not a man whether officer or private of hiscompany had escaped, with the exception of himself. And he was found, when all was supposed to be over, in the last ditch of the redoubtwhich he had been ordered to defend to the uttermost, after it hadbeen retaken, with his colors wrapped around his breast, stillbreathing a little, although so cruelly wounded that his life was longdespaired of, and was only saved at last by the vigor and purity of anunblemished and unbroken constitution. On the second occasion, he hadbeen suffered to contend alone for three entire days with but asingle battalion against a whole oriental army; but then, that whichhad been intended to destroy him had won him deathless fame, for by adegree of skill in handling his little force, which had by no meansbeen looked for in so young an officer, although his courage and hisconduct were both well known, he had succeeded in giving a bloodyrepulse to the over-whelming masses of the enemy, and when at lengthhe was supported--doubtless when support was deemed too late to availhim aught--by a few hundred native horse and a few guns, he hadconverted that check into a total and disastrous route. 

So palpable was the case, that although Raoul suspected nothing of thereasons which had led to that disgraceful affair, he had demanded aninquiry into the conduct of his superior; and that unfortunatepersonage being clearly convicted of unmilitary conduct, and havingfailed in the end which would have justified the means in the eyes ofthe voluptuous tyrant, was ruthlessly abandoned to his fate, andactually died on the scaffold with a gag in his mouth, as did thegallant Lally a few years afterward, to prevent his revelation of theorders which he had received, and for obeying which he perished. 

All this, though strange and even extraordinary, had failed up to thismoment to awaken any suspicion of undue or treasonable agency in themind of Raoul. 

But now as his uncle spoke the scales fell from his eyes, and he sawall the baseness, all the villany of the monarch and his satellites inits true light. 

"Is it so? Is it, indeed, so?" he said mournfully. And it reallyappeared that grief at detecting such a dereliction on the part of hisking, had a greater share in the feelings of the noble youth thanindignation or resentment. "Is it, indeed, so?" he said, "and couldneither my father's long and glorious services, nor my poor conductavail aught to turn him from such infamy! But tell me, " he continued, the blood now mounting fiery red to his pale face, "tell me this, uncle, is she true to me? Is she pure and good? Forgive me, Heaven, that I doubt her, but in such a mass of infamy where may a man lookfor faith or virtue? Is Melanie true to me, or is she, too, consentingto this scheme of infamous and loathsome guilt?"

"She was true, my son, when I last saw her, " replied the goodclergyman, "and you may well believe that I spared no argument to urgeher to hold fast to her loyalty and faith, and she vowed then by allthat was most dear and holy that nothing should induce her ever tobecome the wife of Rochederrien. But they carried her off into theprovince, and have immured her, I have heard men say, almost in adungeon, in her father's castle, for now above a twelvemonth. What hasfallen out no one as yet knows certainly; but it is whispered now thatshe has yielded, and the court scandal goes that she has either weddedhim already, or is to do so now within a few days. It is said thatthey are looked for ere the month is out in Paris. "

"Then I will to horse, uncle, " replied Raoul, "before this night istwo hours older for St. Renan. "

"Great Heaven! To what end, Raoul. For the sake of all that is good!By your father's memory! I implore you, do nothing rashly. "

"To know of my own knowledge if she be true or false, uncle. "

"And what matters it, Raoul? My boy, my unhappy boy! False or true sheis lost to you alike, and forever. You have that against which tocontend, which no human energy can conquer. "

"I know not the thing which human energy cannot conquer, uncle. It isyears now ago that my good father taught me this--that there is nosuch word as _cannot_! I have proved it before now, uncle abbé; I may, should I find it worth the while, prove it again, and that shortly. Ifso, let the guilty and the traitors look to themselves--they werebest, for they shall need it!"

Such was the state of St. Renan's affections and his hopes when heleft the gay capital of France, within a few hours after his arrival, and hurried down at the utmost speed of man and horse into Bretagne, whither he made his way so rapidly that the first intimation hispeople received of his return from the east was his presence at thegates of the castle. 

Great, as may be imagined, was the real joy of the old true-heartedservitors of the house, at finding their lord thus unexpectedlyrestored to them, at a time when they had in fact almost abandonedevery hope of seeing him again. The same infernal policy which hadthrust him so often, as it were, into the very jaws of death, whichhad intercepted all the letters sent to him from home, and taken, inone word, every step that ingenuity could suggest to isolate himaltogether in that distant world, had taken measures as deep andiniquitous at home to cause him to be regarded as one dead, and toobliterate all memory of his existence. 

Three different times reports so circumstantial, and accompanied bysuch minute details of time and place as to render it almostimpossible for men to doubt their authenticity, had been circulatedwith regard to the death of the young soldier, and as no tidings hadbeen received of him from any more direct source, the last news of hisfall had been generally received as true, no motive appearing why itshould be discredited. 

His appearance, therefore, at the castle of St. Renan, was hailed asthat of one who had been lost and was now found, of one who had beendead, and lo! he was alive. The bancloche of the old feudal pile rangforth its blithest and most jovial notes of greeting, the banner withthe old armorial bearings of St. Renan was displayed upon the keep, and a few light pieces of antique artillery, falcons and culverins anddemi-cannon, which had kept their places on the battlements since thedays of the leagues, sent forth their thunders far and wide over theastonished country. 

So generally, however, had the belief of Raoul's death beencirculated, and so absolute had been the credence given to the rumor, that when those unwonted sounds of rejoicing were heard to proceedfrom the long silent walls of St. Renan, men never suspected that thelost heir had returned to enjoy his own again, but fancied that somenew master had established his claim to the succession, and was thuscelebrating his investiture with the rights of the Counts of St. Renan. 

Nor was this wonderful, for ocular proof was scarce enough to satisfythe oldest retainers of the family of the young lord's identity; andindeed ocular proof was rendered in some sort dubious by the greatalteration which had taken place in the appearance of the personage inquestion. 

Between the handsome stripling of sixteen and the grown man of twentysummers there is a greater difference than the same lapse of time willproduce at any other period of human life. And this change had beenrendered even greater than usual by the burning climate to which Raoulhad been exposed, by the stout endurance of fatigues which hadprematurely enlarged and hardened his youthful frame, and above all bythe dark experience which had spread something of the thoughtful castof age over the smooth and gracious lineaments of boyhood. 

When he left home the Viscount de Douarnez was a slight, slender, graceful stripling, with a fair, delicate complexion, a profusion oflight hair waving in soft curls over his shoulders, a light elasticstep, and a frame, which, though it showed the promise already ofstrength to be attained with maturity, was conspicuous as yet for easeand agility and pliability rather than for power or robustness. 

On his return, he had lost, it is true, no jot of his gracefulness orease of demeanor, but he had shot up and expanded into a tall, broad-shouldered, round-chested, thin-flanked man, with a complexionburned to the darkest hue of which a European skin is susceptible, andwhich perhaps required the aid of the full soft blue eye to prove itto be European--with a glance as quick, as penetrating, and at thesame time as calm and steady as that of the eagle when he gazesundazzled at the noontide splendor. 

His hair had been cut short to wear beneath the casque which was stillcarried by cavaliers, and had grown so much darker that thisalteration alone would have gone far to defy the recognition of hisfriends. He wore a thick dark moustache on his upper lip, and a large_royal_, which we should nowadays call an _imperial_, on his chin. 

The whole aspect and expression of face, moreover, was altered, evenin a greater degree than his complexion, or his person. All the quick, sparkling play and mobility of feature, the sharp flash of rapidlysucceeding sentiments, and strong emotions, expressed on the ingenuousface, as soon as they were conceived within the brain--all these haddisappeared completely--disappeared, never to return. 

The grave composure of the thoughtful, self-possessed, experiencedsoldier, sufficient in himself to meet every emergency, everyalternation of fortune, had succeeded the imaginative, impulsive ardorof the impetuous, gallant boy. 

There was a shadow, too, a heavy shadow of something more thanthought--for it was, in truth, deep, real, heartfelt melancholy, which lent an added gloom to the cold fixity of eye and lip, which hadobliterated all the gay and gleeful flashes which used, from moment tomoment, to light up the countenance so speaking and so frank in itsdisclosures. 

Yet it would have been difficult to say whether Raoul de St. Renan, grave, dark and sorrowful as he now showed, was not both a handsomerand more attractive person than he had been in his earlier days, asthe gay and thoughtless Viscount de Douarnez. 

There was a depth of feeling, as well as of thought, now perceptiblein the pensive brow and calm eye; and if the ordinary expression ofthose fine and placid lineaments was fixed and cold, that coldness andrigidity vanished when his face was lighted up by a smile, as quicklyas the thin ice of an April morning melts away before the firstglitter of the joyous sunbeams. 

Nor were the smiles rare or forced, though not now as habitual as inthose days of youth unalloyed by calamity, and unsunned by passion, which, once departed, never can return in this world. 

The morning of the young lord's arrival passed gloomily enough; it wasthe very height of summer, it is true, and the sun was shining hisbrightest over field and tree and tower, and every thing appeared topartake of the delicious influence of the charming weather, and to puton its blithest and most radiant apparel. 

Never perhaps had the fine grounds, with their soft mossy slopinglawns, and tranquil brimful waters and shadowy groves of oak and elm, great immemorial trees, looked lovelier than they did that day togreet their long absent master. 

But, inasmuch as nothing in this world is more delightful, nothingmore unmixed in its means of conveying pleasure, than the return, after long wanderings in foreign climes, among vicissitudes and cares, and sorrows, to an unchanged and happy home, where the same faces areassembled to smile on your late return which wept at your departure, so nothing can be imagined sadder or more depressing to the spiritthan so returning to find all things inanimate unchanged, or ifchanged, more beautiful and brighter for the alteration, but all theliving, breathing, sentient creatures--the creatures whose memory hascheered our darkest days of sorrow, whose love we desire most to findunaltered--gone, never to return, swallowed by the cold grave, deaf, silent, unresponsive to our fond affection. 

Such was St. Renan's return to the house of his fathers. Until a fewshort days before he had pictured to himself his father's moderate andmanly pleasure, his mother's holy kiss and chastened rapture atbeholding once again, at clasping to her happy bosom, the son, whomshe sent forth a boy, returned a man worthy the pride of the mostambitious parent. 

All this Raoul de St. Renan had anticipated, and bitter, bitter wasthe pang when he perceived all this gay and glad anticipation thrownto the winds irreparably. 

There was not a room in the old house, not a view from a singlewindow, not a tree in the noble park, not a winding curve of atrout-stream glimmering through the coppices, but was in some wayconnected with his tenderest and most sacred recollections, but had amemory of pleasant hours attached to it, but recalled the sound of thekindliest and dearest words couched in the sweetest tones, the sightof persons but to think of whom made his heart thrill and quiver toits inmost core. 

And for hours he had wandered through the long echoing corridors, thestately and superb saloons, feeling their solitude as if it had beenactual presence weighing upon his soul, and peopling every apartmentwith the phantoms of the loved and lost. 

Thus had the day lagged onward, and as the sun stooped toward the westdarker and sadder had become the young man's fancies; and he felt asif his last hope were about to fade out with the fading light of thedeclining day-god. So gloomy, indeed, were his thoughts, so sadly hadhe become inured to wo during the last few days, so certainly had thereply to every question he had asked been the very bitterest and mostpainful he could have met, that he had, in truth, lacked the courageto assure himself of that on which he could not deny to himself thathis last hope of happiness depended. He had not ventured yet even toask of his own most faithful servants, whether Melanie d'Argenson, whowas, he well knew, living scarcely three bow-shots distant from thespot where he stood, was true to him, was a maiden or a wedded wife. 

And the old servitors, well aware of the earnest love which hadexisted between the young people, and of the contract which had beenentered into with the consent of all parties, knew not how their youngmaster now stood affected toward the lady, and consequently feared tospeak on the subject. 

At length when he had dined some hours, while he was sitting with theold bailiff, who had been endeavoring to seduce him into anexamination of I know not what of rents and leases, dues and droits, seignorial and manorial, while the bottles of ruby-colored Bordeauxwine stood almost untouched before them, the young man made an effort, and raising his head suddenly after a long and thoughtful silence, asked his companion whether the Comte d'Argenson was at that timeresident at the château. 

"Oh, yes, monseigneur, " the old man returned immediately, "he has beenhere all the summer, and the château has been full of gay company fromParis. Never such times have been known in my days. Hawking partiesone day, and hunting matches the next, and music and balls everynight, and cavalcades of bright ladies, and cavaliers allostrich-plumes and cloth of gold and tissue, that you would think ourold woods here were converted into fairy land. The young lady Melaniewas wedded only three days since to the Marquis de Ploermel; but youwill not know him by that name, I trow. He was the chevalier only--theChevalier de la Rochederrien, when you were here before. "

"Ah, they _are_ wedded, then, " replied the youth, mastering hispassions by a terrible exertion, and speaking of what rent his veryheart-strings asunder as if it had been a matter which concerned himnot so much even as a thought. "I heard it was about to be so shortly, but knew not that it had yet taken place. "

"Yes, monsiegneur, three days since, and it is very strangely thoughtof in the country, and very strange things are said on all sidesconcerning it. "

"As what, Matthieu?"

"Why the marquis is old enough to be her father, or some say hergrandfather for that matter, and little Rosalie, her fille-de-chambre, has been telling all the neighborhood that Mademoiselle Melanie hatedhim with all her heart and soul, and would far rather die than go tothe altar as his bride. "

"Pshaw! is that all, good Matthieu?" answered the youth, verybitterly--"is that all? Why there is nothing strange in that. That isan every day event. A pretty lady changes her mind, breaks her faith, and weds a man she hates and despises. Well! that is perfectly inrule; that is precisely what is done every day at court. If you couldtell just the converse of the tale, that a beautiful woman had kepther inclinations unchanged, her faith unbroken, her honor pure andbright; that she had rejected a rich man, or a powerful man, becausehe was base or bad, and wedded a poor and honorable one because sheloved him, then, indeed, my good Matthieu, you would be tellingsomething that would make men open their eyes wide enough, and marvelwhat should follow. Is this all that you call strange?"

"You are jesting at me, monseigneur, for that I am country bred, "replied the steward, staring at his youthful master with big eyes ofastonishment; "you cannot mean that which you say. "

"I do mean precisely what I say, my good friend; and I never felt lesslike jesting in the whole course of my life. I know that you good folkdown here in the quiet country judge of these things as you havespoken; but that is entirely on account of your ignorance of courtlife, and what is now termed nobility. What I tell you is strictlytrue, that falsehood and intrigue, and lying, that daily sales ofhonor, that adultery and infamy of all kinds are every day occurrencesin Paris, and that the wonders of the time are truth and sincerity, and keeping faith and honor! This, I doubt not, seems strange to you, but it is true for all that. "

"At least it is not our custom down here in Bretagne, " returned theold man, "and that, I suppose, is the reason why it appears to be soextraordinary to us here. But you will not say, I think, monsieur lecomte, that what else I shall tell you is nothing strange or new. "

"What else will you tell me, Matthieu? Let us hear it, and then Ishall be better able to decide. "

"Why they say, monsiegneur, that she is no more the Marquis dePloermel's wife than she is yours or mine, except in name alone; andthat he does not dare to kiss her hand, much less her lips; and thatthey have separate apartments, and are, as it were, strangersaltogether. And that the reason of all this is that Ma'mselle Melanieis never to be his wife at all, but that she is to go to Paris in afew days, and to become the king's mistress. Will you tell me thatthis is not strange, and more than strange, infamous, and dishonoringto the very name of man and woman?"

"Even in this, were it true, there would be nothing, I am grieved tosay, very wondrous nowadays--for there have been several base andterrible examples of such things, I am told, of late; for the rest, Imust sympathize with you in your disgust and horror of such doings, even if I prove myself thereby a mere country hobereau, and no man ofthe world, or of fashion. But you must not believe all these things tobe true which you hear from the country gossips, " he added, desirousstill of shielding Melanie, so long as her guilt should be in theslightest possible degree doubtful, from the reproach which seemedalready to attach to her. "I hardly can believe such things possibleof so fair and modest a demoiselle as the young lady of d'Argenson;nor is it easy to me to believe that the count would consent to anyarrangement so disgraceful, or that the Chevalier de la Rocheder--Ibeg his pardon, the Marquis de Ploermel, would marry a lady for suchan infamous object. I think, therefore, good Matthieu, that, althoughthere would not even in this be any thing very wonderful, it is yetneither probable nor true. "

"Oh, yes, it is true! I am well assured that it is true, monseigneur, "replied the old man, shaking his head obstinately; "I do not believethat there is much truth or honor in this lady either, or she wouldnot so easily have broken one contract, or forgotten one lover!"

"Hush, hush, Matthieu!" cried Raoul, "you forget that we were merechildren at that time; such early troth plightings are foolishceremonials at the best; beside, do you not see that you arecondemning me also as well as the lady?"

"Oh, that is different--that is quite different!" replied the oldsteward, "gentlemen may be permitted to take some little libertieswhich with ladies are not allowable. But that a young demoiselleshould break her contract in such wise is disgraceful. "

"Well, well, we will not argue it to-night, Matthieu, " said the youngsoldier, rising and looking out of the great oriel window over thesunshiny park; "I believe I will go and walk out for an hour or twoand refresh my recollections of old times. It is a lovely afternoon asI ever beheld in France or elsewhere. "

And with the word he took up his rapier which lay on a slab near thetable at which he had been sitting, and hung it to his belt, and thenthrowing on his plumed hat carelessly, without putting on his cloak, strolled leisurely out into the glorious summer evening. 

For a little while he loitered on the esplanade, gazing out toward thesea, the ridgy waves of which were sparkling like emeralds tipped withdiamonds in the grand glow of the setting sun. But ere long he turnedthence with a sigh, called up perhaps by some fancied similitudebetween that bright and boundless ocean, desolate and unadorned evenby a single passing sail, and his own course of life so desert, friendless and uncompanioned. 

Thence he strolled listlessly through the fine garden, inhaling therare odors of the roses, hundreds of which bloomed on every side ofhim, there in low bushes, there in trim standards, and not a fewclimbing over tall trellices and bowery alcoves in one mass of livingbloom. He saw the happy swallow darting and wheeling to and frothrough the pellucid azure, in pursuit of their insect prey. He heardthe rich mellow notes of the blackbirds and thrushes, thousands andthousands of which were warbling incessantly in the cool shadow of theyew and holly hedges. But his diseased and unhappy spirit took nodelight in the animated sounds, or summer-teeming sights of rejoicingnature. No, the very joy and merriment, which seemed to pervade allnature, animate or inanimate around him, while he himself had nopresent joys to elevate, no future promises to cheer him, renderedhim, if that were possible, darker and gloomier, and more mournful. 

The spirits of the departed seemed to hover about him, forbidding himever again to admit hope or joy as an inmate to his desolate heart;and, wrapt in these dark phantasies, with his brow bent, and his eyesdowncast, he wandered from terrace to terrace through the garden, until he reached its farthest boundary, and then passed out into thepark, through which he strolled, almost unconscious whither, until hecame to the great deer-fence of the utmost glen, through a wicket ofwhich, just as the sun was setting, he entered into the shadowywoodland. 

Then a whole flood of wild and whirling thoughts rushed over his brainat once. He had strolled without a thought into the very scene of hishappy rambles with the beloved, the faithless, the lost Melanie. Carried away by a rush of inexplicable feelings, he walked swiftlyonward through the dim wild-wood path toward the Devil's Drinking Cup. He came in sight of it--a woman sat by its brink, who started to herfeet at the sound of his approaching footsteps. 

It was Melanie--alone--and if his eyes deceived him not, weepingbitterly. 

She gazed at him, at the first, with an earnest, half-alarmed, half-inquiring glance, as if she did not recognize his face, and, perhaps, apprehended rudeness, if not danger, from the approach of astranger. 

Gradually, however, she seemed in part to recognize him. The look ofinquiry and alarm gave place to a fixed, glaring, icy stare of unmixeddread and horror; and when he had now come to within six or eightpaces of her, still without speaking, she cried, in a wild, low voice, "Great God! great God! has he come up from the grave to reproach me! Iam true, Raoul; true to the last, my beloved!"

And with a long, shivering, low shriek, she staggered, and would havefallen to the earth had he not caught her in his arms. 

But she had fainted in the excess of superstitious awe, and perceivednot that it was no phantom's hand, but a most stalwort arm of humanmould that clasped her to the heart of the living Raoul de St. Renan. 

 [_Conclusion in our next. _

THE BLOCKHOUSE. 

BY ALFRED B. STREET. 

 Upon yon hillock in this valley's midst, Where the low crimson sun lies sweetly now On corn-fields--clustered trees--and meadows wide Scattered with rustic homesteads, once there stood A blockhouse, with its loop-holes, pointed roof, Wide jutting stories, and high base of stone. A hamlet of rough log-built cabins stood Beside it; here a band of settlers dwelt. One of the number, a gray stalwort man, Still lingers on the crumbling shores of Time. Old age has made him garrulous, and oft I've listened to his talk of other days In which his youth bore part. His eye would then Flash lightning, and his trembling hand would clench His staff, as if it were a rifle grasped In readiness for the foe. 

 "One summer's day, " Thus he commenced beside a crackling hearth Whilst the storm roared without, "a fresh bright noon, Us men were wending homeward from the fields, Where all the breezy morning we had toiled. I paused a moment on a grassy knoll And glanced around. Our scythes had been at work, And here and there a meadow had been shorn And looked like velvet; still the grain stood rich; The brilliant sunshine sparkled on the curves Of the long drooping corn-leaves, till a veil Of light seemed quivering o'er the furrowed green. The herds were grouped within the pasture-fields, And smokes curled lazily from the cabin-roofs. 'T was a glad scene, and as I looked my heart Swelled up to Heaven in fervent gratitude. Ha! from the circling woods what form steals out Strait in my line of vision, then shrinks back! 'The savage! haste, men, haste! away, away! The bloody savage!' 'T was that perilous time When our young country stood in arms for right And freedom, and, within the forests, each Worked with his loaded rifle at his back. We all unslung our weapons, and with hearts Nerving for trial, flew toward our homes. We reached them as wild whoopings filled the air, And dusky forms came bounding from the woods. We pressed toward the blockhouse, with our wives And children madly shrieking in our midst. But ere we reached it, like a torrent dashed Our tawny foes amongst us. Oh that scene Of dread and horror! Knives and tomahawks Darted and flashed. In vain we poured our shots From our long rifles; breast to breast, in vain, And eye to eye, we fought. My comrades dropped Around me, and their scalps were wrenched away As they lay writhing. From our midst our wives Were torn and brained; our shrieking infants dashed Upon the bloody earth, until our steps Were clogged with their remains. Still on we pressed With our clubbed rifles, sweeping blow on blow; But, one by one, my bleeding comrades fell, Until my brother and myself alone Remained of all our band. My wife had clung Close to my side throughout the horrid strife, I, warding off each blow, and struggling on. And now we three were near the blockhouse-door, Closed by a secret spring. My brother first Its succor reached; it opened at his touch. Just then an Indian darted to my side And grasped my trembling wife"--the old man paused And veiled his eyes, whilst shudderings shook his frame As the wind shakes the leaf. "I saw her, youth, Sink with one bitter shriek beneath the edge Of his red, swooping hatchet. Turned to stone I stood an instant, but my brother's hand Dragged me within the blockhouse. As the door Closed to the spring, and quick my brother thrust The heavy bars athwart, for I was sick With horror, piercing whoops of baffled rage Echoed without. Recovering from my deep, O'erwhelming stupor, as I heard those sounds My veins ran liquid flame; with iron grasp I clenched my rifle. From the loops we poured Quick shots upon the foe, who, shrinking back, To the low cabin-roofs applied the brand-- Up with fierce fury flashed the greedy flames. Just then my brother thrust his head from out A loop--quick cracked a rifle, and he fell Dead on the planks. With yells that froze my blood, A score of warriors at the blockhouse-door Heaped a great pile of boughs. A streak of fire Ran like a serpent through it, and then leaped Broad up the sides. Through every loop-hole poured Deep smoke, with now and then a fiery flash. The air grew thick and hot, until I seemed To breathe but flame. I staggered to a loop. Dancing around with flourished tomahawks I saw my horrid foes. But ha! that glimpse! Again! oh can it be my wavering sight! No, no, forms break from out the forest depths, And hurry onward; gleaming arms I see. Joy, joy, 't is coming succor! Swift they come, Swift as the wind. The swarthy warriors gaze Like startled deer. Crash, crash, now peal the shots Amongst them, and with looks of fierce despair They group together, aim a scattered fire, Then seek to break with tomahawk and knife Through the advancing circle, but in vain, They fall beneath the stalwort blows of men Who long had suffered under savage hate. Hunters and settlers of the valley roused At length to vengeance. With a rapid hand The blockhouse-door I opened and rushed out, Wielding my rifle. Youth, this arm is old And withered now, but every blow I struck Then made the blood-drops spatter to my brow, Until I bathed in crimson. With deep joy I felt the iron sink within the brain And clatter on the bone, until the stock Snapped from the barrel. But the fight soon passed, And as the last red foe beneath my arm Dropped dead, I sunk exhausted at the feet Of my preservers. A wild, murky gloom, Filled with fierce eyes, fell round me, but kind Heaven Lifted at length the blackness; on my soul The keen glare fell no more, and I arose With the blue sky above me, and the earth Laughing around in all its glorious beauty. "

[Illustration: The DepartureFrom H. C. Corbould. Drawn with alterations & engraved by Geo. B. Ellis Engraved expressly for Graham's Magazine]

THE DEPARTURE. 

BY MRS. ANN S. STEPHENS. 

[Entered According to Act of Congress in the year 1848, by EDWARDSTEPHENS, in the Clerk's office of the District Court of the UnitedStates for the Southern District of New York. ]

[SEE ENGRAVING. ]

CHAPTER I. 

 Oh do not look so bright and blest, For still there comes a fear, When hours like thine look happiest, That grief is then most near. There lurks a dread in all delight, A shadow near each ray, That warns us thus to fear their flight, When most we wish their stay. MOORE. 

Far down upon the Long Island shore, where the ocean heaves in waveafter wave from the "outer deep, " forming coves of inimitable beauty, promontories wooded to the brink, and broken precipices against whichthe surf lashes continually, there stood, some thirty years ago, anold mansion-house, with irregular and pointed roofs, low stoops, gable-windows, in short, exhibiting all those architecturaleccentricities which our modern artists strive for so earnestly intheir studies of the picturesque. The dwelling stood upon the bend ofa cove; a forest of oaks spread away some distance behind thedwelling, and feathered a point of land that formed the eastern circledown to the water's edge. 

In an opposite direction, and curving in a green sweep with the shore, was a fine apple-orchard, and that end of the old house was completelyembowered by plum, pear and peach trees, that sheltered minor thicketsof lilac, cerenga, snow-ball and other blossoming shrubs. In theirseason, the ground under this double screen of foliage was crimsonwith patches of the dwarf rose, and the old-fashioned windows werehalf covered with the tall graceful trees of that snow-white speciesof the same queenly flower, which is only to be found in very ancientgardens, and seldom even there at the present time. In front of theold house was a flower-garden of considerable extent, lifted terraceafter terrace from the water, which it circled like a crescent. Theprofusion of blossoms and verdure flung a sort of spring-like gloryaround the old building until the autumn storms came up from the oceanand swept the rich vesture from the trees, leaving the mansion-housebold, unsheltered and desolate-looking enough. 

The cove upon which this old house stood looked far out upon theocean; no other house was in sight, and it was completely shelterednot only by a forest of trees but by the banks that, high and broken, curved in at the mouth of the cove, narrowing the inlet, and formingaltogether a sea and land view scarcely to be surpassed. 

The mansion-house was an irregular and ancient affair enough, everywayunlike the half Grecian, half Gothic, or wholly Swiss specimens ofarchitecture with which Long Island is now scattered. Still, therewas a substantial appearance of comfort and wealth about it. Thoughwild and of ancient growth all its trees were in good order, andjudiciously planted; well kept outhouses were sheltered by theirluxurious foliage, and to these were joined all those appliances to arich man's dwelling necessary to distinguish the old mansion as thecountry residence of some wealthy merchant, who could afford toinhabit it only in the pleasantest portion of the year. 

It was the pleasantest portion of the year--May, bright, beautifulMay, with her world of blossoms and her dew-showers in the night. Theapple-orchard, the tall old pear-trees and the plum thickets were onesheet of rosy or snow-white blossoms. The old oaks rose against thesky, piled upon each other branch over branch, their rich foliage yetblushing with a dusky red as it unfolded leaf by leaf to the air. Theflower-garden was azure and golden with violets, tulips, crocuses andamaranths. In short, the old building, moss-covered though its roofhad become, and old-fashioned as it certainly was in all its angles, might have been mistaken for one of the most lovely nooks in Paradise, and the delusion never regretted. 

I have said that it was spring-time--the air fragrance itself--thebirds brimful of music, soft and sweet as if they had fed only uponthe apple-blossoms that hung over them for months. Yet there was noindication that the old house was inhabited. The windows were allclosed, the doors locked, and the greensward with the high boxborders, covered with a shower of snowy leaves that had been shakenfrom the fruit-trees. Still, upon a strip of earth kept moist by theshadows from a gable, was one or two slender footprints slightlyimpressed, that seemed to have been very recently left. Again theyappeared upon a narrow-pointed stoop that ran beneath the windows of asmall room in an angle of the building, and from which there was adoor slightly ajar, with the same dewy footprint broken on thethreshold. Within this room there was a sound as of some one movingsoftly, yet with impatience, to and fro--once a white hand claspeditself on the door, and a beautiful face, flushed and agitated, glanced through the opening and disappeared. Then followed an intervalof silence, save that the birds were making the woods ring with music, and an old honeysuckle that climbed over the stoop shook again withthe humming-birds that dashed hither and thither among its crimsonbells. 

Again the door was pushed open, and now not only the face but thetall and beautifully proportioned figure of a young girl appeared onthe threshold. She paused a moment, hesitated, as if afraid to bravethe open air, and then stepped out upon the stoop, and bending overthe railing looked eagerly toward the grove of oaks, through which acarriage-road wound up to the broad gravel-walk that led from the backof the dwelling. 

Nothing met her eye but the soft green of the woods, and after gazingearnestly forth during a minute or two she turned, with an air ofdisappointment, and slowly passed through the door again. 

The room which she entered was richly furnished, but the uprightdamask chairs, the small tables of dark mahogany, and two or threecushions that filled the window recesses, were lightly clouded withdust, such as accumulates even in a closed room when long unoccupied. There was also a grand piano in the apartment, with other musicalinstruments, all richly inlaid, but with their polish dimmed from alike cause. 

The lady seemed perfectly careless of all this disarray; she flungherself on a high-backed damask sofa, and one instant buried herflushed features in the pillows--the next, she would lift her head, hold her breath and listen if among the gush of bird-songs and the humof insects she could hear the one sound that her heart was pantingfor. Then she would start up, and taking a tiny watch from her bosomsnatch an impatient glance at the hands and thrust it back to itstremulous resting-place again. Alas for thee, Florence Hurst! All thisemotion, this tremor of soul and body, this quick leaping of the bloodin thy young heart and thrilling of thy delicate nerves, in answer toa thought, what does it all betoken? Love, love such as few women everexperienced, such as no woman ever felt without keen misery, andhappiness oh how supreme! Happiness that crowds a heaven of love intoone exquisite moment, whose memory never departs, but like the perfumethat hangs around a broken rose, lingers with existence forever andever. 

Florence loved passionately, wildly. Else why was she there in thesolitude of that lone dwelling? Her father's household was in thecity--no human being was in the old mansion to greet her coming, andyet Florence was there--alone and waiting!

It was beyond the time! You could see that by the hot flush upon hercheek, by the sparkle of her eyes--those eyes so full of pride, passion and tenderness, over which the quick tears came flashing asshe wove her fingers together, while broken murmurs dropped from herlips. 

"Does he trifle with me--has he dared--"

How suddenly her attitude of haughty grief was changed! what a burstof tender joy broke over those lovely features! How eagerly she dashedaside the proud tears and sat down quivering like a leaf, and yetstriving--oh how beautiful was the strife!--to appear less impatientthan she was. 

Yes, it was a footstep light and rapid, coming along the gravel-walk. It was on the stoop--in the room--and before her stood a young man, elegant, nay almost superb in his type of manliness, and endowed withthat indescribable air of fashion which is more pleasing than beauty, and yet as difficult to describe as the perfume of a flower or themisty descent of dews in the night. 

The young girl up to this moment had been in a tumult of expectation, but now the color faded from her cheek, and the breath as it rosetrembling from her bosom seemed to oppress her. It was but for amoment. Scarcely had his hand closed upon hers when her heart was freefrom the shadow that had fallen upon it, and a sweet joy possessed herwholly. She allowed his arm to circle her waist unresisted, and whenhe laid a hand caressingly on one cheek and drew the other to hisbosom, that cheek was glowing like a rose in the sunshine. 

For some moments they sat together in profound silence, she tremblingwith excess of happiness, he gazing upon her with a sort of sidelongand singular expression of the eye, that had something calculating andsubtle in it, but which changed entirely when she drew back her headand lifted the snowy lids that had closed softly over her eyes themoment she felt the beating of his heart. 

"And so you have come at last?" she said very softly, and drawing backwith a blush, as if the fond attitude she had fallen into weresomething to which she had hitherto been unused. "Are you alone? Ithought--"

"I know, sweet one, I know that you will hardly forgive me, " said theyoung man, and his voice was of that low, rich tone that possessesmore than the power of eloquence. "But I could not persuade theclergyman to come down hither in my company. Your father's powerterrifies him!"

"And he would not come? He refuses to unite us then--and we arehere--alone and thus!" cried Florence Hurst, withdrawing herself fromhis arm. 

"Not so, sweet one, your delicacy need not be startled thus. He iscoming with a friend, and will stop at the village till I send over tosay that all is quiet here. He is terribly afraid that the oldgentleman may suspect something and follow us. "

"Alas, my proud old father!" cried Florence, for a moment giving wayto the thoughts of regretful tenderness that would find entrance toher heart amid all its tumultuous feelings. 

"And do you regret that you have risked his displeasure, which, lovingyou as he does, must be only momentary, for one who adores you, Florence?" replied the young man, in a tone of tender reproach thatthrilled over her heart-strings like music. 

"No, no, I do not regret, I never can! but oh, how much of heavenwould be in this hour if he but approved of what we are about to do!"

"But he will approve in time, beloved, believe me he will, " said theyoung man, clasping both her hands in his and kissing them. 

"Yes, yes, when he knows you better, " cried Florence, making an effortto cast off the shadow that lay upon her heart, "when he knows allyour goodness, all the noble qualities that have won the heart of yourFlorence. "

As Jameson bent his lips to the young girl's forehead they were curledby a faint sneering smile. That smile was blended with the kiss heimprinted there. It left no sting--the poison touched no one of thedelicate nerves that awoke and thrilled to the fanning of his breath, and yet it would have been perceptible to an observer as the glitterof a rattle-snake. 

"I am sure you love me, Florence. "

"Love you!" her breath swelled and fluttered as the words left herlips. "Love! I fear--I know that all this is idolatry!"

"Else why are you here. "

"Truly, most truly!"

"Risking all things, even reputation, for me, and I so unworthy. "

"Reputation!" cried Florence, her pride suddenly stung with the venomthat lay within those honied words. "Not reputation, Jameson; I do notrisk that; I could not--it would be death!"

"And yet you are here, alone with me, beloved, in this old house. "

"But I am here to become your wife--only to become your wife. I riskmy father's displeasure--I know that--I am disobedient, wicked, cruelto him, but his good name--my own good name--no, no, nothing that Ihave done should endanger that. "

The proud girl was much agitated, and the dove-like fondness that hadbrooded in her eyes a moment before began to kindle up to anexpression that the lover became earnest to change. 

"You take me up too seriously, " he said, attempting to draw her towardhim, but she resisted proudly. "I only spoke of _possible_ notprobable risk, and that because the clergyman would be persuaded tocome down here only on a promise that the marriage should be kept asecret till some means could be found of reconciling the oldgentleman, or at any rate for a week or two. "

"And you gave the promise, " said Florence, while her beautifulfeatures settled into a grieved and dissatisfied expression. "You gavethis promise?"

"Why, Florence, what ails you? I had no choice. You had already lefthome, and he would listen to no other terms. "

"A week or two--our marriage kept secret so long, " said Florence in atone of dissatisfaction. "You did well to say I was risking much foryou. My life had been little--but this--"

"And is this too much? Do you begin to regret, Florence?"

Nothing could have been more gentle, more replete with tenderness, ardent but full of reproach, than the tone in which these words wereuttered. Florence lifted her eyes to his, tears came into them, andthen she smiled brightly once more. 

"Oh! let us have done with this; I am nervous, agitated, unreasonableI suppose; of course you have done right, " she said, "but at first thethoughts of this concealment terrified me. "

"Hark! I hear wheels. It must be the clergyman and Byrne, " saidJameson, listening. 

"And is a stranger coming, " inquired Florence, "any one but theclergyman? I was not prepared for that!"

"But we must have a witness. He is my friend, and one that can betrusted. You need have no fear of Byrne. "

"They are here!" said Florence, who had been listening with checkedbreath, while her face waxed very pale. "It is the step of two personson the gravel. Let me go--let me go for an instant, this is no dressfor a bride, " and she glanced hurriedly at her black silk dress, relieved only by a frill of lace and a knot or two of rose-coloredribbon. 

"What matters it, beautiful as you always are. "

"No, no, I cannot be married in black--I will not be married inblack, " she cried hurriedly, and with a forced effort to be gay; "waitten minutes, I will but step to the chamber above and be with youagain directly. "

Florence disappeared through a door leading into the main portion ofthe building, while Jameson arose and went out to meet the two men, who were now close by the stoop, and looking about as if undecidedwhat door to try at for admission. 

"Let us take a stroll in the garden, " he said, descending the steps, "the lady is not quite ready yet; how beautiful the morning is, " andpassing his arm through that of a man who seemed some years older thanhimself, and who had accompanied the clergyman, he turned an angle ofthe building. The clergyman followed them a pace or two, thenreturning sat down upon the steps that led to the stoop and took offhis hat. 

"This is a singular affair, " he muttered, putting back the locks fromhis forehead and bending his elbows upon his knees, with the deep sighof a man who finds the air deliciously refreshing, "I have half a mindto pluck a handful of flowers, step into my chaise and go back to thecity again; but for the sweet young lady I would. There is somethingabout the young man that troubles me--what if my good-nature has beenimposed upon--what if old Mr. Hurst has deeper reasons than hispride--that I would not bend to a minute--and he gives no other reasonif they tell me truly. This young man is his book-keeper, and so hislove is presumptuous. Probably old Hurst has imported a cargo ofaristocratic arrogance from Europe, and the young people tell thetruth. If so, why I will even marry them, and let the statelygentleman make the best of it. Still, I half wish the thing had notfallen upon me. "

Meantime the bridegroom and his friend walked slowly toward the water. 

"And so you have snared the bird at last, " said Byrne. 

"I did not think you could manage to get her down here. When did shecome?"

"Yesterday, " said Jameson. 

"Alone?"

"Quite alone; her father thinks her visiting a friend. "

"But _you_ left the city yesterday. "

"Yes. "

"And not with her?"

"She came down alone--so did I. "

"But directly after--ha!"

Jameson smiled, that same crafty smile that had curled his lips evenwhen they rested upon the forehead of Florence Hurst. 

"And did she sanction this. By heavens! I would not have believedit--so proud, so sensitive!"

"No, no, Byrne, to do Florence justice, she supposes that I came downthis morning; but the old house is large, and it was easy enough forme to find a nook to sleep in, without her knowledge. "

"But what object have you in this?"

"Why, as to my object, it is scarcely settled yet; but it struck methat by this movement I might obtain a hold upon her father's familypride, should his affection for Florence fail. The haughty old donwould hardly like it to be known in the city that his lovelydaughter--his only child--had spent the night alone, in an oldcountry-house, with her father's book-keeper. "

"But how would he know this; surely you would not become theinformant?"

"Why, no!" replied Jameson, with a smile; "but I took a little painsto inquire about the localities of this old nest up at the village. The good people had seen Miss Hurst leave the stage an hour before andwalk over this way. It seems very natural that he may hear it fromthat quarter. "

Byrne looked at his companion a moment almost sternly, then droppinghis eyes to the ground, he began to dash aside the rich blossoms froma tuft of pansies with his cane. 

"You do not approve of this?" said Jameson, studying his companion'scountenance. 

"No. "

"Why, it can do no harm. What would the girl be to me without herexpectations. I tell you her father will pay any sum rather than allowa shadow of disgrace to fall upon her. I will marry her at allhazards; but it must be kept secret, and in a little time some hint ofthis romantic excursion will be certain to reach head-quarters; and Ishall have the old man as eager for the marriage as any of us, andready to come down handsomely, too. I tell you it makes every thingdoubly sure. "

"It may be so, " said the other, in a dissatisfied manner. 

"Well, like it or not, I can see no other way by which you will becertain of the three thousand dollars that you won of me, " repliedJameson, coolly. 

Byrne dashed his cane across the pansies, sending the broken blossomsin a shower over the gravel-walks. 

"Well, manage as you like, the affair is nothing to me, but it smacksstrongly of the scoundrel, Herbert, I can tell you that. "

"Pah! this little plot of mine will probably amount to nothing. Theold gentleman may give in at once to the tears and caresses of mysweet bride up yonder. Faith, I doubt if any man could resist her. "

"More than probable--more than probable!" rejoined the other; "but Ishould not like to be within the sight of that girl's eye if she everfinds out the game you have been playing. "

"Yes, it would be very likely to strike fire, " replied Jameson, carelessly; "but she loves me, and there is no slave like a woman thatloves. You will see that before the year is over, every spark thatflashes from her eyes I shall force back upon her heart till it burnsin, I can tell you. But there she is, all in bridal white, andfluttering like a bird around the old stoop. Come, we must not keepher waiting!"

Meantime, Florence Hurst had entered a little chamber, where, nineteenyears before, she first opened her eyes to the light of heaven. It wasat one end of the house, and across the window fell the massive boughsof an old apple-tree, heaped with masses of the richest foliage, androsy with half-open blossoms. A curtain of delicate lace flutteredbefore the open sash, bathed in fragrance, and through which the roughbrown of the limbs, the delicate green in which the rosy buds seemedmatted, gleamed as through a wreath of mist. 

The night before Florence had left a robe of pure white muslin nearthe window, exquisitely fine, but very simple, which was to be herwedding-dress. It was strange, but a sort of faintness crept over herheart as she saw the dress; and she sat down powerless, with bothhands falling in her lap, gazing upon it. For the moment her intellectwas clear, her heart yielded up to its new intuition. Her guardianspirit was busy with her passionate but noble nature. She felt, forthe first time, in all its force, how wrong she was acting, howindelicate was her situation. It seemed as if she were that momentcast adrift from her father's love--from her own loftyself-appreciation. The heart that had swelled and throbbed so warmly amoment before, now lay heavy in her bosom, shrinking from the destinyprepared for it. Just then the sound of a voice penetrated the thickfoliage of the fruit tree, and she started up once more full ofconflicting emotions. It was Jameson's voice that reached her as hepassed with his friend beneath the fruit trees. She heard no syllableof what he was saying, but the very tone, as it came softened and lowthrough the perfume and sweetness that floated around her, was enoughto fling her soul into fresh tumult. How she trembled; how warm andred came the passion-fire of that delicate cheek, as she flung theblack garment from off her superb form, and hurried on the bridalarray. It was very chaste, and utterly without pretension, thatwedding-dress, knots of snowy ribbon fastened it at the shoulders andbosom, and the exquisite whiteness was unbroken save by the glow thatwarmed her neck and bosom almost to a blush, and the purplish glossupon her tresses, that fell in raven masses down to her shoulders. 

She took a glance in the old mirror, encompassed by its frame-work ofebony, carved and elaborated at the top and bottom into a darknet-work of fine filagree; she saw herself--a bride. Again the wing ofher guardian angel beat against her heart. The unbroken whiteness ofher array seemed to fold her like a shroud, and like that thing whicha shroud clings to, became the pallor which settled on her features;for behind her own figure, and moving, as it were, in the backgroundof the mirror, she saw the image of her lover and his friend, talkingearnestly together. The friend stood with his back toward her, but_his_ face she saw distinctly, and that smile was on his lips, cold, crafty, almost contemptuous. Was it Jameson, or only something mockingher from the mirror? She went to the window, drew aside the filmylace, and looked forth. Truly it was her lover; through an intersticeof the apple boughs she saw him distinctly, and he saw her--thatsmile, surely the gloomy old mirror had reflected awry. How brilliant, how full of love was the whole expression of his face. Again her heartlighted up. She took a cluster of blossoms from the apple-tree bough, and waving them lightly toward him, drew back. She left the room, fastening the damp and fragrant buds in her hair as she went along, for somehow she shrunk from looking into the old mirror again. 

Now the guardian angel gave way to the passion spirit. Florenceentered the little boudoir, trembling with excitement, and warm withblushes. The room was solitary, and she stepped out upon thestoop--for her life she could not have composed herself to sit downand wait a single instant. The clergyman was there sitting upon thesteps, thoughtful, and evidently yielding to the doubts that hadarisen in his kind but just nature too late. He arose as Florence cameupon the stoop, and slowly mounting the steps, took her hand and ledher back into the room. 

"My dear young lady, " he said very gravely, "I would hear from yourown lips what the impediments to this marriage really are. I scarceknow how to account for it. Nothing has happened to change the aspectof affairs here; but within the last hour I have been troubled withdoubts and misgivings. Has all been done that can be to obtain yourfather's consent?"

"I believe--I know that there has, " replied Florence, instantlysaddened by the gravity of the clergyman. 

"And his objections arose purely from pride--aristocratic pride?"

"I never heard any other reason given for withholding his consent, "replied Florence. "To me he never gave a reason. His commands wereperemptory. "

"And you have known this young man long?"

"I was but fifteen when he first came into my father's employ. "

"And you love him with your whole heart?"

Florence lifted her eyes, and through the long black lashes flashed areply so eloquent, so beautiful, that it made even the quiet clergymandraw a deep breath. 

"Enough--I will marry them!" he said firmly. "I only wish the youngman may prove worthy of all this--"

His soliloquy was cut short by the appearance of Jameson and hisfriend. 

They were married--Florence Hurst, the only daughter and heiress ofthe richest merchant in New York, to Jameson, the protegée andbook-keeper of her proud father. 

They were married, and they were left alone in that picturesque oldcountry-house. And now, strange to say, Florence grew very sad; and asJameson sat by her, with one hand in his, and circling her waist withhis arm, she began to weep bitterly. 

"Florence, Florence--how is this! why do you weep, beloved?"

"I do not know, " said the bride, gently; "but since the good clergymanhas left us, my heart is heavy, and I feel alone. "

"Do you not love me, Florence? Have you lost confidence in me?"

Florence lifted her eyes, shining with affection, and placed her handin his. 

"But this secrecy troubles me. Let us tell my father at once, " shesaid, earnestly. 

"But I have promised, shall I break a pledge, and that to the man ofGod who has just given you to me forever and ever. Florence?"

"Surely his consent may be obtained. He said nothing of concealment tome. "

"And did you talk with him?" questioned Jameson, maintaining the sametone in which his other questions had been put, but with a certainsharpness in it. 

"A little. He questioned me of the motives which induced my father tooppose our marriage. "

"And that was all?"

"Yes; you came in just then, and the rest seems like a dream. "

"A blessed, sweet dream, Florence, for it made you my wife, " saidJameson. 

Still Florence wept. "And now, " she said, lifting her eyes timidly tohis, "let us return to the city; while this secrecy lasts I must seeyou only in the presence of my father. "

"Florence, is this distrust--is it dislike?" cried Jameson, startledout of his usual self-command. 

"Neither, " said Florence, "you know that. You are certain of it as Iam myself. But I am your wife now, Herbert, and have both your honorand my own to care for. My father has no power to separate us now, sothat fear which seemed to haunt you ever is at rest. But it is due tomyself, to him, and to you, that when you claim me as your wife, heshould know that I am such, though he may not approve. "

Florence said all this very sweetly, but with a degree of gentlefirmness that seemed the more unassailable that it was sweet andgentle. Before he could speak she withdrew herself from his arm, andglided from the room. When quite alone, Jameson fell into anunpleasant reverie, from which her return in the black silk dress, with a bonnet and shawl on, aroused him. 

"Come, " she said, with a smile and a blush, "let us walk through theoak woods, and across the meadows, we shall reach the village almostas soon as the good clergyman and your friend. The reverend gentlemanwill take care of me, I feel quite sure, and you can manage foryourself. Here we must not remain another moment. "

"Florence!"

"Nay, nay--whoever heard of a lady being thwarted on herwedding-morning!" cried Florence--and she went out upon the stoop. Jameson followed, and seemed to be expostulating; but she took his armand walked on, evidently unconvinced by all that he was saying, tillthey disappeared in the oak woods. 

CHAPTER II. 

 Thy vows are all broken, And light is thy fame; I hear thy name spoken, And share in the shame. They will name thee before me, A knell to mine ear; A shudder comes o'er me-- Why wert thou so dear? BYRON. 

Florence was in her father's house near the Battery, and looking forthinto a large, old-fashioned garden, which was just growing dusky withapproaching twilight; near her, in a large crimson chair, sat a man offifty perhaps, tall and slender, with handsome but stern features, rendered more imposing by thick hair, almost entirely gray, and astyle of dress unusually rich, and partaking of fashions that hadprevailed twenty years earlier. 

Florence was pensive, and an air of painful depression hung about her. The presence of her father, who sat gazing upon her in silence, affected her much; the secret that lay upon her heart seemed to growpalpable to his sight, and though she appeared only still and pensive, the poor girl trembled from head to foot. 

"Florence!" said Mr. Hurst after the lapse of half an hour, for itseemed as if he had been waiting for the twilight to deepen aroundthem--"Florence, you are sad, child. You look unhappy. Do yourfather's wishes press so heavily upon your spirits--do you look uponhim as harsh, unreasonable, because he will not allow his only childto throw away her friendship, her society upon the unworthy?"

Florence did not answer, her heart was too full. There was somethingtender and affectionate in her father's voice that made the tearsstart, and drowned the words that she would have spoken. Seldom had headdressed her in that tone before. How unlike was he to the reserved, stern father whose arbitrary command to part with her lover she hadsecretly disobeyed. 

"Speak, Florence, your depression grieves me, " continued Mr. Hurst, ashe heard the sobs she was trying in vain to suppress. 

"Oh, father--father! why will you call him unworthy because he lacksfamily standing and wealth? I cannot--oh I never can think with you inthis!"

"And who said that I did deem him unworthy for _these_ reasons? Whosaid that I objected to Herbert Jameson as a companion for my daughterbecause of his humble origin or his penniless condition? Who told youthis, Florence Hurst?"

"He, he told me--did you not say all this to him, all this and more?Did you not drive him from your presence and employ with bitter scorn, when two weeks ago he asked for your daughter's hand?"

"_He_ ask for my daughter's hand! he, the ingrate! the--Florence, didyou believe that he really possessed the base assurance to requestyour hand of me?"

"Father! father! what does this mean? Did you not tell me on that veryevening never to see him again--never to recognize him in the street, or even think of him! Did you not cast him forth from your home andemploy because he told you of his love for me and of mine for him?"

"Of your love for him, Florence Hurst!"

There was something terrible in the voice of mingled astonishment anddismay with which this exclamation was made. 

"Father!" cried the poor girl, half rising from her seat, and fallingback again pale and trembling, "father, why this astonishment? Youknew that I loved him!"

"Who told you that I did?"

"_He_ told me, he, Herbert Jameson. It was for this you made him anoutcast. "

"It is false, Florence, I never dreamed of this degradation!" said Mr. Hurst, in a voice that seemed like sound breaking up through coldmarble. 

"Then why that command to myself--why was I never to see or hear fromhim again?" cried Florence, almost gasping for breath. 

"Because he is a dishonest man, a swindler--because I solemnly believethat he has been robbing me during the last three years, andsquandering his stolen spoil at the gambling-table!"

"Father--father--father!"

The sharp anguish in which these words broke forth brought thedistressed merchant to his feet. Florence, too, stood upright, andeven through the dusk you might have seen the wild glitter of hereyes, the fierce heave of her bosom. 

"You believe, father, you only believe! should such things be saidwithout proof--proof broad and clear as the open sunshine when itpours down brightest from heaven. I say to you, my father, HerbertJameson is an honest, honorable man!"

"It is well, Florence--it is well!" said Mr. Hurst, with stern andbitter emphasis. "You have doubted my justice, you distrust that whichI have said. You are foolishly blind enough to think that this man_can_ love, does love you. "

"I know that he does!" said Florence with a sort of wild exultation. "I know that he loves me. "

"And would you, if I were to give my consent--could you become thewife of Herbert Jameson?"

"Father, I could! I would!"

"Then on this point be the issue between us, " said Mr. Hurst, withcalm and stern dignity. "Florence, I am about to send a note desiringthis man to come once more under my roof, " and he rang a bell forlights; "if within three hours I do not give you proof that he lovesyou only for the wealth that I can give--that he is every waydespicable--I say that if within three hours I do not furnish thisproof, clear, glaring, indisputable, then will I frankly and at oncegive my consent to your marriage. "

"Father!" cried Florence, while a burst of wild and startling joybroke over her face, "I will stand the issue! My life--my very soulwould I pledge on his integrity. "

Mr. Hurst looked at her with mournful sternness while she wasspeaking, and then proceeded to write a note which he instantlydispatched. 

While the servant was absent Mr. Hurst and his daughter remainedtogether, much agitated but silent and lost in thought. In the courseof half an hour the man returned with a reply to the note. Mr. Hurstread it, and waiting till they were alone turned to his daughter andpointed to a glass door which led from the room into a littleconservatory of plants. 

"Go in yonder, from thence you can hear all that passes. "

"Father, is it right--will it be honorable?" said Florence, hesitatingand weak with agitation. 

"It is right--it is honorable! Go in!" His voice was stern, thegesture with which he enforced it peremptory, and poor Florenceobeyed. 

A curtain of pale green silk fell over the sash-door, and close behindit stood a garden-chair, overhung by the blossoming tendrils of apassion-flower. Florence sat down in the chair and her head droopedfainting to one hand. There was something in the scent of the variousplants blossoming around that reminded her of that wedding-morningwhen the air was literally burthened with like fragrance. She wasabout to see her husband for the first time since that agitating day, to see him thus, crouching as a spy among those delicate plants, herheart beat heavily, she loathed herself for the seeming meanness thathad been forced upon her. Yet there was misgiving at her heart--avague, sickening apprehension that chained her to the seat. 

She heard the door open and some one enter the room where her fathersat, with a lamp pouring its light over his stern and pale featurestill every iron lineament was fully revealed. Scarcely conscious ofthe act, Florence drew aside a fold of the curtain, and with herforehead pressed to the cold glass looked in. Mr. Hurst had not risen, but with an elbow resting on the table sat pale and stern, with hiseyes bent full upon her husband, who stood a few paces nearer to thedoor. In one hand was his hat, in the other he held a slenderwalking-stick. He did not seem fully at his ease, and yet there wasmore of triumph than of embarrassment in his manner. Florenceobserved, and with a sinking heart, that he did not, except with afurtive glance, return the calm and searching look with which Mr. Hurst regarded him. 

"Mr. Jameson, sit down, " began the haughty merchant, pointing to achair. "I did hope after our last interview never again to bedisturbed by your presence, but it seems that, serpent-like, you willnever tire of stinging the bosom that has warmed you. "

"I am at a loss to understand you, Mr. Hurst, " replied Jameson, takingthe chair, and Florence sickened as she saw creeping over his lips thevery same smile that had gleamed before her in the mirror. "When Ilast saw you your charges were harsh, your treatment cruel. Youimputed things to me of which you have no proof, and upon the strengthof an absurd suspicion of--of--I may as well speak it out--ofdishonesty, you discharged me from your employ; I am at a loss to knowwhy you have sent for me, certainly you cannot expect to wring proofof these charges from my own words. "

"I have proof of them, undoubted, conclusive, and had at the time theywere first made! but you had been cherished beneath my roof, hadbroken of my bread, and I was forbearing! Was not this reason enoughwhy I should have sent you forth as I did?"

Jameson gave a perceptible start and turned very pale as Mr. Hurstspoke of the proofs that he possessed; but the emotion was onlymomentary, and it scarcely disturbed the smile that still curled abouthis mouth. 

"At any rate the bare suspicion of these things was all the reason youdeigned to give, " he said. 

Florence heard and saw--conviction, the loathed thing, came creepingcolder and colder to her bosom. 

"But since then I have other causes for pursuing your crimes with thejustice they merit, other and deeper wrongs you have done me, serpent, fiend, household ingrate as you are!"

"And what may those other wrongs be?" was the cold and half sneeringrejoinder to this passionate outbreak. 

"My daughter!" said the merchant, sweeping a hand across his forehead. "It sickens me to mention her name here and thus, but mydaughter--even there has your venom reached. "

"Perhaps I understand you, " said the young man with insufferablecoolness; "but if your daughter chose to love where her father hateshow am I to blame? I am sure it has cost me a great deal of trouble tokeep the young lady's partiality a secret. If you have found it out atlast so much the better. "

Mr. Hurst, with all his firmness, was struck dumb by this cool andtaunting reply, but after a moment's fierce struggle he mastered thepassion within him and spoke. 

"You love"--the words absolutely choked the proud man--"you love mydaughter then--why was this never mentioned to me?"

"It was the young lady's fancy, I suppose; perhaps she shrunk from sogrim a confident; at any rate it is very certain that I did!"

Mr. Hurst shaded his face with one hand and seemed to strugglefiercely with himself. Jameson sat playing with the tassel of hiscane, now and then casting furtive glances at his benefactor. 

"Young man, " said the merchant, slowly withdrawing his hand, "I havebut to denounce you to the laws, and you leave this room for aconvict's cell. "

"It may be that you have this power!" replied Jameson, withundisturbed self-possession, "I am sure I cannot say whether you haveor not!"

"I _have_ the power, what should withhold me!"

"Oh, many things. Your daughter, for instance!"

"My daughter!"

"You interrupt me, sir. I was about to say your daughter has given mesome rather unequivocal proofs of her love, and they would becomeunpleasantly public, you know, if her father insisted upon dragging mebefore the world. Your daughter, sir, must be my shield and buckler, Inever desire a better or fairer. "

Here a noise broke from the conservatory, and the silk curtain shookviolently, but as it was spring time, and with open doors for the windto circulate through, this did not seem extraordinary. Still, Mr. Hurst looked anxiously around, and Jameson cast a careless glance thatway. 

It was very painful, nay withering to his proud heart, but Mr. Hurstwas determined to lay open the black nature of that man before hischild; he knew that she suffered, that it was torture that heinflicted, but nevertheless she could be redeemed in no other way, andhe remained firm as a rock. 

"So, in order to deter me from a just act, you would use my daughter'sattachment as a threat; you would drag her name before the world, thatit might be blasted with your own! Is this what I am to understand?"

"Well, something very like it, I must confess. "

Mr. Hurst arose. "I have done with you, Herbert Jameson, " he said, with austere dignity. "Go, your presence is oppressive! So young andso deep a villain, even I did not believe you so terribly base. Go, Ihave done with you!"

Jameson did not move, but sat twisting the tassel of his cane betweenhis thumb and finger. He did not look full at Mr. Hurst, for there wassomething in his eye that quelled even his audacity; but when hespoke, it was without any outward agitation, though his miscreantlimbs shook, and the heart trembled in his bosom. 

"Mr. Hurst, " he said, "I do not know how far you have used pasttransactions to terrify me, but I assure you that any blow aimed at mewill recoil on yourself. But this is not enough, you have told me toleave your roof forever--and so I will; but first let my wife beinformed that I await her pleasure here. I take her with me, and thatbefore you can have an opportunity to poison her mind against herhusband. "

"Your wife! Your wife!" Mr. Hurst could only master these words, andthey fell from his white lips in fragments. He looked wildly aroundtoward the door, and at the young man, who stood there smiling at hisagony. 

"Yes, sir, my wife. There is the certificate of our marriage threedays ago, at your pleasant old country-house on the Long Island shore. You see that it is regularly witnessed--the people about there willtell you the how and when. "

Mr. Hurst took up the certificate and held it before his eyes, but forthe universe he could not have read a word, for it shook in his handlike a withered leaf in the wind. 

Then softly and slowly the conservatory-door opened, and the tallfigure of Florence Hurst glided through. There was a bright red spotupon her forehead, where it had pressed against the glass, but savethat her face, neck, and hands were colorless as Parian marble, andalmost as cold. She approached her father, took the certificate fromhis hand and tearing it slowly and deliberately into shreds, set herfoot upon them. 

"Father, " she said, "take me away. I have sinned against heaven and inthy sight, and am no longer worthy to be called thy daughter, but, oh, punish me not with the presence of this bad man!"

Without a word, Mr. Hurst took the cold hand of his daughter and ledher into another room. Jameson was left alone--alone with his ownblack heart and base thoughts. We would as soon dwell with arattle-snake in its hole, and attempt to analyze its venom, asregister the dark writhing of a nature like his. The sound of a voice, low, earnest and pleading, now and then reached his ear. Then therewas a noise as of some one falling, followed by the tramp of severalpersons moving about in haste; and, after a little, Mr. Hurst enteredthe room again. 

Young Jameson stood up, for reflection had warned him that he could nolonger trust to the power of Florence with her father; there had beensomething in the terrible stillness of her indignation, in the palefeatures, the dilated eyes, and the brows arched with ineffable scorn, that convinced him how mistaken was the anchor which he had expectedto hold so firmly in her love. He knew Mr. Hurst, and felt that in hislofty pride alone could rest any hope of a rescue from the penalty ofhis crimes. 

He stood up, then, as I have said, with more of respect in his mannerthan had hitherto marked it. 

Mr. Hurst resumed his chair and motioned that the young man shouldfollow his example. He was very pale, and a look of keen suffering layaround his eyes, but still in his features was an expression ofrelief, as if the degredation that had fallen upon him was less thanhe had dreaded. 

"How, may I ask, how is my--, how is Florence--she looked ill; I trustnothing serious?" said Jameson, sinking into his chair, and goaded tosay something by the keen gaze which Mr. Hurst had turned upon him. 

"Never again take that name into your lips, " said the outragedfather--and his stern voice shook with concentrated passion. "If youbut breath it in a whisper to your own base heart alone, I will castaside all, and punish you even to the extremity of the law. "

"But, Mr. Hurst--"

"Peace, sir!"

The young ingrate drew back with a start, and looked toward the door, for the terrible passion which he had lighted in that lofty man nowbroke forth in voice, look and gesture; the wretch was appalled by it. 

"Sit still, sir, and hear what I have to say. "

"I will--I listen, Mr. Hurst, but do be more composed. I did not meanto offend you in asking after--"

"Young man, beware!" Mr. Hurst had in some degree mastered himself, but the huskiness of his voice, the vivid gleam of his eyes, gavewarning that the fire within him though smothered was not quenched. 

"I am silent, sir, " cried the wretch, completely cowed by the strongwill of his antagonist. 

"I know all--all, and have but few words to cast upon a thing so vileas you have become. If I submit to your presence for a moment it isbecause that agony must be endured in order that I may cast you fromme at once, like the viper that had stung me. "

"Sir, these are hard words, " faltered Jameson; but Mr. Hurst liftedhis hand sharply, and went on. 

"You want money. How much did you expect to obtain from me?"

"I--I--this is too abrupt, Mr. Hurst, you impute motives--"

"I say, sir, " cried the merchant, sternly interrupting the stammeredattempt at defense, "I say you have done this for money--impunity foryour crime first, and then money. You see I know you thoroughly. "

The wretch shrunk from the withering smile that swept over that whiteface; he looked the thing he was--a worthless, miserable coward, withall the natural audacity of his character dashed aside by the strongwill of the man he had wronged. 

"You are too much excited, Mr. Hurst, I will call some other time, " hefaltered out. 

"Now--now, sir, I give you impunity! I will give you money. Say, howmuch will release me from the infamy of your presence; I will paywell, sir, as I would the physician who drives a pestilence from myhearth?"

"Mr. Hurst, what do you wish--what am I to do?"

"You are to leave this country now and forever--leave it withoutspeaking the name of my daughter. You are never to step your footagain upon the land which she inhabits. Do this, and I will investfifty thousand dollars for your benefit, the income to be paid you inany country that you may choose to infest, any except this. "

"And what if I refuse to sell my liberty, my--" he paused, for Mr. Hurst was keenly watching him, and he dared not mention Florence ashis wife, though the word trembled on his lip. 

"What then, " said the merchant, firmly, "why you pass from this doorto the presence of a magistrate--from thence to prison--after that totrial--not on a single indictment, but on charges urged one afteranother that shall keep you during half your life within the walls ofa convict's cell. "

"But remember--"

"I do remember everything; and I, who never yet violated my word tomortal man, most solemnly assure you that such is your destination, let the consequences fall where they will. "

Jameson sat down, and with his eyes fixed on the floor, fell into atrain of subtle calculation. Mr. Hurst sat watching him with sternpatience. At last Jameson spoke, but without lifting his eyes, "Youare a very wealthy man, Mr. Hurst, and fifty thousand dollars is notexactly the portion that--"

"The bribe--the bribe, you mean, which is to rid me of an ingrate, "cried the merchant, and a look of ineffable disgust swept over hisface. "The benefit is great, too great for mere gold to purchase, butI have named fifty thousand--choose between that and a prison. "

"But shall I have the money down?" said Jameson, still gazing upon thefloor. "Remember, sir, my affections, my--"

"Peace, once more--another word on that subject and I consign you tojustice at once. This interview has lasted too long already. You havemy terms, accept or reject them at once. "

"I--I--of course I can but accept them, hard as it is to separate frommy country and friends. But did I understand you aright, sir. Is itfifty thousand in possession, or the income that you offer?"

"The income--and that only to be paid in a foreign land, and while youremain there. "

"These are hard terms, Mr. Hurst, very hard terms, indeed, " saidJameson. "Before I reply to to them--excuse me, I intend nooffence--but I must hear from your daughter's own lips that shedesires it. "

Mr. Hurst started to his feet and sat instantly down again; for amoment he shrouded his eyes, and then he arose sternly and very pale, but with iron composure. 

"From her own lips--hear it, then. Go in, " he said, casting open thedoor through which he had entered the room, "go in!"

The room was large and dimly lighted; at the opposite end there was ahigh, deep sofa, cushioned with purple, and so lost in the darknessthat it seemed black; what appeared in the distance to be a heap ofwhite drapery, lay upon the sofa, immovable and still, as if it hadbeen cast over a corpse. 

Jameson paused and looked back, almost hoping that Mr. Hurst wouldfollow him into the room, for there was something in the stillnessthat appalled him. But the merchant had left the door, and castinghimself into a chair, sat with his arms flung out upon the table, andhis face buried in them. For his life he could not have forced himselfto witness the meeting of that vile man with his child. 

Still Florence remained immovable; Jameson closed the door, andwalking quickly across the room, like one afraid to trust his ownstrength, bent over the sofa. 

Florence was lying with her face to the wall, her eyes were closed, and the whiteness of her features was rendered more deathly by the dimlight. She had evidently heard the footstep, and mistaking it for herfather's, for her eyelids began to quiver, and turning her face to thepillow, she gasped out with a shudder, "Oh, father, father, do not look on me!"

Jameson knelt and touched the cold hand in which she had grasped aportion of the pillow. 

"Florence!"

Florence started up, a faint exclamation broke from her lips, and shepressed herself against the back of the sofa, in the shuddering recoilwith which she attempted to evade him. 

Jameson drew back, and for the instant his countenance evincedgenuine emotion. His self-love was cruelly shocked by the evidentloathing with which she shrunk away from the arm that, only a few daysbefore, had brought the bright blood into her cheeks did she but resther hand upon it by accident. 

"And do you hate me so, Florence?" he said, in a voice that was fullof keen feeling. 

"Leave me--leave me, I am ill!" cried the poor girl, sitting up on thesofa, and holding a hand to her forehead, as if she were sufferinggreat pain. 

"_I_ come by your father's permission, Florence; will you be morecruel than he is?"

"My father has a right to punish me, I have deserved it, " she said, ina voice of painful humility. "If he sent you I will try to bear it. "

"Oh, Florence, has it come to this; I am about to leave you forever, and yet you shrink from me as if I were a reptile, " cried Jameson. 

"A reptile! oh, no, they seldom sting unless trodden upon, " saidFlorence, lifting her large eyes to his face for the first time, butwithdrawing them instantly, and with a faint moan. 

Jameson turned from her and paced the room once or twice with unevenstrides. This seemed to give Florence more strength, for the closenessof his presence had absolutely oppressed her with a sense ofsuffocation. She sat upright, and putting the hair back from hertemples, tried to collect her thoughts. Jameson broke off his walk andturned toward her; but she prevented his nearer approach with a motionof her hand, and spoke with some degree of calmness. 

"You have sought me, but why? What more do you wish? Do I not seemwretched enough?"

"It is your father who has made you thus miserable!" said Jameson, ina low but bitter voice, for he feared the proud man in the next room, and dared not speak of him aloud. Florence scarcely heeded him, shesat gazing on the floor lost in thought, painful and harrowing. Stillthere was an apparent apathy about her that reassured the bad man whostood by suffering all the agony of a wild animal baffled in fight. Hewould not believe that so short a time had deprived him of a love sopassionate, so self-sacrificing as had absorbed that young being notthree days before. 

Throwing a tone of passionate tenderness into his voice, he approachedher, this time unchecked. 

"Florence, dear Florence, must we part thus; will you send me from youfor ever?"

Florence, was very weak and faint, she felt by the thrill that wentthrough her heart like some sharp instrument, as the sound of hispassionate entreaty fell upon it, that, spite of herself, she might bemade powerless in his hands were the interview to proceed. The thoughtfilled her with dread. She started up, and tottering a step or twofrom the sofa, cried out, "Father! father!"

Mr. Hurst lifted his head from where he had buried it in his foldedarms, as if to shield his senses from what might be passing within theother room, and starting to his feet, was instantly by his daughter'sside. 

"What is this!" he said, throwing his arm around the half faintinggirl, and turning sternly toward her tormentor, "have you dared--"

"No, no!" gasped Florence. "I was ill--I--oh, father, without you Ihave no strength. Save me from myself!"

"I will, " said Mr. Hurst, gently and with great tenderness drawing thetrembling young creature close to his bosom. 

"I see how it is, she is influenced only by you, sir. I am promised aninterview, and left to believe that the lady shall decide for herself, yet even the very first words I utter are broken in upon. I know thatthis woman loves me. "

"No, no, I love him not! I did a little hour ago, but now I amchanged--do you not see how I am changed?" cried Florence, lifting herhead wildly, and turning her pale face full upon her miscreanthusband. "Do you not know that your presence is killing me?"

"I will go, " said Jameson, touched by the wild agony of her look andvoice; "I will go now, but only with your promise, Mr. Hurst, thatwhen she is more composed, I may see and converse with her. I willoffer no opposition to your wishes; but you will give me a week ortwo. "

"Do you wish to see this man again, my child?" said Mr. Hurst, "I cantrust you, Florence, decide for yourself. "

Florence parted her lips to answer, but her strength utterly failed, and with a feeble gasp she sunk powerless and fainting on her father'sbosom. 

Mr. Hurst gathered her in his arms and bore her from the room, simplypausing with his precious burden at the door while he told Jameson, ina calm under tone, to leave the house, and wait till a message shouldreach him. 

But the unhappy man was in no haste to obey. For half an hour he pacedto and fro in the solitude of that large apartment, now seatinghimself on the sofa which poor Florence had just left, and againstarting up with a sort of insane desire for motion. Sometimes hewould listen, with checked breath, to the footsteps moving to and froin the chamber over-head, and then hurry forward again, racked byevery fierce passion that can fill the heart of a human being. 

"I _will_ triumph yet! I _will_ see her, and that when he is not nearto crush every loving impulse as it rises. Once mine, and he willnever put his threat into execution, earnest as he seemed. All mystrength lies in her love--and it is enough. She suffers--that is aproof of it. She is angry--that is another proof. Yes, yes, I cantrust in her, she is all romance, all feeling!"

Jameson muttered these words again and again; it seemed as if hethought by the sound of his voice to dispel the misgiving that lay athis heart. He would have given much for the security that his mutteredwords seemed to indicate, and as if determined not to leave the housewithout some further confirmation of his wishes, he lingered in theroom till its only light flashed and went out in the socket of itstall silver candlestick, leaving him in total darkness. Then he stoleforth and left the house, softly closing the street door after him. 

CHAPTER III. 

 Oh! wert thou still what once I fondly deemed, All that thy mien expressed, thy spirit seemed, My love had been devotion, till in death Thy name had trembled on my latest breath. 

 * * * * * * *

 Had'st thou but died ere yet dishonor's cloud O'er that young heart had gathered as a shroud, I then had mourned thee proudly, and my grief In its own loftiness had found relief; A noble sorrow cherished to the last, When every meaner wo had long been past. Yes, let affection weep, no common tear She sheds when bending o'er an honored bier. Let nature mourn the dead--a grief like this, To pangs that rend _my_ bosom had been bliss. 

 MRS. HEMANS. 

Florence had been very ill, and a week after the scene in our lastchapter Mr. Hurst removed her down to his old mansion-house on theLong Island shore. There the associations were less painful than athis town residence, where the sweetest years of her life had beenspent in unrestrained association with the man who had so cruellydeceived her. The old mansion-house had witnessed only one fatal scenein the drama of her love; and here she consented to remain. Her fatherdivided his time between her and the unpleasant duties that called himto town; and more than once he was forced to endure the presence ofthe man whose very look was poison to him, but after the distressingnight when the error of his daughter was first made known, the nobleold merchant had regained all his usual dignified calmness. No burstsof passion marked his interviews with the wretch who had wounded him, but firm and resolute he proceeded, step by step, in the course thathis reason and will had at first deliberately marked out. In threedays time Jameson was to depart for Europe, and forever. It wassingular what power the merchant had obtained over his own strongpassions; always grave and courteous, his demeanor had changed innothing, save that toward his child there was more delicacy, moretender solicitude than she had ever received from him before, even inthe days of her infancy. It seemed that in forgiving her fault, he hadunlocked some hidden fount of tenderness which bedewed and softenedhis whole nature. Florence, who had always felt a little awe of herfather when no act of hers existed to excite it, now that she hadgiven him deep cause of offence, had learned to watch for his comingas the young bird waits for the parent which is to bring him food. Onenight, it was just before sunset, Mr. Hurst entered his daughter'schamber with a handful of heliotrope, tea-roses, and cape-jesamines, which he had just gathered. In his tender anxiety to relieve thesadness that preyed upon her, he remembered her passion for theseparticular flowers, and had spent half an hour in searching them outfrom the wilderness of plants that filled a conservatory in one wingof the building. The chamber where Florence sat was the one in whichshe had put on her wedding garments scarcely three weeks before. Theold ebony mirror, with the fantastic and dark tracery of its frame, hung directly before her, and from its depth gleamed out a face sochanged that it might well have startled one who had been proud of itsbloom and radiance one little month before. 

The window was open, as it had been that day, and across it fell theold apple-tree, with the fruit just setting along its thickly-leavedboughs, and a few over-ripe blossoms yielding their petals to everygush of air that came over them. These leaves, now almost snow-white, had swept, one by one, into the chamber, settling upon the chair whichFlorence occupied, upon her muslin wrapper, and flaking, as with snow, the glossy disorder of her hair. With a sort of mournful apathy shefelt these broken blossoms falling around her, remembering, oh, howkeenly, their rosy freshness, when she had selected them as a bridalornament. She remembered, too, the single glimpse which that oldmirror had given of her lover--that one prophetic glimpse which hadbeen enough to startle, but not enough to save her. 

Florence was filled with these miserable reminiscences when her fatherentered the chamber. She greeted him with a wan smile, that told heranxiety to appear less wretched than she really was in his presence. He came close up to her where she sat, and stooping to kiss herforehead, laid the blossoms he had brought in her lap. 

Mr. Hurst little knew how powerful were the associations thosedelicate flowers would excite. The moment their fragrance arose aroundher Florence began to shudder, and turning her face away with anexpression of sudden pain, swept them to the floor. 

"Take them away, oh take them away!" she said. "That evening theirbreath was around me while I sat listening to--take them out of theroom, I cannot endure their sweetness. "

Mr. Hurst strove to soothe the wild excitement which his unfortunateflowers had occasioned. It was a touching sight--that proud man, socruelly wronged by his daughter, and yet bending the natural reserveof his nature into every endearing form, in order to convince her howdeep was his love, how true his forgiveness. 

"My Florence, try to conquer this keen sensitiveness. Strive, dearchild, to think of these things as if they had not been!"

"Oh, if I had the power!" cried Florence. 

"And do you love this man yet?" said Mr. Hurst, almost sternly. 

"Father, " was the reply, and Florence met her father's gaze withsorrowful eyes, "I am mourning for the love that has been cast away--Ipine for some action which may restore my own self-respect. The verythought of this man as I know him makes me shudder--but theremembrance of what I believed him to be makes me weep. Then the trialof this meeting!"

"But you shall not see him again unless you desire it. "

"True, true--but I will see him if he wishes it. He shall not thinkthat I am coerced or influenced. It is due to myself, to you, myfather, that he leaves this country knowing how thorough is myself-reproach for the past, and my wish that his absence may beeternal. I believe that I do really wish it, but see how my poor frameis shaken! I must have more strength or my heart will be unstablelike-wise. " Florence held up her clasped hands that were tremblinglike leaves in the autumn wind as she spoke. 

"Florence, " said Mr. Hurst gently, "it is not by shrinking frompainful associations that we conquer them. "

"But see how weak I am! and all from the breath of those poorflowers!"

"There is a source from which strength may be obtained. "

"My pride, oh, father, that may do to shield me from the world'sscorn, but it avails nothing with my own heart. "

"But prayer, Florence, prayer to Almighty God the Infinite. I rememberhow sweet it was when you were a little child kneeling by yourmother's lap with your tiny hands uplifted to Heaven. Surely you havenot forgotten to pray, my child?"

"Alas! in this wild passion I have forgotten every thing--my duty toyou--the very heaven where my mother is an angel!" cried Florence, andfor the first time in many days she began to weep. 

Mr. Hurst took her hands in his, tears stood in his proud eyes, andhis firm lips trembled with tender emotions. "My child, " he said, pointing to a velvet easy-chair that stood in the chamber, "kneel downby your mother's empty chair and pray even as when you were a littlechild!"

Florence watched her father as he went out through her blinding tears. The door closed after him, a mist swam through the room, she movedtoward the empty chair, and through the dim cloud which her tearscreated its crimson cushions glowed brightly, as if tinged with gold. A gleam of sunshine had struck them through a half open shutter, butit seemed to her that the sudden light came directly from the throneof Heaven. 

The next moment Florence fell upon her knees before the chair, herface was buried in the cushions, broken words and swelling sobs filledthe room; over her fell that golden sunbeam, like a flaming arrow sentfrom the Throne of Mercy to pierce her heart and warm it at the samemoment. 

The sun went down. Slowly and quietly that wandering beam mingled withthe thousand rays that streamed from the west, spreading around theyoung suppliant like a luminous veil; there was blended with the goldhues of rich crimson and purple, that flashed over the ebony mirror, wove themselves in a gorgeous haze among the snow-white curtains ofthe bed, and fell in drops of dusky yellow over the floor and amongthe waving apple-boughs. 

But Florence felt nothing of this, her heart was dark, her frame shookwith sobs, and the agony of her voice was smothered in the cushionswhere her face lay buried. 

It came at last, that still small voice that follows the whirlwindand the storm. In the hush of night it came as snow-flakes fall fromthe heavens. And now Florence lay upon the cushions of her mother'schair motionless, and calm peace was in her heart, and a smile ofineffable sweetness lay upon her lips. It might have been minutes, itmight have been hours for any thing that the young suppliant knew ofthe lapse of time since she had crept to her mother's chair. When shearose the moonlight was streaming over her through an open window. Never did those pale beams fall upon features so changed. A_spirituelle_ loveliness beamed over them, soft and holy as themoonlight that revealed it. 

Some time after midnight Mr. Hurst went into his daughter's chamber, for anxiety had kept him up, and the entire stillness terrified him. She was lying upon the bed, half veiled by the muslin curtains, breathing tranquilly as an infant in its mother's bosom. During manynights she had not slept, but sweet was her slumber now; the flowersinhaling the dew beneath the window did not seem more delicate andplacid. 

It was daylight when Florence awoke. A few rosy streaks were in thesky, and lay reflected upon the water like threads of crimson brokenby the tide. Out to sea, a little beyond the opening of the cove, wasa large vessel with her sails furled, and evidently lying-to. Near acurve of the shore she saw a boat with half a dozen men lollingsleepily in the bow. Her heart beat quick with a presentiment of someapproaching event. She felt certain that the boat and the distant shipwere in some way connected with herself. But the thought hardly hadtime to flash through her brain when a commotion in the oldapple-tree--a shaking of the limbs and tumultuous rustling of theleaves--made her start and turn that way. The largest bough was thatinstant spurned aside, and Jameson sprung through the open window. Hewas out of breath and seemed greatly excited. 

"Florence, my wife, come with me!" he said, casting his arms aroundher shrinking form. "I will not go without you. See the vessel isyonder--a boat is on the shore. In half an hour we can be away fromyour father, alone, without hindrance to our love. Come, Florence, come with your husband!"

Ah, but for the strength which Florence had sought from above, wherewould she have been then. For a moment her heart did turn traitor; forone single instant there came upon her cheek a crimson flush, and inher eyes something that made Jameson's heart leap with exultation; butit passed away, Florence broke from the arms that were cast aroundher, and drew back toward the door. 

"Leave me!" she said, mildly, but with firmness, "I am not yourwife--will never be!"

"You hate me, then!" exclaimed Jameson, goaded by her manner. "Youstill believe what my enemies say against me. "

"No, I hate no one--I could not hate you!"

"But you love me no longer. "

Florence turned very pale, but still she was firm. "It matters nothingif I love or hate now, " she said, "henceforth, forever and forever, you and I are strangers. If you have come here in hopes of taking mefrom my father, go before he learns any thing of your visit; a longerstay can only bring evil. "

Again Jameson cast himself at her feet; again his masterly eloquencewas put forth to melt, to subdue, even to over-awe that fair girl; butall that he could wring from her was bitter tears--all that heaccomplished was a renewal of anguish that prayer had hardlyconquered. 

"And you will not go! You cast me off forever!" he exclaimed, startingup with a fierce gesture and an expression of the eye that made hershrink back. 

"I cannot go--I will not go!" she said, in a low voice. "You havealready taught me how terrible a thing is remorse. Leave me in peace, if you would not see me die!"

"And this is your final answer!" cried Jameson, and his eyes flashedwith fury. 

"I can give no other!"

"Then farewell, and the curse of my ruin rest with you, " he cried indesperation, and wringing her hands fiercely in his, he cleared thewindow with a bound, and letting himself down by the apple-tree, disappeared. 

The tempter was gone; Florence was left alone, her head reeling withpain, her heart aching within her bosom. Jameson's last words hadfallen upon her heart like fire; what if this refusal to share hisfate had confirmed him in evil? What if she, by partaking of hisfortunes, might have won him to an honorable and just life. Thesethoughts were agony to her, and left no room for calm reflection, orshe would have known that no _human_ influence can reclaim a basenature; one fault may be redeemed, nay, many faults that spring fromthe heat of passion or the recklessness of youth, but habitualhypocrisy, craft, falsehood--what female heart ever opposed its loveand truth to vices like these, without being crushed in the endeavorto save. 

But Florence could not reason then. Her soul was affrighted by thecurse that had been hurled upon it. Half frantic with these new themesof torture, she left her room, and hurried down to the cove just intime to see the boat which contained Jameson half way to the vessel. Actuated only by a wild desire to see him depart, she threaded her waythrough the oak grove, unmindful of the dew, of her thin raiment, orof the morning wind that tossed her curls about as she hurried on. Andnow she stood upon the outer point of the shore, where it juttedinward at the mouth of the cove and commanded a broad view of theocean. High trees were around her as she stood upon the shelving bank, her white garments streaming in the breeze, her wild eyes gazing uponthe vessel as it wheeled slowly round and made for the open ocean. Florence remained motionless where she stood so long as a shadow ofthe vessel fluttered in sight. When it was lost in the horizon sheturned slowly and walked toward the house, weary as one who returnsfrom a toilsome pilgrimage. It was days and weeks before she cameforth again. 

Years went by--many, many years, and yet that outward bound vessel wasnever heard of again. How she perished, or when, no man can tell. Thelast ever seen of her to mortal knowledge was when Florence Hurststood alone upon the sea-shore, conscious that she was right, yetfilled with bitter anguish as she watched its departure to thatfar-off shore from which no traveler returns. 

And Florence came forth in the world again more attractive than ever;a spiritual loveliness, softened without diminishing the brilliancy ofher beauty, and with every feminine grace she had added that of a meekand contrite spirit. Did she wed again? We answer, No. Many a loftyintellect and noble heart bent in homage to hers; but Florence livedonly for her father--the great and good man, who was just as well asproud, and nobly won his child from her error by delicate tenderness, such as he had never lavished upon her faultless youth, when many aman, to shield his weaker pride, would have driven her by anger andupbraiding from his heart, and thus have kindled her warm impulsesinto defiance and ruin. 

SUMMER. 

BY E. CURTISS HINE, U. S. N. 

 She comes with soft and scented breath, From fragrant southern lands, And wakens from their trance of death The flowers, and breaks the hands Of fettered streams, that burst away With joyous laugh and song, And shout and leap like boys at play As home from school they throng. 

 From sunny climes the breeze set free Comes with an angel strain Athwart the blue and sparkling sea To visit us again. The low of herds is on the gale, The leaf is on the tree, And cloud-winged barks in silence sail With stately majesty

 Along the blue and bending sky, Like joyous living things, And rainbow-tinted birds flit by With swiftly glancing wings: O summer, summer! joyful time! Singing a gentle strain, Thou comest from a warmer clime To visit us again!

DESCRIPTION OF A VISIT TO NIAGARA. 

BY PROFESSOR JAMES MOFFAT. 

 Through the dark night urging our rapid way We listen to a low, continued sound, As of a distant drum calling to arms. It grows with our approach; lulls with the breeze, And swells again into a bolder note, Like an Æolian harp of giant string. Again, the tone is changed, and a fierce roar Of tumult rises from the trembling earth, As if the imprisoned spirits of the deep Had found a vent for that rebellious shout, Which from ten thousand lips ascends to Heaven. Voice not to be mistaken--even he Upon whose ear it comes for the first time Claims it as known, and bringing to his heart The boldest fancies of his early days-- Thy thunders, dread Niagara, day and night, Which vary not their ever-during peal. Burning impatience, not to be controlled, Has hurried on my steps until I stand Within the breath of thy descending wave. The night conceals thy wonders, but enrobes Thee with a grandeur, wild, mysterious, As with thy spray around me, and the wind Which rushes upward from thy dark abyss, And thy deep organ pealing in my ear, Thy mass is all unseen, and I behold Only the ghost-like whiteness of thy foam. The morning comes. The clouds have disappeared, And the clear silver of the eastern sky Gives promise of a glowing summer sun. In the fresh dawn, I hasten to the rock Which overhangs the ever-boiling deep, And all the wonders of Niagara Are spread before me--not the simple dash Of falling waters, which the fancy drew, But myriad forms of beautiful and grand Press on the senses and o'erwhelm the mind. Yon bright, broad waters on their channel sleep As if they dreamed of the most peaceful flow To the far-distant sea. But now their course Accelerates on their inclining path, Though still 'tis with the appearance of a calm And dignified reluctance, and the wave Remains unbroken, till the inward force Increasingly silently, like that which breaks The short laborious quiet of the insane, Bursts all restraint, and the wild waters, tossed In fiercest tumult, uncontrollable, Menace all life within their giant grasp; Leaping and raging in their frantic glee, Dashing their spray aloft, as on they rush In wild confusion to the dreadful steep. An instant on the verge they seem to pause, As if, even in their frenzy, such a gulf Were horrible, then slowly bending down, Plunge headlong where the never-ceasing roar Ascends, and the revolving clouds of spray, Forever during yet forever new. The sun appears. And, straightway, on the cloud Which veils the struggles of the fallen wave In everlasting secrecy, and wafts Away, like smoke of incense, up to Heaven, Beams forth the radiant diadem of light, Brilliant and fixed amid the moving mass; And beauty comes to deck the glorious scene. For as the horizontal sunbeams rest Upon the deep blue summit, or unfold The varying hues of green, that pass away Into the white of the descending foam, So colors of the loveliest rainbow dye Tinge the bright wave, nor lessen aught its pride, Now joyous companies of fair and young Come lightly forth, with voice of social glee, But, one by one, as they approach the brink, A change comes over them. The noisy laugh Is hushed, the step is soft and reverent, And the light jest is quenched in solemn thought-- Yea, dull must be his brain and cold his heart To all the sacred influences that spring From grandeur and from beauty, who can gaze, For the first time, on the descending flood Without restraint upon the flippant tongue. If such the reverence Great Invisible, Attendant on one of thy lesser works, What dread must overwhelm us when the eye Is opened to the glories of thyself, Who sway'st the moving universe and holdst The "waters in the hollow of thy hand. "

SONNET. 

BY CAROLINE F. ORNE. 

 There have been tones of cheer, and voices gay, And careless laughter ringing lightly by, And I have listened to wit's mirthful play, And sought to smile at each light fantasy. But ah, there was a voice more deep and clear, That I alone might hear of all the throng, In softest cadence falling on my ear Like a sweet undertone amid the song. And then I longed for this calm hour of night, That undisturbed by any voice or sound, My spirit from all meaner objects free Might soar unchecked in its far upward flight, And by no cord, no heavy fetter bound, Scorning all space and distance, hold commune with thee. 

AUNT MABLE'S LOVE STORY. 

BY SUSAN PINDAR. 

"How heartily sick I am of these love stories!" exclaimed Kate Lee, asshe impatiently threw aside the last magazine; "they are all flat, stale, and unprofitable; every one begins with a _soirée_ and endswith a wedding. I'm sure there is not one word of truth in any ofthem. "

"Rather a sweeping condemnation to be given by a girl of seventeen, "answered Aunt Mabel, looking up with a quiet smile; "when I was yourage, Kate, no romance was too extravagant, no incident too improbablefor my belief. Every young heart has its love-dream; and you too, mymerry Kate, must sooner or later yield to such an influence. "

"Why, Aunt Mable, who would have ever dreamed of your advocating lovestories! You, so staid, so grave and kindly to all; your affectionsseem so universally diffused among us, that I never can imagine themto have been monopolized by one. Beside, I thought as you werenever--" Kate paused, and Aunt Mabel continued the sentence. 

"I never married, you would say, Kate, and thus it follows that Inever loved. Well, perhaps not; I may be, as you think, an exception;at least I am not going to trouble you with antiquated love passages, that, like old faded pictures, require a good deal of varnishing to beat all attractive. But, I confess, I like not to hear so young a girlridiculing what is, despite the sickly sentiment that so oftenobscures it, the purest and noblest evidence of our higher nature. "

"Oh, you don't understand me, Aunt Mable! I laugh at the absurdity ofthe stories. Look at this, for instance, where a gentleman falls inlove with a shadow. Now I see no substantial _foundation_ for such anextravagant passion as that. Here is another, who is equally smittenwith a pair of French gaiters. Now I don't pretend to be oversensible, but I do not think such things at all natural, or likely tooccur; and if they did, I should look upon the parties concerned aslittle less than simpletons. But a real, true-hearted love story, suchas 'Edith Pemberton, ' or Mrs. Hall's 'Women's Trials, ' those I _do_like, and I sympathize so strongly with the heroines that I long to beassured the incidents are true. If I could only hear one _true_ lovestory--something that I knew had really occurred--then it would serveas a kind of text for all the rest. Oh! how I long to hear a realheart-story of actual life!"

Kate grew quite enthusiastic, and Aunt Mable, after pausing a fewminutes, while a troubled smile crossed her face, said, "Well, Kate, _I_ will tell you a love story of real life, the truth of which I canvouch for, since I knew the parties well. You will believe me, I know, Kate, without requiring actual name and date for every occurrence. There are no extravagant incidents in this 'owre true tale, ' but it isa story of the heart, and such a one, I believe, you want to hear. "

Kate's eyes beamed with pleasure, as kissing her aunt's brow, andgratefully ejaculating "dear, kind Aunt Mable!" she drew a low ottomanto her aunt's side, and seated herself with her head on her hand, andher blooming face upturned with an expression of anticipatedenjoyment. I wish you could have seen Aunt Mable, as she sat in thesoft twilight of that summer evening, smiling fondly on the young, bright girl at her side. You would have loved her, as did every onewho came within the sphere of her gentle influence; and yet she didnot possess the wondrous charm of lingering loveliness, that, like thefainting perfume of a withered flower, awakens mingled emotions oftenderness and regret. No, Aunt Mabel could never have been beautiful;and yet, as she sat in her quiet, silver-gray silk gown, and kerchiefof the sheerest muslin pinned neatly over the bosom, there was an airof graceful, lady-like ease about her, far removed from the primnessof old-maidism. Her features were high, and finely cut, you would havecalled her proud and stern, with a tinge of sarcasm lurking upon thelip, but for her full, dark-gray eyes, so lustrous, so ineffably sweetin their deep, soul-beaming tenderness, that they seemed scarcely tobelong to a face so worn and faded; indeed, they did not seem inkeeping with the silver-threaded hair so smoothly parted from the low, broad brow, and put away so carefully beneath a small cap, whosedelicate lace, and rich, white satin, were the only articles of dressin which Aunt Mabel was a little fastidious. She kept her sewing inher hand as she commenced her story, and stitched away mostindustriously at first, but gradually as she proceeded the work fellupon her lap, and she seemed to be lost in abstracted recollections, speaking as though impelled by some uncontrollable impulse to recallthe events long since passed away. 

"Many years since, " said Aunt Mable, in a calm, soft tone, withouthaving at all the air of one about telling a story, "many years since, there lived in one of the smaller cities in our state, a lady namedLynn. She was a widow, and eked out a very small income by taking afew families to board. Mrs. Lynn had one only child, a daughter, whowas her pride and treasure, the idol of her affections. As a childJane Lynn was shy and timid, with little of the gayety andthoughtlessness of childhood. She disliked rude plays, andinstinctively shrunk from the lively companions of her own age, toseek the society of those much older and graver than herself. Herschoolmates nicknamed her the 'little old maid;' and as she grew olderthe title did not seem inappropriate. At school her superiority ofintellect was manifest, and when she entered society the timidreserve of her manner was attributed to pride, while her acquaintancethought she considered them her inferiors. "

"This, however, was far from the truth. Jane felt that she was notpopular in society, and it grieved her, yet she strove in vain toassimilate with those around her, to feel and act as they did, and tobe like them, admired and loved. But the narrow circle in which shemoved was not at all calculated to appreciate or draw forth her talentor character. With a heart filled with all womanly tenderness andgentle sympathies, a mind stored with romance, and full of restlesslongings for the beautiful and true, possessed of fine tastes thatonly waited cultivation to ripen into talent, Jane found herselfthrown among those who neither understood nor sympathized with her. Her mother idolized her, but Jane felt that had she been far differentfrom what she was, her mother's love had been the same; and though shereturned her parent's affection with all the warmth of her nature, there was ever within her heart a restless yearning for somethingbeyond. Immersed in a narrow routine of daily duties, compelled topractice the most rigid economy, and to lend her every thought andmoment to the assistance of her mother, Jane had little time for thegratification of those tastes that formed her sole enjoyment. 'It isthe perpetual recurrence of the little that crushes the romance oflife, ' says Bulwer; and the experience of every day justifies thetruth of his remark. Jane felt herself, as year after year crept by, becoming grave and silent. She knew that in her circumstances it wasbest that the commonplaces of every-day life should be sufficient forher, but she grieved as each day she felt the bright hues of earlyenthusiasm fading out and giving place to the cold gray tint ofreality. "

"With her pure sense of the beautiful, Jane felt acutely the lack ofthose personal charms that seem to win a way to every heart. By thosewho loved her, (and the few who knew her well did love her dearly, )she was called at times beautiful, but a casual observer would neverdream of bestowing upon the slight, frail creature who timidly shrunkfrom notice, any more flattering epithet than 'rather a pretty girl, 'while those who admired only the rosy beauty of physical perfectionpronounced her decidedly plain. "

"Jane Lynn had entered her twenty-second summer when her mother'shousehold was increased by the arrival of a new inmate. Everard Morriswas a man of good fortune, gentlemanly, quiet, and a bachelor. Possessed of very tender feelings and ardent temperament, he had seenhis thirty-seventh birth-day, and was still free. He had known Janeslightly before his introduction to her home, and he soon evinced adeep and tender interest in her welfare. Her character was a new studyfor him, and he delighted in calling forth all the latent enthusiasmof her nature. He it was who awakened the slumbering fires ofsentiment, and insisted on her cultivating tastes too lovely to bepossessed in vain; and when she frankly told him that the refinementof taste created restless yearnings for pursuits to her unattainable, he spoke of a happier future, when her life should be spent amid theemployments she loved. Ere many months had elapsed his feelingsdeepened into passionate tenderness, and he avowed himself a lover. Jane's emotions were mixed and tumultuous as she listened to hisfervent expressions; she reproached herself with ingratitude in notreturning his love. She felt toward him a grateful affection, for tohim she owed all the real happiness her secluded life had known; buthe did not realize her ideal, he admired and was proud of her talents, but he did not sympathize with her tastes. "

"Months sped away and seemed to bring to him an increase of passionatetenderness. Every word and action spoke his deep devotion. Jane couldnot remain insensible to such affection; the love she had sighed forwas hers at last--and it is the happiness of a loving nature to knowthat it makes the happiness of another. Jane's esteem graduallydeepened in tone and character until it became a faithful, trustinglove. She felt no fear for the future, because she knew her affectionhad none of the romance that she had learned to mistrust, even whileit enchanted her imagination. She saw failings and peculiarities inher lover, but with true womanly gentleness she forbore with andconcealed them. She believed him when he said he would shield andguard her from every ill; and her grateful heart sought innumerableways to express her appreciating tenderness. "

"Mrs. Lynn saw what was passing, and was happy, for Mr. Morris had beento her a friend and benefactor. And Jane was happy in theconsciousness of being beloved, yet had she much to bear. Her want ofbeauty was, as I have said, a source of regret to her, and she wasmade unhappy by finding that Everard Morris was dissatisfied with herappearance. She thought, in the true spirit of romance, that thebeloved were always lovely; but Mr. Morris frequently expressed hisdissatisfaction that nature had not made her as beautiful as she wasgood. I will not pause to discuss the delicacy of this and many otherobservations that caused poor Jane many secret tears, and sometimesroused even her gentle spirit to indignation; but affection alwaysconquered her pride, as her lover still continued to give evidence ofdevotion. "

"And thus years passed on, the happy future promised to Jane seemedever to recede; and slowly the conviction forced itself on her mindthat he whom she had trusted so implicitly was selfish andvacillating, generous from impulse, selfish from calculation; but hestill seemed to love her, and she clung to him because having been solong accustomed to his devotedness, she shrunk from being again alone. In the mean season Mrs. Lynn's health became impaired, and Jane'sduties were more arduous than ever. Morris saw her cheek grow pale, and her step languid under the pressure of mental and bodily fatigue;he knew she suffered, and yet, while he assisted them in many ways, heforbore to make the only proposition that could have secured happinessto her he pretended to love. His conduct preyed upon the mind ofJane, for she saw that the novelty of his attachment was over. He hadseen her daily for four years, and while she was really essential tohis happiness, he imagined because the uncertainty of early passionwas past, that his love was waning, and thought it would be unjust tooffer her his hand without his whole heart, forgetting theprotestations of former days, and regardless of her wasted feelings. This is unnatural and inconsistent you will say, but it is true. "

"Four years had passed since Everard Morris first became an inmate ofMrs. Lynn's, and Jane had learned to doubt his love. 'Hope deferredmaketh the heart sick;' and she felt that the only way to acquirepeace was to crush the affection she had so carefully nourished whenshe was taught to believe it essential to his happiness. She could notturn to another; like the slender vine that has been tenderly trainedabout some sturdy plant, and whose tendrils cannot readily claspanother when its first support is removed, so her affections stilllonged for him who first awoke them, and to whom they had clung solong. But she never reproached him; her manner was gentle, butreserved; she neither sought nor avoided him; and he flattered himselfthat her affection, like his own passionate love, had nearly burntitself out, yet he had by no means given her entirely up; he wouldlook about awhile, and at some future day, perhaps, might make her hiswife. "

"While affairs were in this state, business called Mr. Morris into adistant city; he corresponded with Jane occasionally, but his lettersbreathed none of the tenderness of former days; and Jane was glad theydid not, for she felt that he had wronged her, and she shrunk fromavowals that she could no longer trust. "

"Everard Morris was gone six months; he returned, bringing with him avery young and beautiful bride. He brought his wife to call on his oldfriends, Mrs. Lynn and her daughter. Jane received them with composureand gentle politeness. Mrs. Morris was delighted with her kindness andlady-like manners. She declared they should be intimate friends; butwhen they were gone, and Mrs. Lynn, turning in surprise to herdaughter, poured forth a torrent of indignant inquiries. Jane threwherself on her mother's bosom, and with a passionate burst of weeping, besought her never again to mention the past. And it never was alludedto again between them; but both Jane and her mother had to parry theinquiries of their acquaintance, all of whom believed Mr. Morris andJane were engaged. This was the severest trial of all, but they boreup bravely, and none who looked on the quiet Jane ever dreamed of thebitter ashes of wasted affection that laid heavy on her heart. "

"Mr. And Mrs. Morris settled near the Lynns, and visited veryfrequently; the young wife professed an ardent attachment to Jane, andsought her society constantly, while Jane instinctively shrunk moreand more within herself. She saw with painful regret that Morrisseemed to find his happiness at their fireside rather than his own. Hehad been captivated by the freshness and beauty of his young wife, who, schooled by a designing mother, had flattered him by her evidentpreference; he had, to use an old and coarse adage, 'married in hasteto repent at leisure;' and now that the first novelty of his positionhad worn off, his feelings returned with renewed warmth to the earlierobject of his attachment. Delicacy toward her daughter prevented Mrs. Lynn from treating him with the indignation she felt; and Jane, calmand self-possessed, seemed to have overcome every feeling of the past. The consciousness of right upheld her; she had not given her affectionunsought; he had plead for it passionately, earnestly, else had shenever lavished the hoarded tenderness of years on one so differentfrom her own ideal; but that tenderness once poured forth, could nevermore return to her; the fountain of the heart was dried, henceforthshe lived but in the past. "

"Mr. And Mrs. Morris were an ill-assorted couple; she, gay, volatile, possessing little affection for her husband, and, what was in his eyeseven worse, no respect for his opinions, which he always considered asinfallible. As their family increased, their differences augmented. The badly regulated household of a careless wife and mother wasintolerable to the methodical habits of the bachelor husband; andwhile the wife sought for Jane to condole with her--though sheneglected her advice--the husband found his greatest enjoyment at hisold bachelor home, and once so far forgot himself as to express toJane his regret at the step he had taken, and declared he deserved hispunishment. Jane made no reply, but ever after avoided all opportunityfor such expressions. "

"In the meantime Mrs. Lynn's health declined, and they retired to asmaller dwelling, where Jane devoted herself to her mother, andincreased their small income by the arduous duties of daily governess. Her cheek paled, and her eye grew dim beneath the complicated trialsof her situation; and there were moments when visions of the brightfuture once promised rose up as if in mockery of the dreary present;hope is the parent of disappointment, and the vista of happiness onceopened to her view made the succeeding gloom still deeper. But she didnot repine; upheld by her devotedness to her mother, she guarded hertenderly until her death, which occurred five years after the marriageof Mr. Morris. "

"It is needless to detail the circumstances which ended at length in aseparation between Mr. Morris and his wife--the latter returned to herhome, and the former went abroad, having placed his children atschool, and besought Jane to watch over them. Eighteen monthssubsequent to the death of Mrs. Lynn, a distant and unknown relativedied, bequeathing a handsome property to Mrs. Lynn, or herdescendants. This event relieved Jane from the necessity of toil, butit came too late to minister to her happiness in the degree that onceit might have done. She was care-worn and spirit-broken; the every-daytrials of her life had cooled her enthusiasm and blunted her keenenjoyment of the beautiful she had bent her mind to the minor dutiesthat formed her routine of existence, until it could no longer soartoward the elevation it once desired to reach. "

"Three years from his departure Everard Morris returned home to die. And now he became fully conscious of the wrong he had done to her heonce professed to love. His mind seemed to have expanded beneath theinfluence of travel, he was no longer the mere man of business with noreal taste for the beautiful save in the physical development ofanimal life. He had thought of all the past, and the knowledge of whatwas, and might have been, filled his soul with bitterness. He died, and in a long and earnest appeal for forgiveness he besought Jane tobe the guardian of his children--his wife he never named. In threemonths after Mrs. Morris married again, and went to the West, withouta word of inquiry or affection to her children. "

"Need I say how willingly Jane Lynn accepted the charge bequeathed toher, and how she was at last blessed in the love of those who frominfancy had regarded her as a more than mother. "

There was a slight tremulousness in Aunt Mabel's voice as she paused, and Kate, looking up with her eyes filled with tears, threw herselfupon her aunt's bosom, exclaiming, "Dearest, best Aunt Mabel, you are loved truly, fondly by us all! Ah, I knew you were telling your own story, and--" but Aunt Mabel gentlyplaced her hand upon the young girl's lips, and while she pressed akiss upon her brow, said, in her usual calm, soft tone, "It is a true story, my love, be the actors who they may; there is noexaggerated incident in it to invest it with peculiar interest; but Iwant you to know that the subtle influences of affection are ever busyabout us; and however tame and commonplace the routine of life may be, yet believe, Kate, " added Aunt Mable, with a saddened smile, "eachheart has its mystery, and who may reveal it. "

TO ERATO. 

BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ. 

 Henceforth let Grief forget her pain, And Melancholy cease to sigh; And Hope no longer gaze in vain With weary, longing eye, Since Love, dear Love, hath made again A summer in this winter sky-- Oh, may the flowers he brings to-day In beauty bloom, nor pass away. 

 Sweet one, fond heart, thine eyes are bright, And full of stars as is the heaven, Pure pleiads of the soul, whose light From deepest founts of Truth is given-- Oh let them shine upon my night, And though my life be tempest-driven, The leaping billows of its sea Shall clasp a thousand forms of thee. 

 Thy soul in trembling tones conveyed Melts like the morning song of birds, Or like a mellow paèn played By angels on celestial chords;-- And oh, thy lips were only made For dropping love's delicious words:-- Then pour thy spirit into mine Until my soul be drowned with thine. 

 The pilgrim of the desert plain Not more desires the spring denied, Not more the vexed and midnight main Calls for the mistress of its tide, Not more the burning earth for rain, Than I for thee, my own _soul's_ bride-- Then pour, oh pour upon my heart The love that never shall depart!

THE LABORER'S COMPANIONS. 

BY GEORGE S. BURLEIGH. 

 While pleasant care my yielding soil receives, Other delights the open soul may find; On the high bough the daring hang-bird weaves Her cunning cradle, rocking in the wind; The arrowy swallow builds, beneath the eves, Her clay-walled grotto, with soft feathers lined; The dull-red robin, under sheltering leaves, Her bowl-like nest to sturdy limbs doth bind; And many songsters, worth a name in song, Plain, _homely_ birds my boy-love sanctified, On hedge and tree and grassy bog, prolong Sweet loves and cares, in carols sweetly plied; In such dear strains their simple natures gush That through my heart at once all tear-blest memories rush. 

THE ENCHANTED KNIGHT. 

BY J. BAYARD TAYLOR. 

 In the solemn night, when the soul receives The dreams it has sighed for long, I mused o'er the charmed, romantic leaves Of a book of German Song. 

 From stately towers, I saw the lords Ride out to the feudal fray; I heard the ring of meeting swords And the Minnesinger's lay!

 And, gliding ghost-like through my dream, Went the Erl-king, with a moan, Where the wizard willow o'erhung the stream, And the spectral moonlight shone. 

 I followed the hero's path, who rode In harness and helmet bright, Through a wood where hostile elves abode, In the glimmering noon of night!

 Banner and bugle's call had died Amid the shadows far, And a misty stream, from the mountain-side, Dropped like a silver star. 

 Thirsting and flushed, from the steed he leapt And quaffed from his helm unbound; Then a mystic trance o'er his spirit crept, And he sank to the elfin ground. 

 He slept in the ceaseless midnight cold, By the faery spell possessed, His head sunk down, and his gray beard rolled On the rust of his arméd breast!

 When a mighty storm-wind smote the trees, And the thunder crashing fell, He raised the sword from its mould'ring ease And strove to burst the spell. 

 And thus may the fiery soul, that rides Like a knight, to the field of foes, Drink of the chill world's tempting tides And sink to a charmed repose. 

 The warmth of the generous heart of youth Will die in the frozen breast-- The look of Love and the voice of Truth Be charmed to a palsied rest!

 In vain will the thunder a moment burst The chill of that torpor's breath; The slumbering soul shall be wakened first By the Disenchanter, Death!

KORNER'S SISTER. 

BY ELIZABETH J. EAMES. 

Close beside the grave of the Soldier-Poet is that of his only sister, who died of grief for his loss, only surviving him long enough tosketch his portrait and burial-place. Her last wish was to be laidnear him. 

 Lovely and gentle girl! In the spring morning of thy beauty dying-- Dust on each sunny curl, And on thy brow the grave's deep shadows lying. 

 Thine is a lowly bed. But the green oak, whose spreading bough hangs o'er thee, Shelters the brother's head, Who went unto his rest a little while before thee. 

 A perfect love was thine, Sweet sister! thou hadst made no other Idol for thy soul's shrine Save him--thy friend and guide, and only brother. 

 And not for Lyre and Sword-- His proud resplendant gifts of fame and glory-- Oh! not for _these_ adored Was he, whose praise thou readst in song and story. 

 But't was his presence threw, O'er all thy life, a deep delight and blessing; And with thy growth it grew, Strengthening each thought of thy young heart's possessing. 

 Amid each dear home-scene That thou and he from childhood trod together, Thou hadst his arm to lean Upon, through every change of dark or sunny weather. 

 And when he passed from Earth, The rose from thy soft cheek and bright lip faded; Gloom was on hall and hearth-- A deep voice in thy soul, by sorrow over-shaded. 

 Joy had gone forth with _him_; The green Earth lost its spell, and the blue Heaven Unto thine eye grew dim; And thou didst pray for Death, as for a rich boon given!

 _It came_!--and joy to know, That from _his_ resting-place _thine_ none would sever, And blessing God didst go, Where in his presence thou shouldst dwell forever. 

 Thou didst but stay to trace The imaged likeness of the dear departed; To sketch his burial-place-- Then die, O, sister! fond and faithful hearted. 

THE MAN WHO WAS NEVER HUMBUGGED. 

BY A. LIMNER. 

It was a standing boast with Mr. Wiseacre that he had never beenhumbugged in his life. He took the newspapers and read them regularly, and thus got an inkling of the new and strange things that were evertranspiring, or said to be transpiring, in the world. But to all hecried "humbug!" "imposture!" "delusion!" If any one were so bold as toaffirm in his presence a belief in the phenomena of Animal Magnetism, for instance, he would laugh outright; then expend upon it all sortsof ridicule, or say that the whole thing was a scandalous trick; andby way of a finale, wind off thus--

"You never humbug me with these new things. Never catch me ingull-traps. I've seen the rise and fall of too many wonders in mytime--am too old a bird to be caught with this kind of chaff. "

As for Homeopathy, it was treated in a like summary manner. All washumbug and imposture from beginning to end. If you said--

"But, my dear sir, let me relate what I have myself seen--"

He would interrupt you with--

"Oh! as to seeing, you may see any thing, and yet see nothing afterall. I've seen the wonders of this new medical science over and overagain. There are many extraordinary cures made _in imagination_. Put agrain of calomel in the Delaware Bay, and salivate a man with a dropof the water! Is not it ridiculous? Doesn't it bear upon the face ofit the stamp of absurdity. It's all humbug, sir! All humbug frombeginning to end. I know! I've looked into it. I've measured the newwonder, and know its full dimensions--it's name is 'humbug. '"

You reply. 

"Men of great force of mind, and large medical knowledge andexperience, see differently. In the law, _similia similiabuscuranter_, they perceive more than a mere figment of the imagination, and in the actual results, too well authenticated for dispute, evidence of a mathematical correctness in medical science never beforeattained, and scarcely hoped for by its most ardent devotees. "

But he cries, "Humbug! Humbug! All humbug! I know. I've looked at it. I understandits worth, and that is--just nothing at all. Talk to me of any thingelse and I'll listen to you--but, for mercy's sake, don't expect me toswallow at a gulp any thing of this sort, for I can't do it. I'drather believe in Animal Magnetism. Why, I saw one of these new lightsin medicine, who was called in to a child in the croup, actually puttwo or three little white pellets upon its tongue, no larger than apin's head, and go away with as much coolness as if he were notleaving the poor little sufferer to certain death. 'For Heaven'ssake!' said I, to the parents, 'aint you going to have any thing donefor that child?' 'The doctor has just given it medicine, ' theyreplied. 'He has done all that is required. ' I was so out of patiencewith them for being such consummate fools, that I put my hat on andwalked out of the house without saying a word. "

"Did the child die?" you ask. 

"It happened by the merest chance to escape death. Its constitutionwas too strong for the grim destroyer. "

"Was nothing else done?" you ask. "No medicines given but homeopathicpowders?"

"No. They persevered to the last. "

"The child was well in two or three days I suppose?" you remark. 

"Yes, " he replies, a little coldly. 

"Children are not apt to recover from an attack of croup withoutmedicine. " He forgets himself and answers--

"But I don't believe it was a real case of croup. It couldn't havebeen!"

And so Mr. Wiseacre treats almost every thing that makes itsappearance. Not because he understands all about it, but because heknows nothing about it. It is his very ignorance of a matter thatmakes him dogmatic. He knows nothing of the distinction between truthand the appearances of truth. So fond is he of talking and showing offhis superior intelligence and acumen, that he is never a listener inany company, unless by a kind of compulsion, and then he rarely hearsany thing in the eagerness he feels to get in his word. Usually hekeeps sensible men silent in hopeless astonishment at the veryboldness of his ignorance. 

But Mr. Wiseacre was caught napping once in his life, and thatcompletely. He was entrapped; not taken in open day, with a fair fieldbefore him. And it would be easy to entrap him at almost any time, andwith almost any humbug, if the game were worth the trouble; for, inthe light of his own mind, he cannot see far. His mental vision is notparticularly clear; else he would not so often cry "humbug, " whenwiser men stopped to examine and reflect. 

A quiet, thoughtful-looking man once brought to Mr. Wiseacre a letterof introduction. His name was Redding. The letter mentioned that hewas the discoverer of a wonderful mechanical power, for which he wasabout taking out letters patent. What it was, the introductory epistledid not say, nor did Redding communicate any thing relative to thenature of the discovery, although asked to do so. There was somethingabout this man that interested Wiseacre. He bore the marks of asuperior intellect, and his manners commanded respect. As Wiseacreshowed him particular attention, he frequently called in to see him athis store, and sometimes spent an evening with him at his dwelling. The more Wiseacre saw of him, and the more he heard him converse, thehigher did he rise in his opinion. At length Redding, in a moment ofconfidence, imparted his secret. He had discovered perpetual motion!This announcement was made after a long and learned disquisition onmechanical laws, in which the balancing of and the reproduction offorces, and all that, was opened to the wondering ears of Wiseacre, who, although he pretended to comprehend every thing clearly, saw itall only in a very confused light. He knew, in fact, nothing whateverof mechanical forces. All here was, to him, an untrodden field. Hisconfidence in Redding, and his consciousness that he was a man ofgreat intellectual power, took away all doubt as to the correctness ofwhat he stated. For once he was sure that a great discovery had beenmade--that a new truth had dawned upon the world. Of this he was morethan ever satisfied when he was shown the machine itself, in motion, with its wonderful combinations of mechanical forces, and heardRedding explain the principle of its action. 

"Wonderful! wonderful!" was now exchanged for "Humbug! humbug!" If anybody had told him that some one had discovered perpetual motion, hewould have laughed at him, and cried "humbug!" You couldn't have hiredhim even to look at it. But his natural incredulity had been gainedover by a different process. His confidence had first been won by aspecious exterior, his reason captivated by statements and argumentsthat seemed like truth, and his senses deceived by appearances. Notthat there was any design to deceive him in particular--he onlyhappened to be the first included in a large number whose credulitywas to be taxed pretty extensively. "

"You will exhibit it, of course?" he said to Redding, after he hadbeen admitted to a sight of the extraordinary machine. 

"This is too insignificant an affair, " replied Redding. "It will notimpress the public mind strongly enough. It will not give them a trulyadequate idea of the force attainable by this new motive power. No--Ishall not let the public fully into my secret yet. I expect to reapfrom it the largest fortune ever made by any man in this country, andI shall not run any risks in the outset by a false move. The resultsthat must follow its right presentation to the public cannot becalculated. It will entirely supercede steam and water power in mills, boats, and on railroads, because it will be cheaper by half. But Ineed not tell you this, for you have the sagacity to comprehend it allyourself. You have seen the machine in operation, and you fullyunderstand the principle upon which it acts. "

"How long will it take you to construct such a machine as you think isrequired?" asked Wiseacre. 

"It could be done in six months if I had the means. But, like allother great inventors, I am poor. If I could associate with me someman of capital, I would willingly share with him the profits of mydiscovery, which will be, in the end, immense. "

"How much money will you need?" asked Wiseacre, already beginning toburn with a desire for a part of the immense returns. 

"Two or three thousand dollars. If I could find any one willing toinvest that moderate sum of money now, I would guarantee to return himfour fold in less than two years, and insure him a hundred thousanddollars in ten years. But men who have money generally think a bird inthe hand worth ten in the bush; and with them, almost every thing notactually in possession is looked upon as in the bush. "

Mr. Wiseacre sat thoughtful for some moments. Then he asked, "How much must you have immediately?"

"About five hundred dollars, and at least five hundred dollars a monthuntil the model is completed. "

"Perhaps I might do it, " said Wiseacre, after another thoughtfulpause. 

"I should be most happy if you could, " quickly responded Redding. "There is no man with whom I had rather share the benefits of thisgreat discovery than yourself. Whosoever goes into it with me is sureto make an immense fortune. "

Wiseacre no longer hesitated. The five hundred dollars were advanced, and the new model commenced. As to its progress, and the exact amountit cost in construction, he was not accurately advised, but one thinghe knew--he had to draw five hundred dollars out of his business everymonth; and this he found not always the most convenient operation inthe world. 

At length the model was completed. When shown to Wiseacre, it did notseem to be upon the grand scale he had expected; nor did it, to hiseyes, look as if its construction had cost two or three thousanddollars. But Mr. Redding was such a fair man, that no serious doubtshad a chance to array themselves against him. 

Two or three scientific gentlemen were first admitted to a view of themachine. They examined it; heard Redding explained the principle uponwhich it acted, and were shown the beautiful manner in which thereproduction of forces was obtained. Some shrugged their shoulders;some said they wouldn't believe their own eyes in regard to perpetualmotion--that the thing was a physical impossibility; while others halfdoubted and half believed. With all these skeptics and half-skepticsWiseacre was out of all patience. Seeing, he said, was believing; andhe wouldn't give a fig for a man who couldn't rely upon the evidenceof his own senses. 

At length Redding's great achievement in mechanics was announced tothe public, and his model opened for exhibition. Free tickets weresent to editors, and liberal advertisements inserted in their papers. The gentlemen of the press examined the machine, and pretty generallypronounced it a very singular affair certainly, and, as far as theycould judge, all that it pretended to be. Gradually that portion ofthe public interested in such matters, awoke from the indifferencefelt on the first announcement of the discovery, and began to look atand enter into warm discussions about the machine. Some believed, butthe majority either doubted or denied that it was perpetual motion. Afew boldly affirmed that there was some trick, and that it would bediscovered in the end. 

Toward the lukewarm, the doubting, and the denying, Wiseacre was indirect antagonism. He had no sort of patience with them. At all times, and in all places, he boldly took the affirmative in regard to thediscovery of perpetual motion, and showed no quarter to any one whowas bold enough to doubt. 

Among those who could not believe the evidence of his own senses, wasan eminent natural philosopher, who visited the machine almost everyday, and as often conversed with Redding about the new principle inmechanics which he had discovered and applied. The theory wasspecious, and yet opposed to it was the unalterable, ever-potent forceof gravitation, which he saw must overcome all so called self-existantmotion. The more he thought about it, and the oftener he looked at andexamined Redding's machine, and talked with the inventor, the moreconfused did his mind become. At length, after obtaining the mostaccurate information in regard to the construction of the machine, heset to work and made one precisely like it; but it wouldn't go. Satisfied, now, that there was imposture, he resolved to ferret itout. There was some force beyond the machine he was convinced. Communicating his suspicions to a couple of friends, he was readilyjoined by them in a proposed effort to find out the true secret of themotion imparted to the machine. He had noticed that Redding hadanother room adjoining the one in which the model was exhibited, andthat upon the door was written "No admittance. " Into this hedetermined to penetrate--and he put this determination into practice, accompanied by two friends, on the first favorable opportunity. Fortunately, it happened that the door leading to this room waswithout the door of the one leading into the exhibition-room. WhileRedding was engaged in showing the machine to a pretty large company, including Wiseacre, who spent a good deal of time there, the explorerswithdrew, and finding the key in the door, entered quietly theadjoining room, which they took care to fasten on the inside. The onlysuspicious object here was a large closet. This was locked; but as theintention had been to make a pretty thorough search, a short, strong, steel crow-bar was soon produced from beneath a cloak, and the door indue time made to yield. Wonderful discovery! There sat a man with alittle table by his side, upon which was a dim lamp, a plate of breadand cheese, and a mug of beer. He was engaged in turning a wheel!

The machine stopped instantly and would not go on, much to theperplexity and alarm of the inventor. Wiseacre was deeply disturbed. In the midst of the murmur of surprise and disapprobation thatfollowed, a man suddenly entered the room, and cried out in a lowvoice, "It's all humbug! We've discovered the cause of the motion! Come andsee!"

All rushed out after the man, and entered the room over the door ofwhich was written so conspicuously "No admittance. " No, notall--Redding passed on down stairs, and was never again heard of!

The scene that followed we need not describe. The poor laborer at thewheel, for a dollar a day, had like to have been broken on his wheel, but the crowd in mercy spared him. As for poor Wiseacre, who had neverbeen humbugged in his life, he was so completely "used up" by thisundreamed of result, that he could hardly look any body in the facefor two or three months. But he got over it some time since, and isnow a more thorough disbeliever in all new things than before. 

"You don't humbug me!" is his stereotyped answer to all announcementsof new discoveries. Even in regard to the magnetic telegraph he isstill quite skeptical, and shrugs his shoulders, and elevates hiseyebrows, as much as to say, "It'll blow up one of these times, markmy word for it. " Nobody has yet been able to persuade him to go to theExchange and look at the operation of the batteries there and see forhimself. He doesn't really believe in the thing, and smiles inwardly, as the rough poles and naked wires stare him in the face while passingalong the street. He looks confidently to see them converted intopoles for scaffolding before twelve months pass away. 

THE SISTERS. 

BY G. G. FOSTER. 

[SEE ENGRAVING. ]

 Nay, look not forth with those deep earnest eyes To catch the gleaming of your lovers' plumes; A dearer, surer, trustier passion lies In sisters' hearts than lovers' cheeks illumes. Man worships and forsakes; and as he flies From flower to flower their beauty he consumes; Then leaves the wasted heart and faded flower To die forgotten in their sunless bower. 

 But sisters' love, like angels' sympathies, Is as the breath of Heaven and cannot change No earthly shudder taints its sinless kiss. No sorrow can your loving hearts estrange; No selfish pride destroy the priceless bliss Of loving and confiding. Oh exchange Not love like this, so heavenly and so true. For all the vows that lovers' lips e'er knew

[Illustration: W. Drummond. A. C. ThompsonTHE SISTERSEngraved Expressly for Graham's Magazine. ]

BRUTUS IN HIS TENT. 

BY WM. H. C. HOSMER. 

How ill this taper burns!--hah! who comes here? SHAKSPEARE. 

 On wall-girt Sardis weary day hath shed The golden blaze of his expiring beam; And rings her paven walks beneath the tread Of guards that near the hour of battle deem-- Whose brazen helmets in the starlight gleam; From tented lines no murmur loud descends, For martial thousands of the battle dream On which the fate of bleeding Rome depends When blushing dawn awakes and night's dark curtain rends. 

 Though hushed War's couchant tigers in their lair The tranquil time to _one_ brings not repose-- A voice was whispering to his soul--"Despair! The gods will give the triumph to thy foes. " Can sleep, with leaden hand, our eyelids close When throng distempered fancies, and depart, And thought a shadow on the future throws? When shapes unearthly into being start, And, like a snake, Remorse uncoils within the heart?

 At midnight deep when bards avow that tombs Are by their cold inhabitants forsaken, The Roman chief his wasted lamp relumes, And calmly reads by mortal wo unshaken: His iron frame of rest had not partaken, And doubt--dark enemy of slumber--fills A breast where fear no trembling chord could waken, And on his ear an awful voice yet thrills That rose, when Cæsar fell, from Rome's old Seven Hills. 

 A sound--"that earth owns not"--he hears, and starts, And grasps the handle of his weapon tried; Then, while the rustling tent-cloth slowly parts, A figure enters and stands by his side: There was an air of majesty and pride In the bold bearing of that spectre pale-- The crimson on its robe was still undried, And dagger wounds, that tell a bloody tale Beyond the power of words, the opening folds unveil. 

 With fearful meaning towers the phantom grim, On Brutus fixing its cold, beamless eye; The face, though that of Julius, seems to him Formed from the moonlight of a misty sky: The birds of night, affrighted, flutter by, And a wild sound upon the shuddering air Creeps as if earth were breathing out a sigh, And the fast-waning lamp, as if aware Some awful shade was nigh, emits a ghostly glare. 

 Stern Brutus quails not, though his wo-worn cheeks Blanch with emotion, and in tone full loud Thus to the ghastly apparition speaks-- "Why stand before me in that gory shroud, Unwelcome guest! thy purpose unavowed; Art thou the shaping of my wildered brain?" The spectre answered, with a gesture proud, In hollow accents--"We will meet again When the best blood of Rome smokes on Philippi's plain. "

TO VIOLET. 

BY JEROME A. MABY. 

 Years--eventful years have passed Sweet sister! since I met thy smile; I'm thinking now what change they've cast Upon your form and mine the while; Thy girlhood's days with them are flown-- A calmer light must fill thine eye; Thy voice have now an added tone; Thy tresses fall more dark and free. Yet, in my dreams of thee and home, A slight, pale girl I ever see, Whose smiles to her mild lip do come, Like stars in heaven--tremblingly! For with thy young heart's lovingness There aye seemed blent a troubled fear, As if it knew _all_ tenderness Must see its worship perish here! And oh, the prayers I poured to Heaven, That time prove not to _thee_ how golden links are riven!

 And I--oh, sister! _I_ am changed-- You scarce would know the dreaming boy; For all too far his steps have ranged Through wildering ways of Strife and Joy Oh! falcon-eyed Ambition's schemes-- The thrill that comes on mounting wings-- Have left no love for quiet dreams, And learned contempt for tamer things! And Pleasure to my youthful cheek So many a hot, wild flush has won, That to her foils I've grown too weak-- Some nerve must still be passion-spun! And if 'mid scenes all bravery--glow-- The night has found me proud and blest, Stern, mournful things--that make life's wo-- Have struck sad music from my breast! And when at times Thought leaves me calm, And boyhood's memories float by, _Then_ well I know how changed I am-- And a strange weakness dims my eye! Oh! sister, on this heart of mine Weight--stain--have come, since last I met that smile of thine!

"THINK NOT THAT I LOVE THEE. "

A BALLAD. 

MUSIC COMPOSED AND ARRANGED FOR THE PIANO FORTE BY

J. L. MILNER, _AND RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED TO HIS FRIEND, J. G. OSBOURN, ESQ. _

P. DOLCE. 

[Illustration: music]

[Illustration: music

SECOND VERSE. 

 Think not that I love thee, Alluring coquette, The vows you have broken I too can forget; The love that I gave thee, Thou ne'er could'st repay, So affection for thee Has passed away. ]

REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS. 

 _The Life of Oliver Cromwell. By J. T. Headley. New York: Baker & Scribner. 1 vol. 12mo_. 

This volume is elegantly printed, and contains the most characteristicportrait of Cromwell we have seen. In regard to thought andcomposition it is Mr. Headley's best book. Without being deficient inthe energy and pictorial power which have given such popularity to hisother productions, it indicates an advance in respect to artisticarrangement of matter and correctness of composition. It is needlessto say that the author has not elaborated it into a finished work, ordone full justice to his talents in its general treatment. We do notagree with Mr. Headley in his notion of Cromwell, and think that hismarked prepossession for his hero has unconsciously led him to alterthe natural relations of the facts and principles with which he deals;but still we feel bound to give him credit for an extensive study ofhis subject, and for bringing together numerous interesting detailswhich can be found in no other single biography of Cromwell. Among hisauthorities and guides we are sorry to see that he has not includedHallam. The portion of the latter's Constitutional History of Englanddevoted to the reign of Charles I. , the Commonwealth and theProtectorate, deserves, at least, the respectful attention of everywriter on those subjects. Indeed we think Hallam so much an authoritythat a deviation from him on a question of fact or principle should beaccompanied by arguments contesting his statements. Of all thehistorians of the period we conceive him to be almost the only one wholoses the partisan in the judge. The questions mooted in thecontroversy between Charles and his Parliament are still hotlycontested, and are so calculated to inflame the passions, that almostevery historian of the time turns advocate. Mr. Headley's passionatesensibility should have been a little cooled by "fraternizing" withMr. Hallam's judicial understanding. 

The leading merit of Mr. Headley's volume is his description ofCromwell's battles; Marston Moor, Preston, Naseby, Dunbar andWorcester, are not mere names, suggesting certain mechanical militarymovements to the reader of the present book. The smoke and dust andblood and carnage of war--the passions it excites, and the heroism itprompts, are all brought right before the eye. Many historians haveattempted to convey in general terms a notion of the kind of men thatCromwell brought into battle, but it is in Mr. Headley's volume thatwe really obtain a distinct conception of the renowned Ironsides. Hehas just enough sympathy with the soldier and the Puritan to reproducein imagination the religious passions which animated that band of"braves. " As a considerable portion of Cromwell's life relates to hismilitary character, Mr. Headley has a wide field for the exercise ofhis singular power of painting battle-pieces. 

As the present biography, of all the lives of Cromwell with which weare acquainted, is calculated to be the most popular, we regret thatthe author has not taken a Juster view of Cromwell's character andactions. It is important in a republican country, that the popularmind should have just notions of constitutional liberty, and everyattempt to convert such despots as Napoleon and Cromwell intochampions of freedom, will, in proportion to its success, prepare theway for a brood of such men in our own country. In regard to Mr. Headley, we think that his sympathy with Cromwell's great powers as awarrior and ruler has vitiated his view of many transactions vitallyconnected with the principles of freedom. Compared with Carlyle, however, he may be almost considered impartial. He is frank andfearless in presenting his opinions, and does not confuse the mind bymixing up statements of fact with any of the trancendental Scotchman'ssentimentality. 

The English Revolution of 1640 began in a defense of legal privilegesand ended in a military despotism. It commenced in withstandingattacks on civil and religious rights and ended in the dominion of asect. The point, therefore, where the lover of freedom should cease tosympathize with it is plain. It is useless for the republican to saythat every revolution of the kind must necessarily take a similarcourse, for that is not an argument for Cromwell's usurpation, but anargument against the expediency of opposing attacks by a king, on therights and privileges of the people. The truth is that the EnglishRevolution was at first a popular movement, having a clear majority ofthe property, intelligence and numbers of the people on its side. Theking, in breaking the fundamental laws of the kingdom, made war on thecommunity, and was to be resisted just as much as if he were king ofFrance or Spain, and had invaded the country. It is easy to trace theprogress of this resistance, until by the action of religious bigotryand other inflaming passions, the powers of the opposition becameconcentrated in the hands of a body of military fanatics, commanded byan imperious soldier, and representing a small minority even of thePuritans. The king, a weak and vacillating man, made an attempt atarbitrary power, was resisted, and after years of civil war, ended hisdays on the scaffold; Cromwell, without any of those palliations whichcharity might urge in extenuation of the king, on the ground of theprejudices of his station, took advantage of the weakness of thecountry, after it had been torn by civil war, usurped supreme power, and became the most arbitrary monarch England had seen since Williamthe Conqueror. No one doubts his genius, and it seems strange that anyone should doubt his despotic character. 

The truth is that Cromwell's natural character, even on the hypothesisof his sincerity, was arbitrary, and the very opposite of what we lookfor in the character of a champion of freedom. It seems to ussupremely ridiculous to talk of such a man as being capable of havinghis conduct determined by a parliament or a council. He pretended tolook to God, not to human laws or fallible men, for the direction ofhis actions. In the name of the Deity he charged at the head of hisIronsides. In the name of the Deity he massacred the Irish garrisons. In the name of the Deity he sent dragoons to overturn parliaments. Hebelieved neither in the sovereignty of the people, nor the sovereigntyof the laws, and it made little difference whether his opponent wasCharles I. Or Sir Harry Vane, provided he were an opponent. In regardto the inmost essence of tyranny, that of exalting the individual willover every thing else, and of meeting opposition and obstacles by pureforce, Charles I. Was a weakling in comparison with Cromwell. Now if, in respect to human governments, democracy and republicanism consistin allowing any great and strong man to assume the supreme power, onhis simple assertion that he has a commission from Heaven so to do; ifconstitutional liberty is a government of will instead of agovernment of laws, then the partisans of Cromwell are justified intheir eulogies. It appears to us that the only ground on which theProtector's tyranny is more endurable than the king's, consists in thefact that from its nature it could not be permanent, and could notestablish itself into the dignity of a precedent. It was a powerdepending neither on the assent of the people, nor on laws andinstitutions, but simply on the character of one man. As far as itwent, it did no good in any way to the cause of freedom, for toCromwell's government, and to the fanaticism which preceded it, we owethe reaction of Charles the Second's reign, when licentiousness inmanners, and servility in politics succeeded in making virtue andfreedom synonymous with hypocrisy and cant. 

In regard to Cromwell's massacres in Ireland, which even Mr. Headleydenounces as uncivilized, a great deal of nonsense has been written byCarlyle. The fact is that Cromwell, in these matters, acted as Cortezdid in Mexico, and Pizarro in Peru, and deserves no more charity. Ifhe performed them from policy, as Carlyle intimates, he must beconsidered a disciple of Machiavelli and the Devil; if he performedthem from religious bigotry, he may rank with St. Dominic and Charlesthe Ninth. We are sick of hearing brutality and wickedness, either inPuritan or Catholic, extenuated on the ground of bigotry. This bigotrywhich prompts inhuman deeds, is not an excuse for sin, but thegreatest of spiritual sins. It indicates a condition of mind in whichthe individual deifies his malignant passions. 

We are sorry that Mr. Headley has written his biography with such amarked leaning to Cromwell. We believe that a large majority ofreaders will obtain their notions of the Protector from his pages, andthat they will be no better republicans thereby. The very brilliancyand ability of his work will only make it more influential upon thepopular mind. 

 _A Supplement to the Plays of William Shakspeare. Comprising Seven Dramas which have been ascribed to his Pen but are not included with his Writings in Modern Editions. Edited, with Notes, and an Introduction to each Play, by William Gilmore Simms. New York: Geo. F. Cooledge & Brother. 1 vol. 8vo. _

The public are under obligations to Mr. Simms, not only for reprintinga series of dramas which are objects of curiosity from theirconnection with the name of Shakspeare, but for the elegant andingenious introductions he has furnished from his own pen. With regardto the question whether Shakspeare did or did not write these plays, our opinion has ever inclined to the negative, and a careful perusalof Mr. Simms's views has rather confirmed than shaken our impression. The internal evidence, with the exception of passages in the Two NobleKinsmen, is strongly against the hypothesis of Shakspeare'sauthorship, and the external evidence appears to us unsatisfactory. Mr. Simms's idea is that they were the productions of Shakspeare'syouth and apprenticeship, and on this supposition he accounts fortheir obvious inferiority to the acknowledged plays. Now it seems tous that the juvenile efforts of the world's master-mind would givesome evidence of his powers, however imperfect might be the form oftheir expression; and especially that they would not resemble thematured products of contemporary mediocrity. Of the plays in thepresent volume, the only one which has the character of youthfulgenius is the tragedy of Lecrine, and this is the youth of Marlowerather than of Shakspeare. The London Prodigal and the Puritan, LordCromwell and Sir John Oldcastle, have no trace of youthful fire oreven rant. They are the offspring of sober, contented, irreclaimable, unimprovable mediocrity, with a decided tendency to the stupid ratherthan the sublime. They were probably the journey-work of some of thelegion playwrights connected with the London theatres, and cannot becompared with the dramas of Jonson, Deckar, Middleton, Fletcher, Marston, Tourneur, Massinger and Ford. They lack the vitality, the_vim_, which burns and blazes even in the works of the second classdramatists of the time. The Yorkshire Tragedy bears the stamp ofMiddleton rather than Shakspeare. With regard to the Two NobleKinsmen, perhaps the greatest play included in the collection ofBeaumont and Fletcher, we think that the Shaksperian passages mighthave been imitations of Shakspeare's manner, and we have asufficiently high opinion of Fletcher's genius to suppose that thisimitation was not beyond his powers. The general character of the playshows that Shakspeare, at any rate, merely contributed to it. It isconceived and developed in the hot and hectic style of Fletcher, andabounds in his strained heroics and gratuitous obscenities. TheJailor's Daughter, a coarse caricature of Ophelia, is one of thegreatest crimes against the sacredness of misery which a poet everperpetrated. 

Schlegel said of Thomas Lord Cromwell, Sir John Oldcastle, and AYorkshire Tragedy, that they were not only Shakspeare's, but in hisopinion deserved to be classed among his best and maturest works. Thisis the most ridiculous judgment which a great critic ever made, andcoming as it does, after the author's profound view of Shakspeare'sgenius, is as singular as it is ridiculous. 

 _Pilgrimage to the Holy Land. By Alphonse de Lamartine. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 2 vols. 12mo. _

Lamartine is a man of fine genius and great courage, but both as anauthor and politician is a sentimentalist. His characteristic mentalquality, that of seeing all external objects through a luminous mistexhaling from his heart and imagination, is as prominent in thepresent volume of travels as in his political speeches and statepapers. He sees nothing in clear, white light; every thing through apersonal medium. To use a distinction of an ingenious analyst, hetells you rather of the beauty and truth of his feelings than thebeauty and truth he feels; and accordingly his sentimentality isclosely allied to vanity. This absence of clear perception is not theresult of his being a poet, but of his being a poet of the secondclass. Homer, Dante, Shakspeare, even Milton, would not fail inpolitics from a similar lack of seeing things as they are. We believethat Homer and Shakspeare might have made better statesmen thanPericles and Bacon. The great poet fails in practical life not fromseeing things through a distorting medium, but from viewing them inrelation to an ideal standard. This was the case with Milton. NowLamartine is in the habit of _Lamartinizing_ the whole world in hiswritings. The mirror he holds up to life and nature simply reflectshimself. He cannot pass beyond his own individuality--he has noobjective insight. 

We will guarantee that every reader of the present volumes will risefrom their perusal with a knowledge of the author rather than thesubject. He will obtain no information of men, scenery, or remarkableplaces, such as he might receive from a common tourist, deficientequally in sentiment and imagination; neither will he carry away suchclear pictures and representations as Scott or Goethe might stamp uponhis memory. He will simply be informed of the thoughts, fancies, opinions, and varying moods of Lamartine, as awakened by the objectswhich met his eye. These objects, which a great poet would considerof the first importance, are with the Frenchman only secondary to theexhibition of himself. If this mingled egotism and vanity wereaffected, it would disgust the reader, but as it is the natural actionof the author's mind, and is accompanied with much eloquence andbeauty of composition, it is more likely to fascinate than to offend. At the present moment, when the author is with the public a moreimportant object than Athens or Jerusalem, the present volumes willprobably be the more eagerly read on account of their leading defect. 

 _The Falcon Family; or Young Ireland. By the author of the Bachelor of the Albany. Boston: T. Wiley, Jr. _

We should judge the author of the present amusing work to be a younglawyer, extensively read in miscellaneous literature, and disposed tomake the most of his wit, rhetoric and acquirements. His style ofthinking and composition is that of a first rate magazine writerrather than novelist. He is a brilliant sketcher and caricaturist, without any hold upon character, and with little power of conceivingor telling a story. He is ever sparkling and clever, without weight ordepth. But he has many elements of popularity, and unites a good shareof shrewdness with an infinite amount of small wit. The object of thepresent work is to ridicule Young Ireland in particular, and YoungEurope in general, including hits at Young England, Young Israel, (thechildren of Israel, ) and _La Jeune France_. All of these, Mitchell, D'Iraeli, Moncton Milnes and the rest, are classed under the commonterm of _boyocracy_, a very good phrase to denote the ridiculousportions of the young creed. Though the author has no view of thisclass of sentimental or termagant politicians except on theirludicrous side, he exposes that side with a brilliant remorselessnesswhich is refreshing in this age of universal cant. Though something ofa coxcomb himself, he has no mercy on the fop turned politician andtheologian. The mistake of his satire on Young Ireland consists inoverlooking the reality of the wrongs under which that country groans, and the depth and intensity of the passions roused. In regard to stylethe author is a mannerist. The present novel reads like a continuationor reproduction of the Bachelor of the Albany. 

 _Researches on the Chemistry of Food, and the Motion of the Juices in the Animal Body. By Liebig, M. D. Lowell: Daniel Bixby & Co. 1 vol. 12 mo_. 

This volume is edited by Professor Horsford, of Harvard University. Itis an acute and profound work of science, worth all the common bookson the subject put together. The author considers his investigation, as recorded in the present volume, the most important he ever made. His theory is this: "The surface of the body is a membrane from whichevaporation goes uninterruptedly forward. In consequence of thisevaporation, all the fluids of the body acquire, in obedience toatmospheric pressure, motion toward the evaporating surface. This isobviously the chief cause of the passage of the nutritious fluids fromthe blood-vessels, and of their diffusion through the body. We knownow what important functions the skin (and lungs) fulfill throughevaporation. It is a condition of nourishment, and the influence of amoist or dry air upon the health of the body, or of mechanicalagitation by walking or running, which increases the perspiration, isself-evident. " It will be readily seen that this discovery has animportant bearing upon the preservation of health. 

 _The Wanderings and Fortunes of Some German Emigrants By Frederick Gerstacker. Translated by David Black. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 12mo. _

We have often desired to see a book of this character, giving thefirst views and impressions of foreigners coming to settle here, asthey made their way from the Atlantic to the West. The present volumeis curiously minute in detailing the course and incidents of thejourney, and apart from its interest as a narrative, contains not alittle matter which should attract the attention of the statesman. Inrespect to the merit of composition or description the book hardlyrises above mediocrity. 

 _Cæsar's Commentaries on the Gallic War. With English Notes, a Lexicon, Indexes, &c. By Rev. J. A. Spencer, A. M. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 12mo. _

This is the best edition of Cæsar we have ever seen, and to the youngstudent it is invaluable. Every assistance is given to the completecomprehension of the Commentaries; and few can rise from the diligentperusal of the volume without having understood and almost exhaustedone at least of the classics. 

 _Gramática Inglesa de Urcullu. Edited by Fayette Robinson. Grammar of the Spanish Language. By Fayette Robinson. _

These two books, by an accomplished linguist scholar, fill a wantwhich has long been felt. Most of the works previously published aretoo diffuse and elaborate for the purposes of schools, or toocontracted to give any thing more than a skeleton of the tongue. Mr. Robinson has adopted a system eminently practical, and made two bookswhich entitle him to the thanks of pupil and teacher. As he states, grammatical legislation is abandoned and example substituted forrules. Extensive tables of verbs, prepositions and idioms, have beenprepared, which do away with almost all of the difficulties connectedwith the study of that tongue a monarch called the language of thegods. The paradigms of the verbs have been prepared evidently with thegreatest care, and a new form given to what grammarians call theconditional and subjunctive moods, so as to adapt the Castilian to theEnglish language. Tables of dialogues are also added, which are pureand classical in both English and Spanish. 

Mr. Robinson has, in editing the English Grammar of Urcullu, madegreat improvements by the addition of what he modestly calls"_notillas_, " (little notes, ) but which greatly add to the perfectnessof the book. The important table of the verbs of the language byHernandez and the officers of the Spanish academy, and the chapter onterms of courtesy in the United States, are most valuable additions. This book is most valuable as a supplement to the Spanish Grammar, andthe moderate price at which the two are sold, renders it mostdesirable and convenient to purchase them together. 

Though we detect some typographical inaccuracies they are merelyliteral accidents, and the books reflect credit on author, publishers, and stereotyper. We most cordially recommend them. 

 _History of the French Revolution of 1789. By Louis Blanc. Translated from the French. Phila. : Lea & Blanchard. _

The popularity acquired by M. Blanc from his "History of Ten Years, "as well as the fact of his having been for a time a member of theProvisional Government of the French Republic, will doubtless causethis book to be widely read. It is always interesting, but seldomimpartial. 

Transcriber's Note:

Certain unusual instances of spelling and grammar have been retained. Errors in punctuation and obvious printer's errors have been correctedwithout remark.